Her Younger Man (A Country Music Romance): a Renny and Rachel Romance (2 page)

CHAPTER  TWO

Sam was not happy. Only 25 years old and dripping with fury. Luckily, he wasn’t dripping on me. Yet.

“Caroline, this is your job,” he said to the blondtastic woman who sits across from me.

“No way, Jose,” she answered him, with a slight swish of her $1,000 extensions. “I’m allergic.”

“To cats? You have three of them.”

“To stupid assignments. I’m a blonde, not a bimbo.”

“You are the Lifestyle reporter. This is your job.”

“Cat shows are not a lifestyle choice, they are a tragic affliction. I am not doing it. Besides, I’m booked tomorrow, remember? The Columbia River cruise?”

“Oh, that’s right. I’ll find someone else.”

I ducked into my desk as fast as I could and buried my head in my meager notes.

“Rachel,” he started.

Oh God, no. Not a cat show. Ten years ago I was sitting in the Green Zone in Baghdad being at turns proud of being the only woman reporter let in and convinced I would be blown to bits any minute. Now, a cat show? Cozying up to celebrities was bad enough but interviewing a Siamese just might break me.

“How’d the interview with Renny Taylor go?”

“You met Renny Taylor?” Caroline piped in. “Is he gorgeous in real life. No, don’t tell me, I’d rather fantasize about him than know the truth. He’s a douchebag right?”

“Relax Caro, he’s very good to look at and definitely not a douchebag.”

“Great,” Sam chirped, “we can run him on the cover. On my desk by the end of the day.”

“Wait,” I called after him, trying to match his nervous stride. “I need to talk to you about that.”

He stopped so abruptly I was two desks away before I realized he wasn’t next to me.

I turned back to face the music.

“The interview. It didn’t go so well.”

“He didn’t show?”

“No, he showed up.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“We didn’t talk all that much, but, but…”

“But? This better be a hell of a but.”

“Funny you should bring that up,” Sam wasn’t laughing. “He invited me to the Edgefield concert. Backstage pass. Inside look into the Taylor Brothers. Good, right?”

“The concerts not for a week.”

“I know but it’s a much better story than just one Taylor Brother. We’ll get all three, and a backstage exclusive.” I had no idea if I would be backstage but I know how to lie to an editor.

“Fine. That will be good. If you deliver.”

“I will, I promise.”

“Good. So that leaves you free tomorrow.  Off to the cat show with you.”

“Hey, that’s not entertainment!”

“I’m sure it will be when you’re done with it. Pick up your pass before you leave today.”

“Fine.” I grumbled but he didn’t hear me. Off he went, his problem fixed. Off to another busy, busy day as the editor of a free weekly newspaper. And me, off to a cat show. Ah, the glamorous life.

___________________________________________________________________________

The cat show was everything I had expected, and more. I had anticipated the sounds, meows and whispered baby talk by the owners to their little sweetums’, but the smell! Holy crap, the smell! 120 cats in one ballroom. Oh my frickin’ Jesus! My sinuses were scorched all the way to hell and back.

No one else seemed bothered so I hoped it was something one got used to as the day went on. Either that or I’d be putting a gas mask on my expense account before the day was through. If I had an expense account. Which I don’t. So there’s that.

Once word got around I was press, everyone wanted to show me God’s gift to catdom. I was introduced to Bengals and Scottish folds, Maine Coons and some weird hairless number I couldn’t look at without thinking of that Austin Powers movie. Who in their right mind would want a hairless cat? The hair was the point, right? Otherwise you just had an over-sized rat with a jeweled collar.

I spent the better part of three hours talking, watching, sneezing and trying to feign interest. It wouldn’t have mattered. These people were so obsessed with their prizes and their pussies I was just background noise.

At one point I found a chair in the back of the room to sit down and have a soda. My feet hurt, my back hurt, my pride … right, that was non-existent. I love to people watch and a cat show is a people-watchers paradise. I started to notice that most of the people in the room had grey or silver hair. I noticed they were all about my age.

So this is what older looks like
, I thought?
Grey hair, weary folds around the mouth, turkey neck. Is that what I look like?
I would be 58 in a few months and for some reason that seemed to me to be the threshold of older. I always told people I was “in my 50’s” with the suggestion that it might be the early ones. But 58 was definitely in the later end of that decade.

How could I be old? I still felt like a kid. I hadn’t gone down the traditional road of marriage and kids and so I always felt I escaped such labels as “middle-aged”. Now I could get senior tickets at the movies and a discount at Denny’s. Is that all I had left to look forward to? Dinky discounts at diners and cat shows?

