Yankee Doodle Dixie (26 page)

“Hi, baby,” he says, once his arms wrap around me.

Baby? Normally, I would think a guy was sleazy for calling me that so soon but coming from him it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Hi, Liam,” I say, entirely convincing myself that this is what it felt like the first time Grace Kelly met Prince Ranier.

“You look gorgeous.” He takes a step back and I watch his eyes travel from my hair down to my toes.

“I do?”

He slowly exhales. “Yellow is your color. It looks great with your hair,” he says, lifting a long lock off my shoulder and holding it in his hand. “Wow. So beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I smile coyly.

Reaching out for my hand, he leads me to the stage where he helps me up onto the platform. “Hey everyone, remember Leelee from Memphis?” They all nod and say hello. He wraps one arm around my waist and speaks close to my face. “Why don’t you sit at one of the chairs at that table,” he points to the foot of the stage. “I’ll be finished here shortly and we’ll go for a drink.”

“That’s fine,” I say, still quite shy in his presence.

Once seated I send a three-way text to the girls that reads: “Sitting at a ballroom table with a penthouse view of Central Park on one side and the Hudson River on the other waiting for Liam to finish his sound check. He just called me ‘baby.’”

Virginia immediately writes back, “Might leave John for a band member. I want the guitar player.”

Mary Jule writes, “I’m so jealous.”

Finally ten minutes later, Alice responds. “I admit it. I would KILL to be there. Have fun.” I can’t help but smile to myself at Alice’s admission while glancing toward the stage where Liam is playing the first bars of “Miss Thing.”

The second sound check is over Liam grabs my hand, walks me through the ballroom, and whisks me out the door. We step onto an elevator, and it seems to stop on every floor on the way down. With my hand clutched tightly inside his, he scoots me farther back to accommodate each person. Once we reach the lobby he leads me through to the bar, where he heads straight for two empty bar stools.

He throws his leg over his stool and pats the one next to it. “Have a seat, young lady.”

It’s higher than most stools and since my pale yellow sheath hasn’t much give in the skirt, I have to wriggle my way onto the seat.

“You gonna make it there?” he asks jokingly, while reaching over to help hoist me up.

“Yes, I’ve got it now,” I say, awkwardly scooting my backside into the chair. Clearly there’s a disadvantage to a sheath, though I’m sure this wasn’t the scenario my mother had in mind when she told me a good sheath dress would be indispensable. With all the maneuvering my dress has twisted and the back is now around the front. I try smoothing it back around, slowly hiking up one hip after the other, all the while looking like a seal writhing about in a chair. I don’t have to look into the mirrored bar to tell my face is on fire.

I catch him looking at me as I’m situating my purse over the back of the stool. “How’s your room, Leelee Satterfield?” he asks me confidently.

“It is
beautiful.
And the view? I had no idea,” I say as gracefully as possible, considering I’ve just been squirming in the seat like a five-year-old being forced to pose for a portrait.

His green eyes sparkle as he speaks. “I know. My room has views of both Central Park and the Hudson. It’s definitely an advantage of these corporate gigs.”

“What do you mean by that?” I say, slightly out of breath from my unexpected workout.

“Some of the larger companies have events or conferences for their employees, say once a year, and they hire guys like me as their entertainment. The best part is that they have big budgets, so the fee is great, plus they’re usually held at a wonderful hotel like this one. But, like everything, there’s a downside.” He looks down the bar and tries to attract the bartender’s attention. “The audiences are terrible.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that, either,” I say, when he looks back at me.

He smiles and chuckles a bit. “For one thing, they never stop talking. And they’re usually shit-faced by the end of the night. They’re not paying to see us, so they normally aren’t too attentive.”

The bartender finally arrives and Liam orders a Heineken. “And for the lady?” the Asian bartender asks.

“Do you have peach daiquiris?” I say.

“No. But I could make you a peach bellini martini.”

“What’s in that?” I ask.

“Peach schnapps, vodka, peach nectar.”

“Hmm, that sounds a little strong for me.”

“It’s very good, though,” he says, wiping his hands on a bar cloth.

“Maybe I’ll have … a … okay, I’ll take it,” I tell him.

