Nashville Dreams

by Rachel Hauck

  “I think this belongs to you.”

  Shawn Bolz, the pastor, preaches with passion about God’s love, then calls us to stand for the closing prayer. Lee takes my hand as if he’s done it a thousand times before, and I let him.

  When Shawn says amen, Lee smiles down at me. “You thought I stood you up?”

  “You were late.” I relax my fingers so he can let go of my hand if he wants. He doesn’t.

  “My clock stopped in the middle of the night,” Lee explains, waving to Shawn as we join the herd heading for the door.

  “‘My clocked stopped’? That’s your best excuse?”

  He squeezes my fingers. “It’s the truth. Good morning, Mrs. Ferguson, this is Robin McAfee.” Lee introduces me like it’s a privilege.

  “Lee, sugar, wait up.” An older woman with flaming red hair and tight gray slacks shuffles our way.

  “Oops, it’s Miss Millie.” Lee shoves me out the door. “Sorry, but I have to run. I’ll call you tomorrow about the remodel.”

  He drags me down the front steps.

  “Whoa, where’s the fire?”

  He holds onto my arm. “Miss Millie wants me to date her niece.”

  “I see.” I laugh and hurry to keep up with his long, quick stride.

  “Here we are.” He stops by my truck. “Freedom’s Song.” He smoothes his hand over Ricky’s airbrushed inscription.

  “Yep, here we are at Freedom’s Song.” Is this it? Please don’t say good-bye.

  “Do you have lunch plans?” Lee crosses his arms and falls against the tailgate.

  “What do you have in mind?” I grin up at him. Being in church makes me feel bold.

  He steps around and opens my truck door. “You game?”

  “For what?” I slip in behind the wheel.

  “Follow me.”

  Lee takes me to Centennial Park.

  “That’s an exact replica of the Parthenon,” he says, pointing to a large stone building looming on the green lawn.

  “How amazing.” A replica of ancient Greece right here in Nashville. I smooth my hand along the thick stone column and imagine Greek philosophers pacing the portico.

  Lee grabs my hand. “Come on. This isn’t why we came here.” He leads me down a grassy knoll and stops under the shade of a seasoned oak, where he pops a blanket open and spreads it over the grass. We sit. The spring air is sweet and weighted with shouting and laughter. Across the way, two guys and two girls with Greek letters on their T-shirts toss a Frisbee.

  “What are we doing?” I don’t really care. In the span of one church service, I’ve discovered the pleasure of Lee’s company.

  “A picnic.”

  Okay, Lord, let’s talk. How much for the ruggedly handsome carpenter?

  Lee claps his hands together. “Beef or chicken?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, I’m hungry. Beef or chicken?”

  I smirk. “Beef.”

  “Large or small?”

  “Large, naturally.”

  “Diet or regular?” he asks.

  “Regular.”

  Lee dashes off, hops a low stone wall, crosses busy West End Avenue, and runs into Wendy’s. I fall back on the blanket, laughing.

  A few minutes later, he jogs back, his church tie askew and his white shirt collar open. He drops to his knees, huffing and puffing.

  “You’re a nut,” I say.

  He holds out a food bag. “Your feast.”

  As I reach for the bag, our hands touch, and I swear it’s like a spark of electricity between us. Our eyes meet. Then, as if there’s a blip in the time-space continuum, I feel as if Lee and I are the only two people on earth.

  He leans. I pucker.

  “One Wendy’s hamburger, large fry, and a regular Coke.” He rattles the bag under my nose. “Here, take it while it’s hot.”

  I unpucker. “Thanks.” The world comes back into focus as Lee digs in his bag for his sandwich and fries. I unwrap my burger, feeling like an idiot.

  “So, what do you have? A sister? Brother? Couple of dogs?”

  Since my teeth are stuck in my burger, I nod. “Both,” I say after chewing and swallowing. “And you?”

  “Two brothers, no dogs.” He also tells me he’s thirty and a Yankee from New Joisy, which I’ll overlook for now.

  I’m mid chomp on a fry when Lee scoots close and points to my nose. “I like your freckles.”

  With a gulp, I swallow. “You can have them if you want.”

