Chapter Thirteen
“Thanks for coming.” Tradd opened the door to admit Carson Hamilton-Knox.
Carson gave Tradd a brief hug. “Even if you weren’t my oldest friend, I would have come running when Tradd Davenport said she was unsure of what to wear. That’s so unreal, it’s spooky.”
Tradd laughed. She was feeling much better. It was almost noon. She’d recovered from the nausea and her daddy’s visit and had had a nap. “It isn’t so much Tradd who doesn’t know what to wear as Rita May Sanderson. Rita May isn’t nearly as sure about things as Tradd.”
“I understand. The Neon Fiddle is no small accomplishment. You might want to consider hiring a stylist. I hear Rainey Simpson fired Pitch, so she might have a spot.”
Tradd let out a low whistle. “Nobody fires Pitch.” She was cantankerous and extremely peculiar, but she was also the best in the business.
“Rainey Simpson has been too big for her britches from day one. She’d going to be yesterday’s news by this time next year. I can give Pitch a call, if you’d like.”
“She takes your calls?”
Carson shrugged. “Only if it suits her. But she also takes Faith’s and Carrie’s calls only if it suits her.”
Tradd almost said yes but remembered her personal appearances were probably going to be on hold for a while—or maybe forever. “Not now. I don’t think I’ve hit that point in my career yet. Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m too big for my britches.”
Carson nodded. “Plenty of time to worry about that later. Let’s see what you’ve got on your mind for tonight.”
Tradd led her to the bedroom and took the outfit out of the garment bag. “Now, if it’s too much, I want you to tell me.” She laid the white satin pants and halter top on the bed. “I had this made a month ago, before I knew about The Neon Fiddle. I let my mother talk me into it.” The pants were decorated with silver guitars and musical staves, and the halter featured musical notes in the same beaded embroidery.
“It’s pretty,” Carson said.
“I’m just not sure about it,” Tradd said. “My mother was wrapped up in getting some uniforms for The Sound ice girls that gave a nod to old-time country music stars’ attire, and that gave her this idea.”
Unless Tadd missed her guess—and she seldom did where her oldest friend was concerned, Carson wasn’t sold on this outfit.
“I’m not sure.” Carson picked up the halter. “Exquisite workmanship.”
“Mary Lou does not suffer anything less.”
“It would be perfect for performing at the CMAs.”
“As if,” Tradd said.
Carson smiled. “You’ll get there. It might be too much for The Neon Fiddle, but you never know. You always did have your own style.” She handed Tradd the halter. “Let’s see it on.”
Tradd didn’t even hesitate about letting Carson see her naked. Between trips and camps, the two of them had shared close quarters more times they could count. She stripped to the waist. “Can you help me into it?”
Carson struggled a bit with the fastenings. “There. Turn around.” Carson’s eyes widened. “Well, Rita May Sanderson is not quite as modest as Tradd Davenport.” She laughed. “Might be just the thing for tonight after all.”
Tradd turned and looked in the mirror. Well. There was some cleavage she hadn’t seen before—and for good reason. She hadn’t had it before.
“You’ve filled out some since I last saw you naked,” Carson said.
“You haven’t seen me naked since Mitzi Broadway’s bachelorette cruise to Cozumel—unless you’ve been peeping in my windows.”
“Not lately, anyway.” Carson handed her the pants. “Let’s get the full effect.”
Tradd stripped to her panties and slipped the smooth, cool fabric up her legs and over her hips—almost over her hips. The pants wouldn’t fasten. The waistband wouldn’t even meet.
For a minute, she forgot that Carson was there. It wasn’t supposed to be that way yet. The pants were meant to be tight, sure. They had fit perfectly a month ago when she’d gone for the last fitting before they had been embellished. How could this be? Wasn’t the baby supposed to be the size of a lime? There was more than a lime-sized gap. Her regular clothes still fit—well, mostly. But then her regular clothes were made for sitting and living life. This outfit was meant for standing and dancing around a stage.
“Looks like you are a little too big for your britches. Maybe the alterations went wrong?”
Tradd shook her head and whispered, “Lovel.”
“Ah.” Carson nodded with understanding. Anyone connected with the business knew Lovel Farron. She made custom clothing for anyone in country music who could afford her—and she never got it wrong.