When our drinks are served Liam leans over and holds up his Heineken bottle for a toast. “To Leelee, who looks like a Southern belle in her yellow dress, with peach bellini-daiquiri-whatever-you-call-it, and who puts all these Northern women to shame.” He never takes his eyes from mine, and gently taps our drinks together.

I deftly lean in to sip from the precarious rim of the martini glass, and lower my eyes away from his. The first swallow melts deliciously down my throat—a dangerous combination of peach and fire and deep, deep warmth. I make a futile mental note to watch out for these concoctions … not to mention the man I’m sitting across from.

Noticing the warmth spread in my cheeks, Liam leans back and chuckles—a confident grin spreading across his weathered face. He takes a relaxed pull from his bottle and laughs. “Lightweight,” he says teasingly.

We spend the next hour engrossed in conversation. Everything from why Deke is gruff (Liam says that’s the way most road managers act), to my job, and onto Alice, Virginia, and Mary Jule. He tells me he thinks they are hilarious and wonders why they don’t have their own TV show. I tell him all about Kissie and how she’s keeping my daughters, and how I hope and pray Riley’s not driving her crazy.

I lose count after the sixth fan who interrupts us, recognizing Liam and then asking him for his autograph. The first time I don’t really understand what’s going on—Liam is so conditioned to the occurrence that he barely has to pause our conversation to sign the cocktail napkin. I can’t help but bask in the thrill of being the one on his arm, as the admirers glance over at me while Liam is signing his name. It’s one of those pinch-me-quick moments, when you’re not sure if it’s a dream or not. But after a while it becomes a nuisance; our conversations are too readily upended and the thrill I got from being gawked over now seems like an invasion of privacy. Especially when the women smile and bat their fake eyelashes. I suppose that little fashion accessory is back but Mama always said it makes a woman look common and cheap.

Every once in a while, when Liam touches my knee or puts his arm around my shoulders, I’m reminded that it is not a dream at all and I’m living my own fairy-tale moment. He may not be Daddy’s definition of a Southern gentleman, but Liam is a very nice person with a great deal of respect for me. Kissie is dead wrong this time.

“Are you getting hungry?” he asks, when a highly enhanced blonde wanders away.

“Sort of.” I’m not about to act like it, but actually I’m starving.

“I don’t normally eat until after the show, but I’d be happy to order you something.” Seeing my confused face, he continues. “It preserves my voice,” he says, clearing his throat. Even though I’m not familiar with what in the world he means, I shake my head in agreement and smile.

“I have to head on upstairs in a sec, but my goodness, Leelee Satterfield, it’s hard to get up and leave you right now,” he says with such simplicity and directness it stuns me.

“Gosh, you are so complimentary. Thank you,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“You’re just a doll, baby. I’m stoked you decided to come up.” He kisses my forehead before glancing at his watch. “Deke’s probably getting antsy about now. He’ll start calling if we’re not backstage on time. We better head.”

As we’re strolling through the hotel, my mind is ablaze with possibility. The way people are smiling at us gives me the impression that they think I’m his girlfriend. Or even better, his wife. This is the most regal moment of my life; I can’t imagine anyone could blame me for considering what might become of it.

Deke greets us at the ballroom and shows us back to a small green room set up outside Liam’s dressing room. Once inside, I notice the elaborate spread of food and drink, exactly as it was backstage at the Orpheum. The decadent jumbo shrimp chilling on top of an ice sculpture fashioned after a treble clef, an assortment of exotic fruits fanned out on a silver tray with a curry dip in the middle. Brie, calumet, and other fine cheeses nestled inside red, green, and purple grapes. Once again a bar is stocked with Coke, Sprite, Perrier, Heineken, and wine. My eyes zero in on the green bottle with the blue foil top and the familiar antique white label, barely visible amid the ice in the wine cooler. It’s the Rombauer Chardonnay again—and as much as I’m determined not to think of him, all I can see are Peter’s perfect lips. I can practically hear him calling my name from the kitchen.

“Leelee, are you with me?” When I feel Liam touch me on the shoulder, I’m startled back to our conversation.

“Oh sorry. I spaced out there for a second.” I lightly shake my head as I bring myself back to the present.

“Would you like a glass of wine, baby?” he asks.

