When Last We Loved

by Fran Baker

  “We won't see each other anymore, of course,” she declared gravely. “We've used each other for too long and for all the wrong reasons.” A knot pulsated in the pit of her stomach as she verbally severed their physical ties. She would love this man until the day she died, but she refused to live at his beck and call.

  “We've got a contract. It suits me. I don't care whether it suits you.” His flat statement caught her off guard. He leaned across the table and Cassie sat back in her chair, suddenly wary of his hair-trigger temper. She didn't move quickly enough, though, and he caught her wrist in the vise of his fingers. “You're going to fulfill your obligations to that contract if I have to yank you out of bed every morning and kick your tail all the way to the studio.”

  Cassie squirmed in embarrassment. Other diners were beginning to notice their squabble and she hated being the center of this sort of attention.

  “You'll get what you paid for— and nothing more,” she finally conceded through clenched teeth.

  “That's all I ever wanted, Cassie.” He relaxed his iron-tight grip on her wrist.

  “Don't ever threaten me again, Hoyt Temple, or you'll rue the day.” Her voice cracked with tension as she stood and pulled her arms away.

  Blue eyes clashed with purple fury, and the deadly silence was more bruising than the angry words that remained unspoken.

  “I'm heading back to Dallas in the morning, but I'll be in touch with Bo by telephone.” His eyes were opaque shields of indifference. “When you've finished writing the wrap song for the album, let him know so that he can reserve some studio time.”

  Cassie didn't realize how plainly the pain had inscribed itself on her lovely face. She nodded her head, numbed by their conflict.

  “Waiter, bring me a shot of bourbon with a water back,” Hoyt ordered, dismissing her. The break was complete, with the minor exception of his holding company control over her career.

  One out of every two cabdrivers in Nashville was a songwriter waiting for the big break, and Cassie normally enjoyed talking with them. Tonight, though, she wasn't in the mood for swapping hard-luck stories. Hot tears streamed down her face as she walked the long, lonely mile home.

  The following morning a paunchy man clutching what appeared to be a sales receipt in his hand appeared on her front porch. “I'm real sorry we got delayed in delivering this, ma'am,” he apologized, “but we couldn't find the dad-blasted notary until nine this morning.”

  “There must be some mistake.” Cassie scanned the piece of paper that the man shoved in her face. Her tear-swollen eyes would hardly focus. “I don't understand. I didn't order— ”

  “Is Mr. Temple here yet?” The man had had a frustrating morning and his beefy cheeks were bright red.

  “Of course not!” she snapped. “What's going on?”

  “The bus that Mr. Temple ordered is here.”

  “What?” Hoyt hadn't mentioned anything about this to her last night Of course, she hadn't given him much of a chance to bring up the subject, either.

  The man jerked his balding head in the direction of a gleaming silver bus parked in Cassie's driveway.

  “I reckon you can sign for it, seeing as how Mr. Temple has already paid us in full.” The man mopped his brow with a wrinkled red bandanna and expertly aimed a stream of tobacco over the side of her porch. “See, it's titled in your name.” He poked a pudgy finger at the notarized certificate of ownership. “Now, if I can just get you to initial the receipt, I'll be on my way.”

  Cassie was dumbfounded.

  “Don't worry about a thing, ma'am. This is all sewn up tight as a drum.” The man was impatient to leave.

  “Would you mind slowing down here for a minute?” Cassie threw her hands up in self-defense. “Take this from the beginning. Are you saying that Hoyt Temple bought this and told you to deliver it to me?”

  An eager nod confirmed the fact. “It's our deluxe customized model, too, and we worked like dogs to meet his specs.” He puffed up like a peacock. “It has a kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom, living area, built-in stereo and recorder— the works. Why, we haven't filled an order like this in a blue moon. And that's no lie, either.”

  Cassie was surprised that the man hadn't popped his buttons before he finished his speech.

  “Come on, I'll show you around.” He rattled on like a two-dollar phonograph while escorting her through the motorized home.

