Lost in NashVegas Page 6

  But today I notice something sticking out from under the chest’s lid. I lightly tug on the corner of a picture and carry it over to the light.

  In faded Kodak color, there’s Momma, her face framed with Farrah Fawcett hair. She’s smiling and her expression is one I’ve never seen before. So carefree.

  There are four others in the picture with Momma. Two men and two women. I study their faces. They’re young, about my age, but captured in time twenty-five years ago. The guys’ long hair flows into their wide, open collars, and one of them sports Elvis-like sideburns. I run my finger over the snapshot’s smooth surface.

  Who are these people, Momma? What are you doing? Why have I never seen this before?

  I flip the photo over to see if Momma wrote anything on the back. She didn’t. At the bottom of the picture, there’s a sign or something. But the image is torn, and I can’t make out the words. I try to match the photo’s tattered edges, but they are too frayed.

  “Robin?” A muffled call floats up the stairs.

  I jerk my head up.

  “Robin, where are you? Eliza’s on the phone.”

  I hurry to the trunk and try to slip the photo in, but it won’t go. Trying a different angle, I only manage to get the picture stuck. Now what? I tug lightly to free the picture, and then rrrrrip.

  Crap. Perfect. Just perfect.

  Another muffled, “Robin Rae! Mercy, did you fall in the toilet? Eliza’s waiting. Long distance still costs money.”

  Leaning against the trunk lid and thumping it with the heel of my hand, I work the stuck half of the picture free and hurry down the attic stairs, hiding the picture in my hip pocket. Surely there’s a place in Nashville that fixes photos. But the original is torn. Forever.

  “Where’ve you been?” Momma asks, handing me the phone. “Eliza’s getting ready to go to England, and you’re dilly-dallying.”

  “I do not dillydally.” I hop up on the counter. Savory smells drift from Momma’s oven. “Hey, Liza.”

  “How’s Momma behaving?” she asks.

  I mutter into the receiver, “She’s not on board, but she’s accepting it.”

  “That’s something. I can’t get why she’s so boiled over you moving to Nashville but so accepting of me going to England.”

  “Story of our lives, I reckon.”

  “Are you going to e-mail me when I’m in England?”

  “Did I e-mail you at Auburn?”

  “No.”

  “There you have it.”

  “You’re a horrible big sister.”

  “Oh, really?” I cup my hand over the phone. “Say, Daddy, remember when Granddaddy’s valuable coin collection was stolen?”

  Eliza’s laugh floats down the line. “Okay, you win best big sister ever! You did take my punishment for me.”

  “What’s that, Robin Rae?” Daddy cranes around his easy chair, a red licorice whip dangling from his lips. He quit smoking twenty-five years ago and took up licorice.

  I smile. “Nothing, Daddy.”

  Eliza tells me a letting agent (translation: realtor) found her a flat (translation: apartment) in Cambridge near the university. She can walk or bike to most places or take the buses.

  Then, too soon, she says, “I’d better go. I still have a lot to do.”

  My heart lurches. It’s hard to say good-bye. I ward off my tears by picking at the small hole in the knee of my jeans. “Be careful, you.”

  My baby sister, thousands of miles away. It was one thing when she was only a few hours south in War Eagle country. One small plea for help and we’d send down the cavalry. But all the way over in England? I suppose Eliza has to find out what she’s made of too. Steel or clay.

  “You know I will.”

  “Eliza, I tease you about being all brains, but you’re very beautiful. Be smart about it.”

  She sniffs. “Same to you, Robin. Don’t let no sweet-talking cowboy get in your way, because once they hear your songs, they’ll fall in love with your soul.”

  “Sure they will. As soon as I work up the nerve to sing to them.”

  “Let me talk to Momma again. I want to say good-bye.”

  Handing the phone back to Momma, I realize how soon my own life will change. I’m leaving home. Leaving the comforts and sounds of Freedom for a life and a city I don’t know. And that doesn’t know me.

  Will Nashville welcome me?

  I meander into the living room where Daddy’s dozing off. Sitting on the floor, I press my cheek against his knee, defenseless against the tears that form when his hand rests gently on my head.

  “Last day?”

