Lost in NashVegas (6 page)

“Yeah, we haven't heard from Robin Rae.” Jeeter folds his arms, smiling like he suspects what I'm going to say.

Might as well strike while the cobbler is hot. Miss Cambridge warmed the porch congregation for me. “Well . . .” I swallow hard. “I'm moving to Nashville.”

5

“Robin, that's fantastic! Momma, Daddy, isn't that great? About
time.” Cambridge stirs up the crowd.

Arizona joins her. “Robin, you're going to be a smash.”

“Congratulations!” Dawnie throws her arms around me. “Steve will be proud.”

Jeeter props his elbow on the porch post. “Finally tackling ole NashVegas. Good for you. I'll give you the number of an old friend, Birdie Griffin. She has a big house with a third-floor apartment right near Music Row.”

“Nothing doing.” Momma thunders over to me, her footsteps resounding against the porch boards. She's short like me, and powerful. “Jeeter, I'll thank you and your . . . friend . . . to stay out of this.”

“Free country, Bit.”

I pinch my lips so as not to laugh. Jeeter doesn't swallow sass. Not even Momma's.

She ignores him and turns to me. “Land a-mighty, Robin, you haven't sung in front of anyone other than this crowd here until last Friday. It took those tubby Whitestone girls—”

“Hey now,” Paul pipes up.
That
he hears.

“Sorry, Paul, but it's true. You should tell their momma to put them on a diet. All that clogging . . . They ought to be sticks.”

I pick up the guitar. What was the tune I played last night up in the attic?

“You can't stop her, Bit,” Granddaddy says.

“You should know, shouldn't you?” Momma's words are harsh, but Granddaddy's mild expression remains unchanged.

“Different time, different girl.”

I glance up. “Different time, different girl? Granddaddy, what—”

“What about Ricky?” Momma fires at me. “You're going to break that boy's heart.” She fusses with the same wild curl that never does what she wants.

“Ricky's a big boy, Momma,” I say. Although he wasn't in church this morning, which means he's fishing in the Tennessee River, which means he's not acting like a big boy but a pouting baby.

“I think we ought to be getting home.” Grip stands. “Let you folks sort this out.”

Take me with you, Grip.

Jeeter whispers to me. “Stick to your guns.” He presses a napkin into my hand with a telephone number scrawled on it.

“Jeeter,” Momma hollers after him. “I'll thank you to mind your own business.”

Something inside snaps. “Same to you, Momma.”

She steadies herself by gripping the porch post. “Do you think you're going to waltz into Nashville and magically find the courage to sing before a crowd of strangers? To talk to important people about your songs?” Momma's cheeks are flushed and her jaw is tight.

“Bit, simmer down,” Daddy says in a low tone.

“Don't tell me to simmer down, Dean.” She looks at him with pleading eyes. “Robin . . . Nashville . . .”

Wearing her debate face, Eliza says, “It's Robin's life. She should do what she wants. You seem fine with me going to England. Why can't you—”

“It's not the same—” Momma clams up and starts stacking dirty dishes.

With my head down, I echo my resolve. “I'm going, Momma.” Once decided, the idea of staying in Freedom cuts off my air and suffocates my dreams.

With her arms loaded down, Momma goes inside. Seems I've won the battle but not the war.

The tension on the porch evaporates as Granddaddy follows Grandma in the house, their heads bent together, muttering, and Daddy talks NASCAR with Uncle Dave and Ty. I bend over the guitar, playing, half listening to Eliza, Arizona, and Dawnie talk about the English summer, half wondering what's going on inside Momma's head.

Eliza is saying, “My real goal is to meet a Greek tycoon, fall madly in love, marry impetuously, and sail around the world on his yacht.”

I lift my head. “Don't you need to be in Greece to find a Greek tycoon, Liza?”

Arizona laughs. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Semantics, ladies, semantics. What you don't know is that I plan to meet him in Paris.”

“Paris?” Truth is, if anyone can sweep a Greek tycoon off his feet, it's my lovely southern sister. Her blue-diamond eyes and innocent smile make the boys go gaga over her as if they've found a rare treasure. But they always get their heart broken no matter how gentle Eliza lets them down. I'm already worried for the Greek tycoon.