  “Great, and I’ll keep them right where they are.” He smiles with a wink. Every time he does that, my insides melt and run all over. And I have this bizarre urge to kiss him.

  “Thanks for coming on my little picnic.” He grabs the Wendy’s wrappers and stuffs them into the bag, then flops back on the blanket, locking his hands behind his head. “Don’t you love days like this?”

  “Y-yes, it’s a beautiful day.” My eyes keep wandering to his lips. Are they as soft as they look? This is nuts. Lord, help. I feel suspended in midair without a net.

  He rises up on his elbows. “I know a great place for ice cream. Want to try it out?” He hops up and walks over to the trash barrel with the wadded Wendy’s bag.

  “Ice cream sounds good.” I fall back on the blanket, grasping for my bearings. Lee Rivers and his sultry magic.

  “Let’s go,” he says, tugging on the edge of the blanket. “Ice cream is calling.”

  “Okay, okay.” But before I can smooth my skirt and get up without flashing the Frisbee players, Lee jerks on the blanket’s edge and shoots me down a sloping knoll like a human log, rolling over and over. Face down, face up, face down, face up.

  I scream, “Leeeeeeeee!” while his laughter trails behind me.

  At McDonald’s, Lee hands me an ice cream cone without look-ing me in the eye. “Here you go,” he says with a dull snort.

  I look at my shoes and force out a thank you.

  “Let’s go sit on my tailgate.”

  “Nice ice cream place, Lee,” I say, motioning toward McDonald’s while the image of me rolling down the hill yelling, “Leeeeee”—continues to burn in my brain. A snicker leaks out.

  “Thanks.” He clears his throat and then adds in a low, wispy voice, “Leeeeee!”

  We fall against the tailgate, hooting, our ice cream melting down the sides of our cones.

  “Man, that was funny.” I wipe my eyes.

  “I never expected it.” He looks down at me. “I like you.”

  My stomach cartwheels.

  We finish our cones and wipe our hands on the Armor All wipes Lee carries in his truck. “Can you believe it’s four o’clock?”

  “Really?” I flip my wrist over to see my watch. Time flies.

  “I didn’t mean to hijack your day.”

  Hijack my day? “You made my first Sunday in Nashville very special.”

  “I had a great time.” He walks with me to my truck.

  Every molecule in my body is still curious about the taste of his kiss. Warm? Sloppy? Firm? Sweet? Or like Ricky, all about himself?

  “Here we are.” He pulls me into his arms.

  My brain sends a signal to my lips. Pucker up. This is where my questions are answered. I lift my face. “Here we are.”

  He picks me up and whirls me around so that my feet fly behind me like maypole ribbons. “I had a great time.”

  Oh, swirly whirly. “Me too.” He takes my breath away. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  He sets me down and backs away without so much as a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for joining me.” I watch him head over and open his truck door, then turn.

  “Oh, say, Robin,” he calls.

  “Yeah?” I step forward.

  “Do you know how to get to Birdie’s from here?”

  My shoulders droop. “Over there.” I point in the general direction of my new home.

  He pats the bed of his truck and waves. “You got it. See you.”

  When I arrive home, the house is quiet. “Birdie?�
�

  I jog up the stairs, unraveling my thoughts from the dash and smash of Lee Rivers. The afternoon had all the elements of a great love song. Spontaneity. Chemistry. Blue skies. The almost kiss.

  I pause on the stairs and hunt through my purse for my notebook. The almost kiss. Great title. I fumble with a few phrases as I hit the second-floor landing, trying to imagine a story between two new lovers in the park.

  Birdie’s bedroom door flies open and she jerks me inside.

  “Help. He’s coming in an hour, and I have no idea what to wear.” Her narrow frame is draped with a lacy robe, and her hair is wrapped in a towel.

  “He who?” I drop my notebook and purse on her bed.

  “Walt. I have a date with Walt.”

  Grinning, I sit on the edge of the window seat. “I thought he had a thing for you.”

  Standing at her closet door, Birdie whirls around with two dresses in her hand. “The black or the red?”

  “Well, the—”

  She claps the hangers together. “What am I thinking? Red is too, you know, take-me-now.”