  I look up as Ricky approaches me Friday afternoon with his work apron wadded in his hand. His cowlick sweeps his thick blond hair off his forehead.

  I smile though the sad shimmer in his eyes, and it stings my heart. “This is it. Just finishing up next week’s order for Lil. She’s taking over my aisle.”

  “I need your truck,” he says.

  “My truck? Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because? You can’t have my truck on a ‘because.’ I still remember what you and Mitch did to Reed Larson’s car.”

  His jaw drops as if he’s completely innocent of painting the man’s car pink and green. “Robin, please, I never touched Reed’s car.”

  “Right. But the paint did, didn’t it?” I wink at him. He and Mitch, who owns Pearce Paint & Body Shop, are kings of innuendo and double-talk. They’ve planned and executed more secret missions than the CIA.

  “I’m not going to hurt your truck. Please, give me the keys.”

  “You’re not going to put tractor tires on it, are you? Or paint angry, hood-eating flames across the front?”

  He narrows his eyes. “No, but I still think flames are a great idea.”

  “No flames.” We had this argument at Christmas. He wanted to paint flames on my hood as a present. I refused. Got a year’s worth of guitar strings instead. Good man.

  “Let me have your truck.” He leans down to my ear. “Please.”

  His warm breath melts every “No” in my body. “O-okay.” Is it hot in here?

  He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me tight to kiss me. “I’ll come by tonight and pick it up.” The man has the best lips. “And just to clarify, I did not touch Reed’s car.”

  I laugh as he releases me. “Liar.” A mental picture of Reed’s pink car pops into my head. Got to be a song in there somewhere. Right up there with a boy named Sue. I pull my black notebook and pen from my apron pocket and flip to a blank page. “By the way,” I say to Ricky, “I leave Monday at eight.”

  He turns to leave. “She’ll be ready.”

  Monday morning the sun burns away the first layers of fog as I wait for Daddy on the back porch. A low rumble of fear has me thinking I might change my mind, but I grapple it down.

  I’ve rented the third-floor apartment from Jeeter’s friend, a Nashville artist named Birdie Griffin who had a pretty good run as a star in the ’70s and ’80s. I also called cousin Skyler Banks. Her momma is Daddy’s sister, Louise. “About time,” Skyler said when I told her my plan.

  Yesterday I sat with Ricky in church. “How’s my truck?” I asked before worship started.

  “Not pink.”

  “Good.” I elbowed him in the ribs.

  “So, what about us?” he asked, resting his arm around my shoulders on the back of the pew.

  I wave at Mrs. Stebbins. “What about us?”

  Ricky turns my chin so we’re eye to eye. “Are we broken up?”

  “Can we just wait and see?” I couldn’t bring myself to say something final like “It’s over.” Especially with Mary Lu on the prowl. Is that horrible?

  “For now,” he agreed.

  So here it is Monday morning, and I’m about to take flight. On the porch next to me, Daddy’s big leather suitcase is stuffed to the gills, along with the Wal-Mart tote Arizona insisted on buying me. Plus a box of bedding and such, and my guitar. Birdie called Sunday
evening to remind me that the apartment is furnished, so no need to bring anything but clothes and trinkets.

  After I hung up with her, Momma warned, “Be careful, Robin Rae—check for fleas and lice when you get there.”

  “Fleas and lice? Momma, she’s a respectable lady, not a bordello madam.”

  “Don’t be snippy. I’m just saying . . . if you need anything, call and we’ll run it up to you.” She bonked a head of lettuce against the counter and pulled it apart.

  Grandma gave me a basket of goodies. Two jugs of her tea, a tin of ginger cookies, and my favorite coffee mug of hers. “Gotta have something of the old home.”

  Momma handed me two goose-down pillows and the quilt from my old bed. “You’ll need these.”

  I felt like it was 1880, and I was going West on a wagon train never to be heard from again. Goose-down pillows, a quilt, and “something of the old home”? Nashville is two hours away.

  “Ready?” Daddy steps onto the porch and hands me a bag of licorice.

  “Wow,” I whisper. “This is a huge sacrifice for you. I don’t know what to say.”

