Love Me Tender

by Laurie Horowitz

  “Very Urban Cowboy,” Patton says.

  “It’s show business. And you don’t have to dye your hair this time. Just sweep it up into that pompadour.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather just show up as me.”

  “Let me say this one more time. This is show business.” She speaks slowly as if to a recalcitrant child. “And open a few buttons on the shirt even though that might take attention away from the main attraction.”

  “My singing?”

  “Right. Your singing.” Nola drops her eyes to Patton’s crotch.

  “Hey, lady, I’m not just a piece of meat.”

  “I agree. You’re a prime cut. You should be grateful for what you’ve got. Everyone is trying to break through the noise out there and get attention, and you’ve got the goods to make it happen.”

  “You are one delicate flower.”

  “Delicate flowers wilt and die. I’m going places, honey, and I’m taking you with me.” Nola pauses and cocks her head. “So, did you have fun last night?”

  “I told you, I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “You think you’re in a Jane Austen novel or something? Just give me the basics.”

  “I like her,” Patton says. “I like her a lot.”

  Nola finishes her coffee and puts it on the oak table beside her chair. She doesn’t use the coaster, even though it’s right there. This house might not be Graceland, but Patton does his best to keep it decent, and that table where Nola put her coffee is one of the things his mother gave him when he moved away from home. She called it a family heirloom even though she probably picked it up at Blues City Thrift. Patton likes to keep things neat. When he was growing up in Memphis, their railroad apartment was all chaos all the time. Everything his mother touched ended up exactly where she’d last used it. From the time Patton was big enough to hold a laundry basket, he was picking up after her, just like he does for Hunter now.

  Patton hasn’t seen Hunter in a couple of days. That’s not entirely unusual. Sometimes, Hunter finds a girl and disappears for a while. Usually, if he’s been gone a long time, he calls to check in.

  “More coffee?” Patton asks.

  “Gotta run. I’ve got a ton of phone calls to return.” Nola gets up and walks to the door. She may be a piece of work, but she’s come into his life like a tornado, stirring up success from dry soil.

  “Leslie thought I sent her flowers.”

  “You can thank me if you like,” she says, poking him on the chest with her fingernail and flashing a smile.

  “Thanks. But maybe next time you can give me a heads-up.”

  “Absolutely. Next time, I won’t make a move without consulting you first.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s good. You shouldn’t.” She bounces off down the front walk.

  Chapter 17

  Leslie opens the door expecting room service, but then Patton bursts in. He grabs her and swings her around in a circle.

  “How did you know where to find me?” she asks when he finally lets go.

  “Nola. She knows everything. I hope you’re happy to see me because I sure am happy to see you.” He dances her over to the bed and pushes her back gently. Then, he leans down for a kiss. “I was thirsty for you.” He starts running his hands all over her. It feels so good, even through her clothes. The thought of what she’s done to him with her story rises up between them like a ghost of a past love, and she tries to banish it.

  “Nola says the phone’s been ringing off the hook since last night. She says I’m going to be big and I have you to thank for it,” he says.

  “You’re already big.” Leslie reaches down for him. She could confess right now, she should confess, but she’d rather hold him for as long as she can, keep his body close until he begins to hate her.

  Leslie thinks she loves him. She knows it’s silly. They just met. Not only that, they come from different worlds. She can’t even imagine introducing Patton, with his country twang, to her mother.

  But Patton’s like an itch and Leslie will go insane if she doesn’t scratch it. She bites back the words I love you. She is crazy about words and likes to play with them, but she knows better than to throw the word love around. Patton tinkers with the buttons of her jeans, but she stops him.

  “But I want to show my appreciation,” he says, pouting. She pulls him back up and he kisses her neck.

  Leslie can’t stand this. She can’t make love with him again, not when he doesn’t know what she knows. He thinks she’s his friend. She pushes Patton away. She never should have slept with him in the first place. It was so unprofessional. No self-respecting journalist sleeps with her subject.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Why did you leave this morning?”

