Lost in NashVegas (22 page)
I work out my jitters on another of his songs, peeking out over the audience from time to time. Arizona's front and center with her arm linked through Ty Ledbetter's. Her eye catches mine. She winks. Looky there, she's in love.
Stage right is Daddy and Momma with Dawnie. Daddy looks proud as punch, clapping his white-boy clap. He has no rhythm. Dawnie is snickering at Graham, and standing next to her, Momma looks constipated.
Graham strides across stage, pumping his guitar, acting like he's bucking for Entertainer of the Year. “Take it away, Robin Rae.”
Again? His music fades, so I figure he wants me to play one of my songs. My fingers fumble up and down the fret, and my pick slips around in my sweaty fingers. But I hang on.
This must be what it feels like to be the third-string quarterback on fourth-and-goal with the championship at stake. Who can take that kind of pressure? I want off. I want to run. Graham sidles up next to me.
“If you don't sing, I'll kiss you right now in front of all these people.”
I press my lips against the mike. They should be safe from him there. “This is a song I wrote a few weeks ago called âLet Go.'”
So, I do.
Momma's Sunday dinner is more crowded than a one-cent sale
at the flea market. We can't fit everyone inside, so Daddy, Grandpa McAfee, and Uncle Dave set up tables under the trees for a picnic.
“All right, Robin Rae, tell us about Nashville.” Grip pulls up next to me and Graham, stirring his coleslaw into his baked beans. “I remember those days, singing in honky-tonks, fairs, churches, festivals.” He looks out beyond the trees. “Any place to get your song heard, tell your story.”
“Well, Grip, mostly I've been cleaning toilets.”
“Don't let her yank your chain,” Graham interrupts. “She's writing songs, singing around town. She's a mighty fine songwriter.”
I narrow my eyes at Graham. “âMighty fine'? Since when do you say âmighty fine'?”
“Never you mind what I say. You're good.”
“âNever you mind'?” I've got to get him back to Nashville, quick. He's a country chameleon.
Daddy and Momma sit across from Graham and me. “Shew, it's warm out here,” Momma says, fanning her pink face with an extra paper plate.
“You and Loralee outdid yourself, Bit.” Grip holds up his plate. “Mighty fine spread.”
“How's it going at Birdie's place? You liking it around Music Row?” Jeeter wants to know, tapping my foot with his.
“It's going great, Jeeter.” From the corner of my eye, I see Momma shifting in her chair, chomping on a cream cheese-filled celery stick. “Birdie's been dating someone you knowâ Walt Henry.”
Momma moans and stuffs another whole celery stick into her mouth. She looks like she swallowed a pair of oars.
Jeeter slaps his knee. “Walt Henry. That fox. You tell Birdie I said watch out, now.” Jeeter wags his finger in the air with a high
tee-hee
.
I prop my elbows on my knees, holding my plate in my hand. “Tell me, Jeeter, do you know why Birdie parted ways with Nashville Noise?”
“Good question, Robin Rae. Good question.”
An eerie hush hangs over us. Then . . .
“Good beans, Bit.”
“What you got for dessert? I'd better save room.”
“Best coleslaw I had in a long time. Um-um.”
Odd, quick change of the topic. Weird.
Graham jumps in with, “Y'all have to come up to hear Robin at the Bluebird. She's singing at a songwriter's night in November.”
“Robin, you singing at the Bluebird?” Granddaddy Lukeman asks. “Why don't you tell some folks?”
My eyes meet Momma's. “Yeah, Granddaddy, I tried out and got a spot the first Sunday in November.”
A chorus of “We'll be there” rises.
“Save room for Jenny and me,” Reverend Miller says.
I grin. “I really appreciate everyone's support, but I'm not sure I can invite the whole town. Gotta save room for the other songwriters' friends and family, you know.”
We talk about the Bluebird for a few minutes until Graham gets up for seconds. I follow him. “Can I talk to you about last night? The thing with Ricky . . .”
“Guys like that only know one thing.” He scoops beans onto his plate.
“He's not like that, and you sorta provoked him.”
Graham reaches for a large fried chicken wing. “Who is he anyway?”
“My boyfriend.”
He doesn't flinch, but reaches for more chicken. “You can do better.”