  “Wow! We could hole up in here for a whole winter of three-dog nights and never want for a thing.” Scrappy found Cassie sitting in a state of shock over her unexpected gift at the fold-out, butcher-block table. He wandered through the bus, admiring the leather upholstery, inspecting the fully stocked shelves, and fiddling with the stereo knobs.

  “Hey, this is clever.” He stopped to read the collage of reviews that someone had clipped from newspapers and magazines across the country. They'd been assembled in a gold-edged frame.

  “Did you read what this one critic said?” Scrappy slapped his thigh in amusement as he read the critic's remarks: “'If that strong, sparkin’ eyed son-of-a-pancake-maker doesn't wake up and smell Cassie Creighton's coffee pretty soon, I'm going to two-step it to Nashville and tell her there's room for her boots under my bed anytime.'”

  “Look at this one.” Cassie joined him and pointed as she read: “'I'd lay odds that the Twisters grew up picking cotton when they weren't busy picking musical instruments. Their pure backup combined with Cassie Creighton's emotional storytelling makes this combination the find of the year.'”

  “Before we let our heads swell up like a poisoned pup's, we'd better dig out some of the bad reviews.” Scrappy shoved his battered Stetson off his forehead. “We've been panned as often as we've been praised.”

  “Do you think you can learn to drive this thing before we go out on tour again?” Cassie teased Scrappy. There wasn't an engine-powered vehicle manufactured that he couldn't master after a little studying time.

  “Hide and watch.” He eased into the driver's seat and was lost to the world as he inspected the plushly padded control panel.

  Cassie and the Twisters were scheduled for a quick road trip through Alabama before they returned to Nashville to perform at the annual Disc Jockeys’ Convention. This contact with the men and women who spun the records at radio stations and in dance clubs was vitally important exposure for every artist who wanted to receive maximum air play. The deejays were prone to spend more time introducing the new releases of a singer whom they'd met, even briefly, and they usually taped interviews to play for their listeners back home.

  Two years of concentrated effort had paid off handsomely for Cassie. The wealth and fame and independence that she'd always thought she wanted more than anything else in the world were hers now. The amount of money that she'd banked from tours and records was simply astonishing to her. She'd had back-to-back hits, her latest song was scheduled for release next month, and she was preparing to cut her first album.

  She sat alone in the bus long after Scrappy had hightailed it to the telephone to spread the word about their new toy. Her face was wet with tears. Cassie was a prisoner of dewy-eyed, innocent dreams that had evolved into a nightmare of lonesome reality. She would have given it up in an instant, all of it, for the love of one man.

  Chapter 15

  A soft autumn haze bathed the buttery yellow tulip trees and scarlet sugar maples with a special Saturday glow. Cassie's garden was a riot of white and purple asters and pink cyclamens, bordered by cushions of pastel mums. Pungent smoke from a distant leaf fire scented the backyard as the wedding guests hurried to find their seats.

  Cassie's dove-gray silk shirtwaist rustled against her legs as she walked slowly down the white satin aisle cloth that was spread over the grass. She blessed all her guests— the famous and anonymous alike— with a spontaneous smile. When Bo met her halfway, she transferred her bittersweet bouquet to her left hand. They linked arms and walked together toward the bamboo arch decorated with sheaves of wheat tied with calico ribbo
ns.

  The band played the “Wedding March” and Cassie turned to watch Rose follow her down the aisle. Ivory satin nipped the former waitress's tiny waist, and an heirloom lace veil spilled over her burnished gold hair. Rose's face radiated a serenity that Cassie envied.

  Scrappy was as close to elegant as he would ever get in a brown velvet tuxedo. He ran a nervous forefinger under the tight shirt collar that choked his Adam's apple, then stepped forward to meet his bride.

  “Do you, Homer— ”

  Cassie shot an incredulous look at her fiddle player when the minister used his given name.

  “Homer?” She repeated the unfamiliar handle when she caught Scrappy's eye, then smiled when he blushed his confirmation.

  While Rose and Scrappy exchanged vows, Cassie had the eeriest feeling that somebody was staring at her. Feeling as though icy fingers were running along her spine, she cocked her head and tried to peek out of the corner of one eye. Had she overlooked someone when she walked down the aisle?

