by Rachel Hauck
He hesitates. “No, finish the job. Arnold Hancock is a big client. He’ll bill me if you leave.”
“Marc, I’m going to this meeting, but I promise I’ll come back and finish.”
“Then I guess you’re fired.”
Ooo, good for him, he didn’t flinch. “Okay. I’ll pick up my check tomorrow.”
Ooo, good for me, I didn’t flinch.
At precisely four minutes after eleven, I knock lightly on Jim’s door.
“Come in,” he beckons.
I shove the slightly ajar door the rest of the way open. Jim is propped against his desk, his legs stretched in front of him. He’s laughing and talking, using his muckity-muck voice and words like “drive-time song” and “multialbum deal.”
“Hi,” I say a little too girly. I’m not sure of my role here yet.
Jim waves for me to come in. “Robin, welcome. Glad you could make it.”
First, I see Frank Gruey then the back of Graham’s head. I know it well. He’s hiding under his hat and the long leather duster. He stiffens when Jim says my name.
“Frank Gruey, Graham Young, I’d like you to meet a really good friend of mine, Robin McAfee.” Jim motions for me to come on in.
Graham jerks forward but doesn’t get up or look around. He flips up the duster’s collar and tugs his hat lower.
Shaking, I walk across the room.
Frank shakes my hand. “Hello, nice to meet you.”
“Again. We’ve met. Several times.”
Jim walks around his desk to his chair. “Robin’s a new songwriter in town, an excellent new songwriter. Ever seen her around, Graham?”
Graham rises slowly and turns to me with his chest puffed out. “Good to see you, Robin.”
All right. Forget the sting, forget Jim’s plan. “You stole my song.” I ball my fist and pow! Right on his big square chin.
Graham topples over Frank’s chair, thudding to the floor like a sack of dirt.
“You stole my song, you lying, yellow-bellied river rat.”
Frank rushes to Graham’s aid, shoving me aside. “Jim, what is going on? Who is this crazy girl?”
Jim shakes his head. “I hate to tell you, Frank, but your boy stole her song.”
“What? That’s impossible. I checked it out.”
I face the stupid Frank Gruey with my hands on my hips. “Well, get better sources.”
Graham gets up, rubbing his jaw. “It’s my song, Robin. Tell the truth.”
Oh my stars. He’s crazy. Plumb crazy.
“We have the original work tape.” Frank rages. Apparently he wasn’t paying attention the night I sang it at the Bluebird.
Jim drops a CD into a player behind his desk. “This was recorded in my studio around June twenty-ninth.”
Graham scoffs. “Why would I steal from her? I’m the published songwriter.”
Jim presses a button. My voice billows from his stereo. Graham snorts and steams like a mad bull. “Frank, you’ve had my work tape since May.”
“May?” I kick him in the shin. “You stole my song in May?”
Graham stares me down. “I don’t have to stand here and take this.” He kicks the chairs and strides out of the office.
Why that arrogant son of a gun. I bolt after him.
As he pushes through the Nashville Noise doors, I dive for the edge of his duster. He trips and hits the ground face-first.
“You stole my song.” I grit my teeth and mash his face in the grass and dirt. “And you lied to me the day I saw you at NSAI.”
“Get off.”
“No wonder you didn’t return my calls.”
“What calls?”
I lean my elbow on the base of his neck. “The hundred I’ve made since Susan West told me you wrote ‘I Wanna Be. ’ Why’d you do it? How’d you get a work tape?”
“Get off.” Six-foot Graham doesn’t have to work hard to knock me off his back. Once he catches his wind, he pushes off the ground with a wild roar.
“Get off, you monkey.”
I clasp my hands against his Adam’s apple. “I trusted you. I took you home to Freedom. You kissed me!”
He gags as he tries to wrench free. “Get off me.” A couple on the sidewalk stops to gawk.
I press harder against his throat. “Why? Tell me why? I thought we were friends.”
