Lost in NashVegas (24 page)

I laugh with her. “Only in Freedom.”

By now the rain has stopped, and Momma hurries out to tend her garden before the next rain cloud bursts. I wash my dishes, watching out the window as a thick water droplet stretches down from the porch eaves. Now that the dust has settled, I'm wore out.

In my old room, I crash face-first into a pile of pillows. Birdie must have anticipated an emotional meltdown or something. Otherwise, why pack my overnight bag? She underestimated the stamina of the McAfee-Lukeman women. I'll go home after dinner and, if I'm not fired, go to work in the morning.

Dialing Marc, I leave a voice message apologizing for my abrupt exit, promising to explain later—and return the picture. Pressing
End
, I toss my cell onto the nightstand and flop over on my back, staring at the ceiling. My room is layered with memories. The walls are privy to my dreams and tears, laughter and songs.

Momma. An original Nashville Noise artist. Who'd have thought? Mercy almighty. What else you got in your bag of tricks, Momma?

Words form in my head, so I reach for my notebook, the idea of a song sparking energy.

She left her daddy's world, barely seventeen,
With dreams in her heart, to a place she'd never been . . .

Grabbing my guitar, I decide to work out the song on the front porch. An hour later, I'm frustrated, and my notebook is filling up with scratched out lyrics.

Momma comes out with the prettiest Gibson I've ever seen and trades me for my old Taylor.

“Your tempo feels a little too fast for the lyrics. It's bumping going to the chorus from the verse.” She settles in the rocker next to me with my guitar on her knee.

“Momma, where did you get this?” I run my fingertips along the smooth, polished red grain of the Gibson.

“Gibson gave them to all the Nashville Noise artists our first year.”

“You hid this away for twenty-six years?”

She flashes a sly grin. “I parted with Nashville Noise, but not that guitar.” Her smile is like the one in the torn picture. Carefree. “Once in awhile, I'd get it out and sing to your daddy.”

I start strumming. “Liza used to tell me she heard music at night. I told her ghosts lived in the attic.”

Momma pops my knee with her fingers and laughs a hearty, feel-good laugh.
Hello, who are you, and what have you done
with my mother?
“Do you know how many nights she came crawling into bed with Daddy and me, scared half to death?”

“Oops, sorry.” I point at my song notebook. “So, what's wrong with my melody?”

As white clouds float across the blue afternoon, Momma and I write a song about a girl who followed her dream and found life didn't turn out as she'd planned. But God was still in control. The song is part her and part me.

Momma's got some pipes. A little bit of diva going on. We sing so loud, and with so much soul, Mo and Curly point their noses north and howl. I about fall out of the rocker, guffawing, as Mo shifts his brown eyes at me as if to ask, “Is this right?”

Momma slaps her palm on the arm of the rocker. “Put to shame by a hound. Don't that beat all?” She stands and swaps my Taylor back for her Gibson. Guess if she didn't part with it twenty-six years ago, she isn't parting with it now. “I'll take the howling as my cue to quit and get to fixing supper.”

“I'm heading out afterward.”

“I figured as much.” She pauses at the screen door. “I hope you can forgive me, Robin.”

“For hiding a broke heart? Of course. I only wish I'd known sooner.”

“Well—” She hesitates, gazing at me, her lips quivering. “Better get to supper.” The screen door claps shut behind her.

22

Skyler, Blaire, and I finally have movie night at my place
around mid-August. The goal? Introduce Blaire to hick chick movies like
Jeremiah Johnson
and
Outlaw Josey Wales
. She wanted to rent
In Her Shoes
, to which I said, “Over my dead body.”

“Still no update on Lee Rivers?” Skyler tosses a bag of popcorn in my microwave.

“You tell me. Any more ‘Brad About You' blurbs?”

Skyler shakes her head. “Nope, but I heard from a lawyer friend that Janie settled her dispute with her record label.”

“Really?” I decide we need more pillows. “When?”

“Two weeks ago, maybe?”

I open the closet and pull out the pillows Momma sent with me in May. “Guess I won't be having coffee with Lee after all.”

“Sorry, cousin.”

I shrug. “We had one date and a lot of chemistry. No big deal. Easy come, easy go.” But deep down, my heart accuses my lips of lying. I wanted more than one afternoon with Lee Rivers.