  “By the power vested in me by the state of Tennessee, I now pronounce you man and wife.” The minister smiled indulgently. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Scrappy didn't have to be told twice. He bent and planted a kiss on Rose's lips. Cassie pivoted and her cheeks flamed when she locked eyes with Hoyt.

  “Who invited you?” she snapped. The party was in full swing and Cassie was in full temper. She grabbed a glass of sparkling champagne from one of the roving waiters’ trays and downed it quickly.

  “Miss Cassie, I'll bet there are more stars in your backyard right now than there are in the whole Milky Way galaxy!” Rose's mother was used to feeding Nashville's artists, but she wasn't accustomed to dancing with them. She pumped the arm of a tall man dressed in black, waltzed him around a few turns, then latched onto her beaming husband.

  “When Bo called to tell me you were going to receive the deejay's ‘Female Newcomer of the Year’ award, Scrappy got on the other line and asked if I could fly in a few days early for his wedding.” Hoyt raised his glass in a mocking toast. “You throw a nice party, Cassie. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much.” His gaze wandered toward a group of female backup singers who had dressed to the nines for the occasion.

  She nodded aloofly, hoping her face wasn't betraying her. She'd counted every single lonely night since she'd walked out of that restaurant, but apparently their separation hadn't concerned Hoyt at all. Well, he could rot in hell before she'd ever throw herself at him again, that was for sure.

  Cassie hardly heard the compliments as her guests dined on a sumptuous southern buffet of country ham glazed with apple cider, butternut squash, marinated vegetables, scalloped potatoes, and persimmon pudding smothered in fresh cream. She didn't see the grand assortment of presents displayed on the portable tables for everyone's admiration. Everywhere she looked, it seemed, she ran smack-dab into those inscrutable blue eyes.

  The band was playing a slow number when Hoyt took her in his arms. Her body instinctively molded itself to his and they danced without speaking. Through the thin silk of her dress, Cassie felt the warm hand at the small of her back. She was very aware of the long legs that guided her toward the edge of the dance floor. Her own hand automatically caressed the silky waves at the nape of Hoyt's neck.

  Did he feel the frantic beating of her heart against his chest? Was the same heat rising in him, filling him with the warm glow of desire? His lips brushed her temple and their circling steps grew smaller. Cassie raised her head, parted her lips under his demanding kiss, and let those wild, crazy feelings rush over her.

  “Where's the rice?”

  “Somebody find Cassie! They're ready to leave!”

  She pulled away. “I have to tell Scrappy and Rose goodbye.” Her voice held a note of regret. Hoyt nodded slowly and she couldn't read the thoughts behind those brooding blue eyes. She patted her hair and smoothed the dress over her hips.

  Rose had changed into a blush-pink wool suit for the honeymoon. “I don't know how we can ever thank you for letting us have our wedding here. It's something I'll treasure for the rest of my days.”

  “Just promise that you'll have Scrappy back in time— and in good shape— for the final mix on the album.” Cassie squeezed Rose's hand and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You'd better believe I'll be here.” Scrappy hugged her close. “Keep out of trouble.”

  Her eyes misted and she nodded her head. “I love you both,” she whispered. “Be happy,”

  She turned and ran across the patio. It was silly to cry at such a joyous time, but she couldn't help herself.

  * * * *

  “I'm going to put this house up for sale.” Cassie sat with Bo at the kitchen table the morning after the wedding. They were supposed to be planning what she would wear to the Disc Jockeys’ Convention, writing a speech for her to make after she accepted her award.

  But Cassie couldn't concentrate. Hoyt had simply disappeared after their dance last night. For some reason she'd known he was gone before she ever began her fruitless search. She'd tried to reason that the kiss they'd shared was probably his way of saying good-bye, but that hadn't helped much in the dark, lonely hours before sunrise.

  “Maybe I'll rent an apartment in town,” she mused. “Or I might just live in the bus. That's practically what I do, anyhow.”

