by Layne, Sandi
It was her turn to laugh. “Now that is something to think about.”
“Hey!”
She rolled over. “No, no cabana boys. No room! I’ll have to give you a video tour or something when everyone’s up. It’s a big bus, but no cabana. I’m the only one not attached, you know. It’s been, well, a busy year.”
He cleared his throat. “I imagine it has been. I’ve been doing some digging online.”
“Oh, great.”
“Instagram is a thing! Maybe, when you’re back in town again, we can actually sit down in person and you can get me acquainted with the rest of the band.”
She sighed, a warm, homecoming-sort of feeling in her chest that made her smile. “That’d be nice.”
He yawned. “Sorry, honey. It’s just after two, here, and some of us have to get up in the morning.”
“Honey?” She couldn’t help but blurt the endearment back out; it had hit her with an unexpected jolt. Not unpleasant, but not something she’d thought to hear at just after midnight in a voice that she could far too easily imagine coming from a soft, comfy pillow in Brentwood, Tennessee.
“Don’t like honey? I could just call you by name, you know. Mira, Mira on the Wall. Who’s the fairest one of all?”
She groaned, loudly enough to alert Cinnamon, who was just across the narrow aisle that pretended to be a dorm hall. “Sorry, Cin!”
“Sin?”
“Cinnamon. She sleeps across the hall. She’s an amazing writer, but she hardly ever sleeps when we’re on tour. So, she heard me. I’ll whisper,” she told him . . . in a whisper.
“Ah.” She could hear him try to stifle a yawn. “So, are you usually so awake when you’re on tour?”
Wincing, she bit her lip in true contrition. “I’m sorry. I tend to ride a high after a show and then drift off.” After a quiet moment, she added, “It’s not exactly a nine-to-five kind of job, Mr. Blakemore.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is.” He yawned again and she could hear what sounded like the rustle of sheets or something—pajamas? Blood rushed to her cheeks as he continued, totally ignorant of the path her thoughts were taking. “Might make dinner dates a bit hard, if you’re out of town so much.”
She winced again and was grateful for the lack of video that evening. Morning? Whatever it was. “Breakfast might be out, too, on days after a show. But,” she added, trying to smile over the tension in her middle, “I’m totally a morning person otherwise.”
“I’ll remember.”
It was quiet, then, and she stretched out on her back, staring at the carpeted gray ceiling above her narrow bunk. Her mind was dashing about, wondering if she should just nip her new, almost-relationship in the bud. If she should squash the possibility of a date and then more dates and breakfasts and coffees and nighttime conversations. She didn’t want to, though. There was something about Derek’s honest communication, his curiosity, his acceptance and teasing, that both soothed and thrilled her. Her heart would skip a little just thinking of him or looking at a pic of him on her phone. It was . . . a rush, really. A comforting rush.
He had been super enthusiastic about what they had together so far. He’d asked about the ins and outs of a day in the life as they’d traveled to California, wanting to hear how she’d decided to play bass guitar when she had a lifetime of training as a classical violinist in a couple of really good schools.
But maybe . . . maybe all of that, even on both sides, wasn’t enough for more?
“What time do you have to be on your feet?” she wondered, to keep the conversation going while she thought it through.
“Well, I am meeting with a group of investor-possibles at the shelter at ten-thirty tomorrow. Today?” She could hear a smile in his voice when he said, “So, you know, if you want me to call over coffee again, I can do that.”
“What do you have planned for the prospects?” she asked instead, wanting him to know that she knew the words for his world as well as her own; her brothers were businessmen, in their own spheres.
“I’ll give them a tour of The Place, show them files with redacted personal information, show them the community appreciation we’ve received, success stories from those who’ve gone on after a crisis. They aren’t going to make money doing this, but being charitable is good for business, too. We’ve got several top companies as well as prominent individuals who are part of the project.” His voice had shifted from sleepy-not-quite-a-boyfriend to serious, community-minded businessman.
