Lost in NashVegas (12 page)

“I did, thank you.” I bite the corner. My first breakfast in my new place, in my new town, in my new life. Best piece of toasted bread I ever had.

“Sometimes it's hard to adjust in a new town, new place. When I first came to Nashville, I couldn't sleep for a month.” Birdie drops two more pieces of bread into the toaster. “Hard to believe it's been thirty-five years. I came in nineteen seventy-one. Just turned twenty.”

I perch on the kitchen stool. “Jeeter says you had a pretty good decade from the mid-seventies to the mid-eighties.”

She keeps her eyes on the toaster. “I had a few moments in the spotlight.”

I swallow my toast. Birdie's tone is not defensive, but I feel as if I touched a tender issue. “Sorry, Birdie. It's none of my business.”

“It's not like the matter is private. Read any country music history book, and you'll find a line or two dedicated to my short career.” Birdie taps the butter knife against the kitchen island. “You want some good advice?” The soft lines of her smooth cheeks deepen.

“Sure.”

“Work hard, don't give up, keep your nose clean, and hold on to your self respect.”

“You speaking from experience?”

She laughs. “I can't deny it. Nashville, for all its charm and beauty, is a hard town. Some call it a nine-year town. Takes about that long to break in. There'll be a lot of disappointments between now and then.”

Her words suck all the spit out of my mouth. “Nine years?” I choke. “I'll be thirty-four.” Toast crumbs stick to my lips.

“You all right?” Birdie asks as her toast pops up.

It takes all my effort to swallow. “Water? Please.”

Birdie grabs a glass from the cupboard and offers me orange juice instead, to which I nod vigorously. Quick. Anything. Crumbs are collecting in my windpipe.

“The girl who lived in the apartment before you took a hard hit about three years ago. She had a song on hold with Clint Black—”

“Really?”

“But a hold doesn't guarantee anything. An artist may have a hundred songs on hold when they're getting ready to go in the studio. Anyway, one day she ran in here, squealing and carrying on. Clint had recorded her song. She'd made it.”

Birdie pauses to read my face. I gaze back at her without so much as a blink. She's gonna drop a bomb here, I know it.

“A month later, she found out her song didn't even make the album.”

“Why?” My heart starts pounding.

“Lots of reasons. It happens to songwriters every day. Clint and his producers probably found a song they liked better. Or, they may have recorded twenty or so songs, but only ten or twelve made it on the CD. Like I said, this business ain't for the weakhearted.”

I gulp my juice. Nine years . . . weakhearted . . .

“And you need to build relationships, network, get to know folks. Don't sit around upstairs daydreaming and wishing. Get out there. You need to sing your first open-mike night by next week, no later.”

With the crumbs washed away, I mutter, “Open-mike night.”

She grins. “You're eyes are bugging out. Too much info?”

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head.

Birdie pours another cup of coffee. “So, you got the fright?”

I brush crumbs from my lap. “Yeah.”

“All the more reason you need to get out there and sing at open-mike nights.”

“You're not going to kick me out, are you?”

Birdie's round brown eyes narrow with humor. “No, not yet, anyway.” She chuckles. “Listen, some friends of mine are singing in the round at the Bluebird tonight. Be ready to go with me at eight-thirty.”

“A-all right.”

“Might as well start meeting people. My friend, Walt Henry, is singing. He just got a cut with Trisha Yearwood.”

I stuff the last of my toast in my mouth and help myself to more OJ. “I love Trisha. Is his song making it to the album?”

Birdie chuckles. “You're getting it. Yes, his song made it. The CD will be in stores next month.” She looks at the stove clock. “Mercy, I need to get going.” She grabs her purse, pausing at the back door. “Are you a member of the songwriter's associations? NSAI or ASCAP.”

I nod. “Yes to NSAI. No to ASCAP.”

She points at me. “ASCAP has a great pro staff to help with your songwriting. They're the big building at the end of Music Row West.”

“Couldn't miss it when I drove in yesterday.”

She smiles. “Guess not. See you later, shug.”

I ring Marc Lewis and accept a job for which I do not interview.
I don't know if that's good for me and bad for him, or bad for me and good for him, but I'm gainfully employed. Hopefully, neither one of us is a creep.

