Jane Austen Girl - A Timbell Creek Contemporary Romance

by Inglath Cooper

  When the applause falls back, the fifteen-year old sitting next to Mike starts her song, and while the lyrics don’t have the power of Mike’s, her voice is soft and sweet, the tone unique enough that it’s easy to see she’s got something special. People lean forward in their chairs, caught up on the wings of it, the emotion she lets spill through each word, captivating in and of itself.

  Two more writers are up before Thomas and me. They’re both good, better than good, and I’m feeling the pressure of comparison. Thomas takes the microphone and glances at me the way he does when he’s ready. I tip into the intro, hitting the strings so lightly, that a hush falls over the room, and I can feel them start to listen.

  I wrote this song for Thomas. His little sister died of cancer when he was twelve, and I remember how I felt when he told me about it, what it was like to go to the hospital to see her, watch her be strong for him, even though she was younger than he was, even as the pain became unbearable. I tried to write the lyric as if I’d been standing in that room, as if I had been Thomas, a big brother who’s got to know what it will be like where she’s going, that he will see her again one day.

  I wrote it from a father’s point of view, somehow knowing I needed to give Thomas that distance. That he would never get through the song singing it as the brother.

  It’s called Up There, and he sings it now like his own truth. I guess that’s why what the two of us have works.

  I can see the faces of the people directly in front of us, the glimmer of tears in their eyes. Maybe this is what I love most about writing, that moment when you realize you’ve hit a universal, something everyone can feel.

  I’m drawn to look up then and find CeCe’s gaze on me. I see on her face what I have felt on my own so many times. That yearning to express something that reaches people the way this song is doing. I glimpse enough of myself in her then that I wonder why I’ve been so hard on her, why I’d assumed she would want to stay in the shallow end of this pool. The look in her eyes tells me something completely different. She’s headed for the deep end, wants it with all her soul. And I don’t doubt for a second that she won’t give up until she’s there, swimming on her own.

  A long moment of silence follows Thomas’s last note. One person starts to clap. More follow until the room is alive with it. Thomas never finishes this song without tears in his eyes, and tonight is no exception.

  Mike is next again, and as good as his song is, I think I can honestly say, its effect on the audience doesn’t top ours.

  The round goes on for four more songs each. Thomas and I do a fast one, a slow one and then another fast one. When it’s our turn to do our last song, he looks over at me before glancing out to where CeCe is still standing against the wall. I don’t think she’s moved all night, and I remember the first time I came here, how I’d just sat listening, not moving once until the end of the show.

  “If y’all don’t mind, I’m gonna bring a new face in for this one. CeCe, come on up, girl.”

  She stands frozen, her expression a confused mixture of euphoria and disbelief, as if she can’t decide whether to run or sink onto the floor. Thomas isn’t about to let her do either one. I’m suddenly so mad at him, I can’t see straight. What the heck is he doing? She’s not ready for this!

  But the crowd has turned their attention to her, and someone starts to clap, urging her on. There’s a whistle, then another, more clapping until the force of it peels her off the wall and propels her to the circle of chairs.

  Her eyes are wide as dinner plates, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s ever actually been on stage before.

  Thomas pats one enormous thigh and indicates for her to sit, placing the microphone stand close in to them both.

  “This here’s CeCe MacKenzie. CeCe’s new in town, and she’s had a bit of a rough day. We’ll make this her Nashville welcome. Y’all might’ve heard of her uncle, Dobie Crawford with the Rounders.”

  The applause erupts into a roar then. I’m hoping for CeCe’s sake and for ours that she lives up to expectation.

  “Dobie wrote a song called ‘Wish It Were True’,” Thomas continues. “Let’s do that one for them,” he says to both me and CeCe.

  It’s been a while since we’ve done this one. Luckily, I know it like I wrote it myself.

  Thomas starts in on the first verse, and by the third line, I’m wondering if CeCe is going to join in. She closes her eyes and follows him into the chorus, her voice floating up in perfect harmony against Thomas’s.

