Lost in NashVegas (16 page)

My brain sends a signal to my lips. Pucker up. This is where my questions are answered. I lift my face. “Here we are.”

He picks me up and whirls me around so that my feet fly behind me like maypole ribbons. “I had a great time.”

Oh, swirly whirly. “Me too.” He takes my breath away. “Thanks for inviting me.”

He sets me down and backs away without so much as a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for joining me.” I watch him head over and open his truck door, then turn.

“Oh, say, Robin,” he calls.

“Yeah?” I step forward.

“Do you know how to get to Birdie's from here?”

My shoulders droop. “Over there.” I point in the general direction of my new home.

He pats the bed of his truck and waves. “You got it. See you.”

When I arrive home, the house is quiet. “Birdie?”

I jog up the stairs, unraveling my thoughts from the dash and smash of Lee Rivers. The afternoon had all the elements of a great love song. Spontaneity. Chemistry. Blue skies. The
almost
kiss.

I pause on the stairs and hunt through my purse for my notebook.
The almost kiss.
Great title. I fumble with a few phrases as I hit the second-floor landing, trying to imagine a story between two new lovers in the park.

Birdie's bedroom door flies open and she jerks me inside.

“Help. He's coming in an hour, and I have no idea what to wear.” Her narrow frame is draped with a lacy robe, and her hair is wrapped in a towel.

“He who?” I drop my notebook and purse on her bed.

“Walt. I have a date with Walt.”

Grinning, I sit on the edge of the window seat. “I thought he had a thing for you.”

Standing at her closet door, Birdie whirls around with two dresses in her hand. “The black or the red?”

“Well, the—”

She claps the hangers together. “What am I thinking? Red is too, you know, take-me-now.”

Laughing, I assure her I don't think red is too take-me-now. “Red is bold. Confident.”

“Really?” She presses her hand on her forehead. “What am I thinking? I haven't been on a date in eons.” She crashes down next to me.

“Relax, it's like riding a bike—you never forget.”

Birdie holds out the dresses. “I never learned to ride a bike. It's haunted me ever since.”

I make a face. “What kid doesn't—”

“I should wear black. Be conservative.” Birdie examines the black dress.

“Birdie, you've known Walt for a long time, right? He's not going to be swayed by the color you wear.”

“But we've never gone on a date. We've played gigs, taught songwriting seminars, but never a date.” She stuffs the red dress back in the closet. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Nashville Noise is coming out with the best of the '80s, and I have two songs on the compilation. Two!”

“Good for you.”

Birdie hugs the dress to her chest and speaks to the ceiling. “My wallet thanks you, Jim Chastain.”

“Say, Birdie. What happened with your Nashville Noise career?”

Birdie hangs her dress on the closet door and unwraps the towel from her head. “Long story.” She disappears into the bathroom.

“Is there a condensed version somewhere?”

She pokes her head out. “Let's see. Well, I bet all my chips on a blind bluff and lost.”

“What does that mean?”

“I thought you wanted the condensed version.”

“That's too condensed.”

“Some things happened . . . Jim and I found ourselves in a long-standing feud. Nashville Noise and I parted ways. I signed with a new label, but they didn't get me or my music. My sales didn't meet expectation, and they dropped me.”

“Dang, Birdie, I'm sorry.”

She ducks back in the bathroom and fires up her hairdryer. “I'm not,” she hollers out. “I stood up for what I thought was right, and I lost. At least I had the moral integrity to speak out.”

“I didn't think it would be this complicated.”

Birdie comes out with her hair wild and windblown, waving a fat, round brush. “Complicated is the nice word for the music business.”

She disappears in the bathroom again. “Where have you been all afternoon? Your face is glowing. By the way, I like what you did with your hair. Tell your friend—”

“Cousin.”

“Yeah, her. Good job.”

I hop off the bed and lean against the bathroom door. Birdie is flopped over, about to fire up her hairdryer again. “I went on a picnic with Lee Rivers.”

She peeks at me through a blonde veil. “Did you now? Interesting.”

I bend over to see her face. “Why is it interesting?”