  Laughing, I assure her I don’t think red is too take-me-now. “Red is bold. Confident.”

  “Really?” She presses her hand on her forehead. “What am I thinking? I haven’t been on a date in eons.” She crashes down next to me.

  “Relax, it’s like riding a bike—you never forget.”

  Birdie holds out the dresses. “I never learned to ride a bike. It’s haunted me ever since.”

  I make a face. “What kid doesn’t—”

  “I should wear black. Be conservative.” Birdie examines the black dress.

  “Birdie, you’ve known Walt for a long time, right? He’s not going to be swayed by the color you wear.”

  “But we’ve never gone on a date. We’ve played gigs, taught songwriting seminars, but never a date.” She stuffs the red dress back in the closet. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Nashville Noise is coming out with the best of the ’80s, and I have two songs on the compilation. Two!”

  “Good for you.”

  Birdie hugs the dress to her chest and speaks to the ceiling. “My wallet thanks you, Jim Chastain.”

  “Say, Birdie. What happened with your Nashville Noise career?”

  Birdie hangs her dress on the closet door and unwraps the towel from her head. “Long story.” She disappears into the bathroom.

  “Is there a condensed version somewhere?”

  She pokes her head out. “Let’s see. Well, I bet all my chips on a blind bluff and lost.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I thought you wanted the condensed version.”

  “That’s too condensed.”

  “Some things happened . . . Jim and I found ourselves in a long-standing feud. Nashville Noise and I parted ways. I signed with a new label, but they didn’t get me or my music. My sales didn’t meet expectation, and they dropped me.”

  “Dang, Birdie, I’m sorry.”

  She ducks back in the bathroom and fires up her hairdryer. “I’m not,” she hollers out. “I stood up for what I thought was right, and I lost. At least I had the moral integrity to speak out.”

  “I didn’t think it would be this complicated.”

  Birdie comes out with her hair wild and windblown, waving a fat, round brush. “Complicated is the nice word for the music business.”

  She disappears in the bathroom again. “Where have you been all afternoon? Your face is glowing. By the way, I like what you did with your hair. Tell your friend—”

  “Cousin.”

  “Yeah, her. Good job.”

  I hop off the bed and lean against the bathroom door. Birdie is flopped over, about to fire up her hairdryer again. “I went on a picnic with Lee Rivers.”

  She peeks at me through a blonde veil. “Did you now? Interesting.”

  I bend over to see her face. “Why is it interesting?”

  “Well, if I know Lee— Mercy, is that the time? Walt will be here any minute.”

  14

  Daddy is on the phone talking about whittling a new bird-house for Grandma McAfee as I stand on my deck watching my own Birdie flutter off into the sunset with Walt.

  She wore the red dress. Walt’s bright expression said it all. Propping my feet against the deck rail, I settle back with my black notebook and pen.

  “. . . and your momma’s garden is growing,” Daddy says. “She plans on winning blue ribbons for canned pickles and tomatoes this year.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “I’m thinking of kicking licorice cold turkey.”

  “What? Please, Daddy, how will I recognize you when I come home if you don’t have a licorice whip dangling from your lips?”

  “Now, there’s a thought. For your sake, I’ll put off quitting.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Steve called from Iraq. He misses us.”

  I imagine my sandy-haired brother in combat fatigues tucking a picture of his pregnant wife in a pocket close to his heart. “It’s hard for him to be so far away.”

  “I hear it in his voice, but he’s proud of what he’s doing. Dawnie is safe with her family and us. And, oh, she invited your momma to go into the delivery room with her.”

  “Okay, Dawn is the bravest person I know.”

  “Robin Rae.” Daddy snickers.

  “Steve’s got to hate this . . . missing the birth of his firstborn.”

  “Sure he does, but freedom comes with a price.”

  “Jesus taught us that, didn’t he?” I crack open the black notebook and start to write my thoughts, but tears cloud my eyes. “I miss everybody, Daddy.”

  “Sure you do. If you didn’t, how would you know how much you love us. Give it time.”

  “I did the right thing, didn’t I?” The afternoon with Lee seems far away. “Should I have married Ricky?”

  “Did you want to marry Ricky?”