He flails around, trying to get me off, refusing to answer. Then it hits me. This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. If the man under the hat had an ounce of character, he wouldn’t have stolen my song in the first place. He’s not going to tell me why or how. And since I’m not going to choke him to death, I don’t have any other recourse except to ride around on his back all day hoping he’ll confess. But he won’t.
I let go.
Graham stumbles forward, coughing, rubbing his throat. “I can’t believe you. Accusing me like that in front of Mr. Chastain. You may have ruined my chance with him.”
I swat the dirt and grass from my jeans. “No,” I shake my head with sadness. “You did it all by yourself.” I turn to go.
“Robin.”
“What?” I catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret? Sorrow? His slumped demeanor zaps my heart and makes my eyes water.
“I—” He hesitates, then drops his gaze and walks off.
30
The receptionist busies herself with sharpening pencils when I go back inside. Jim is reading Frank the riot act.
“. . . make it right.”
“I wouldn’t pull this kind of stunt on purpose. He brought me the song months ago. Emma loved it, we checked it out . . . He claimed he wrote it. He’s brilliant, you know. Photographic memory.”
“Brilliant? He’s a thief. Get him to sign at least half of the rights over to Robin.”
Frank sighs. His first hard lesson in the business, and it’s a doozey. “I’ll do what I can. But like it or not, Graham Young and LightLyrics own the song. It’s Robin’s word against ours.”
Jim gives him a stern look. “Do what you can.”
Frank leaves, and Jim closes the door behind him. “Are you all right?” he asks me.
I bite my lip and stare thoughtfully at my hands. “I’m sorry for Graham.” I sink down into one of the chairs, feeling weak.
“He’s finished in this town, you know.” He sits next to me.
“That’s why I’m sad. He’s better than this.”
Jim touches my hand. “You sound like my mother.”
I look at him. “How so?”
“She’s tenderhearted, but spunky. She would have done exactly what you did today. Socked him right on the chin, then pined over his plight.”
“I sang at the Bluebird for the first time because of him.” My stomach feels like I swallowed a rock.
“We’ll see if Frank can’t get you part ownership of the song.”
I slide down in the chair. “I don’t want half the song. I’m sick of this whole mess. And I guess, technically, he did rework the chorus, and that’s the best part of the song.”
Jim perches on the edge of his desk. “Songs get reworked all the time. It doesn’t take away from the fact it’s your song. This is a huge hit for Emma, Robin. It’ll be on her greatest hits album coming out next year. You’re looking at a couple hundred grand. But, if you don’t need half of that, then I’ll tell Frank to forget it.”
I jerk forward. “A couple hundred thousand dollars?”
“At least.” A smile tips his lips.
“Well, I did get fired today.”
He frowns. “Marc fired you?”
“Yeah, but technically I walked out on a job.”
He laughs and stands. “Come on, I’ll buy you lunch. Maybe we can find something for you to do here at Nashville Noise.”
“Well, I don’t want nepotism or anything. I’d like to earn my way.”
“Nepotism?” Jim holds the door open for me. “What nepotism? I need someone to clean the toilets and empty the trash.”
“Ah, well, then I’m your g
irl.”
On December twenty-third, Lee’s F350 flies across the Freedom County line. I wave at the Let Freedom Ring sign. Home for the holidays.
The past month has been fantabulous. Is that a word? It is now. Jim hired me to work in the Nashville Noise office, so I’m learning the business side of Music Row. I do a lot of flunky work, but my days of inhaling Clorox are over.
Marc begged me to come back to work for him. I refused, but he was a good boss, and I reminded Jim about his promise to look at Marc’s songs. They have a meeting set for early in the New Year.
Despite what he did to Momma and me, Jim Chastain is a kind, good man. He’s not my daddy, but I respect the fact that he owned up to his mistakes and is trying to make it right.
Lee slams on the brakes to do a little rubbernecking. “Is that snow?”
“Fake snow. Thank you, Henna Bliss.”
“What’s a Henna Bliss?”
“Friend of Momma’s. Town busybody and decorator.”
“Babe, how did they get all this fake snow here?” He strokes my fingers absently with his thumb. Makes my brain buzz.