I threw my soda away and fled the scene. I had more than enough to write Sam’s stupid story and I couldn’t take the smell anymore. (You don’t get used to it, just FYI.)

CHAPTER  THREE

I was at it again, trying to make myself look presentable. Problem was, I didn’t know what I was supposed to look like. Was this a young crowd, old crowd, gun crowd, cold crowd? I knew Edgefield was an outdoor venue and even in July Portland gets chilly at night –or even rains –so I needed to layer it up.

I had finally decided on leggings and my favorite tunic with a sweater throw and sandals when I hit the shower to wash my hair. I could still smell the cat show on me days later. That’s all I needed to cement myself as a true eccentric – eau‘d cat piss.

I turned off the shower or I should say I tried to turn off the shower. It kept showering.  I twisted the knob a few more frantic times until it came off in my hand. Worse still, not only was the water pouring from the showerhead but it was being joined by the gushing through the hole the hot water knob had vacated. Um, not so good.

I hopped out of the shower and dove for the water spigot under the bathroom sink, (I had learned how to turn off the water after an unfortunate bathroom incident last year that shall be explained no further.) I turned the spigot to shut the water down. I listened. Niagara Falls was still in my shower. Shit. Where was I gonna get a plumber on a Saturday night? I couldn’t just let it run. Soon it would flood the bathroom and then … let’s just say I always wanted to live on the river, not
in
the river.

I pulled on my robe and went to the kitchen where my phone was charging. I opened Bing and tapped in plumbers. I was scrolling, desperately looking for an emergency number, when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock.  6 p.m. exactly. Damn. Who knew musicians were so punctual.

I opened the door to a scruffy young man. Had the plumber fairy sent me a savior? No, probably Renny Taylor’s driver.

“You’re not dressed,” he stated.

“I can’t go, I’m afraid. Major emergency.

“Hmmm. Renny’s not going to like it if I show up without you. He’s funny sometimes. What’s the issue? Maybe I can fix you up here.”

“Not unless you’re a plumber. Can’t you hear it?” He stepped into the house and cocked his ear.

“Ah, yes. No, I’m not the plumber. Let me make a call.”

Before I could stop him he whipped out his cell and punched in a saved number.

“Hey, yeah, I’m here. She ain’t ready. Got a bit of a plumbing issue.” He listened and turned to me. “What’s the big problem?”

I held out the shower knob. He went back to his call.

“She broke her shower open. Yeah. Okay.” Back to me. “Did you turn off the water under the sink?”

“Tried. Didn’t do diddly.”

“She’s says it didn’t do diddly. Yup, that’s what she said, diddly. Yup, but I don’t think she finds it all that funny. Uh-huh. Okay then.”

He punched off the call. “Renny told me what to do. You get dressed and I’ll shut it down.”

Then he was outside and opening the side gate.

Okay. I walked back into my room, grabbed my clothes and went into the closet to dress, just in case he let himself back in. It’s good I don’t need a lot of time to get ready because he was back just as I was slipping on my sandals.

I listened at the bathroom door. Nothing! He’d fixed it!

“Thanks for fixing my shower. What did you do?”

“Oh, it ain’t fixed. I just turned off the water main.”

“So I don’t have any water?”

“Renny says he’ll fix it tomorrow, no worries. Let’s go. He wants you to have a good seat.”

So I wouldn’t be backstage. Bummer.

I stepped out the front door to find a giant bus parked (kinda) in front of my house, blocking about three driveways. It was emblazoned with the logo The Taylor Brothers on the side.

“What the hell?”

“It’s all I got,” he shrugged.

“I can drive myself. If you move this behemoth I can get my car out.”

“No way. I do what Renny and the Brothers tell me or there is hell to pay. Hey, it’ll be fun. Who goes to a concert in a tour bus?”

He had a point and I was a little curious. “C’mon on in little lady and see how the other half lives.”

So up I went.

Inside the bus was a whole alternate universe. The back third was set up with bunk beds, the middle had two tables with bench seats, a microwave and small fridge. One of the tables had a half-finished jigsaw puzzle spread across it. You could frickin’ live in this thing! It was bigger than my whole house. It did have a special aroma that can only be described as ‘musky man smell’. Can’t say I minded. I had bunked in small tents with the same smell and for a moment it reminded me that I used to be a real journalist.

The driver –who told me his name was Jed (I know) –motioned me to the plush chairs in the front of the bus as he buckled into his seat and roared up the engine. I had to admit that this was very, very cool and I felt like a bit of a rock star myself.

