A Nashville Collection (34 page)

I grab her shoulders and push her upright. “Blaire, get a hold of yourself. Why do you even want a man who's stupid enough to let a beautiful, wonderful woman like you get away?”

“Robin, I'm not as strong as you.”

Skyler sighs from where she waits by the door. “Good grief, it's the pot calling the kettle black. You're doing the same thing to Lee, Robin.”

“I am
not
doing the same thing to Lee. Do you write your own fairy tales or get them from the Soap Network?”

“What? You are so doing the same thing to Lee.”

I argue with Skyler while trying to steer Blaire out the door. It's like trying to grasp a flopping fish.

Skyler tosses Blaire's coat over her shoulder. “We'll take the Beamer. I have child locks in the back.”

Once we get Blaire in the car and buckled up, she starts crying. “He said he loved me, y'all. Love. You don't just say it if you don't mean it.”

Skyler turns left out of the complex. “Let's go to the Mellow Mushroom for pizza.”

Blaire slaps the back of my seat. “He said he
loved
me. Creepasoid liar.”

Skyler brakes for a red light. “Then be glad you're no longer tied to a creepasoid liar. He did you a favor.”

“But he's a Christian man. Why'd he lie?”

A high-pitched, fake, “Ha, ha,” peals from Skyler. “How're those rose-colored glasses fitting, Blaire?”

“See, this is exactly why I haven't told Lee I love him. I don't want to utter idle words.”

Blaire flops back against her seat. “How could I be so blind and stupid?”

I stretch over the seat and grab her arm. “Blaire, stop. He charmed all of us.”

“I'm afraid I'll always be alone.”

Skyler swerves into the parking lot across from the Mellow Mushroom. “You will not be alone, Blaire. And Robin, good grief, you love Lee and you know it.”

“You can't let him get away, Robin,” Blaire whispers.

“Lord?” Skyler addresses the roof of her car. “What'll you give me for these two loons?”

“Speak for yourself, I-get-bored-with-a-guy-after-two-dates.” I shove open my door.

“I do not. More like five dates.”

We banter about relationships as we walk into the restaurant. Finally, Skyler sums it up. “Blaire, you always toss your heart out like it's a two-dollar Frisbee. Why don't you just be happy being you? Blaire Kirby, fantastic photographer, lover of God, beautiful woman. Why do you need a man?” She puffs the paper from her straw. “And you, on the other hand.” She points to me. “Stop being stubborn and afraid. It's getting old. Seal the deal with Lee. Please.”

I stick my tongue out at her. “I'll say it when I'm ready.”

“Nothing wrong with waiting until you're ready,” Blaire says, reaching for a napkin.

“Fine,” Skyler says. “Then, let's talk about me.”

“Oh, yeah,” Blaire says with her first genuine laugh of the night. “We
never
talk about you.”

Jim picks me up for dinner two days before New Year's Eve. He
wants to take me to his favorite steak place, The Stock-Yard Restaurant, over on 2nd Avenue North. “The owners renovated the old Nashville Union Stock-Yard building. Livestock was traded down here for about fifty years, but when they closed down, the buyers couldn't believe the marble and cherry wood décor of the offices. Made for a great renovation.”

“I love this town.”

Jim chuckles. “This town has had everything. Gospel to rock music, sports, the Grand Ole Opry, and some of the finest dining anywhere.”

“Nashville is starting to feel like home.”

He cuts a glance at me. “I'm glad. And I hope you like steak. The Stock-Yard serves the best Angus Beef.”

“I never turn down a good steak,” I say as we head down Broadway.

The Stock-Yard is amazing. The atmosphere is Victorian with rich wood trim and a shiny marble floor. A heavy chandelier hangs from a domed skylight and illuminates the entrance. The ambiance is rich and classy.

A burly cowboy of a man greets us with open arms, “Jim, good to see you.”

I choke back a laugh, unprepared for the big man to have a high, squeaky voice.

Jim motions to me. “Robin, this is the manager, Rusty Allender. Rusty, this is my, well—”

I offer my hand. “Daughter. Robin McAfee.”

Rusty shakes my hand. “Very nice to meet you.” Then he pounds Jim on the back. “Good heavens, man. Known you ten years and never knew you had a kid.”

