A Nashville Collection (20 page)
“Meet me at Bread & Company.”
“Good idea.”
The restaurant is packed. I maneuver my way through the crowd, secretly scanning for famous faces. A trick I learned from Blaire. And Birdie said important people come here. But after a few minutes, I feel sorta stupid. Unless a major artist walks through those doors, I wouldn't recognize a Music Row powerhouse if my life depended on it.
Skyler calls. “I'm running late. Order me a turkey on whole grain, no mayo, and a large Diet Coke. I'm dying for something fizzy to drink. ”
I pull a ten-dollar bill from my pocket. “Turkey, no mayo.” She keeps forgetting Marc doesn't pay lawyer wages.
Meanwhile, I can't figure out which Pay Here register also takes orders, so I shift lines one too many times, and after ten minutes, I'm still at the end.
“You have to pick a line and commit.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I glance around. “Oh my gosh, you're him.”
He smiles, and the fingers of my soul pluck my heart strings. “I am.”
“Aren't you supposed to be on tour?” The line can move all it wants. I'm not moving unless he does. What a great face.
“I'm home for a few days.”
Remembering my Billy Currington bungle, I gather my few wits, pretend I'm cool, and stick out my hand. “Robin McAfee. Songwriter.”
He laughs low. “Keith Urban. Songwriter too. Nice to meet you.”
We meander through the line, chatting about the biz. Keith is personable with an air of humility, as if he understands fame is fleeting but character endures. “Keep writing,” he tells me. “You'll find your place.” His order is to go, so when they hand him a package, he heads toward the door.
“Can I ask a small, itty-bitty favor?” My insides shimmy. This is ridiculous, but the words are out there.
He grins and yanks a napkin from the dispenser. “It's not illegal, is it?”
I grin. “No, it's not illegal. My sister is a huge fan. She said to hug you if I ever . . . you know . . . ran . . . into . . .” Oh my gosh, this is the stupidest thing I've ever done.
Without a word, or making me feel like a twelve-year-old, Keith embraces me in a light and polite hug. “For your sister,” he says.
“For Eliza.” I grin, holding it together. Barely. Shaking all over. Maybe he doesn't totally believe it's for my sister, but who cares? I just got hugged by Keith Urban! Man, I love this town.
By the time Skyler shows up, Keith is long gone, and I've eaten half her turkey on whole grain, no mayo.
She sits at my table with a huff. “Can any man talk more than my boss? I'm sorry I'm late.”
“No worries, mate,” I say in my best Aussie accent. “Keith and I chatted.”
She makes a face as she drops her purse on the spare chair. “Keith who? Did you eat half my sandwich?”
“Yes, I only had enough money for one sandwich and a drink. You forget I'm not made of money. Urban.”
“I'll pay you backâ” She stops, and her eyes bug out. “You talked with Keith Urban? He was here? Oh my gosh.” She whips her head around, looking.
“Save yourself the whiplash. He's gone.”
“Oh my gosh . . . You're lying. No, you're not lying. You talked with Keith Urban?” Skyler picks up the other half of the sandwich. “I'm gonna kill my boss.”
I grin. “He hugged me too.”
She slaps the table. “He did not.”
“He did. For Eliza, you know.”
Skyler laughs, then pounds the table. “You have the best luck. First Billy, then Keith. You've got to e-mail Eliza today. She'll die.”
Since I'd planned to write at NSAI in the afternoon anyway, It's
no bother to take a few minutes to e-mail my sister.
Cambridge,
Three words for you. Hugged. Keith. Urban.
NashVegas
I run into Graham at The Frothy Monkey on the Wednesday
before the Fourth of July. I'd finished cleaning the Pagadigm Group offices, picked up my paycheck from Marc, and decided to treat myself to an iced mocha.
“Graham.” I tip up my nose.
“Short stuff.” He gazes down at me as he steps up to order. “Large black coffee.”
I squint at the menu on the wall. “Do they even sell black coffee?”
Graham laughs, fishing a fistful of coins from his pocket. “You still mad at me?”
“Should I be?” The girl hands over my iced mocha.
“No. It was business, Robin.”
“Then your business isn't very nice.”