  “I can’t do this,” Leslie says.

  “Why on earth not?”

  “I like you. I do.”

  “I sure hope so.” He sits up and looks down at her. She is not in a power position so she gets up and stands in front of the dresser across the room. “Have I done something wrong?” he asks.

  “It’s not you, it’s me.” As the words pop out, she realizes that throwing this cliché at him is a huge mistake.

  “Wow. And I thought you had a way with words.” He gets up and strides toward the window. He stands there looking out onto the city, his back toward her. “I thought we had something.” His voice is low.

  “And what could that possibly be?” she asks. “I go home tomorrow.”

  He turns. “Do you have to?”

  “I have a job, remember? I report on all the silly things the world has to offer.”

  “Am I one of those silly things?” He walks across the room until he is standing in front of her. “Look, Leslie. I’ve never been this happy. It isn’t just that my career might be finally taking off, it’s you. If I can’t share this with you, it will only be half as good.”

  “Half may have to be enough.” She can’t hold his gaze. His eyes are so deep, so sincere. She could fall into them and be lost. She can’t afford that. “But it can’t be me. Not this soon,” she says.

  “Is there a rule about relationships that I don’t know about? Is there a law that says you need at least a week to feel something—or a month? I’ve heard stories of perfectly rational people falling in love at first sight.”

  “Those are just stories,” Leslie says, and the words almost choke the air out of her. She’s afraid she’s going to pass out. Her head is pounding again. She’s not up to this.

  “If you say so.” Patton walks toward the door. Before he opens it, he turns. “Well, I think I am in love with you. Just so you know. Please come to see me play tonight at Douglas Corner. I’ll put you on the list.” The door closes behind him, and he is gone.

  Leslie never expected—not in a million years—that coming to Nashville to do another stupid article would yield these results. Last week, she would have told you that she had as much chance of falling in love with the next Elvis as she had of falling for a Marshfellow Plush.

  As soon as Patton leaves, Leslie goes online to see if she can get on the next flight to Boston. She wants to get home to her apartment in the Back Bay, get back to her life, and even back to her job writing puff pieces. Of course, if the sale of the paper goes through, nothing is going to be the same.

  She can’t find a single seat on a plane that will take her out of Nashville today. Still, that doesn’t mean she has to see Patton again. She can hole up here in the hotel, clean out the minibar, and leave tomorrow as planned.

  Chapter 18

  Leslie spends the day trying to decide if she should see Patton at Douglas Corner. Even after she is sure she won’t be able to stay away, she drags her feet. She wanders around Nashville, vaguely taking in the sights. After stopping for lunch at the Pancake Pantry, she has an idea. Whenever Leslie is in a new city, she finds her bearings by checking out a local bookstore. She had read about Parnassus Books in Nashville. It’s owned by Ann Patchett, one of
Leslie’s favorite authors, and she doesn’t want to leave the city without seeing it. She’s a little surprised to find it in a strip mall next to a Sherwin-Williams store, but that doesn’t make the shop itself less charming. Not everything has to be quaint. A clean well-lighted place with honey-colored shelves and a well-curated collection of literature is all Leslie has ever asked for in a bookstore.

  Wandering around calms Leslie and fills her with hope. She feels like books are messages left for her. If one catches her eye, she buys it. She wouldn’t want to miss what the universe is trying to tell her. Henry calls her attitude bookstore psychic. For Leslie, independent bookshops are the heart of a community. She doesn’t want to lose them, so that’s where she spends her money. Leslie would love to see Ann Patchett. Writers are Leslie’s celebrities of choice.

  Though Leslie stays at Parnassus until closing, Ann Patchett never appears. Leslie still has plenty of time before Patton’s set at Douglas Corner. She takes herself to a restaurant called the Yellow Porch. The whole time, Leslie is wishing that Patton was with her. It would have been so much more fun. He has a child’s enthusiasm. He’s the opposite of blasé. Leslie has been surrounded by blasé people all her life, people who have had so much that they’ve forgotten how to appreciate it. Abundance has morphed into boredom.