“Well, if I know Lee— Mercy, is that the time? Walt will be here any minute.”

14

Daddy is on the phone talking about whittling a new bird-
house for Grandma McAfee as I stand on my deck watching my own Birdie flutter off into the sunset with Walt.

She wore the red dress. Walt's bright expression said it all. Propping my feet against the deck rail, I settle back with my black notebook and pen.

“. . . and your momma's garden is growing,” Daddy says. “She plans on winning blue ribbons for canned pickles
and
tomatoes this year.”

“I'm sure she will.”

“I'm thinking of kicking licorice cold turkey.”

“What? Please, Daddy, how will I recognize you when I come home if you don't have a licorice whip dangling from your lips?”

“Now, there's a thought. For your sake, I'll put off quitting.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Steve called from Iraq. He misses us.”

I imagine my sandy-haired brother in combat fatigues tucking a picture of his pregnant wife in a pocket close to his heart. “It's hard for him to be so far away.”

“I hear it in his voice, but he's proud of what he's doing. Dawnie is safe with her family and us. And, oh, she invited your momma to go into the delivery room with her.”

“Okay, Dawn is the bravest person I know.”

“Robin Rae.” Daddy snickers.

“Steve's got to hate this . . . missing the birth of his firstborn.”

“Sure he does, but freedom comes with a price.”

“Jesus taught us that, didn't he?” I crack open the black notebook and start to write my thoughts, but tears cloud my eyes. “I miss everybody, Daddy.”

“Sure you do. If you didn't, how would you know how much you love us. Give it time.”

“I did the right thing, didn't I?” The afternoon with Lee seems far away. “Should I have married Ricky?”

“Did you want to marry Ricky?”

“I miss him, a little. But he doesn't seem very happy with me.”

“Of course not. He didn't get what he wanted. But Robin,
did
you want to marry him?”

“Reckon not. I'm in Nashville, aren't I?”

“The Good Book tells us not to be double minded. Besides, you're half Lukeman and half McAfee. Heaven help Nashville. ”

I grin and brush away tears. “Guess you're right.”

He chuckles. “Of course. I'm your daddy. Now, here's Momma.”

“How's the songwriting business?” she asks without a hello.

“I'm going to the Bluebird Café's open-mike tomorrow night.”

“I see.”

I can't read her tone. Upset? Nervous? Jealous? “I'll be fine, Momma.” I say this for myself as much as for her.

“I reckon you will.”

When we hang up, I walk inside for my guitar, pausing by the torn picture of Momma and her friends. “You are a mystery, Bit McAfee. And someday, I'm going to sit you down and find out why.”

There's a line of songwriters outside the Bluebird Café, and I'm
not disappointed. My guess is I'll never make it to the stage tonight.

I forgot all about Blaire's stage fright advice and drank a liter of Pepsi while cleaning the Bennie Dillon lobby and several of the private residence's lofts. Between my nerves and the caffeine, I've got tremors, a dry mouth, and a thin, weak voice. And I swear my left eye won't stop twitching.

“Where have you been?” Black-hat-and-black-duster Graham Young calls out from the front of the line. “I said get here early.”

What is he doing here? I walk over with my excuse. “I got waylaid.”

“Good thing I came early.”

He swaps places with me. Now I'm in line where he once stood. There are only four people in front of me. Count 'em. Four. For a split second, I hate him. “You saved me a place?”

He smiles and chucks me under the chin. “Wanted to make sure you played.”

Having a
fear
reputation is the worst.

From the parking lot, a fancy-dressed man calls, “Graham.”

“Frank Gruey, as I live and breathe.” My new friend wanders off to schmooze, his black duster flapping behind him like a Batman cape.
It's May, Graham. May.

Midway down the line, a woman stares at me. I smile and make swapping motions with my hands. She snaps her head in the other direction. Hum, guess not. Maybe she's as scared as I am. Staring out at busy Hillsboro Road, I envision myself running away never to be heard from again. Fear is a strange enemy, isn't it? It chokes the life right out of folks.