  I’m shocked by the blend. The sound is like chocolate and peanut butter. French coffee and half and half.

  They’ve never sung together, and they sound like they’ve been doing so their whole lives. They each know the song the way you can only know one when its meaning reflects something of your own life.

  By the second verse, it’s clear that CeCe’s forgotten she’s sitting on the knee of a guy she just met today. Forgotten she’s singing to a crowd at the Bluebird. I don’t know where she is, but it’s a place that lets her sing from the heart, from the soul.

  I don’t hear training in her voice. It’s not perfected in that way. What I hear is a girl who’s been singing all her life. A girl who sings because it’s what she loves more than anything.

  They hit the second chorus full throttle, and they’re smiling at each other, all out joy lighting their faces. The crowd is with them, sitting up on the edge of their chairs. I can see their realization that they are witnessing something they’ll talk about one day. “I saw them when they were just starting out. The very first time they ever sang together.”

  And I have to admit, it’s like that. Some kind of magic that makes me wonder if everything that happened today had been the lead in to this. If we were supposed to meet her. Both for her sake and for ours.

  They trail off, note for note, and the applause that follows is the loudest of the night. CeCe has tears in her eyes when she throws her arms around Thomas’s neck and hugs him so hard, he nearly sends the chair over backwards. People laugh and clap harder.

  I watch for a moment longer, and then unable to help myself, I clap, too.

  ♪

  CHAPTER THREE

  CeCe

  I feel like I’m in the middle of a dream. The good part where you’re aware of hoping you don’t wake up. That it will go on and on forever.

  I’m hugging Thomas as tight as I can because I don’t trust myself to thank him with words. If I do, I’ll break down and sob right here in front of all these people.

  He hugs me hard and stands, his arm still around my waist. I dangle in mid-air for a moment, then slide down his big thigh until my feet hit the floor. He forces me to face the crowd, and I’m blown away by the admiration and appreciation on their faces.

  I feel Holden’s gaze on me and make myself look at him. I guess I’m expecting him to be mad at me for horning in on their show, but that’s not what I see in his eyes. What’s there is the same admiration the audience has offered up, and maybe that surprises me most of all.

  Mike thanks everyone again for coming, and people start to stand up and push their seats back. Several weave their way up to the circle of chairs and begin talking with the performers. A couple of teenagers ask Mike for his autograph. Next, they laser in on Thomas and Holden, giggling and looking as if they might lose their nerve at any moment.

  One of the girls has red hair that hangs to her waist. Her eyes are a vivid green, and she looks at Thomas with starstruck longing. “Would you sign this for me?” she asks, handing him a Bluebird napkin.

  “Why, sure, I will.” Thomas raises an eyebrow at Holden who shakes his head.

  “You’re gonna be famous one day, Thomas,” the girl says. “I just know it.”

  Thomas grins. “If that means I get to sing for a living, I’d be all right with that.”

  The redhead’s friend sticks out a napkin of her own. “We’ll buy anything you release.”

  “You don’t work for a record company, do you?”
Holden throws out.

  Both girls giggle. “We’re fifteen.”

  “Shoot,” Thomas says. “Just our luck.”

  They laugh again, and then the redhead looks at me, her voice suddenly shy. “Your singing’s so pretty.”

  Something in the sincerity of the compliment touches me, makes instant tears well in my eyes. It’s stupid, I know, but after the way this day has gone, it’s nice to hear that I’m not totally crazy to think I might have a place here. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says, ducking her head again.

  The two girls bounce off, clutching their napkins to their chests like they’d just found winning lottery tickets.

  A man walks up and introduces himself. “I’m Clay Morrison. Y’all sounded real good tonight.”

  He has dark hair that’s started to pepper a bit at the sides. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt under a black jacket. His shoes are black, too, and they look expensive. Narrow frame glasses tone down his good looks and suggest he’s smart.

  I step out of the circle so his focus is on Thomas and Holden.