  Instead of Patton, Leslie’s dinner companion is This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage, a book of essays by Ann Patchett that Leslie picked up at the store.

  Leslie orders Sweetwater Tennessee sharp cheddar fritters, coffee-brined smoked pork chops and bread pudding. She also has three glasses of wine. Dutch courage. She’ll need it if she shows up at Douglas Corner.

  She has never had a weight problem, but if she lived here, she thinks she’d probably blow up like a balloon. Leslie always has liked comfort foods, and she’s in the market for some comfort. She’s made a mess of everything. After her last bite of bread pudding, she decides she can’t let herself be a chickenshit. Besides, the idea of never seeing Patton again makes all the food in her stomach roil like the ocean on a rotten day.

  One taxi later and she’s standing at the door of the café, and Patton is inside, singing his heart out.

  Patton is on fire.

  Leslie’s dismissal of his feelings was a real kick in the gut, but he can use it. Pain is good for art. Some people sink into their disappointments and others use that same energy to transcend them.

  Patton’s been doing that all of his life. Every time his mother forgot something important. Every time he thought about his absent father. When something goes wrong, Patton comes back even stronger. He’s on his way up. He didn’t expect success to come with so many losses, not so soon. His heart feels like it’s been trampled on by a herd of cows.

  Leslie probably won’t show up tonight, and Hunter is still missing in action. Patton’s best friend has deserted him at the moment of Patton’s greatest triumph. It stinks. Patton’s guilt about Hunter has turned to anger and Patton takes it all, every heated emotion, and throws it into his act.

  The crowd is loving it. They pitch their energy toward him, and he tosses it back in a frenzied cycle of enthusiasm. Patton begins with “Northern Lights,” and when that’s a success, he tries a few more of his own songs. Then, he does a cover, not of Elvis, but of Bonnie Raitt’s version of “Feels Like Home.” Patton puts all he’s got into it. He’s singing to Leslie, whether she’s there or not, and the song is so beautiful, it brings tears to his eyes.

  When he is finished, the room is quiet. Maybe he made a mistake. He should have stuck with the slap-your-thigh stuff. The audience is there to have some fun and that song, well, it’s about finding the one, but the truth of the lyrics can break your heart. And the melody. So tender. What was he thinking?

  From the back, Patton hears, “Play some Elvis.”

  Patton squints into the dark, but he can’t see who is heckling him. Another voice joins in. “Play some Elvis, you hack.”

  Patton is thrown. He’s not sure what’s happening. Nola, who is sitting near the front, turns and shouts, “Shut up, asshole. Haven’t you heard that imitation is the greatest form of flattery?”

  Patton still doesn’t get it. The only thing he’s figured out is that the audience wants him to play a Presley song, so he obliges with “Don’t Be Cruel.” As he sings, he can feel a part of himself becoming Elvis Presley. If Elvis is not Patton’s grandfather, he might as well have been.

  Whenever Patton felt bereft of a father, he’d always dream he was related to Elvis. He did it the same way some kids pretend that they are the lost children of royalty. So what if it was a fantasy? It helped him through tough times. After a few minutes, Patton joins the Elvis persona as Patton and it’s as if the two of them are singing in the same body. It’s part Elvis and part Patton and he feels as if electricity is going to come shooting from his toes and fingers.

  The spirit of Elvis is with him. What started as a hustle has become reality, and, at least in this one moment, he and Elvis are one.

  Then, it’s over. As quickly as it began. The illusion is shattered, but the reaction of the audience is very real. They are stomping, clapping. Some are even standing on chairs.

  Chapter 19

  You killed it,” Nola says. Patton’s just come backstage, and she hugs him. “Killed it. Killed it. Killed it. My boss was here. You’re going to be huge. Huge. Huge. Huge.” She stops hugging and begins to clap.

  “It was good, wasn’t it?” Patton says with a wink. He’s feeling a little full of himself.