Graham laughs and winks at the girl as if they know something I don't. “Have to work deals, girl, or your career goes nowhere.”
“Does that include dissing your friends?”
He looks away. “Like I said, it was business, Robin. Just business.”
We walk outside and chat for a few minutes on the deck. He must have looked at his watch ten times in ten minutes.
“You in a rush, dude?”
“Well, I do need to get going.” He steps down to the sidewalk. “I'll call you.”
“I'll hold my breath.”
Momma calls around dinnertime. “Are you coming this
weekend?”
“I might.”
“Jeeter's going around telling folks you're singing in the Fourth Fest, to which I say, âDon't count on it, Jeeter.' So Daddy insisted I give you a call.”
“Your support overwhelms me, Momma.”
She huffs. “Sorry, Robin, but I've been around this mountain too many times.”
She's thrown down the gauntlet. “I'm coming andâ” here goes nothing “âI'm singing.”
“You say that now. But wait 'til Jeeter calls your name.”
I see all the years of false starts have messed with her confidence as much as my own. I pick up the gauntlet. “Momma, I'll sing. I promise.”
“Are you telling me you're over your stage fright?”
I sigh. “I'm still terrified, but I'm learning to let God's love be my strength and song.”
“Guess I'll stop contradicting Jeeter.” The pitch in her tone tells me she's still a doubter.
We say good-bye, and I toss the phone on the coffee table. Guess I'd better pack and let Birdie know I'll be gone. It occurs to me I could use some Nashville courage in Freedom, especially if I'm singing in the Fourth Fest. Especially if Ricky is going to be around.
I dial Skyler. “Want to go see Grandpa and Grandma McAfee this weekend?”
She hesitates. “Normally, yes.”
“But . . .” I collapse over the arm of the couch.
“I have a date.” The business quality of her voice drifts into a goofy lilt.
“With who?”
“A guy I met at your last open-mike night. He said he liked your voice. I said I was your cousin. He asked for my number, and now we're going out.”
“He likes my voice and you get the date? How's that work?” My attempt at indignance fails.
“Hey, don't mess with my system. You get the applause, I get the guys.”
“So, who is the lucky schmo?”
We talk about Trey Phillips, his kind demeanor and easy smile. Their first date is dinner and a movie.
Skyler asks for an update on Ricky. “I called him a few days ago just to talk. Told him I wanted to give Nashville a chance.”
“What'd he say?”
“âDo what you gotta do' and hung up.”
“Robin, end it with him. It's not fair to keep his hopes up when you're not really planning on marrying him. Besides, what if Lee becomes available?”
“I'm not holding on for Lee. We're still just waving across the pews.”
“I haven't heard any more about Janie and her court case.”
I stuff one of the throw pillows under my head. “Here's a bit of good news you'll like.” I pause for effect. “Graham and I made up. Sorta.”
“You call that good news?”
“What's your problem with him?”
“I don't like how he treated you.”
I flop my arm over my eyes. “He's just inconsiderate.”
We argue the point for a second, but I can't convince her Graham is a good guy underneath his duster of ambition and hat of conceit.
After talking with Skyler, I call Blaire to see if she wants to go to Freedom, but she reminds me she's on her way to Hilton Head with her parents.
Looks like I'm traveling to Freedom alone. I slip off the couch and take my guitar out to the deck. The night is thick and dark. In the distance, the orange hue of downtown lights arch over the city, and firecrackers explode on the next block over. Screams and laughter float over the rooftops and settle on me.
I love the Fourth of July. In Freedom, half the town gathers at Granddaddy's the night before, and we sing and play well into the night. Momma bakes a half dozen of her famous Red, White, and Blue cake. Game and food booths line the streets.
Going home will be good. I can redraw my emotional boundaries and shake the lost feeling of being a newcomer to Nashville. My recent journey may not be
at all
about becoming a published songwriter, but about connecting with the perfect Love that overcomes fear.
The first breeze of the night ruffles through the maple, and for a long time, I sing and talk to my Father.
My old truck, Freedom's Song, whizzes by the town limits
around noon. The smell of pine whooshes through the open windows.
