Her Younger Man (A Country Music Romance): a Renny and Rachel Romance

by MacLaren, Nancy

  How could I be old? I still felt like a kid. I hadn’t gone down the traditional road of marriage and kids and so I always felt I escaped such labels as “middle-aged”. Now I could get senior tickets at the movies and a discount at Denny’s. Is that all I had left to look forward to? Dinky discounts at diners and cat shows?

  I threw my soda away and fled the scene. I had more than enough to write Sam’s stupid story and I couldn’t take the smell anymore. (You don’t get used to it, just FYI.)

  CHAPTER THREE

  I was at it again, trying to make myself look presentable. Problem was, I didn’t know what I was supposed to look like. Was this a young crowd, old crowd, gun crowd, cold crowd? I knew Edgefield was an outdoor venue and even in July Portland gets chilly at night –or even rains –so I needed to layer it up.

  I had finally decided on leggings and my favorite tunic with a sweater throw and sandals when I hit the shower to wash my hair. I could still smell the cat show on me days later. That’s all I needed to cement myself as a true eccentric – eau‘d cat piss.

  I turned off the shower or I should say I tried to turn off the shower. It kept showering. I twisted the knob a few more frantic times until it came off in my hand. Worse still, not only was the water pouring from the showerhead but it was being joined by the gushing through the hole the hot water knob had vacated. Um, not so good.

  I hopped out of the shower and dove for the water spigot under the bathroom sink, (I had learned how to turn off the water after an unfortunate bathroom incident last year that shall be explained no further.) I turned the spigot to shut the water down. I listened. Niagara Falls was still in my shower. Shit. Where was I gonna get a plumber on a Saturday night? I couldn’t just let it run. Soon it would flood the bathroom and then … let’s just say I always wanted to live on the river, not in the river.

  I pulled on my robe and went to the kitchen where my phone was charging. I opened Bing and tapped in plumbers. I was scrolling, desperately looking for an emergency number, when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock. 6 p.m. exactly. Damn. Who knew musicians were so punctual.

  I opened the door to a scruffy young man. Had the plumber fairy sent me a savior? No, probably Renny Taylor’s driver.

  “You’re not dressed,” he stated.

  “I can’t go, I’m afraid. Major emergency.

  “Hmmm. Renny’s not going to like it if I show up without you. He’s funny sometimes. What’s the issue? Maybe I can fix you up here.”

  “Not unless you’re a plumber. Can’t you hear it?” He stepped into the house and cocked his ear.

  “Ah, yes. No, I’m not the plumber. Let me make a call.”

  Before I could stop him he whipped out his cell and punched in a saved number.

  “Hey, yeah, I’m here. She ain’t ready. Got a bit of a plumbing issue.” He listened and turned to me. “What’s the big problem?”

  I held out the shower knob. He went back to his call.

  “She broke her shower open. Yeah. Okay.” Back to me. “Did you turn off the water under the sink?”

  “Tried. Didn’t do diddly.”

  “She’s says it didn’t do diddly. Yup, that’s what she said, diddly. Yup, but I don’t think she finds it all that funny. Uh-huh. Okay then.”

  He punched off the call. “Renny told me what to do. You get dressed and I’ll shut it down.”

  Then he was outside and opening the side gate.

  Okay. I walked back into my room, grabbed my clothes and went into the closet to dress, just in case he let himself back in. It’s good I don’t need a lot of time to get ready because he was back just as I was slipping on my sandals.

  I listened at the bathroom door. Nothing! He’d fixed it!

  “Thanks for fixing my shower. What did you do?”

  “Oh, it ain’t fixed. I just turned off the water main.”

  “So I don’t have any water?”

  “Renny says he’ll fix it tomorrow, no worries. Let’s go. He wants you to have a good seat.”

  So I wouldn’t be backstage. Bummer.

  I stepped out the front door to find a giant bus parked (kinda) in front of my house, blocking about three driveways. It was emblazoned with the logo The Taylor Brothers on the side.

  “What the hell?”

  “It’s all I got,” he shrugged.