“With who? You?” I pick up a biscuit, but I'm not hungry.
“I'm just saying you could do better.”
With a sigh, I walk off. Not so much as an apology. I didn't expect one to Ricky, but to me, at least.
By evening the house is quiet. Graham dozes on the couch with
Daddy. I toss grapes at Daddy's open mouth until Momma makes me quit.
“You're getting grapes under the couch, Robin Rae. The ants will move in.”
“I'll get them.” Crawling on my belly, I fish blindly under the sofa skirt for wild grapes and find all of them. Okay, most of them. On my way to the trash, I tell Momma, “I'm going to go find Ricky.”
Her knitting needles stop clicking as I pass by, and she touches my hand. “All right.”
Her tenderness surprises me a little. She's been so tense and terse all weekend. “Momma, do you want to tell me something?”
She shakes her head. “Did you have a nice time this weekend?”
Glancing back at Graham, I smile and nod. “Outside of the fight, I did.”
“Boys will be boys.”
I take my keys from the hook by the back door. “If you mean acting stupid, yeah, boys will be boys.”
“And Graham? Is he . . .”
“A friend. Only a friend.”
Momma nods. “Dawnie says Steve might come home the month the baby is due. So say your prayers. Can you believe he's going to be a daddy?”
I glance back at Momma. “He's a Marine. I reckon he can handle fatherhood.”
“I don't knowâa stinky diaper can bring the bravest man to his knees.” She laughs.
“I suppose so.”
Her knitting needles start clicking again. “Go on, now. I'll see to Graham if he wakes up.”
If not fishing, Ricky is at Mitch's Body Shop. Goes without say-
ing. I cruise by his folks' house just in case, but like I figured, find him in a paint-stained T-shirt, working on a rusted-out Dodge Charger with Mitch. Alan Jackson is singing from a vintage '80s, grease-streaked boom box. Makes me grin. Ricky, for all of his quirks, knows good music.
Just an old plywood boat
With a '75 Johnson . . .
“What do you want?” He glares at me from around the hood, wiping grease from his hands.
His tone smacks at my confidence. “To talk to you, if I could. Hey, Mitch.” I slip my hands in to my pockets and rock back on my heels.
“Hey, Robin. You did good last night. The guy in the duster was a character, though.”
I grin. “He is quite the character.”
Mitch tosses his wrench onto the workbench. “I guess I'll go out for a Pepsi.”
The side garage door bangs shut, and I gather my thoughts, staring at faded posters of Dale Earnhardt and Richard Petty while Ricky stays hidden behind a faded red hood.
“Why'd you hit him?” I ask.
“Because I can't stand smart alecks.” He reaches around for the wrench Mitch tossed aside.
“Hello, pot. I'm the kettle, and you're black.”
He looks around the edge of the hood. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You're just as much a smart aleck as Graham. Geez, Rick.” I walk around the car. “Where'd you guys find this?”
“Out in front of Carter Benson's place. Been sitting there for twenty years.”
I laugh. “Didn't recognize it without the weeds and grass growing underneath.”
Ricky doesn't so much as crack a smile. “He wouldn't sell until Mitch agreed to cut the grass after we hauled off the car.”
“Despite popular opinion, no flies on Carter.” I kick away a clump of mud from the deflated front tire. “What are you going to do once you fix it up?”
“We've got a 440 four-barrel to drop in. Mitch wants to do some road racing.”
“Look out, Bo and Luke Duke.” I slap the peeling, white-vinyl roof. “The Dukes of Freedom are hitting the dirt.”
No smile yet. Dern, Ricky, be hard nosed, why don't you. I prop my elbows on the side of the car under the hood. “I'm not coming home.”
He reaches down and works a bolt with the wrench. “Is it because of him?”
“No, it's because of me. I'm writing songs, singing at open-mike nights, overcoming my fears . . .”
“Lost your fears in NashVegas?”
I like his insight. “Yeah, I suppose. Working on it, anyway.” A soft sensation of accomplishment moves over me.
The wrench slips from his hands, clattering against the cement floor. “I guess we should end it, then.”
I stretch my foot under the car and draw the tool out with the tip of my boot. “Maybe it would be best.”
He doesn't move, just hangs over the side of the car.
“I'm sorry, Ricky.”