“Big trucks. Eighteen wheelers.”
He laughs. “This is amazing.”
I twist his class ring around his finger. “Hey,” I blurt. “Can I wear this?”
He lifts his hand. “My ring? Why, you want to go steady?”
I make an “aw” face. “I’ve never gone steady before.” I yank that ring off his finger.
“Robin, forget going steady. Let’s get engaged.”
“Let’s go steady.” With my foot, I unlatch the glove box. I thought I saw some duct tape in here . . . Yep. I dig my pocket knife from my purse and slice a ribbon of tape to wrap around the ring.
“Perfect.” I wiggle my fingers in his face.
He guffaws. “There’s more tape than ring.” Then he slams on the brakes again. “What in the world?”
I look where he’s pointing. “It’s the candy-cane field.”
In the open lot between the drugstore and the library, giant red-and-white candy canes dance in the breeze above a layer of fake snow.
“This is incredible. Where do you buy this stuff?”
“Phil Beautner knows someone who knows someone. Fake snow is actually a line item in the county budget.”
A minute later, Lee almost wrecks when we pass Santa’s Toy Shop. “This I gotta see.”
Outside, he tromps through plastic flakes to see the craftsmanship of the Toy Shop. “Unbelievable.” He turns a circle. “All of Main Street is the North Pole.”
“Yep.” I tip my head and squint in the sunlight. “I told you Christmas ain’t Christmas until you’ve been to Freedom, Alabama.”
“What about the Nativity? Don’t you tell me Freedom’s gone PC.”
“Has hell froze over? It’s on the other side of the town.”
Lee opens his door for me. “You should drive. I might wreck otherwise.”
On the back side of the town square, between the new Wal-Mart and Libby Dankin’s bookstore, The Book Worm and Café (yeah, Mayor Bedford warned her people not to associate worms with lattés, but Libby already had the sign hung), is the Living Nativity.
“Real people?” Lee asks, stepping out of the truck.
I join him, slipping my arm around his waist. “Yep, real people.”
“If it weren’t for the Wal-Mart, I’d swear I was in old Bethlehem.”
The baby Jesus starts to cry, so Mary picks him up and thumps him on the back. Then she sniffs the little guy’s rear. Her nose wrinkles.
Before we can say “O Holy Night,” she rips off his Hug-gies, wipes him with a wet wipe, rediapers, reswaddles, and just like that, baby Jesus is happy and back in character.
Lee laughs. “Just like Mary did two thousand years ago.”
I elbow him in the ribs, “shhh, the actors are doing their best to portray one of the greatest days in human history.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “This is amazing.”
“Every night at dusk, the Shepherds come, then at midnight, the Wise Men come.”
Lee shakes his head. “People come from all over the state to see this?”
I pat him on the back. “Honey child, they come from all over the world.”
He kisses the top of my head and softly whispers, “I wish I could’ve been there for the real thing.”
I lean against him. “Me too. Me too.”
Momma kills the fatted calf and half of the family getting ready for Christmas. She has Lee toting firewood and polishing silver while Dawnie, Eliza, and I wrap presents for the needy families in the community. Steve’s presents were shipped weeks ago, and we’re talking to him tomorrow at noon.
“So, Momma told me,” Eliza says, sticking a big bow on a small package.
“About Jim Chastain?” It still feels sort of surreal.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Dawnie says. “I haven’t even told Steve yet.”
“I still can’t get my mind around it. God’s peace does surpass all understanding.”
I cut a square of wrapping paper from a large roll. The scissors are dull, so the end rips a little.
“You’ll always be my sister,” Eliza says. “I can’t imagine Daddy not being your daddy.”
“What do you mean I’ll always be your sister?” I toss aside the wrapping paper roll. “Daddy is my daddy. And you are my sister. There’s no statue of limitations.”
Dawnie snickers.
“I just mean nothing has changed for me.”
I tear off a large strip of clear tape. “Nothing’s changed for me either, Eliza, except I have this new man in my life who is responsible for my red hair and green eyes.”