“Actually, we just met.” This is hard for him. A chink in his armor. But he's swallowing his pride with dignity.

“Congratulations, then.” With much pomp for a small circumstance, Rusty escorts us to a nice booth in the back.

“Pick an appetizer, you two. On the house.” Rusty pats his broad, hairy hands together. “Rooster fries?”

Jim looks at me, grinning.

I squirm. “No, please. No.”

“Give us a couple of shrimp cocktails and iced teas please,” Jim says.

Rusty's big laugh billows behind him as he barrels toward the kitchen.

“He asked on purpose. He likes to mess with people,” Jim says, reaching for his silverware, unrolling the napkin.

“Rooster fries.” I shiver.

“So, tell me about Robin McAfee,” Jim says, as a server comes with our teas, promising our appetizer will be out in a moment.

“Not much to tell.” I give him the lowdown on growing up in Freedom, my short-lived college career, and the four jobs since then, singing on the porch with Granddaddy and the Bluegrass Boys, the family.

“So, are you married?” I ask Jim. “Any other kids?”

Jim shakes a packet of sweetener then dumps it in his tea. “I almost got married a few years ago, but we called it off. And, you're my only . . .”

A different server brings our shrimp. “Ready to order?”

“Oh, no, I haven't even looked.” I reach for a menu, but Jim cuts in.

“Care if I order for you?”

I pause mid-reach. “Okay, yeah, sure.”

He orders a prime rib with baked potato, fixings on the side, and a salad with ranch dressing, on the side. And a porterhouse for himself.

“How'd I do?” He leans toward me.

“Freakishly well.” I grin. “I like blue cheese more than ranch, but it's good.”

“I'll remember next time.”

“Next time, I'll order for you.”

He laughs. “Now you sound like my kid.”

It's weird, but I don't mind him saying I'm like him. Sort of puts some of my quirks into perspective. “Why'd you start Nashville Noise?”

Jim spears a few shrimp for his plate. “I wanted to be an artist.”

I take a big gulp of tea. Shrimp isn't my favorite. “So you started your own label?”

“Not at first. I was going around town with my guitar, pretending to be Glen Campbell mixed with a little Roy Orbison, but I never made it to the stage.”

“Why?” Boldly, I take a few shrimp and spoon some cocktail sauce. Don't want him to eat them alone.

“Stage fright.”

I freeze, mid-cocktail sauce dip. “You? I got it from you? All these years, feeling like an alien, writing songs without the guts to sing them, and it was
you
all along.”

“Certainly not your momma. She wasn't afraid of the stage.” He stares me straight in the eye. “I admire you.”

“This is unbelievable. I feel like I'm seeing myself for the first time.”

Jim chuckles. “I'm sorry, I should've—”

I hold up my hand. We've covered this territory already. “So, anyway, you wanted to be an artist.”

“Yeah, so one night, I was backstage at the Ryman with some songwriters I'd done some arrangements for, and this young woman with a big voice hits the stage.”

“Momma?” I asked.

“No, Grace Harding. She was engaged to Tuck Wilder, and they were fighting like cats and dogs before the show. Hitting and spitting.”

I laugh. “You're kidding.”

“The stage director comes back, tells them to knock it off, they're on in five minutes.”

“What'd they do?”

Jim chuckles. “Grace stood up and said, ‘Help me get ready.' And Tuck trotted off after her, telling her to wear her blue-sequined dress. Grace came out and sang like a pro, left the stage, and went back to fighting with Tuck. I pulled them aside and said, ‘We have to work together.' Two people with that much passion had to make some great music. I formed Nashville Noise and signed Grace and Tuck the next month.”

“Unbelievable.” Our server comes around with our steaks. My stomach rumbles. “You know, I saw something in Graham Young when he talked music with Granddaddy and the boys back home. I think he has a knack for recognizing talent and trends. Too bad he's—”

“The boy is arrogant.”

“Too bad he's afraid of failure,” I say.

By the time our food arrives, the conversation flowed from the music biz to Jim's family. Over thick juicy steaks and buttery potatoes, I learned he has three sisters and two brothers. And more nieces and nephews than I care to count.