The screen door creaks open as Granddaddy returns. “It's not much, Robin Rae, but Grandma and I want to help out.” He holds out a check.

“What's this?” I read the amount. “A hundred dollars?” I gape at him. “Granddaddy, no, I don't want your money.”

“You're giving her money?” Momma steps through the screen door. The garbage bag she's holding shakes and crackles. “Daddy?”

“It's just a little egg money, Bit. A hundred dollars. Don't get all rattled over it.”

Daddy slips his arm around Momma and holds her real close. She is shaking. “I'm not rattled about the money, Daddy, and you know it.”

Grandma leans away from Granddaddy's shoulder. “Bit, certainly you knew this day would come. She's gifted.”

Momma buttons her lips. I'm not sure she's breathing. I shove the check back at Granddaddy. “Here, I don't need this.” Anything to get Momma to stop shaking. “I have a small savings.”

He pushes my hand away. “Take it. Keep you in gas for a month.”

Momma's expression is tighter than bailing wire, then she drops the trash bag and stumbles down the porch steps and into the night.

“I'll see to her,” Daddy says.

I grab his hand as he passes by. “Daddy, am I doing the right thing? Why is she so upset about this?”

He smiles and covers my hand with his. “Ancient history, baby, and yes, you're doing the right thing.”

Leafy green spring trees line Route 72 as I head south
Monday afternoon to find Ricky. Slow-moving, cottony clouds float across a clear blue sky. Nevertheless, my mood is black.

Turning off the main road and onto a red dirt trail, my truck bounces and sways over rain-washed potholes. I spot Ricky's F250 under a canopy of branches and hear Alan Jackson's “Drive” blasting from the stereo.

I cut the engine and take the footpath down to the shore. Ricky's waded out thigh deep, casting his line.

“Are they biting?” I wave, smiling as if all is well.

He reels in his line. “No,” he says, with not so much as a glance over his shoulder or a by-your-leave.

“You got a second?”

“Do I look like I got a second?”

“Yes.” Smart aleck. The gloves are off. No, the gloves are on. Which is it? Gloves off? Gloves on? No matter, the
fight
is on.

“Nope, don't think I do.” Ricky zips the line through the air. The silverfish lure grabs a ray of light just before breaking the water's surface.

“I thought the fish weren't biting.” I slip my hands into my hip pockets and cock my head to one side.

“They aren't. Just like my girlfriend.”

Ah, yes, the gloves are off. “Can we talk about this?”

Before he can answer, Ricky's rod bows to the zip of a reeling line. His arm muscles flex as he works to bring his catch in. “Well, looky here, you brought me luck.” But as quickly as it began, it's over. The tip of the rod whips toward the heavens, and the taut line goes limp. Ricky's shoulders droop, then he swears.

“Sorry,” I say, for lack of anything better.

He wades out of the water and brushes past me. “Must not be my weekend for landing the Big One.”

Wincing, I realize this conversation is not going to be easy. But, I'm tired of running, tired of choosing the easy road. “Missed you in church yesterday.”

“Surprised you even noticed.”

“I noticed.” My eyes follow him as he walks to the back of his truck, tossing his rod into the bed. He steps out of his waders and jerks his T-shirt over his head. I whirl around to face the other way.

I don't want to marry Ricky, but mercy me, sometimes he makes me wish I did. Just for a night or two. He's lean and muscled, like a wrangler. His abs are well defined. The only six pack I've ever touched.

Shirtless, Ricky slips up behind me, brushing my hair away from my neck, sending chills down my spine. “Marry me, Robin. Come on, it'll be fun.”

“I'm moving to Nashville.” The confession sounds soft and weak, but the words sink down and grab hold.

“Nashville?” He turns my shoulders to face him. “Since when? To do what?” A red tint outlines his narrowed eyes.

“Be a songwriter.”

“Be a songwriter?” At that he backs away from me and hooks his arms over the bed of his truck, crossing his legs at the ankles. He stares at me like I'm a cyclops—or worse, Millie Miner the day she wore so much makeup for our senior picture it looked like we actually had a class clown.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Hands on my hips, I pretend to be brave, pretend this is the best idea since the Colonel invented Kentucky Fried Chicken.