  “From the first minute I saw you, I knew you had it in you. I could have sworn you were channeling Elvis tonight. Elvis was in the house, I swear. But you were there, too. It wasn’t an impersonation; it was more like a visitation. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Patton stretches his neck and shoulders. “What was that guy in the back yelling about?”

  “No idea,” Nola says, biting her bottom lip.

  “I know you’re lying. And you’re usually such a good liar. What’s wrong?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Bless your suspicious little heart.”

  “Have you seen Leslie?”

  Nola shakes her head. “I’ll get you a beer.”

  “Tell me what the heckling was about. I want to know.”

  Nola takes a deep breath. “Sometimes, it’s better not to know.”

  “Look, Nola. I need you to manage me, not to protect me.”

  Nola sighs. “It’s your funeral.” She hands Patton her iPad. It’s open to Leslie’s story on CommonweathCourier.com. Patton takes the tablet, sits on a folding chair in the corner, and begins to read.

  Chapter 20

  As Leslie punches through the crowd, the heel of a boot comes down on her instep. Ouch. Note to self: Don’t wear ballet flats to a country bar. That’s if she ever ends up in a country bar again. After this fiasco, she’ll probably go back to Boston and never set foot below the Mason-Dixon Line again.

  When the jokers in the back of the room start to heckle Patton, hives pop out on Leslie’s arms. They’ll go away when her anxiety level flatlines, but she doesn’t see that happening anytime soon. She’s really stepped in it this time.

  She should run.

  She should stay.

  She should run.

  She needs air. Air and courage—and at the moment she doesn’t have much of either. She has to tell Patton what she’s done before he finds out from someone else. She hopes it isn’t too late.

  Leslie shows her press pass to a bruiser who looks like he is guarding the door to backstage. He stares at her.

  “You don’t need a pass to get back here. You just walk through. And just because I’m big, doesn’t mean I’m a bouncer.” He turns away and starts talking to a skinny girl with big hair who looks like a meatball on a toothpick.

  Leslie knows she doesn’t fit in here. Her hair is neither teased nor puffed. She feels like she’s in a weird world, like Alice
in Wonderland. Leslie even looks like the classic rendition of Alice, with her straight blond hair and headband. She glances down at her blue pleated skirt. Her clothes don’t exactly have fun written all over them.

  When Leslie finds Patton, he’s sitting on a folding chair in a corner with his eyes affixed to a tablet. She stands there, unable to move forward. He keeps reading, scrolling through, all his attention on the words. When he looks up, his eyes lock on Leslie’s, but he remains completely still. It’s Nola who intercepts her. “The shit has hit the fan,” she says. “If I were you, I’d get your ass on a plane tout de suite. You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve seen a gentle southern boy flip his biscuit.”

  Nola turns and walks over to the guy standing by the doorway. They stand in the corner, whispering and glancing back as if they’re in a high school cafeteria and Leslie has just puked on her blouse.

  Again, Leslie looks over at Patton. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything, Patton stands, leaving the tablet on the chair. He towers over her. It’s as if he’s turning from the mild-mannered Bruce Banner into the Incredible Hulk. He isn’t green or bursting through his clothes, but he is menacing nonetheless.

  “You are a nasty piece of work,” he says.

  Leslie feels like he’s slapped her. She steps back. She tries to speak.

  “Don’t bother to say anything,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “I know you’d be lying. I hope that stepping on my head helped you to climb the ladder to success.”

  Leslie’s feet are glued to the floor. The one that was stepped on is throbbing.

  “The sick thing is that I fell so hard for you. I’m such an idiot,” he says, shaking his head.

  That small gesture is a punch to her gut. Leslie wants to make excuses. I didn’t know you then. She wishes she could take it all back. She has never felt like this about any man before, and the idea that she’s messed it up permanently is enough to make her want to sink through the floor and end up in another country. She’s trying to think of a defense, or even an explanation. But any excuse would be a lie’s first cousin. Leslie reaches out for Patton, but he shrugs her off as if her touch has given him an unpleasant electrical shock. His face has you disgust me written all over it.