The idea of a whole new family makes my head swim. “If it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep our relationship between me and you for now.”

He saws off a large chunk of steak. “Your choice.” His gaze shifts to my face. “But I have to tell you, my mother's been praying for you for a long time.”

His confession catches me off guard, and my eyes well up. She watched over me without ever laying eyes on me. “I'd like to meet her . . . someday.”

“She'd like that a lot. You say when.”

By the time dinner is over and dessert consumed, I'm stuffed and sleepy, but content. Discovering Jim Chastain has been the best part of the night.

While Rusty and Jim haggle over who's picking up the check, I excuse myself to the ladies' room. As I round the corner, humming a melody, I hear, “Hold this for me, Lee, darling, I'll be right back.”

I look toward the lobby. Standing there, holding a woman's purse, is Lee I-love-you-Robin Rivers. He's dressed up, looking darn handsome in a brown suede jacket and jeans. His hair has been trimmed since he dropped me off at home, and apparently he's acquired a tall, leggy blonde.

“All set?” she asks, returning. She's gorgeous.

“Sure,” Lee says, shining his suave smile on her.

I start to shake all over. Lee?

“Robin, is everything okay?” Jim's hand touches my shoulder.

“Fine.” I watch Lee and the blonde follow the hostess to a table on the other side of the restaurant.

Jim hands me my coat lovingly. “He's not the two-timing kind, Robin.”

I look up at him. “Thanks for dinner.”

I feel ill.

32

“Okay, here's what you do,” Skyler says over the phone while
I lay on my bed. “Write him a song.”

“Write him a song?” My face itches from the dried tears.

“And sing it to him at the Bluebird.”

“Sheesh, like that'd be comfy. Hello, strange people, please join me in this very intimate moment while I tell my boyfriend I love him for the fist time. Hold your applause until I'm done baring my soul.”

“Are you PMSing?”

“No. You're ridiculous.” I sit up and stuff my feet into my Nikes. “You know what? Forget strategy. I'm going over to his house and tell him.” Seeing Lee with another woman did what nothing else could do—give me the courage to tell him.”

“That-a-girl. Take action.”

I slip on my jacket. “What if
she's
there?”

“She who? Didn't we decide Lee's a one-woman kind of guy. Look what he did with you when his ex needed him.”

“Right. Here I go.” It's eleven o'clock, but I don't care. Lee Rivers is going to hear “I love you” tonight. Preferably from me and not the leggy blonde.

Hidden among maple and hickory trees and one weeping
willow, Lee's house on Sharondale Drive is pitch black. Not so much as a porch light glowing. I park my truck next to his garage and cut the engine.

Now what? I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. I've never done this before. Made a move on a man. Ricky chased me for over a year before I let him catch me. When he said he loved me, I asked him if he wanted ketchup or mustard on his hotdog.

But my life is all about change and discovery these days. Who knew I'd move to Music City and discover my red hair is not from cousin Mickey O'Dell, four times removed? Who knew I'd find out the blood of a Music Row tycoon flows through my veins? Who knew I'd have compassion for the man who stole my song? Who knew I'd figure out that being found comes only after being lost?

And who knew I'd fall in love for the first time? Not me. Yet here I am.

Cold air seeps into the truck cab. The tip of my nose is getting numb. I figure I'd better do something or go back home. Glancing up at Lee's window, I rub my hands together for warmth, thinking, and stalling.

Get out and knock on his door. The night ain't getting any younger.

I shove the door open, then slam it shut again. Wait. What am I going to say? “Hey, Lee. Did I wake you?”

Or, “Hey, about you and that blonde? I'm not jealous, but by the way, I love you.”

There. The three platinum words. “I love you.” Here goes. Knock on his door, and when he opens, fall at his feet and grovel.

Wait, that's a terrible plan. What if he's still upset with me? What if he doesn't love me anymore? What if the blonde really is the other woman? I chew on the tip of my thumbnail.

Mountain of indecision? Meet valley of regret. I'm paralyzed by my own ability to see both sides.

The passenger door creaks open. I scream.

“Robin. Hey, hey, shhhh. It's me. What are you doing?”

“Lee! Great day, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”