“I'm hiring you on Birdie's recommendation,” Marc says.

“I accept on Birdie's recommendation,” I counter.

He chuckles. “Birdie said you were feisty. You'll start tomorrow at five in the morning. Eight bucks an hour. Twenty-five, thirty hours a week, depending.

Okay on the money and the hours, but five a.m.? So, I'm back in the land of the roosters. Marc rattles off directions to Lewis Cleaning Co. and asks me to meet him at his downtown office at four this afternoon.

Hanging up with him, I take stock of my bare fridge and call Skyler.

“Where can I buy groceries?”

“Harris Teeter.”

I jot down her directions and hop in my truck, making a mental list of what I need (everything) and calculating how much money I'll have when I'm done (none). Granddaddy's hundred is as good as gone. And half my savings went to Birdie for rent.

Still calculating, I stride toward the entrance and run smack dab into . . . great guns, Billy Currington.

“Ssssorry.” I freeze on the spot, mesmerized by his blue eyes.

“No problem.” He pauses for a second. “Can I help you with something?”

I can't take my eyes off him. “N-no.”

“You're sure?”

“N-no.”

He steps away, flashing me an electrifying smile. “Well, have a nice day.”

“N-no, um, yes. Thank you. Hey,” I holler. “Must be doing something right.”

He looks back at me, sort of frowning, then tips his chin. “Right. Thanks.”

I conk my forehead against the glass door and fish my cell phone from my purse. “Arizona, Billy Currington. I just ran into Billy Currington. Literally.”

“You did not.”

“I quoted his own song to him. ‘Must be doing something right.' ”

Arizona's laugh is loud. “You did not.”

I walk over to the buggies and yank one free. “I did.”

“Oh my gosh.” Dishes clink in the background. “You're going to have to work on your cool if you're going to live in Nashville.”

I slam my purse into the buggy seat. “Thanks for pointing it out.”

“Don't get defensive. You know what I mean. So, other than colliding with Billy Currington, how's Nashville?”

“I sang karaoke last night.”

“Get out. How'd it go?”

“Good. I sang a LeeAnn Rimes tune.”

“Behold, the butterfly . . .”

Over the phone, I hear a loud crash followed by robust, rapid swearing. “Arizona?”

“Holy cow, Harold, what were you doing? Robin, call you later.”

The call goes dead, so I flip the phone closed, but it rings again before I wheel down the first aisle.

“Robin, it's Momma. Why didn't you call back last night?”

“Hi, Momma. I went out with Skyler.”

“I couldn't sleep a wink. I just knew something awful happened.”

“Great day in the morning, Momma. I'm just up the road in Nashville, not Siberia.” No wonder I got the fright. “Why didn't you call me if you were so worried?”

“You didn't answer.”

“Ah.”

“Well, how is it?”

“Fine.” I stop at a Pop-Tarts display and toss a box of cherry Pop-Tarts into the cart. And, oooh, chocolate-covered mini donuts.

“And how's your new place?”

“Fine.” I need bread, jelly, peanut butter, milk. And a twelve-pack of Pepsi.

“Fine? You're a songwriter and all you can say is
fine
?”

I maneuver down the first aisle. “No, but I need a guarantee you're not going to criticize me.”

“Fine.”

And she wonders where I get it. While I shop, I tell Momma about my third-floor apartment using descriptive words like “eggshell-blue” and “spacious.”

“No lice or fleas?”

“Nope, it's cleaner than spring hay.”

“Just be careful, Robin Rae. Smiling people carry knives.”

“Terrific attitude, Momma. Thanks. But everyone I've met has been really nice.” Salad dressing, cucumbers. Apples, oranges, tomatoes, bag-o-lettuce.

“I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday, girl.”

“So I've noticed.”

“Don't be smart.”

I sigh. “So how are things there?”

She launches into an update on life in Freedom and her best friends, Henna Bliss and Sissy Workman, though not much has changed in the day and a half I've been gone. She ends with, “I'll have your Daddy call you when he gets home.”