  “I can drive myself. If you move this behemoth I can get my car out.”

  “No way. I do what Renny and the Brothers tell me or there is hell to pay. Hey, it’ll be fun. Who goes to a concert in a tour bus?”

  He had a point and I was a little curious. “C’mon on in little lady and see how the other half lives.”

  So up I went.

  Inside the bus was a whole alternate universe. The back third was set up with bunk beds, the middle had two tables with bench seats, a microwave and small fridge. One of the tables had a half-finished jigsaw puzzle spread across it. You could frickin’ live in this thing! It was bigger than my whole house. It did have a special aroma that can only be described as ‘musky man smell’. Can’t say I minded. I had bunked in small tents with the same smell and for a moment it reminded me that I used to be a real journalist.

  The driver –who told me his name was Jed (I know) –motioned me to the plush chairs in the front of the bus as he buckled into his seat and roared up the engine. I had to admit that this was very, very cool and I felt like a bit of a rock star myself.

  We drove right up the service road and into the back staging area for the concert venue. I had been to several concerts at Edgefield before and it was always a great night out, even if it rained. Maybe especially when it rained.

  Sitting out, under the dimming light, cool breezes from the trees balancing the summer heat. Food booths shared McMenamins faves in both food and micro-brew while other booths extolled the virtues of solar power, ride-sharing and saving this or that animal. A very Portland place. I loved it.

  Portland is my place. Growing up in a southern California suburb that was never my place, I had wandered until I found Portland. It is as close to heaven on earth for me and I couldn’t think of a better atmosphere to hear Renny Taylor live.

  To my disappointment I wasn’t escorted backstage but to a VIP section right in the middle of the lawn next to the sound booth.

  “This is the best place to really hear it all,” Jed explained before dropping off the face of the earth. Right. I was here as a journalist, after all. I took out my pen and paper.

  As I waited for the concert to begin I people-watched. Concerts are another great place for this and I was curious who the audience for The Taylor Brothers was composed of.

  Turned out that every age, ethnicity and gender were here to see this group of country-rock-folk musicians from Tennessee. The place was packed five minutes after the gates opened; people hauling in low lawn chairs, blankets, water, kids toys, cameras, you name it. They wore shorts, jeans, wife-beaters, flip-flops, Birkies. Their hair was long, short, blue, magenta, braided, curled, extended and standing straight up. These were my people. My tribe. I didn’t need to worry about fitting in because everyone fit in. I sat back, peaceful and grateful. Yes, I was now a lowly entertainment writer, but Edgefield sure beat Kabul for ambience.

  There was no opening act, which surprised me. The brothers walked on with their drummer, keyboardist and cellist (yes, cellist –and he was the epitome of awesome). They struck up the first chord and the crowd was on their feet, cheering. I don’t think they ever sat down again.

  They played for three hours straight. It was a combination of up-beat rockabilly rock-n-roll, country ballads and even a gospel song or two. At one point, a semi-mosh pit formed in front of the stage and several girls started flinging clothing items at the stage. A pair or panties hit Renny right in the face. He grabbed them with a shit-eatin’ grin and stuffed them in his back pocket without missing a beat. Now wasn’t that just typical?

  Half way through the concert something happened. To me. Something I wasn’t ex
pecting.

  After about an hour into the concert the band left the stage and then each of the Taylor Brothers came out and performed a 10 minute set, showcasing their particular talents.

  The eldest Taylor, Garrett, could play fiddle like he was born in Ireland. He set the place jigging and jumping. Then Reade, Renny’s identical twin, shredded some guitar, which I could say was technically good, but not my cup of tea. Then it was Renny’s turn. The lights were turned low as he came on and sat at the piano. The females in the audience went a bit crazy. Calm down, girls, he’s just a man, not the cure to cellulite. The cellist came on with him and the two of them wove romantic magic under the canopy of starlight. The crowd went silent but still on their feet, swaying and holding hands. I saw tears rolling down the eyes of an old man and a baby gasping amazed, quiet and at peace.