  “Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that?” Bo's eyebrows arched in surprise. He stirred two teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. “You've just gotten everything fixed up the way you wanted it. This is one of the showcase homes of Nashville!”

  “The rooms are beautifully decorated, I'll grant you that. But this isn't a home, Bo.” Her furniture and clothes— all of her personal possessions— were here. But her heart was someplace else.

  “When I come in off the road and unlock that front door, I feel like I'm walking into a cold, empty tomb.” A wistful smile curved her lips. “I just rattle around in here by myself, wasting the space. A home is supposed to be shared with the people you love.” That old farmhouse where she'd learned to love Hoyt was more of a home than this mansion could ever be.

  “Some nice family should be living here, Bo.” She reached out and patted his hand. “This is the kind of place where children should grow up playing with their friends. These rooms should be ringing with laughter.” It took the last of her energy, but she managed to smile.

  “Women!” Bo shook his head as if to say that he would never understand them. “Well, you won't have any trouble unloading it, if you're sure that's what you want.”

  “I'm sure.” Her answer was a choked whisper.

  * * * *

  “Give me a little sexy mischief now, baby. I want you to ooze it all over this film.”

  The photographer shot frame after frame, wheedling Cassie to turn her face one way: “Toward the light, babe.” And then she assumed another pose. “Beautiful! Have a fantasy.”

  As he clicked away, he complimented her endlessly. “Great! Wonderful! A natural!” Cassie posed mechanically for the hundreds of pictures from which she and Bo would select her album cover.

  She daydreamed through the session while the photographer froze her striking beauty on film.

  “Get hot, baby,” the wiry camera artist encouraged. Hoyt's face floated across her mind. “Get real hot.” It didn't require much exertion on her part. She breathed in sharply, remembering the sight of his hard, supple body in front of the firelight. “Oh, those eyes! Give me some more of those eyes!” Did the photographer sense that he'd struck a nerve, that he wasn't shooting soap-bubble emotions?

  What did it matter? she thought as she swirled and pouted and smiled her pretty lies. Tomorrow she would collect her award. Next week she would put her house on the market. After that— maybe she could go away somewhere to put her thoughts in order and redirect her life. Maybe she could start fresh again.

  “Moonbeams, baby. Think moonbeams,” the photographer enthused. He clicked away but Cassie couldn't hear his
encouraging remarks.

  She obediently created the optical illusion he wanted. But no one would ever know what magic memories prompted the sulky thrust of Cassie's lower lip or the heartbreak in her violet eyes

  * * * *

  The night of the deejays’ awards, organized chaos reigned backstage— and that was putting it mildly. Cassie finished applying her makeup and wandered out of the dressing room. A silver-bearded star rehearsed his raspy-voiced number one more time. When Cassie stopped to listen, he winked at her and then joined a group of other male celebrities for a bull-shooting session.

  “Why did they tell us to be here so early?” She watched a stagehand placing the “spot” tapes that would tell the stars where to stand on the wooden stage. She didn't want to sit down and risk rumpling or snagging her sequined white suit. The stagehand was too busy to answer idle questions, and the butterflies were having their usual heyday in her stomach, so Cassie scanned the empty auditorium and tried to imagine what it would be like when the capacity crowd that was expected had filled the stands.

  A willowy, long-haired singer and the hottest band in town were huddled in an odd-shaped hallway, debating whether the acoustics could handle their decibel level. “Congratulations, Cassie.” The dark-haired woman smiled and waved as Cassie returned the friendly greeting.

  A uniformed guard stood next to the doors, patiently explaining to a middle-aged couple why they couldn't come backstage with their autograph books and cameras.

  “Does everybody know where he's supposed to be and what he's supposed to do when his name is called?” The director's hair stood straight up on his head. He acted like a wild man, yelling at performers and trying to read a time schedule at the same time. “Follow the tape when you come onstage. It's like the yellow brick road,” he added sarcastically. “And no long speeches, either. These people want action, not words. Just thank them for the award, sing your song, and get off the stage. We can't afford even a minute's worth of overtime.”