“Not right now, thank you, though. Is all this food for you?”

“Yeah. It’s a terrible waste, huh? Surely, the hotel must give it to their employees after I leave.”

“Don’t your band members help you eat it?”

“Believe it or not, they’ve got their own dressing room food. That’s the business, though. My manager insists I keep it on my rider.”

“What’s your rider?” I take the liberty of popping a shrimp into my mouth. At this point, I’m ravenous.

“It’s part of my contract. It tells the promoter what I need for each show. Aside from all my technical specs like how many inputs and outputs I need for my mics, amps, monitors, and such, it also spells out what kind of food I’d like to have backstage. I’ve thought about taking some of it off but my manger is convinced that there will come a night when I really want it. So I just leave it in.”

Deke knocks on the door to let Liam know he’s got fifteen minutes before show time and that he better get changed. Five minutes later, when the bathroom door opens and I catch sight of my date standing in front of me wearing a dark suit and pale blue dress shirt, he nearly takes my breath away. He’s knotting his tie as he walks toward me.

“I have to dress up a bit more for these corporate gigs. Don’t want to stick out like a sore thumb,” he says. “Hey, Deke, show Leelee to her seat out front, will you?” He leans in and kisses my cheek. I know I’m blushing, but can’t do anything to prevent it.

On the way into the ballroom, I see everyone is in cocktail outfits. Now I’m the one sticking out like a sore thumb. I politely excuse myself from Deke with a lame excuse about needing to check my phone messages, and go running back to my room to change. I had a feeling I’d need a cocktail dress so naturally I packed my favorite. It’s a vintage pale pink, strapless organza, tea-length made in the 1950s. The best part about it is, it was Mama’s—part of her trousseau when she was betrothed to Daddy.

By the time I get back the show has already started. The people at my table glance over at me, the strange single woman sneaking in without a name tag. A few minutes later, in between songs, the man sitting next to me asks whom I’m with.

“I’m with Liam,” I say, and point toward the stage.

His eyes bulge. “Are you his wife?”

“No, girlfriend,” I hear myself saying, shocked not only that I said it, but by how quickly the words tumbled out of my mouth.

“Really?” I watch him place his hands on his wife’s shoulders and whisper to her from behind. She looks back at me and leans all the way over her husband. “You’re with Liam? What it must be like to stare into that face!” Within minutes, the word has spread around the table and all of them want to be my new best friend. Normally I’d be pleased with the attention and newfound camaraderie; but it’s clear they’re only interested because I’m with Liam. And I’m not really “with” him. This must be what it feels like to be royalty. Rock ’n’ roll royalty, anyway.

Liam was exactly right about people talking during his show. I notice many folks standing at the back of the room, their chatter causing an underlying background noise that continues throughout the whole show. It affects the music, but I suppose if you hadn’t listened to every album like I had, you might not notice the difference. When he hits the final chord, the couples at my table jump up to clap for him, all the while looking over at me. For all they know we could be deeply in love. Love. What would that feel like, to be really, actually, in love with Liam White? Little do they realize, I am nothing more than a working mom Cinderella enjoying a weekend away from my reality. It’s not as carefree, this fantasy, when you know it’s really not true. We all continue clapping and a few whistles come from the back tables—where the cocktails have started to fuel rowdy behavior. I wonder if Cinderella was able to enjoy her time at the ball, knowing that there was a ticking clock hanging over her head. I look at Liam who is now making final waves to the crowd, and he catches my attention and issues a heart-stopping wink in my direction. He certainly makes a convincing Prince Charming.

*   *   *

When the lights come up, I see Deke beelining it over to my table. He motions for me to follow him quickly. As I’m walking away I hear one of the ladies say to another, “What I wouldn’t give to be her right now.”

The door to Liam’s dressing room is shut when we make it backstage and his bandmates are milling about, eating their own food. I linger outside chatting with his drummer, Danny, exchanging pleasantries, commenting on the noisy audience and raving about the hotel’s views. When he asks me how I like Liam’s suite, I immediately bristle and feel the blood rush out of my head. Shame rushes through me. I don’t feel like Cinderella anymore.

“I haven’t seen his suite,” I say as politely as possible. “I have a lovely room, though, that overlooks the park.”