  This was totally unexpected. The brothers had played a couple of gospel tunes and their harmonies were to die for but this was just Renny singing. A sweeter voice I have never heard. He sang with all the emotion I had been sure he was incapable of. Who was this man? First he had wanted to meet me because of my war correspondence and now he was singing as though he could see straight in to my soul.

  Renny had not spoken for the first few songs but he stopped and bent into the microphone for the third. “This next song is for a very special guest tonight. It’s for a woman who, well, she inspired me. That’s all I’ll say.”

  “Oh my darling girl,

  You’ve been all around the world

  But I bet you’ve never seen

  A man like me

  Not just like me.

  You’ve seen your share of strife,

  The useless loss of life

  But I bet you’ve never been

  With a man like me

  Not just like me”

  The song went straight through me. There was a vibration to it that melded within me. I’ve always been susceptible to music, it has always broken through my emotional barriers like nothing else can. I grew up pining away with Joni Mitchell, James Taylor and Bob Dylan. Well thought out lyrics were always compelling to this writer. A good song is simply poetry on steroids, as far as I’m concerned. And this song was damn near perfect.

  More than anything it made me wonder exactly who Renny Taylor was. He was clearly not like other celebrities I’d met. He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. His dark mass of hair obscuring his face as he poured his soul through his fingers onto the keys and illuminated his desire through the microphone. It was a soul and a desire I felt myself responding to. In a big way. He was absolutely right, I’d never met a man just like him.

  If I didn’t know better I’d swear he’d written the song for me. But that was impossible, right? Besides having just met me, this was a song written to a lover. No man falls in love with a woman 20 years older than him? And no woman who should be old enough to know better falls in love with a man because of a song?

  Do they?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The concert ended and most of the crowd departed. I sat, wondering what would happen next. They had done three encores and it was way past 10 but a small crowd still gathered around the front of the stage waiting for the brothers to emerge. I was waiting to. How in the world could I look Renny in the face after that amazing performance? I understood why they were so popular, I just wondered what had taken them so long to achieve super-stardom. Talent in spades. Good looks to match. They all had the sweet Tennessee drawl Renny treated me too during that disastrous interview. Who wouldn’t love them?

  A roadie finally came out and informed the crowd by the stage that the brothers had already left the venue and there was no use waiting. Great, I thought, I guess I get my own way home.

  Just as I was about to pull out my phone and look up cab companies I was poked in the back. I whirled around expecting to see Jed but instead it was a badly disguised Renny, beneath a grey hoodie and glasses.

  “Did you like it?”

  “I did. That song … when ..?”

  “C’mon, let’s get out of here before they recognize me.”

  Too late. Some of the girls filtering out had turned and were pointing at him. One of them started toward us only to be pulled back by another, who said loudly enough for us to hear, “Hey, he’s with his Mom, let’s leave them alone.”

  His Mom? I looked old enough to be his Mom? Well, that brought my giddish schoolgirl fantasies to an abrupt halt. That song was not for me. Renny Taylor was out of my league, and age group. I wanted to slap myself. What an idiot I’d been thinking he wrote a song for me, a woman he met for 20 minutes a week ago. I must be really losing it.

  Renny grabbed my arm and steered me away from the entrance, through a fence and into a waiting car.

  Jed was in the driver’s seat. “Hey, I thought all you had to drive was the bus?”

  He shrugged as Renny explained, “I thought you wanted the inside scoop. No?”

  “Yes. Thanks. It was a bit of overkill but it will be good for the article.”

  “Oh yeah, the article.” He reached to the front seat and grabbed a manila envelope. “Here’s some press pictures if you want to use them. You didn’t bring a photog did you?”

  No, no I hadn’t. Mostly because we didn’t have one for me to bring. I grabbed the envelope and opened it expecting the same cheesy PR shots I got from everyone. They were there, no doubt, but there were also candid shots of the brothers camping, playing music in a parking lot with the bus behind them and even riding a rope swing into a river. Nice. Personable. Good ol’ boys.

  Good ol’ boys with panties in their back pocket.