I meander in the weeds of pretend too long. My foot jerks. My heart races. I wonder for a second if I might go crazy right in front of the Bluebird. I'm a hair's breadth away from running down the road, screaming like a banshee.

No. Steady, Robin. Steady. Calm down. You can do this.
You made a Robin McAfee decision.

A drop of peace splashes on my soul, and my foot stops jerking. The panic passes. Drinking from my one ounce of confidence, I pull out my phone. Might as well call in the troops. “What are you doing tonight? Nothing? Good, come to the Bluebird.”

“Why?” Skyler asks. “Are you going to sing?”

“I'm in line.”

“I'll be right there. Don't leave.”

I hang up and notice the late-afternoon sun casts shadows over all the cars and trucks in the parking lot except mine. One thin ray of sunlight shines over Ricky's handiwork like a heavenly spotlight:
Freedom's Song
.

I smile. Tonight, I hope to put a big dent in the old fear caboose. I turn to the guy in front of me and stick out my hand. “Hi, I'm Robin McAfee, and I'm scared.”

He scoffs and shakes my hand. “Allen Davis, and I'm not.”

Waiting in the crowded Bluebird with thirty other wannabe
songwriters, Jeeter's advice skips across my mind: “Sometimes you got to face your fears.”

Skyler, Blaire, and I have a table just left of the stage. The Bluebird is stuffed with guitar-hugging folks, waiting for their turn. And in the midst of them, Graham is off yakking with Frank, who, I discovered, is a publisher, song plugger, or producer. I can't remember, but it's something with a
P
.

And lucky me, I'm number five in tonight's lineup. Five. One, two, three, four . . . me.

Skyler taps my shoulder. “How many songs do you get to sing?”

“One.” I point over my shoulder to the little sound booth in the back of the room. “The woman over there, Barbara Cloyd, is the open-mike host, and she said there are too many signed up to do more than one.”

“Look at you, already a Bluebird expert. So, what song are you singing?”

Was it not a mere week ago that I ran from the Frothy Monkey, terrified? Then braved karaoke? It feels like a month of Sundays.

“Robin,” Skyler snaps her fingers in my face. “Focus. What song?”

I bite my lower lip. “I don't know, I hadn't gotten that far.”

She rolls her eyes. “You're a mess. Come on, what's your favorite song?”

“Well, I like ‘Your Country Princess,' but Graham called it sophomoric.”

“Forget him. Sing what feels right to you.”

“Last night I wrote a song about Steve being overseas with the Marines while his wife is home, pregnant.” I crinkle my brow, waiting for Skyler's approval.

“Sing the princess song. You've worked it longer. Don't sing something you haven't perfected. I hear it from my clients all the time.”

“Hadn't thought of that.”
What
am I doing in this town?

“Do you have a lyric sheet with you?”

“No.” I tap my temple. “In here. Besides, I wasn't planning on being number five and actually having to sing.”

“Well, you are.” She reaches around for a napkin. “Write it down.”

I shove her napkin aside. “I'll remember.”

Blaire whispers over the tabletop, “You'll be all right, won't you?”

I whisper back, “Yes.” I see in her eyes she's half for me and half against me. If I overcome, does she have to overcome?

Skyler drapes her arm around me. “I've updated my New Year's resolution: get Robin on stage.”

“You can't make me your New Year's resolution,” I protest, sloughing off her arm.

“Why not? None of mine are working.”

“Because your resolutions are stupid, Skyler.” Blaire counts off on her fingers. “Meet a man in February. First date in March. Engaged by late August. Married in December. You can't control any of them. Resolutions are about changing
you
.”

Skyler twists her lips. “Excuse me, I didn't know there was a resolution law book.”

I laugh. Their banter calms me a little and how they cut each other no slack. And if I can't have Arizona and Eliza around, these two are perfect substitutes.

When the fourth songwriter gets up, I smell the rubber burning
on the road. This is it. I'm next.

A long-haired, faded blonde with big eyes and a small face sits on a stool before the mike. “I'm number four, Vickie Daniels.” Without another word, she starts strumming and singing.

I wince. She's started the song way too fast and is trying to adjust the tempo as her clear, high voice pierces the room— off key.