  “All right, all right. So I like licorice.” He jerks my suitcase from the porch floor, chuckling.

  We load up and drive in silence to Mitch’s, where Ricky stowed my truck for the weekend, the only sound the click of Daddy’s tongue as he chews on his toothpick. I’m homesick already. By the time we turn in to Pearce Paint & Body Shop, my eyes are battling tears.

  Daddy cuts the engine and says, “I’m gonna miss you.”

  “Same here, Daddy.” A few tears escape and slip down my cheeks.

  He reaches for my hand. “My firstborn. You’re the most special, but I’ll deny it if Eliza or Steve catch wind.”

  “It’s our little secret.”

  “I know you’re scared, but I’m proud of you.” He squeezes my hand as if to give me a shot of confidence. “Courage isn’t the absence of fear but the ability to confront it. You’re showing courage here, Robin Rae.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, wiping the edge of my face where the tears drop off.

  “You have a bit to overcome, but learning to fly with your own wings will make you strong. Listen to your old daddy— you are a great songwriter. The Lord is with you.”

  Old daddy? At forty-eight, his hair is still thick and black, and his crisp brown eyes look at Momma with youthful love. He’s the steady, ever-present man. A man of his word. A man of the Word.

  I lunge across the seat into his arms. “How did I get so blessed to have a daddy like you?”

  He coughs and sputters, patting my shoulder. “I think I’m the lucky one. Now, we’d better see what Ricky and Mitch have done to your truck.” He kisses my forehead before letting me go.

  Outside, Daddy pounds the heavy, sliding doors with his fist. “Hello, it’s Dean and Robin.”

  Ricky answers through a crack. “Not quite ready.”

  “Fine, son, but let us in. We can get a cup of coffee while we wait.” Daddy shrugs at me with a glance at his watch.

  “Ricky, what’s going on?” I holler. “There better not be one flame . . . Or antlers. No bull or deer antlers. Or moose.” One set of antlers or yellow flames, and I promise, pow, right in the kisser.

  The garage doors open. There, in the bright shop lights, is my ’69 Chevy, it’s midnight-blue body polished to a mirrorlike shine.

  “Holy cow.” I walk beside the truck. “Ricky, it’s beautiful.” Inside the cab, my white seats are whiter than fresh snow, and the small tear on the driver’s side is gone. “You fixed my seat and detailed the interior . . . Is that a new roof lining?”

  “Yeah, couldn’t let you—” A cough chokes off his thought.

  Daddy props one arm over the door. “You must have worked all weekend. This is mighty nice of you and Mitch, son.”

  Ricky waves off Daddy’s comment with a sigh. And his eyes are on me. “Couldn’t send Robin off to Nashville looking like a country bumpkin.”

  I laugh. “But I am a country bumpkin. And proud of it.”

  “Robin,” Daddy calls from the other side of the truck. “Look here.”

  I walk around. There on the driver’s side of the truck bed is the most beautiful red bird, wings spread, soaring above a white, fleecy cloud. Underneath, Ricky has airbrushed the words Freedom’s Song.

  I fly into his arms, bury my face in his chest, and bawl like a baby.

  7

  A steady rain pelts my windshield as I cruise north on I-65 just past the Cool Springs exits. The truck’s wipers grunt and groan, and despite blasting the defrost, a thin layer of fog creeps up the inside of the glass. Wiping it down with an Arby’s napkin, I glimpse the road signs. Nashville’s up ahead.

  My insides quiver and my leg shakes a little. “Getting closer—”

  Holy cow! I slam on the brakes.

  Freedom’s Song fishtails and hydroplanes into the next lane. My heart bucks as I brace for the crunch of metal against metal. But by God’s grace, I miss two passing cars by a hog’s hair and manage to get control before spinning into the guardrail.

  With my heart thundering and my head throbbing, I drop my forehead against the wheel and gasp for air. Was there really a woman standing in the middle of the right lane?

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I roll down my window. A little wisp of a woman stands beside my truck. “Thank you for stopping,” she says, rain dripping from her short, brown hair onto her heart-shaped face.

  “Don’t mention it.” It dawns on me I’m facing south in a northbound lane, and headlights are closing in. At a quarter to ten, there’s still a good bit of going-to-work traffic. I clutch and shift. “Let me get out of the road.”