“What's up with you and Graham?” Blaire asks from her spot on the floor where she's setting up to polish her nails.

“Nothing. He's been acting weird ever since we came back from Freedom.” I hand a pillow to Blaire and she stuffs it behind her back.

“Maybe it's because you laughed at his kiss,” Skyler suggests. “Which, by the way, was wise of you.”

I plump a pillow on the sofa for myself. “No, it's not the kiss. We've met a few times to work on songs, but we ended up arguing about lyrics and melodies. Honestly, if he's working with Frank and Danny, why does he need me?”

“Have you written any new songs?” Blaire pops open a Diet Pepsi.

“As a matter of fact . . . Kim Flowers helped me fine-tune the one I wrote with Momma, She Was Seventeen
.
I think I'm ready to brave Susan West at ASCAP again.”

Blaire scoops her dark hair back from her face. “‘She Was Seventeen'? How very Janis Ian of you.”

“I think so.” I hold up the DVDs. “Which one first? Redford or Eastwood?”

“Redford,” Blaire says, with Skyler agreeing.

I pop in
Jeremiah Johnson
. “You're gonna love this movie, Blaire.”

“What if I don't?”

Ten minutes into the movie, Blaire admits the scenery is breathtaking, but she hates that Jeremiah is a trapper, “It's so cruel.” Then she screams when he comes up on a frozen man.

“If you can't watch like a grown-up, I'm going to have to put you in the other room,” Skyler declares, arching a piece of popcorn over my head toward Blaire.

“There is no other room,” Blaire says with a laugh, ducking the popcorn.

“If I met a mountain man who looked like Robert Redford, I'd follow him to the highest peaks,” I decide, dumping a handful of popcorn in my mouth.

“I'd
so
be a mountain woman,” Skyler agrees.

Blaire strokes dark red polish on her toenails. “You're crazy. He'd probably smell like horse manure on a hot day. His teeth would be rotten and his fingernails caked with dried blood and dirt.” She wrinkles her nose as if she actually smells the manure. “Look at the old bear-hunting man Jeremiah ran into. Trust me, it takes a skilled stylist to make Redford look so messy, yet astoundingly sexy.”

Skyler points at Blaire. “She makes a good case.”

Blaire taps my leg. “Robin, I found this great Bible verse the other day. ‘Perfect love casts out all fear.' Isn't that great?”

I grin. “Very excellent verse, Blaire.”

“Shhh, we missed the beginning of the wedding scene.” Skyler jerks the remote from my hand and rewinds.

Blaire whispers, “Her last date with Trey didn't go so well.”

“Quiet, Redford is talking.” Skyler gestures with the remote.

“Sorry about Trey,” I say in her ear.

She shrugs. “No biggy. He likes quieter women.”

I choke on my popcorn.

When
Jeremiah Johnson
is over, Skyler stretches and suggests, “Let's get ice cream, then watch
Josey Wales
.”

I hop up. “You drive.”

Blaire runs her hands over her face with a muffled moan. “I don't know how much of this I can take. Jeremiah ends up alone. This is not even close to a chick movie. Not even a hick chick.”

Skyler stands by the door. “
Josey Wales
is even better.”

“I bet.” Blaire pushes off the sofa. “I'm getting my own carton of Ben & Jerry's.”

We thunder downstairs, carrying on like a bunch of high school girls at a slumber party night.

“What's all the commotion?” Birdie meets us in the foyer.

“Going to Harris Teeter for ice cream. Wanna come?” I sling my arm over her shoulders.

“Let me grab my wallet.” She hurries up the stairs with her elbows cranking up and down.

By the time we pull into the parking lot, we're all riled up. Birdie sent us over the edge with a Robert Redford story.

“He kissed my cheek the first year I went to the Sundance Festival.”

“No way,” Skyler says with a gasp of air. “Which cheek? What was it like? Soft? Tender? Take-me-I'm-yours? What?”

Birdie views Skyler through narrowed eyes. “Simmer down, girl. It was a peck on the cheek. Pity sakes. He was married.” She looks at me. “Are you sure you want her hanging around?”

I shrug. “She's family. What can I do?”'

“I suppose. We all have our weird ones.”