“Thanks, Momma.” Hamburger, chicken . . . oh, I should get some spices. “I sang in front of people last night.”

Big pause. “You did? Where?”

“On the Rocks Bar & Grill. They have Monday night karaoke.”

“Land's sakes, girl. That's not singing-
singing
.”

“Land sakes, Momma, it is singing. Trust me.”

“Well, how'd you do?”

“I brought the house down, if you must know.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“Listen, I'm at the checkout counter. Better go.” I start unloading my cart.

“Robin. I-I love you,” Momma says tenderly.

I set the ice cream down on the conveyor belt. Her confession smoothes the sting of her criticism and creates a warm spot smack-dab in the middle of my heart.

“I love you too.”

Before I meet with Marc Lewis, I swing by the Nashville
Songwriters Association office on the corner of 18th Avenue South and Roy Acuff Place. A tingle of excitement runs through me as I take the steps of the Old Mill Music building.

“Can I help you?” The curly haired NSAI receptionist smiles at me.

“I just moved to town.”

“Welcome to Nashville.”

“Can I schedule a critique with a pro or the membership manager?”

“You sure can. I'm Ella, by the way. I assume you're a NSAI member?”

“I am, proud to—”

“Well, if it isn't the runaway singer.” A raspy voice breaks between Ella and me.

“Hey, Graham.” Ella flutters.

It's big-cowboy-hat-and-square-chin guy from the Frothy Monkey.

“Ella.” He smiles at her with a nod, then props his elbow on the desk and turns his back to her so he can stare at me. “Why'd you run?”

“Nervous habit.”

“Better break it. Is this a new problem, a life-long problem, the result of watching
The Wizard Of Oz
when you were a kid?” He talks like he has permission to dig into my soul. “By the way, nice escape between the hippy and the Goth girl.”

“Did you get your guitar?” I ask to avoid his probing.

“Your friend gave it to me.” He shoves aside his long black duster and sets his hand on his belt.

“How's the laryngitis?” Something about him makes my stomach swirly. He's nice enough, though his cockiness is a little over the top for me.

Graham scratches his throat. “Better.”

“So,” Ella butts in, stepping around the reception desk, “you want a song critique?” Her gaze falls on Graham's face.

“If I could, that'd be great.”

Graham tugs his hat lower on his forehead. “You actually wrote something?”

“I've written a lot of somethings.”

“Great, let me hear one.” He picks up his guitar and heads across the foyer. “Ella, I'll be her pro appointment. We'll be downstairs in one of the writing rooms.” He looks at me. “What's your name?”

“Robin McAfee. I wasn't ready to meet with a pro right now, today.” My voice cracks.

He smiles a white, even smile. “No time like the present, Robin McAfee. Get your guitar and sing me a song.”

The white-walled Writing Room number one is small but cozy,
with a love seat and chair, a Baldwin piano, and Graham.

“I have to leave in about an hour,” I say, pulling my guitar from the case.

He laughs. “Well, I wasn't planning on being here all afternoon.”

“This was your idea.”

He pushes back his hat a little. “A sassy one, eh, short stuff ?”

Short stuff? He acts like we're best buds. If he keeps this up, I might start to like him.

He props his guitar on his knee. “Do you have a work tape or lyric sheet?”

I shake my head.

“You're going to need those. A tape of your song, and the lyrics and chords.”

I nod, feeling like a first-grader on the first day of school.

“Well, go ahead and play one of your great songs for me.”

My fingers stumble through the first few chords of “Your Country Princess.” I'm not so thrilled with his sarcasm.
Play
one of your great songs.

Graham listens, hiding his eyes underneath that ridiculous hat. Below it, his clean-shaven face is good looking, and smiling.

But in the middle of singing the second-round chorus, he stops me. “Is this your best song?”

“Huh?

“Is this your best song?”

“I'd like to think so.”

“Really? Seems sorta sophomoric. Like a couple of teenybopper newlyweds.”

The back of my neck burns. “Sophomoric? What's wrong with teen newlyweds. My brother, the
marine
, was a teen newlywed.”

He taps my hand with his. “Don't get all mad. But, seriously, can you see Reba or Faith singing this song?”