She had to smile. “Well, I am sure you’ll convince them. Have you approached my folks, before? If they were jerks, don’t tell me, but—”
He started to say something, paused, awkwardly, and then said, “Actually, Andrew is on the board.” He opened his mouth again, and added, “Your other brother is also familiar with it.”
“Huh. Okay. Good. The stuff a sister finds out in the middle of the night.”
He cleared his throat. “You know, sometimes bands do mini-concerts for charity at the Bluebird Café.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, um. Maybe ya might could consider it with the Lipstick Outlaws?”
“Not my call, but I’ll bring it up with Val, okay? She’s our manager.”
“Hey, thanks!”
“Sure. So, is that why you wanted to take me to dinner?” She really didn’t think he was a man who would pursue her in the romantic, teasing way he had done—albeit over the phone, but she still remembered the way his arms had felt around her at her brother’s wedding—just for business, but she had to ask.
His answer was perfect. Of course. “Nope.” No excuses, explanations, or rough weirdness. Just a firm, confident denial. “I mean, I have my reasons, sure, but none of them have to do with Mac Cunningham. Most of them are about Mira-Mira on the Wall.”
“Oh, stop!”
“Nope!”
Laughing, they called it a night and Mac went to sleep with her mind full of laughter and the memories of a few wonderful dances. And, perhaps, some even more wonderful dreams.
INTERLUDE III
Mac & Derek
Mac: Hey, you up?
Derek: Told you I would be. Home yet?
Mac: Almost! So . . . you mentioned dinner?
Derek: It’s the middle of the night. Again.
Mac: . . . Should I apologize?
Derek: No! It’s just that I am usually more of a morning person and you wind up calling at night. I can work with that.
Mac: Okay
[pause]
Derek: You up?
Mac: Sorry! Just thinking.
Derek: About dinner? Because we can find an all-night place, if you want. I’m game.
Mac: No, not really. I mean, I’m still up for dinner, sure, but . . . are you?
Derek: Can I ask you a really personal question?
Mac: Only if you promise to delete this entire convo as soon as we’re through. And no posting anything on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram.
Derek: I have SEEN your IG account, and it’s amazing. I love the one someone got of your fingers on the strings during a rehearsal.
Mac: Oh! Val sometimes gets her phone out and goes a little crazy. She’s awesome, though.
Derek: I’ve read about her. I’ve, uh, kinda read about all y’all, really.
Mac: Oh! Well, yeah. So, uh, any questions?
Derek: LOL Only everything. Seriously. Might have to make it a picnic date or something.
Mac: You’re on
* * *
Mac & Micah
Micah: Hey, Womb-mate. You just about here?
Mac: It’s 2!
Micah: I know. Conf. call w/ Tokyo just finished. It’s about 4p., there.
Mac: !!!
Micah: Right. So. Come in quiet, yeah?
Mac: Will do.
Micah: Parentals wanna see you.
Mac: They’ll have to get in line. I’ve got a date.
Micah: ??? Wait. Best man? Blakemore?
Mac: Yep! Picnic. After I take a n
ap.
Micah: Tell the ladies hey for me
Mac: Will do. Sleep.
* * *
Derek & Blake Blakemore
Blake: It’s your day out of the office, right? Got time for lunch? I wanted to discuss an acquisition.
Derek: Right day, Dad, but not a good day for lunch. I’ll be at The Place this morning and then I’ve got a date.
Blake: A date? You?
Derek: It has been known to happen, yeah.
Blake: Anyone I know?
Derek: Seriously? No. I don’t think so.
Blake: Oh, man, is it another -friend’s little sister- thing? Last time you did that was 5 years ago and your mother was mortified.
Derek: LOL Stop! [pause] Yes, it is, for the record, but no, I’m not telling you which friend.
Blake: Don’t say I didn’t warn you
Derek: Stop! But really, about the acquisition?
Blake: Right. Dinner?
Derek: I can do dinner. I think.
Blake: Call your mother. She worries.
Derek: I’m 31 years old. Y’all need to quit worrying.
