by Ashton Lee
“When is this band supposed to arrive?”
“Around five-ish, I think. They have to get down to Tupelo after they finish eating to check in to their hotel, though.”
Renette was staring down at the CD case as if she had just been presented with an engagement ring by some ardent suitor. “The picture of this Waddell Mack fella on the front—well, he is kinda handsome with all that curly hair and those tight jeans and those cowboy boots. You’d think he owned the world the way he’s posing. Hey, with the money I bet he’s making, he prob’ly does.”
Maura Beth leaned across the desk and fanned Renette’s face playfully. “Down, girl, down!”
“I can’t help it. He looks like he’s undressing me with his eyes, not to mention those dark, bushy brows. And then he’s scowling just a tad bit, and I betcha he doesn’t shave on purpose. I see lotsa men on TV with that scruffy look these days. Don’t know if they actually are, but it makes ’em look kinda dangerous. Do you think I’m silly to think like that?”
“Well, no. But I prefer the clean-cut type, myself,” Maura Beth said. “Jeremy pretty much has to shave since he’s a schoolteacher and is supposed to set an example for his students, but I’ve never been big on beards and mustaches, anyway. That—and tattoos. Just call me old-fashioned, I guess.”
“Well, check out the titles of some of these other songs,” Renette continued, handing over the CD case.
Maura Beth began reading slowly and with a bit more emphasis than was necessary. “ ‘The Muddy Waters of My Heart’ . . . ‘Gonna Crash and Burn for You, Baby’ . . . ‘Just a Hot Rod NASCAR Romance’ . . . ‘Where’d You Git That Giddyup?’ . . . I think that about covers all the bases, wouldn’t you say? The thing is, Periwinkle says he’s all the rage right now, so who are we to turn up our noses? As a librarian, I’ve always been a very inclusive person.”
“Yeah, I guess I am, too . . .” Renette tailed off, but Maura Beth was reading her mind anyway.
“You had a little something else to add, right?”
“Umm, well, Miz Maura Beth, I was wondering if maybe . . . I mean, I hope it’s not too pushy of me, but . . .”
“You were wondering if I could sneak you into The Twinkle tonight? You’re easy to read after all this time, you know.”
Renette blushed and briefly averted her eyes, but she found the words anyway. “Could you? I mean, I wouldn’t eat anything, if that’s an issue. I wouldn’t have much of an appetite anyway—I mean, with him in the room and all. It’s just that this . . . thing has come over me.”
Maura Beth was both amused and touched. She wasn’t all that far removed from those teen years full of fleeting crushes herself. But, oh, how much better to be finally settled in life and looking forward to the future with that special someone! “Oh, I’m sure I can get Periwinkle to rustle you up a plate, young lady.”
“Then I can come?”
“Absolutely. Jeremy and I will pick you up, and I’m sure we’ll all have a wonderful time.”
“Oh, Miz McShay, you’re the best boss ever!”
Maura Beth winked smartly. “I try.”
Waddell Mack was lounging on his red leather sofa with both legs sticking out in the carpeted aisle of his star bus, practically daring anyone to trip over the expensive snakeskin cowboy boots he was wearing. There was no mistaking which band was traveling through the back roads of Middle Tennessee on the way to the extreme northeast corner of Mississippi: along either side of the Prevost sleeper was his name in bright red cursive script. For many miles now, he had been daydreaming about the visit to Cherico and The Twinkle. Being the small-town boy that he was, real home cooking on the road was a rare treat, as well as a welcome respite from the franchised fare or worse that was usually available to him and his band with their hectic schedule. Indigestion seemed to come with the territory.
“You’ve just gotta stop by this little place called The Twinkle when you’re anywhere near,” his sister-in-law, the pageant-haired Bettye—who considered herself Dolly Parton’s #1 fan—had told him a year or so ago after a vacation she’d taken. “It’s not all that much to look at, except I thought the stars danglin’ from the ceiling were kinda cute. But the food—it’s pretty tasty. Oh, and if you get down to Natchez, try Fat Mama’s and get you some of the tamales and wash ’em down with a Knock-You-Naked Margarita. I know you and the boys’ll toss back a few. Oh, and they got the cutest old bathtub out in the side yard with lotsa flowers growin’ out of it. The whole place is just a hoot’n a half!”