  I whip the truck across the lanes and park behind her car on the berm. All those Saturdays doing donuts in wet fields around Freedom? Priceless.

  With my shoulders hunched up against the cold May rain, I get out and walk toward the little woman’s car. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I don’t know.” She kicks the car door. “Stupid piece of junk.”

  “Can you pop the hood?” I’ve looked over Daddy’s shoulder enough times to know my way around an engine. I can find obvious problems.

  Steam rolls from the radiator as I lift the lid. “You know, you gotta water these things.” The putrid odor of a dry radiator stings my nose.

  “I just get in and drive.” She fans the steam away from her face.

  “This is what gives girls a bad name. Car ignorance.”

  She laughs. “Guilty.”

  The rain thickens, and I drop the hood. It’s a nice vehicle— a Saturn. I know people who’d give their eyeteeth for a piece of junk like this.

  “I have radiator fluid in my truck,” I say, “but we need to wait for the engine to cool.” I motion for her to follow me.

  She jogs alongside, shivering. “What woman drives around with radiator fluid?”

  “One who doesn’t break down on the highway and almost gets herself killed.”

  “I like you.” She shovels her wet bangs out of her face and goes around to the passenger side door. Inside the truck cab, water drips from the ends of our hair and puddles on my clean seats.

  “When the engine cools, I’ll pour in some Prestone. Hope you’re not in a hurry.” I reach in the glove box for my stash of napkins and pass half of them to my passenger.

  She looks at me with really blue eyes. “Nope, no hurry. I’m free as a bird.”

  I’m not surprised. “What’s your name?”

  “Mallory Clark.” She rubs her wet hair with a napkin. “Thanks for stopping.”

  “Robin McAfee, and you gave me no choice.” I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s reapplying mascara. I grin. Bet her story is a doozy.

  Putting her makeup away, she settles back in the seat, propping her wet Reeboks on my dash. I know it’s an old Chevy, but it’s my old Chevy, and Ricky just cleaned it. “You mind?” I flick at her dangling shoestrings.

  “Sorry.�
�� She drops her feet to the floor.

  “Are you on your way to Nashville?” I squeeze the last of the water from my hair with a soggy, shredding napkin.

  “Yeah, going home.” Mallory fluffs her short hair, making the ends stand up. “Just getting back from a vacation in hell.”

  I make a face. “How was it?”

  She laughs. “I knew I liked you.” But her merriment quickly fades. “I chased my boyfriend to Florida where he promptly introduced me to his new girlfriend.” She collapses against the seat with a heavy sigh. “I’m twenty-two and still chasing boys like a stupid schoolgirl.”

  “No accounting for love, I suppose.”

  Mallory props her elbow on the door’s arm and stares out. “My family was livid with me, but—” her shoulders rise and fall. “—I had to try.”

  “Nothing wrong with trying.” The rain makes the day dreary, and I’m trembling from almost running someone over. “I’m terrified to sing in front of people.” The words come before I can think about them. “Yet I’m moving to Nashville to be a songwriter. What a hoot, huh? My momma and boyfriend think I’m crazy.”

  Mallory picks up my black notebook lying on the seat between us. “Ah, but it’s those mommas and boyfriends who inspire hit songs.” She flips through the pages without asking but without reading. For some reason, I don’t mind that she has invaded my private world. “My boyfriend—” She stops. “My ex-boyfriend was a songwriter. I do a little singing myself. At least I did.”

  “What happened?”

  “Mr. Two-timer ran off with Miss Fake Boobs. Matt and I were in a cover band together. I paid the bills while he worked on his own stuff. Oh, we had big dreams.”

  I grin. By Mallory’s tone, I know she’s going to survive just fine. “How’d you meet this Mr. Two-Timer?”

  “He wanted a backup singer for Songwriter’s Night at the Bluebird Café. A mutual friend suggested me, and next thing I know, I’m in love.” She laughs. “I was so whacked to fall for him.”

  “Mallory . . .” I stop. What can I say to ease her pain? She just has to go through it and hopefully come out stronger. “At least you found out before you married him.”