  “I miss him, a little. But he doesn’t seem very happy with me.”

  “Of course not. He didn’t get what he wanted. But Robin, did you want to marry him?”

  “Reckon not. I’m in Nashville, aren’t I?”

  “The Good Book tells us not to be double minded. Besides, you’re half Lukeman and half McAfee. Heaven help Nashville. ”

  I grin and brush away tears. “Guess you’re right.”

  He chuckles. “Of course. I’m your daddy. Now, here’s Momma.”

  “How’s the songwriting business?” she asks without a hello.

  “I’m going to the Bluebird Café’s open-mike tomorrow night.”

  “I see.”

  I can’t read her tone. Upset? Nervous? Jealous? “I’ll be fine, Momma.” I say this for myself as much as for her.

  “I reckon you will.”

  When we hang up, I walk inside for my guitar, pausing by the torn picture of Momma and her friends. “You are a mystery, Bit McAfee. And someday, I’m going to sit you down and find out why.”

  There’s a line of songwriters outside the Bluebird Café, and I’m not disappointed. My guess is I’ll never make it to the stage tonight.

  I forgot all about Blaire’s stage fright advice and drank a liter of Pepsi while cleaning the Bennie Dillon lobby and several of the private residence’s lofts. Between my nerves and the caffeine, I’ve got tremors, a dry mouth, and a thin, weak voice. And I swear my left eye won’t stop twitching.

  “Where have you been?” Black-hat-and-black-duster Graham Young calls out from the front of the line. “I said get here early.”

  What is he doing here? I walk over with my excuse. “I got waylaid.”

  “Good thing I came early.”

  He swaps places with me. Now I’m in line where he once stood. There are only four people in front of me. Count ’em. Four. For a split second, I hate him. “You saved me a place?”

  He smiles and chucks me under the chin. “Wanted to make sure you played.”

  Having a fear reputation is the worst.

  From the p
arking lot, a fancy-dressed man calls, “Graham.”

  “Frank Gruey, as I live and breathe.” My new friend wanders off to schmooze, his black duster flapping behind him like a Batman cape. It’s May, Graham. May.

  Midway down the line, a woman stares at me. I smile and make swapping motions with my hands. She snaps her head in the other direction. Hum, guess not. Maybe she’s as scared as I am. Staring out at busy Hillsboro Road, I envision myself running away never to be heard from again. Fear is a strange enemy, isn’t it? It chokes the life right out of folks.

  I meander in the weeds of pretend too long. My foot jerks. My heart races. I wonder for a second if I might go crazy right in front of the Bluebird. I’m a hair’s breadth away from running down the road, screaming like a banshee.

  No. Steady, Robin. Steady. Calm down. You can do this. You made a Robin McAfee decision.

  A drop of peace splashes on my soul, and my foot stops jerking. The panic passes. Drinking from my one ounce of confidence, I pull out my phone. Might as well call in the troops. “What are you doing tonight? Nothing? Good, come to the Bluebird.”

  “Why?” Skyler asks. “Are you going to sing?”

  “I’m in line.”

  “I’ll be right there. Don’t leave.”

  I hang up and notice the late-afternoon sun casts shadows over all the cars and trucks in the parking lot except mine. One thin ray of sunlight shines over Ricky’s handiwork like a heavenly spotlight: Freedom’s Song.

  I smile. Tonight, I hope to put a big dent in the old fear caboose. I turn to the guy in front of me and stick out my hand. “Hi, I’m Robin McAfee, and I’m scared.”

  He scoffs and shakes my hand. “Allen Davis, and I’m not.”

  Waiting in the crowded Bluebird with thirty other wannabe songwriters, Jeeter’s advice skips across my mind: “Sometimes you got to face your fears.”

  Skyler, Blaire, and I have a table just left of the stage. The Bluebird is stuffed with guitar-hugging folks, waiting for their turn. And in the midst of them, Graham is off yakking with Frank, who, I discovered, is a publisher, song plugger, or producer. I can’t remember, but it’s something with a P.

  And lucky me, I’m number five in tonight’s lineup. Five. One, two, three, four . . . me.

  Skyler taps my shoulder. “How many songs do you get to sing?”