Waddell knew Bettye Mack was a genuine foodie. She and his brother, Milton, almost never ate at home up in Nashville. Eating out was their thing. So if they recommended a restaurant or a particular dish or drink, he knew it had to be the real thing. If he accomplished nothing else on this tour—in addition to the fact that it was a sellout—it would be to chow down in style and comfort at The Twinkle in Cherico and Fat Mama’s in Natchez.
“I’m gettin’ kinda hungry,” Lonnie “Fingers” Gholson said as he sidled up and plopped down next to Waddell. The leather cushions made a soft, squishy sound as Lonnie shifted his weight to get more comfortable. “Hey, how much longer we gotta go, dude?”
It hardly surprised Waddell that Fingers was hungry. A tall beanpole of a man who had one of those efficient metabolisms that allowed him to eat whatever and as much as he wanted, Fingers played rhythm guitar for the band. He was also one of those prodigies who had never had a music lesson in his life. Couldn’t read a note. “God give me what I got,” he was always telling everyone. “And I just run with it.”
Waddell checked his watch, and said, “Hold your horses. About a half hour more and we’ll be there.”
“I been lookin’ over the menu you went online and printed out for us,” Fingers continued. “Makes my stomach growl. Same for Davis, Torrey, and Lightman. We’ve been huddlin’ in the back.”
The “back,” as they all called it, consisted of another bright red leather sofa strategically placed in front of a fifty-five-inch HDTV where everyone could view music videos, movies, and TV episodes as the miles rolled by. “Everyone” consisted of Johnny Davis, the bass player, Sam Torrey, the attention deficit drummer, and Trent Lightman, the fiddle player with the customary chaw in his mouth. Not to mention the quartet of twenty-something male roadies who helped with the equipment; and finally, Rankin Lowe, the band’s officious manager, who had been with Waddell since the early days when the struggling singer couldn’t buy a cup of coffee making the rounds on Music Row. All things considered, it was quite an entourage—one that was getting hungrier and hungrier by the minute.
“I don’t wanna sound like I’m one a’ those brats in the backseat on vacation, but are we there yet?” Johnny Davis said, approaching the sofa with some urgency. Unlike Fingers, Johnny was a big-boned specimen who always ate much more than was good for him—and the proof was concentrated in his overhanging belly; thus the sometimes nickname “Hulk.”
“I just finished telling Fingers, we’re under a half hour!” Waddell said, almost barking at him. “What are you guys watching back there? Never heard so much carrying-on in my life.”
“Oh, just an oldie-but-goodie that Rankin stuck in the slot,” Johnny answered. “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. They’ve had a few beers back there, too.”
“Pure slapstick, Hulk,” Waddell continued, cocking his head while remembering several typical scenes. “Banana peels, car chases, buried loot, and all that Keystone Kops stuff as I recall. But it dudd’n seem like Rankin’s style.”
Johnny shrugged, screwing up his mouth. “We told him we weren’t in the mood for one a’ those talky documentaries he likes about the history of country music, okay? So that’s what he came up with instead. By the way, these folks in Cherico don’t expect us to perform while we’re there, do they?”
Waddell looked annoyed. “No way. They just expect us to eat plenty—and maybe autograph a picture or two for their wall. Just small-town, par-for-the-course stuff, that’s a
ll. We’ve been there and done that, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint this nice lady—Periwinkle, she calls herself.”
Johnny looked down and snorted. “Periwhat?”
“Winkle!”
“You serious?” He patted his protruding stomach. “Never mind. I’m ready to let ’er rip!”
“You referrin’ to the buttons on your shirt?” Waddell said with a wicked little smirk while Johnny rolled his eyes. “I just hope this Twinkle place is ready for an all-you-can-eat outing from you guys.”