We clump through the front doors around eleven p.m. No one is milling about, and our voices seem like explosions in the quiet atmosphere.

Birdie grabs a shopping buggy. “Get in.” She motions to me.

“What?”
Get in?

“Get in.” She points to the empty basket.

“I'm not getting in there.”

“Skyler, Blaire,” Birdie calls. “Get a buggy.”

“Why? What are we doing?” Blaire yanks one free from the row.

Birdie bugs out her eyes and leans over the handle. “Buggy races. Used to have them all the time when I worked at Kroger.”

The three of us gawk at her. She's crazy.

“Get in,” she orders.

I grab the buggy and whirl it around. “If we're going to do this, you get in. I'll race.”

“Nothing doing. I'm driving,” Birdie insists, motioning for Skyler to climb into her buggy too. Which she does, tucking her knees under her chin.

I glance at Blaire's long, muscular legs. We don't stand a chance. “This isn't fair . . . Got an old woman as my runner . . .” I mutter.

Birdie whacks me on the back of my head. “I'll have you know I ran the 440 in fifty-six seconds flat in high school.” She and Blaire push us through the produce department.

“That was thirty-five years ago,” I counter. “You've aged some.”

“Blaire, you and Skyler race the back aisle. Robin and I'll race down the front. First one to the ice cream wins. Losers buy.”

Why do I even bother talking?

“Can you get down lower, Robin? Less wind resistance.”

I grip the sides of the buggy and duck down. “Gee whiz, how fast you planning on running?”

“Just hang on.”

Gazing down aisle three to the back of the store, I see Blaire, in her shorts and flip flops, bent over her buggy. Like me, Skyler is folded below the top of the cart. Birdie raises her arm to signal the start.

My heartbeat thumps in my ears. “Come on, Birdie,” I say with gritted teeth. “Let's smoke 'em.” I glance around to give her the thumbs up. She's beaming, and she looks so young in her skirt and . . .
Whoa
. I stand in the cart. “Birdie, you can-
not
run in those shoes.”

“Time out,” she hollers to Blaire, lowering her arm, gazing down at her feet. “Why not?”

“They're, they're . . . What are they? Big, thick, wooden clunky things.”

“They're called mules. Now sit down.”

I sit. “You can't run in those.”

“Watch me.”

Help. The woman is crazy. I thread my fingers through the thin rods of the buggy's frame. A song flits through my head: Steppenwolf's “Born to Be Wild
.
” Not sure the songwriter had buggy racing in mind.

“Ready,” Birdie calls, raising her arm again.

“Ready,” Blaire echoes.

Birdie drops her arm with a “Go!” and charges forward. Her foot slips, jerking the cart to the right. My chin crashes against a jagged edge.

“Ouch.” I touch my chin and blood dots my fingertips. But no time for doctoring. “Come on, Birdie. They're ahead.”

Behind me, Birdie huffs and puffs as she races down the aisle. The heels of her mules beat against the tile floor with a rapid
clump-clank-clump-clank
.

Around aisle ten, we nose ahead and then finally round the corner toward dairy and frozen foods. Next thing I know,
wham!
Birdie crashes smack dab into . . . Lee Rivers.

“Whoa!” He doubles over the cart with an
oomph
. The contents of his little basket fly in the air and scatter down the aisle. His nose stops a millimeter from mine.

“Well, look at what's on sale this week,” I say, even though my heart is about to leap out of my chest and smack him on the lips.

“Hang on, kids,” Birdie hollers as she
clump-clanks
around the corner. “That rascal Blaire has such long legs.” Birdie's mules flip through the air. One to the right, one to the left. She puts her nose down and, with a war cry, forges ahead with Lee and me riding along.

“How're you?” Lee asks, all serious, like riding bent over a grocery cart is an everyday event.

“F-fine.” Dern, he makes my toes tingle.

He looks over his shoulder. “Come on, Birdie, you're almost there.”

“I'd be there if I didn't have you hanging onto my buggy, you big lug.”

She's so intent on winning and Lee is so . . . bent over the buggy. I can't help it; I laugh. He could've hopped off, but he hung on for the ride.

He peers at me through squinted eyes. “You think this is funny?”

My skin prickles. “Yeah, I do.”

He touches my bleeding chin. “You're wounded.”