She laughs with a shake of her dark head. “Sure explains Momma all those years, doesn’t it. No wonder she looked like she sucked on a lemon for lunch.”
“She smiles a lot more now.” Dawnie reaches for the tape.
“I’ve noticed,” Eliza says, reaching over and yanking the bow off my package.
“What gives?”
“The bow doesn’t match the paper.” She searches in the bow bag for another bow. “Here.”
I shake my head, laughing. “How can you ever doubt being my sister. You’ve been doing this to me for twenty-two years.” I press the bow on to the box. “Really, Eliza, do you actually think some little boy is going to care if his box had a purple bow on blue paper?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a pain, you know that?”
“But you love me.”
A wave of sentiment crashes over me, and I croak, “Yeah, I do.”
In the midst of the Christmas frenzy, Momma corners me in the kitchen.
“You know, your daddy’s never heard me play or sing in public. So, I want to sign up for the Spring Sing.”
I notice the dishes piling up, so I plug the sink and squirt soap under a stream of hot water. “Good for you.”
She grabs me by the shoulders. “I want you to sing with me.”
“Me? Why?”
“It’s been awhile, Robin. Besides, it’ll be fun. Can you just see your granddaddy and daddy? They’ll be bustin’ all their buttons.”
I’ve never seen Bit McAfee so energized. “I guess we could, Momma.” But a duet adds a new level of complication to my anxieties. Will we get the timing right? Hit the right harmony?
“I’ve been working on a song. You can learn it easy enough.”
I gaze into her excited blue eyes and realize I cannot deny this woman. She’s breaking my heart. At forty-three, Momma still has a dream.
“Okay, Momma, I’ll do it.”
“Oh, good.” She claps her hands and does a little jig. “I asked Winnie Engledow to sew us some costumes.”
“Say you didn’t.” I laugh.
She winces. “Sorry, but I did.”
I shake my head. “All right. For Winnie’s sake.”
Winnie Engledow is the town seamstress. She’s sewn school and church costumes, bride and
bridesmaids’ dresses since Jefferson Davis ruled the South. She’s probably the sweetest southern lady ever born.
“Thank you, Robbie.” Momma kisses my cheek and skips— yes, I said skips—out of the kitchen. “By the way,” she says from the hallway, “check the refrigerator door. Then come on up to the attic. There’s some stuff in the old trunk I want to show you.”
I twist around to check the fridge door. “I’d love to go through the—” I frown and shake the soap from my hands. The waterlogged, faded Lose 25 lbs note is gone. In its place is a new note. Lose 18 lbs.
My eyes well up. Good for you, Momma. Good for you.
On the drive home the day after Christmas, Lee is quiet. “What’s on your mind, big guy?”
He reaches for my hand. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“If you’re ever gonna say it.”
“I’m gonna say it,” I whisper.
He looks over at me for a split second, then back to the road. “I suppose I have to believe you, but, babe, it’s been almost three months since I told you. Things are becoming a little lopsided.”
I twist his duct-taped ring around my finger. Why is this so hard for me? In late November I knew I was falling in love with him. I remember the first time I felt it. The night before Thanksgiving. He was out back helping Walt smoke a turkey. I played guitar on the stoop, watching, listening to the even, sure sounds of Lee’s voice. When he looked over at me, brushing aside his bangs, it made me weakkneed, and I flubbed the next chord.
The family loooves him. Daddy almost cornered Lee about his “plans.” I saw it coming and threw a wrench in the works with a quick, “Who wants cake?”
Okay, it’s time for a ride to Honest Town. “I’m afraid, Lee. Afraid of being consumed and smothered. And losing the joy of my life, losing sight of songwriting.”
“Consumed and smothered? By me?”
“Well, by marriage in general.”
“You can’t be serious.” He shifts in his seat and grips the wheel so his knuckles bulge.
“I am.” I gaze out the window. “Lee, what if I want to sing at a songwriter’s night or go out to hear other songwriters? Will you get mad? Will you expect dinner on the table at six? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a dinner-on-the-table-at-six kind of girl.”