Councilman Sparks was about to lose his temper with his Evie, and he had practically never done that during the course of their long marriage. But she’d been at him for the past fifteen minutes and just wouldn’t let up. It was very uncharacteristic of her to nag or challenge him in any way, of course. Like Bonjour Cheri, she had always known her place. Until now.
“So the bottom line is you’re not going to move a muscle all day?” Evie repeated as they eyed each other skeptically across the kitchen table. She had been trying to get him to eat something—a small bowl of cereal with sliced bananas for starters—but to no avail. Coffee was all she’d been able to manage so far—and even that he’d let cool off to lukewarm after taking a tentative sip. “You’re just going to stay here in the house and feel sorry for yourself? You’re not acting very much like the Master of Cherico. I never thought you’d throw that away.”
Finally, he broke his silence, narrowing his eyes further. “I’m entitled to at least one day off after having my stomach pumped, okay?”
“I understand that part, but I thought you said this invitation to The Twinkle was extremely important tonight.”
He dismissed her words with an abrupt, throat-slashing gesture that was startling, to say the least. “It’s all pretty pointless now. Periwinkle killed my buzz permanently when she said I couldn’t take the film crew into The Twinkle, so all this scrambling around at the last minute to put together a video for Spurs ’R’ Us just seems like a big waste of time. And you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t have much of an appetite today, all things considered.”
But Evie remained tenacious. For once she knew she had the upper hand. “You could at least put in an appearance and welcome this band to Cherico. Didn’t you promise them the key to the city or something like that? You can do that sort of thing in your sleep. You could use last night’s lie as your excuse for not staying and eating anything. I’m sure everyone will understand.”
“The key to Cherico doesn’t mean much anymore,” he told her with a sigh of resignation. “A long time ago I promised my father and Layton Duddney that I’d look after this town, but it’s dying on the vine under my watch. No way do I feel good about that.”
Evie drew back and thought for a while. When she finally spoke, she did not sound happy. “You know, we’ve never had a talk about what that Cudd’n M’Dear person intimated at Maura Beth’s wedding. That you might be having an affair. Are you having one . . . or did you?”
Councilman Sparks leaned back in his chair, allowing himself the barest hint of a smirk. His near-death experience was squeezing the truth out of him, and he was helpless to resist. “Well, I thought about it. Okay? I admit it. But I got nowhere with Maura Beth. You have the right to know that. I struck out with a woman for the first time in my life.”
“I sensed something was going on with you about Maura Beth. Did that have anything at all to do with your lame suicide attempt? Was this really about your ego and not Cherico?”
All he could do was shrug. “Maybe. But who can explain such a drastic decision rationally?”
She leaned in with a deadpan expression. There was absolutely no way he was going to wiggle out of this. “You left yourself room to be saved in time, you know. You knew Bonjour Cheri and I were coming back from our walk. You could’ve downed a coupla more shots and a few more pills so that no amount of stomach-pumping would’ve saved you. I love you, Durden, but that was a half-assed suicide attempt if I ever saw one. And, by the way, I trust you’ll never pull a stupid stunt like that again.”
“I’m not sure you would ever understand.”
Evie straightened up and set her jaw. “Maybe not. But I insist you go to The Twinkle tonight. It’s exactly what you need to boost your spirits. Sitting around here and moping won’t cut it. That’s not the man I married.” She paused to point down to Bonjour Cheri, nestled at his feet. “It’s the least you can do since the two of us went to all the trouble of saving your life. Isn’t that right, girl?”
Bonjour Cheri—lying as still as a fluffy white throw rug after her frenetic activity of the evening before—reacted as if she had understood every single word, making a sweet, whimpering noise.
“You two are quite an act,” Councilman Sparks said, trying very hard to remain in a cantankerous mood but completely unable to do so. It was difficult to be ungrateful for being pulled back from the edge.
“Then you’ll show up?”
He didn’t answer right away, shifting his eyes from side to side and screwing up his mouth. “On one condition,” he told her finally.
“And what’s that?”
“That you come with me. You can welcome them as the First Lady of Cherico right alongside me.”
“So you really need me, do you? Every wife likes to know she’s appreciated now and then.”