  “Thank you,” Thomas says. “Appreciate that.”

  “Saw you two here a few months ago. Have to say I like your new addition. The three of you sound pretty great together.”

  He swings a look at me then, and I want to sink into the floor. The last thing I want to do is barge in on their action. And it feels like that’s what I’m doing. “Excuse me,” I say and head for the ladies’ room.

  I lock myself inside, leaning against the door and pulling in a deep, shaky breath. I can still feel Holden’s gaze on me, resentful, accusing.

  I wash my face and dry it with a scratchy brown paper towel, taking my time with the process until I think Thomas and Holden might be ready to leave.

  When I come out again, they’re both waiting by the front door.

  “You fall in?” Holden asks, looking me up and down.

  I roll my eyes at him, pushing out into the cool of the Nashville evening.

  We walk to the truck in an awkward silence, like neither of us knows what to say about what happened in there tonight.

  Thomas hits the remote, and I open the door. Hank Junior leaps out and heads for the closest bush. I grab his leash and follow him.

  When we return, it’s clear Thomas and Holden have been talking. There’s electricity in the air, the kind that sparks from disagreement.

  Neither one looks at me, and I’m thinking it’s time I go my own way. “Hey, thanks for everything, y’all. The help, the ride, the song. I expect to see your names in big places.”

  Hank Junior wants to jump in, but I stop him. “Come on, boy,” I say, then turn around and start walking.

  I have no earthly idea where I’m going. I just know I need to get away from those two before I bawl like a three-year old. I’m walking so fast that Hank Junior has to trot to keep up with me. He keeps looking back at the truck and then up at me as if he’s wondering what in the world I’m doing. I wouldn’t know how to begin to answer him. I don’t have a thing to my name except for him. Should I find a pay phone, call Mama right now and ask her to buy me a bus ticket home? Could I even take Hank Junior with me on a bus?

  I cross the main road in front of the Bluebird. There’s a parking garage there. Maybe we can camp out for the night and see how things look in the morning, although short of me finding a winning lottery ticket in my pocket, I don’t know how it could look any better.

  The garage is nearly empty, a few cars parked along the other side that opens through to a Whole Foods. My stomach does a low rumble, and I know Hank Junior has to be hungry as well.

  I head for a corner and lean against the wall, sliding down onto the cold concrete. Hank Junior looks at me as if he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. I pat the spot next to me, and loyal friend that he is, he curls up with me, his head on my knee.

  That’s when the tears start up for real. They gush from me like a geyser, and I just let them pour out, helpless to stop them even if I wanted to.

  Hank Junior anxiously licks them from my cheek, and I rub his side, his sweetness making me drop my head to my knees and cry harder.

  I guess it’s my own sobbing that keeps me from hearing the truck until it stops right in front of us.

  “This your plan?”

  I jerk my head up to see Holden looking down at me with resignation on his face, like he’s finally given in to the idea that they are stuck with me.

  “For this minute, it is,” I shoot back.

  “Sleeping in a parking garage?”

  “Does it look like I’m sleeping?”

  “It looks like you’re crying.”

  “Since when is that illegal?”

  “Get in the truck, CeCe.”

  “No,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, you’ve been doing a great job of proving that,” he throws out.

  “I didn’t ask you to rescue me!”

  “And I sure as heck didn’t volunteer for the job,” he says, opening the door and swinging out.

  I pop to my feet, the concrete scratching at my back through my thin cotton shirt.

  “Are you coming with us or not?”

  “I don’t need your charity, Holden!”

  He leans in like a football player aiming a tackle and hefts me over his shoulder. I start kicking and wriggling, but he tightens his hold like I’m a sack of grain. Hank Junior stands there looking up at us, wagging his tail.

  I’d like to think Holden is being chivalrous or some such thing. The truth is he’s mad and altogether tired of me messing up his plans.

  “When you two get finished with the foreplay, hop on in, and we’ll go get some sleep,” Thomas tosses out the open door.