Graham cranes around to read the
Let Freedom Sing
sign. “I love it,” he says, jutting his elbow out the window. The wind tugs at the brim of his hat.
I glance over at him. He called last night, to my surprise, just before I crawled into bed. After our Frothy Monkey meeting, I didn't really believe he'd call anytime soon.
“Short stuff, what you got going for the Fourth?” he asked.
“Actually, I'mâ”
“Let's grill out. Go down to the Cumberland and watch the fireworks. Maybe do some writing. What do you say?”
“I have plans, Graham.”
The disappointment in his “Oh” killed me. I suggested he call his other friends, but it didn't take much hemming-n-hawing before I realized I was his other friend.
“Why don't you come down to Freedom with me?” The invitation tumbled out before I could consider all the ramifications. Like . . . Ricky.
Graham didn't hesitate. Not one second. “Great,” he said. Something in his voice told me I couldn't take back my invite, even though he tossed me aside like an old shoe a few weeks ago.
After we hung up, I clicked off the light and lay on top of the covers for awhile, asking myself, “Can I trust him?”
In the end, the idea of him sitting home alone, watching NASCAR, eating take-out, convinced me. Besides, I think it's what Jesus would do.
“Freedom seems like a nice place to grow up.” Graham breaks into my thoughts.
“It was . . . is.” I wave at folks coming out of the downtown shops. “Where did you grow up, Graham?”
“Everywhere. California to Maine. Army brat.”
Those two words, “Army brat,” paint a whole new picture of my songwriting friend.
He chuckles. “I made a lot of money moving around.”
I grin. “Doing what? Singing songs?”
“No.” He hesitates. “Let's just say I had the ability to help out in the test-taking department.”
“Really? What kind of ability?”
He taps his temple. “God-given.”
The conversation ends as I turn into my parents' driveway. Mo and Curly explode across the yard, barking, chasing the truck as the tires crunch and crackle over the gravel toward the house. A mess of colors and darks hang on the line, snapping in the breeze. The porch is loaded with folks waiting on us.
Graham whistles. “It's a Rockwell painting.”
My emotions swirl as I step out of the truck. “Yep, it is.” Mo and Curly jam their wet noses against my hands. I stoop to bury my face in their manes.
“There's my girl.” Daddy grabs me and whirls me around. The smell of his aftershave stirs up memories. “Land sakes, it ain't been the same around here without you.”
“It's good to be home.” I kiss his cheek.
I hug the grandparents, Uncle Dave and Aunt Ginger, and Dawnie.
“It's a boy,” she says, patting her round belly. “Steve is thrilled.”
“Me too. We need some more boys around here.”
Moving through the family on the porch, I hug Aunt Lynette and Uncle Roland, surprised to see them. Momma, Aunt Lynette, and their older sister, Aunt Carol, patched up a long-standing feud when I was a teen, but the love between them remained a little lean. They typically only gather in one place for the major holidaysâThanksgiving and Christmas. Granddaddy insists.
Besides the family, there's the Bluegrass Boys, Jeeter, Grip, and Paul. They hug me as if I were their own and tell me Nashville looks good on me.
“By the way, the triplets are going to the national clogging championships,” Paul says after a hug and kiss hello.
“You think they'll win?” I ask with a wink.
He pops his suspenders. “I reckon they will. They always do.”
Momma waits by the kitchen door like the Queen Bee.
“Hey, Momma.” I fall into her embrace. She smells like homeâfresh baked bread, vanilla and spice, and her staple Suave herbal shampoo.
She wipes her cheeks when I step away. “Well, you look happy and healthy.” For Bit McAfee, the confession is huge. “Mercy, what'd you do to your hair?” She brushes my short locks.
“Skyler. She thought I needed a new look.”
Momma pinches her lips. “Louise never did have control of that girl.”
“Momma, stop. She didn't do the cutting. Besides, I like it.”
While the porch crowd chimes in about my hair, “Looks good, Robin Rae,” Graham butts in with an, “Ahem.”
Oh, right. Graham. “Everyone, this is my friend”âI stress friendâ“Graham Young. A very talented guitarist and songwriter.” He's greeted with a chorus of how-dos, welcomes, and good-to-meet-yous.