We drove right up the service road and into the back staging area for the concert venue. I had been to several concerts at Edgefield before and it was always a great night out, even if it rained. Maybe especially when it rained.

Sitting out, under the dimming light, cool breezes from the trees balancing the summer heat. Food booths shared McMenamins faves in both food and micro-brew while other booths extolled the virtues of solar power, ride-sharing and saving this or that animal. A very Portland place. I loved it.

Portland is my place. Growing up in a southern California suburb that was never my place, I had wandered until I found Portland. It is as close to heaven on earth for me and I couldn’t think of a better atmosphere to hear Renny Taylor live.

To my disappointment I wasn’t escorted backstage but to a VIP section right in the middle of the lawn next to the sound booth.

“This is the best place to really hear it all,” Jed explained before dropping off the face of the earth. Right. I was here as a journalist, after all. I took out my pen and paper.

As I waited for the concert to begin I people-watched. Concerts are another great place for this and I was curious who the audience for The Taylor Brothers was composed of.

Turned out that every age, ethnicity and gender were here to see this group of country-rock-folk musicians from Tennessee. The place was packed five minutes after the gates opened; people hauling in low lawn chairs, blankets, water, kids toys, cameras, you name it. They wore shorts, jeans, wife-beaters, flip-flops, Birkies. Their hair was long, short, blue, magenta, braided, curled, extended and standing straight up. These were my people. My tribe. I didn’t need to worry about fitting in because everyone fit in. I sat back, peaceful and grateful. Yes, I was now a lowly entertainment writer, but Edgefield sure beat Kabul for ambience.

There was no opening act, which surprised me. The brothers walked on with their drummer, keyboardist and cellist (yes, cellist –and he was the epitome of awesome). They struck up the first chord and the crowd was on their feet, cheering. I don’t think they ever sat down again.

They played for three hours straight. It was a combination of up-beat rockabilly rock-n-roll, country ballads and even a gospel song or two. At one point, a semi-mosh pit formed in front of the stage and several girls started flinging clothing items at the stage. A pair or panties hit Renny right in the face. He grabbed them with a shit-eatin’ grin and stuffed them in his back pocket without missing a beat. Now wasn’t that just typical?

Half way through the concert something happened. To me. Something I wasn’t expecting.

After about an hour into the concert the band left the stage and then each of the Taylor Brothers came out and performed a 10 minute set, showcasing their particular talents.

The eldest Taylor, Garrett, could play fiddle like he was born in Ireland. He set the place jigging and jumping. Then Reade, Renny’s identical twin, shredded some guitar, which I could say was technically good, but not my cup of tea. Then it was Renny’s turn. The lights were turned low as he came on and sat at the piano. The females in the audience went a bit crazy.
Calm down, girls, he’s just a man, not the cure to cellulite
. The cellist came on with him and the two of them wove romantic magic under the canopy of starlight. The crowd went silent but still on their feet, swaying and holding hands. I saw tears rolling down the eyes of an old man and a baby gasping amazed, quiet and at peace.

This was totally unexpected. The brothers had played a couple of gospel tunes and their harmonies were to die for but this was just Renny singing. A sweeter voice I have never heard. He sang with all the emotion I had been sure he was incapable of. Who was this man? First he had wanted to meet me because of my war correspondence and now he was singing as though he could see straight in to my soul.

Renny had not spoken for the first few songs but he stopped and bent into the microphone for the third. “This next song is for a very special guest tonight. It’s for a woman who, well, she inspired me. That’s all I’ll say.”

             
“Oh my darling girl,

              You’ve been all around the world

              But I bet you’ve never seen

              A man like me

              Not just like me.

You’ve seen your share of strife,

The useless loss of life

But I bet you’ve never been

With a man like me

Not just like me”

The song went straight through me. There was a vibration to it that melded within me. I’ve always been susceptible to music, it has always broken through my emotional barriers like nothing else can. I grew up pining away with Joni Mitchell, James Taylor and Bob Dylan. Well thought out lyrics were always compelling to this writer. A good song is simply poetry on steroids, as far as I’m concerned. And this song was damn near perfect.

More than anything it made me wonder exactly who Renny Taylor was. He was clearly not like other celebrities I’d met. He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. His dark mass of hair obscuring his face as he poured his soul through his fingers onto the keys and illuminated his desire through the microphone. It was a soul and a desire I felt myself responding to. In a big way. He was absolutely right, I’d never met a man just like him.

If I didn’t know better I’d swear he’d written the song for me. But that was impossible, right? Besides having just met me, this was a song written to a lover. No man falls in love with a woman 20 years older than him? And no woman who should be old enough to know better falls in love with a man because of a song?

Do they?