His arm constricts as he works the bolt again. “For what?”
“For not being what you wanted me to be. But I can'tâ”
“Ricky, honey, I brought over some dinner.” The side garage door squeaks open, then claps shut.
He freezes as Mary Lu Martin peeps her brunette head under the hood. “Well, hey there, Robin.” Her gaze flits from me to Ricky.
“Hi, Mary Lu, I was . . . just . . . leaving.” I run my fingers down Ricky's back. “See you.”
Ricky moves out from under the hood and touches my arm. “I'm sorry for hitting your friend.”
I nod, chewing on my lip, fighting the tears. “I'll tell him.”
“Mary Lu, can you give us a moment?” Ricky's eyes never leave mine.
“S-sure, Ricky, honey.” She heads back out the door.
Tenderly, Ricky pulls me to him and touches his forehead to mine. “I guess we'll never make love on the banks of the Tennessee.”
“No,” I whisper, my voice caught, my vision blurring.
He wraps me in his arms and lifts me up. Our eyes meet, and then he touches his lips to mine. It's a soft, tender goodbye. “You're not going to be easy to get over.”
I run my hand through his hair. “Give Mary Lu a real chance. Stop messing with her heart. She's a nice girl. And you know I'd never bring you dinner on a Sunday night.”
He laughs, despite the moment, and lowers my feet to the dusty garage floor.
“Kick butt and take names in Nashville.” He leans against the car, legs crossed at the ankle.
“I'll do my best.”
“Hey, guess what we're going to name her?” He smiles.
“I have no idea.”
“
The Robin.
Classic and powerful, but needs a lot of work.”
I make a face. “Am I supposed to honored or insulted?”
“Honored,” he says.
I turn to go. “See you, Ricky.”
His juts out his chin. “See you.”
When I show up for work Tuesday morning, Marc meets me
instead of Marty.
“She called in sick,” he says. “I'm filling in for her.”
“Lucky me.” Shoot, now there's no coffee, no Danish, and no how-was-your-weekend girl talk?
I'd wanted to talk through the events of the past few days. After my talk with Ricky, I went to Arizona's to cry it out before going home. Knowing I did the right thing doesn't make it easier. About the time my well of tears ran dry, Ty came over, so Arizona baked a cake, and we played a couple of rounds of three-handed Spades.
Graham didn't try to kiss me again but he gave his attention to talking music with the Bluegrass Boys and learning some banjo from Granddaddy. By the time we drove home Monday evening, I longed for my bed at Birdie's.
Marc breaks into my thoughts. “Where's your cleaning chart?”
“We don't have one, Marc. We just clean.”
“What? Robin, you and Marty
must
follow procedure.”
I flash my palm. “Talk to the hand, Marc. I'm in no mood to argue procedure at five a.m. We get the job done. Here's our routine.”
After giving him the breakdown, he follows me to the executive offices. “I want to check out what you're doing. I set up procedures for a reason, Robin.”
“Marc, I promise you, we do a fantastic job. You would be
so
proud.”
In James Chastain's office, I break out my feather duster and attack the pictures and awards. Marty normally cleans his office, so I'm taking my time, studying the wall of fame.
“This is amazing.” Marc leans in to examine each frame.
“Careful, my boss doesn't want anything messed up in here.”
Marc snarls at me. “You should do stand-up comedy instead of songwriting. Be a great outlet for your sarcasm.”
“Naw, then I wouldn't have anything left for you.”
He ignores me. “James Chastain is quite a legend. Look at all these platinum and gold records.”
“Didn't you see this when you met with him?”
He shakes his head. “We met at LongHorn Steakhouse.”
I continue with my dusting while Marc reads the inscriptions aloud.
“Nashville Noise CMA winners, 1980 . . . There's Grace Harding.” He looks at me. “My mom played all her records. What an incredible voice, Grace Harding.”
“Yeah, my granddaddy and grandma liked her too.”
“There's one of James cutting the ribbon at the Nashville Noise opening, 1980. Hey, there's Birdie.”
I walk over to see. Marc points to a picture of James Chastain's first nobodies. “Nashville Noise. First signed artist.”
They all look so young, dressed in bell bottoms, sporting long hair. “Sure enough, Birdie is standing next to Grace Harding and Tuck Wilder.”