  “Hey, this is the wrong way,” I said to Jed, who again shrugged and pointed at Renny.

  “We go to this great little pub in Troutdale. Thought you could meet the other guys and get all you need to make us look shiny. “

  “You mean, stir up the natives before the big concert at the Gorge Amphitheatre on Wednesday.”

  He laughed an insolent, infectious, toothy, meaty guffaw. “Right. Except it sold out months ago. Hey there Rachel Drake, you may not know of us but we are big time, right Jed?”

  “The biggest.”

  “How much do you pay this poor guy to be your butt-kisser and lackey?”

  “Hell, I don’t pay him nothin’. Meet my cousin Jed.”

  Jed reached back to shake my hand never taking his eyes off the road.

  “They do feed me and let me sleep under the bus most nights, so I’m not complaining.”

  “I hear the resemblance. What is it about Tennessee that creates smart-asses?”

  “Jed here’s from Arkansas, right Jed? He’s the hillbilly in the family. Heck, sleeping under a bus is a step up for him.”

  “Got that right cuz.”

  I smiled but vowed revenge. I was not taken in by their country charm bit. I knew that tour bus was top of the line and cost over a 100 thousand at least. They may want me to believe they were just simple folk but they were clearly rolling in some serious cash.

  The bar was a true hole-in-the-wall, full of genuine good ol’ boys, girls in Daisy Dukes and a jukebox as stuck in time as the patrons. The Taylor Brothers were right at home. When Renny and I arrived Garrett was holding court at a table with at least ten women hanging on his every word and Reade was beating some trucker at darts. The rest of the band and the roadies were scattered all around, drinking beer, eating burgers and greasy fries and blowing off steam; Taylor Brothers style.

  Except for the gaggle of adoring girls you would never have known they were famous. Even without that, they were all attractive enough to have garnered female attention on their own. I had to admit, good genes ran in the family. And speaking of jeans, Renny was wearing the shit out of some black ones, again. What is it about a svelte, lanky man with a good butt? Usually the thin guys have the jeans hanging down against epic flatness but not Renny, or the other two, from what I could see. These boys had asses for days. I had to admit that after long hair and gorgeous eyes
, I am an ass woman. Always like that little something extra to grab.

  Rachel, this kind of thinking is inappropriate for a woman your age, a journalist and a feminist and it is also going to land you in the looney bin.

  Renny steered me towards Garrett and his harem. “Hey Gar, this is the reporter I was telling you about. She’s gonna interview you so we gotta ask you lovely ladies to give us some room, all right?”

  A couple of the girls drifted off but the others just crowded closer to Garrett, who didn’t seem to mind at all. He spread his long arms across the back of the booth taking in at least four of them who snuggled right in.

  “Sit on down little lady, and ask away. I got nothing to hide. Unlike these other two miscreants.” Garrett had the same lop-sided smile as Renny. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t an affectation, just maybe it was genetic genius.

  I sat down, pulled out my yellow pad as Renny gestured to the bartender to bring drinks. I turned my attention to Garrett while he wasn’t looking. He was blonde where Reade and Renny were brunette and copper. He seemed taller than either of them but very relaxed about it. He clearly uses it to his advantage, I thought, taking in his wing-span. The better to hug you with, my dears. Yes, there was something rather Big Bad Wolfy about him.

  “When did you start playing the fiddle? I was thoroughly impressed tonight.”

  “You like the fiddle?”

  “I spent a couple of years in Ireland when I was in graduate school. The music is kind of like the mist there, no getting rid of it.”

  “We are trying to get a few venues there next year. I’m tired of North America right now.”

  “So you like the traveling?”

  “Hell yes. What’s not to like? Great food, good friends, music and lovely ladies everywhere we go.”

  “Sounds like the good life, for a bachelor. No one waiting at home I gather.”

  “Oh, they’re waiting pretty lady.”

  What a character! It was like he was play-acting the perfect bed-hopping cad but was doing it with the patented Taylor Brothers blend of charm and sexy it only made the girls sigh.