Derek: **eye-roll**
4
“Mira-Mira, on the Wall . . .” Derek called as he approached Mac’s apartment. She was standing just next to the closed door, obviously to prevent him from entering, and upon seeing him, there was no smile to warm the hazel-green of her eyes.
“Hush!” she insisted, holding up a foreboding finger and frowning hugely.
As this was not the welcome he had been anticipating after their playful and increasingly flirtatious texts, emails, and conversations, Derek wiped the smile from his own face and stopped a careful distance in front of her. “You okay?” he asked first.
Her frown gave way to a confused look and she blinked rapidly. “What?”
“We’re still on for a picnic, right?”
“Of course.”
“So, can I come in?”
Her smile appeared at last and Derek was surprised to find how much seeing it eased the tension in his middle. “Well, I didn’t want you to wake up Micah. He was up all night on a conference call with Tokyo, and he’s dead to the world.”
“Tokyo?”
“Yeah. He’s got lots going on, right now.”
Derek pursed his lips and nodded. Her brother was an international player—stocks and games, as he understood from their conversations over the wedding weekend, weeks before. And Mac herself was in an increasingly noted band that had been getting more time lately on The Big 98. He hadn’t told anyone he had a date with her, though. He didn’t imagine she’d appreciate it; she’d seemed touchy about the mere possibility of his interest in her being based upon what she and the Lipstick Outlaws could do for his fundraising efforts, after all.
“That’s kind of what I figured, from talking to him. A lot like you, huh?” When she shook her head, he just smiled and stepped back a bit. “Ready to go, then? I’ve ordered a picnic lunch for us.”
She hesitated a moment before moving to walk with him back to the main door of her building. “Ordered? What, a big, strong man like you can’t make a sandwich and sweet tea?”
He opened the door for her, and they left the building into the cool, sunny day. “I had that meeting at The Place, today, so I did my big, strong man routine already.” She grinned at him and he felt a tug in his chest. It was stupid, maybe, but that’s what it felt like. “I’ve missed you,” he confessed without ceremony. The words sort of fell out of his mouth and he let them; they were honest and nothing to be ashamed about, after all.
Though he did feel the heat rising under the open collar of his long-sleeved button-down shirt. He’d gone with blue, that day, as it was a good business-casual color. Khaki chinos and loafers, too. He tugged at that open collar as Mac continued to smile into his eyes and he forced himself not to look away. “What?” he asked as they stopped near the parking area.
“You’re cute when you blush,” she teased. “So which car is yours?”
He pointed. “Right. Both your brothers saw it already and I guessed you knew which one it was. Sorry?”
“Because I am just that psychic, right?” She rolled up on her toes and he smiled at her evident enthusiasm. “So? Are we having the picnic here? There’re tables by the pool. We could do that.”
“Right,” he said, placing his hand at the small of her back and leading her to his car. “I brought you here to the car so we can go to the pool.” She made an embarrassed sound and he made sure to catch her eye before playfully wiggling his eyebrows. “Though, I wouldn’t really object to going in the pool with you. Any pool.”
It was her turn to blush, and he let himself laugh a little at her as he opened the door and made sure she was seated and comfy before he closed it. He blew out a breath as he stepped quickly around the car. Mac looked amazing, really. He’d never guess she’d been on tour for weeks, living in a glorified bus and up all hours of any given day. She wore a cotton dress in light yellow, with a blue cardigan over it. He loved that she didn’t have her hair all done up like she did for a performance; it was just braided to fall over one shoulder, the natural brown streaked with blond. He felt like she—the woman who was in his car right now?—was the real Mac Cunningham. Pretty. Casual. Looking like she came out of a modeling gig for an upscale department store, maybe, but not showy. She and her brother lived in the Werthan building! Not exactly the worst address in Nashville.
He’d done his homework and he knew how the Cunningham twins managed it, more or less, but still!
“Ready?” he asked as he folded himself into the driver’s seat.
“Yep!” She twisted a bit to look into the empty back seat. “So, food?”