  Holden walks to the truck with me still slung over his shoulder. “Get in, boy,” he says to Hank Junior who hops in like he’s in the middle of a raging ocean, and Holden just threw him a buoy.

  Holden tilts forward and drops me in beside Hank Junior. Fury has me sputtering some not so ladylike protests. My skirt is up around my waist for the second time today, and I kick and struggle to sit up and pull it down.

  Thomas laughs and shakes his head. “You two are right entertaining.”

  Clearly, neither of us finds his assessment amusing.

  Holden climbs in and slams the door. “Can we go now?”

  Thomas peels out of the parking garage and turns right, gunning it. “I’m starving,” he says. “Next stop, food.”

  He swings into a McDonald’s, pulling up at the drive-through lane. At the window, he places his order, two big Macs, two fries, a large Coke, then looks at me and says, “What do you want?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say.

  Holden rolls his eyes. “Would you quit pretending like you have any other choice but to accept our help right now?”

  “Seriously, CeCe,” Thomas says.

  The pride trying to raise a flag inside me wilts. “Unsweetened iced tea. Mushroom and Swiss burger, please. With no meat.”

  “No meat?” Thomas repeats, as if I’d just made the request in Mandarin.

  “You mean like a cheese sandwich?” Holden says.

  “Just no meat,” I answer.

  Both guys look at each other and shake their heads. Thomas calls out Holden’s order, which is a duplicate of his own, adding, “We’ll take two plain burgers and a water, too.”

  He pats Hank Junior on the head, and then to me, “I’m assuming our buddy here is not a vegetarian?”

  “No,” I say. “And thank you.”

  “You’re entirely welcome,” Thomas says, pulling forward.

  We get the food and tear into the bags as if none of us has eaten in days. I open up Hank Junior’s, force him to wait a few moments until it cools, then take pity on his drooling and let him have it.

  Thomas drives while he eats, and it isn’t until my stomach is full that I think to ask, “Where are we going?”

&
nbsp; “We’ve got an apartment over by Vanderbilt,” Holden says. “Don’t have any furniture yet, but at least we have a floor to sleep on.”

  I don’t even bother to object. A place to sleep right now sounds so good I melt at the thought of it, fatigue pulling at every bone, every muscle.

  Thomas parks the truck on the street, and they grab their suitcases from the back. Holden hands me my guitar case, before reaching for his own. I follow them up the walk, stopping in a grassy spot to let Hank Junior do his business. They wait for us at the main door, before we climb a set of stairs to the third floor.

  Holden pulls out a key and opens up the apartment, flicking on a light. The living room and kitchen aren’t huge, but the place is neat and clean, the walls a newly painted beige.

  “We’ve got two bedrooms. Holden and I will bunk up,” Thomas says. “You and Hank Junior take the other one.”

  “I’ll be happy to sleep out here,” I say.

  “We’re good.” Holden’s words are short and abrupt. He heads down the hallway and disappears inside one of the rooms.

  I look at Thomas and say, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t need to,” Thomas says. “Go get some sleep.”

  I find the bedroom, wave Hank Junior inside and close the door. There’s a bathroom that connects. I turn on the faucet and splash my face with water, leaning in to drink some, then rinse and spit since I don’t have a toothbrush. I’ve brought in Hank Junior’s McDonald’s cup. I fill it with water and set it inside the bedroom, up against a wall. He saunters over and takes a couple laps, then flops down beside it, lowers his head on his paws and closes his eyes.

  I make use of the toilet and flip off the light, lying down beside him on the floor and using his soft side as a pillow.

  There are no curtains in the room, and a streetlight throws a beam across the middle of the floor. I try to turn off my brain, make all the what-if’s and how-will-I’s stop their relentless pecking, at least until morning, when I can address them with something resembling clear thinking.

  I attempt sleep for an hour or more, but it’s no use. My brain just won’t turn off. I get up and leave the room, closing the door softly behind me to keep from waking up Hank Junior.