“Because I'm wondering if you've lost your mind. Do you even know what it takes to make it as a songwriter?”

“Yes, well, a little.”

“You're going to get lost in the sea of wanna-be Nashville songwriters. For every one that makes it, there's a million more trying.”

“I'm not one in a million?”

He points his finger at me and laughs low. “Ah, clever girl. I'm not falling for that one-in-a-million bait. I'll live to regret it.”

“Clever boy.” As I'm talking, I retrieve my little black notebook and a pen from my hip pocket.

“Look, baby, all I'm saying . . . What are you doing?”

“Just jotting some thoughts.”

“We're in the middle of a discussion.”

“Hold on a sec.” I scribble
one-in-a-million, clever girl,
clever boy
.

“Robin—” He reaches for my arm, knocking my book and pen to the ground.

“Ricky!” I jerk away, stooping to pick them up. “Thin ice, bud. Very thin.”

“You weren't listening.” He stares at me for a second. “Until Friday night, the only singing you ever did was on your grandpa's porch. Songwriting is a long shot.”

“Oh my stars, you sound like Momma.” I tuck my notebook and pen in my hip pocket.

Ricky gently tugs me close. The scent of stale cologne mingled with sweat and river water stings my nose. He brushes my lips with the tip of his thumb, then lowers his lips to mine. “Let's get married, make a few babies.”

His words electrify the hairs on the back of my neck. “You just want to have sex.”

His grin is impish. “Do you blame me? Look at you. Cuddlier than a passel of pups and sexier than Shania.”

“Shania? You're crazy.”

“Ask any man in Freedom, Robin.”

“What? You've talked to other men about me?” My entire body burns with embarrassment.

“No, but get your head out of the sand, Robin. Men know what other men are thinking.”

I narrow my eyes and make a fist. “Look, I'm not marrying you just so you can sleep with me. Shoot, Ricky, what kind of woman would I be?”

“Very happy.” He snickers.

My protesting fades with a laugh. “You're sure of yourself.”

“I love you. I want to marry you. I want to sleep with you under the stars on the bank of the Tennessee River. I want twelve kids that look just like us.”

“Twelve kids? What're you thinking?” Sex on a muddy riverbank and having more kids than I got fingers. Ha! “Ricky, it's taken me a long time to work up the guts to admit my dream, and you're asking me to cash it in for a roll in the hay.”

“Not one roll. Many rolls.” He tries to sound sultry, but it's more like a tacky used-car salesman telling me, “She runs like a top.”

“Besides,” he continues, “you can write all the songs you want right here in Freedom.”

“No one in Freedom is going to buy my songs.”

“Probably no one in Nashville will either.”

I stare toward the river. I hate that he's half right. But more, I hate his argument against me.

“Life's too short to be chasing rainbows,” he says.

I bristle back at him. “Life's too short not to chase a rainbow or two.”

“Come on, forget about Nashville.” In one deft move, he swings his leg around, knocking my feet out from under me. We tumble to the ground amid the tall grass as I hoot with laughter. I can't help it. This is the irresistible part of Ricky Holden. The next second we're rolling around, laughing and giggling, wrestling against each other, each trying to come out on top. Until . . . We slow down. He peers into my eyes.

“Robin.”

I peer back. “Ricky.”

Next thing I know, we're making out like a couple of junior high kids, slobbering all over each other. See, the boy does things to me.

But when he grabs for my T-shirt, I shove him off and jump to my feet. “No you don't, Ricky.”

He falls over on his back, hand on his chest, breathing deep. The rascal knows he can't get to second base with me.

“You're driving me wild.”

I tug my shirt straight. “You're doing it to yourself, dude.”

He rises up on his elbows. “No, you're doing it to me.”

He's impossible. I start for my truck before he wears me down.

Just beyond the thicket, dust billows, and car tires crunch against the rocks and dead tree limbs. A car door opens then slams shut.

“Ricky? Sugar? You here? You left your jacket at my place Saturday night.”

Through golden ribbons of sunlight, Mary Lu Curtain rounds a clump of blooming honeysuckle.