“Gotta pick it up. Let’s go!”
It was a short drive to his destination, and on the way he was reminded of all the typical first date kinds of conversation that he was sure everyone had to maneuver through at this stage. “I could ask, How was work? I guess, but that seems kind of redundant, after all we’ve communicated over the past weeks.”
She chuckled and shifted under the seatbelt. “Work was great. Rehearsing a few new songs and we did, wow, a bunch of shows. Trying to work up some new material for another album.” He saw her smile from the corner of his eye. “You had a meeting this morning, right? How’d it go?”
“Good, thanks. And hey, thank you for asking about the charity thing at the Bluebird. I got the email from your manager. We’re going to get a date to you as soon as we can.”
“Great. I spoke with Val and she was very pleased to be able to do a benefit for The Place.”
“Good. And,” he added, a concern that had been nudging him coming forth just as he reached the parking lot, “um, just in case there was any confusion, I’m not interested in you because of Lipstick Outlaws. Okay?”
“What?”
Blowing out a breath, he reached an empty spot about as far from the signature blue umbrellas in front of the restaurant as he could get and still be there. “I mean, I’m interested in you, Mira Annice Cunningham. Mac. Andy’s sister. The fact that you’re in this band that’s climbing the charts is a part of you, but not the you I’m, um, taking out on a picnic.” He winced, feeling like he was seventeen again. “Did that even make sense?”
“For a man who regularly speaks persuasively and has excellent rapport with key business leaders and members of the community,” she said, quoting in an obvious manner from some website or other, “you’re kind of adorably sweet. You know. In case you were wondering.”
“Sweet?” He pretended to be offended, but his heart was warm and his suppressed smile broke free as he hurried around the car to open her door. “Sweet?”
Her eyes sparkled in the afternoon sunlight and she licked her lips as she met his gaze. “Uh huh. Sweet. Like . . . I don’t know. I’ll have to find out what kind of sweet, actually.”
Something in her tone, in the curl of her voice and the heat in her eyes, ignited sparks within him, and he decided h
e had a fair idea as to how she might discover his particular brand of sweet. And it wasn’t going to happen in the parking lot.
“Right. Well. Keep me updated, okay?”
“My pleasure.”
He didn’t take her hand, but he did measure his long strides to her shorter ones and waved her to go before him to the doors. “The Picnic Café?” Her tone was filled with smiles. “Really?”
“Well, we’re picking up our picnic lunch, here. I thought we’d go to Elmington Park? They’ve got those benches and all that, you know.”
“Yeah!” She craned her neck to smile at him. “Been there. It’s pretty.”
“Pretty,” he muttered not quite under his breath. “First sweet and now pretty.”
“I wasn’t saying you’re pretty,” she retorted, nudging him gently with one elbow.
It was a voluntary touch from her, and he thought it was the first, so he tucked it away with a closed-mouth smile. “My masculinity is now assured.”
“I dunno, looking at this place . . .” she whispered before offering him the obviously overplayed incredulity of arched brows.
He had to give her a point, there. The Picnic Café had, in his opinion, a more feminine air to it. Whites and blues and curlicues, it felt to him a bit like old Dutch country mixed with British accents. Not that he was any good at European anything; but once he’d gone looking for it on the internet, he’d had ads showing up on his browser with such styles.
Not to mention all the country music band concerts and dates and ads for the Opry and suggestions of whom to follow on Twitter and . . . yeah.
Derek didn’t make it a practice to follow the rich and famous on social media, but he had taken to following the band Lipstick Outlaws and their various members, insofar as they’d included him.
He approached one of the staff since he hadn’t been to the restaurant before. “Excuse me, picking up a lunch? Called in for take-out?”
“Oh, right! Name?”
While he handled the picking-up details, Mac was touring the café with her gaze, smiling, and, once, nodding when someone stood up wearing a Lipstick Outlaws t-shirt, with its emblematic headstock and the open lips for the design. He was surprised when the fan—a girl who looked to be maybe sixteen—dashed up.