He reached across the table and grasped her hand. “Maybe I haven’t said it enough, Evie. But I guess I’ve always needed you. I didn’t realize how much until I woke up to your pretty face in the hospital. And I was hell-bent on never waking up at all, you know.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad you didn’t get your way for once,” she said, her face a study in relief. “Maybe something good will come of this after all.” Then her features quickly hardened. “You scared the living daylights out of us. Don’t you ever do anything like that again. I’ll kill you if you even try!”
He managed a wry smile, reaching down to pet Bonjour Cheri’s artfully clipped head. “You know, I even thought of just plain ole resigning instead of trying to off myself. I have to plead temporary insanity to that, I guess.”
“You sure do. I can just picture Chunky and Gopher Joe—either one—trying to run this town without you. It’d be a farce from day one. You’ve done nothing but enable those two to be clueless all these years.” She paused and wagged a finger vigorously. “Listen, you find a way to turn this town around instead of running away from everything—and that includes me and Bonjour Cheri. Honestly, what on earth has gotten into you?”
“That’s the thing, Evie. I’m fresh outta ideas. I never thought I’d just run dry like this.”
There was exasperation in her tone, but she managed a wifely smile. “The important thing is not to give up. You’re always talking about your legacy. Now’s the time to make sure you leave one behind.”
Maura Beth was totally unprepared for Waddell Mack’s relaxed charm. Her preconceived notions about what a famous country singer would be like were so far off base as to be profoundly head shaking with maybe a facepalm thrown in for good measure. Of course, Periwinkle had set the perfect mood with the singer’s latest CD playing quietly in the background. Seated to his right at their table at The Twinkle—and with an obviously doting Renette to his left—Maura Beth found herself speechless as he rattled off one amusing anecdote after another. She’d never encountered such seamless banter, flavored with just the right amount of boyish Southern twang.
“Truth is, I live and breathe small towns like this. Cherico reminds me of my little hometown, at least what I could see of it as we rode in on the bus,” he said between sips of his second beer. Then he drew himself up, took an exaggerated, deep breath, and exhaled against his tight pale blue shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons. “It’s what country music is all about, really. We just speak for the everyday folk the way they try to do for themselves in the shower, except we’re not off-key.” He loudly rapped his knuckles three times on the table, looking smug. “At least most a’ th
e time we’re not.”
Renette giggled, daring to pursue his train of thought. “Now, how in the world did you know that?”
Waddell leaned over and caught her gaze playfully. No matter the size of the audience, he knew how to handle the situation, finding just the right thing to say. “What? That you sing in the shower?”
She went all crimson and quickly hung her head. “It’s true. And I can’t even carry a tune, no matter what. I tried out for chorus my junior year in high school, and they turned me down. I mean, I was downright awful.”
“Nah, you prob’ly weren’t as bad as you think. But the singin’ in the shower thing—it’s not hard to figure out. Here’s my theory: it’s the shampooing that brings it out in all of us,” he continued. “We sorta get into a rhythm, if you think about it. You know, the lather, rinse, and repeat thing. They make you do it twice. Which is why I first thought I wanted to be a drummer in this crazy, mixed-up business that’s as competitive as all git-out. But then my first git-tar came callin’ on me as a Christmas present from my parents, and we’ve been uh old married couple ever since. Yep, my git-tar is my one and only old lady. I call her Miss Chordette, and I just love to tickle her.”
Maura Beth couldn’t help herself. The image of Waddell Mack’s long fingers manipulating those strings sent a spurt of adrenaline through her veins. But she wisely refrained from commenting and hoped the excitement she was feeling wasn’t showing up on her face. After all, she was a respectable, married woman.
Across the table, husband Jeremy was finishing up his last piece of cornmeal-battered catfish as everyone laughed at Waddell’s musical revelations. “Glad you ordered this up, Waddell,” he said. “I never much cared for catfish before, but this totally changes my mind. I’m not sure how much I’ve eaten already.”
“Tell Miz Periwinkle down there at the other end of the table,” he said, pointing in her general direction with a wink.