They stared silently into each other’s eyes.
“Too many nachos,” Tradd said halfheartedly, but Carson knew. It was all in the eyes.
Carson shook her head. “You don’t even like nachos.”
Tradd closed her eyes and shook her head. “I do now.”
“You’ll find that you like a lot of things that you didn’t and hate a lot of things that you did. At least it was that way with me. Both times.” Carson sighed. “How far along?”
“Three months.”
“Who?” Carson asked.
And that question was too much. Tradd put her hands up. “I can’t. I feel lighter now that someone other than my doctor knows, but not light enough that my pants will zip.” Oddly, they laughed together. “But I can’t talk about it now. Later, I promise.”
Carson nodded. “All right. I won’t ask you anything until you’re ready to tell me.”
“I know what that costs you.” Carson had always wanted the whole story and right damn now, even when they were five years old. That’s why she was such a good journalist—not that she would ever divulge Tradd’s secrets. “I can’t go on that tour.”
Carson nodded and Tradd’s heart sank. She realized only then that she’d been hoping Carson would tell her she could go full speed ahead and this pregnancy would change nothing. “There will be other tours.”
“Will there?” Tradd asked. “Maybe I should just forget it all—forget the record, cancel The Neon Fiddle tonight.”
A storm cloud moved into Carson’s eyes. “Stop it! You’ve always given up too soon. I’m not going to let you give up now that you’re nearly there. This is not 1950. I agree that a long, exhausting tour this summer would be difficult. But you’re going to keep on doing what you’ve been doing—writing songs and building your career. Who cares if you can’t open for Kenny Chesney? Next summer, you can go on the road. So what if you have a portable crib with you? Who knows? With any luck, maybe someone will be opening for you.”
Carson made it all seem possible, and Tradd’s spirits lifted. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Carson nodded. “Let’s do something constructive like find you something to wear tonight. Strip off those too tight britches. This outfit was too much for a Thursday night at The Neon Fiddle anyway.”
Tradd threw the pants on the bed and turned for Carson to undo the halter. “Got any ideas?”
“A few. Do you have any Chuck Taylors?”
Chapter Fourteen
Thor stood outside the Bridgestone Arena and looked across the street at the huge, pink fiddle with the purple bow racing across it. He’d told himself he’d come over here to get some stick tape from his stall in The Sound locker room, but it was a lie, and a lame one at that. While it was true he hadn’t been able to find any at home, there was plenty in his stall at the practice rink, which was much closer to home. No matter that he’d reasoned that there would be lots people at The Music City Ice Center and he didn’t like dealing with people. The fact was he didn’t really require stick tape tonight.
And even if he had, he wouldn’t have gone to the practice rink, and it wasn’t because of the people. Tradd wasn’t singing across the street from The Music City Ice Center.
And she might not be singing across th
e street here. It was getting late—almost 11:00 p.m. According to the sign, she’d started at nine. How long did these things go on? The last time he’d seen her, she’d had her head in the toilet, but he supposed if she had canceled, they would have taken her name off the marquee.
Maybe he’d just go across the street and sneak a look inside. That didn’t totally go against his resolve to stay away from her, did it? As he was crossing the street, he had a new thought. What if Pickens and Mary Lou were there? Surely they would be. But come to think of it, that might make it easier. He’d just tell them he’d been in the neighborhood, saw that Tradd was performing, and he’d come to look for them. But he’d leave out the story about the stick tape. No fool would believe that, and Pickens Davenport was far from a fool.
He hesitated outside the door. All he could see from here was a young guy sitting on a stool in a small dark foyer in front of the second entrance. Why not go inside? There was more inside than Tradd and he could use a beer. The attendant looked up. He was wearing a Sound baseball cap.
“We have a cover charge tonight,” the guy said almost apologetically. “And it’s standing room only.”
“Just tonight?” Thor opened his wallet and handed him a bill.
“Broadway bars don’t have usually have covers unless it’s a special show.”
Oddly, Thor felt some pride in that. “And this one is special?” He wanted to hear more.
The boy nodded. “Rita May Sanderson. She’s new, but she’s hot. From the sound of the crowd, she’s been terrific.”
“I like terrific.”
Thor started to enter the bar, but the boy stopped him. “Hey.”
“Yah?”
“Aren’t you Thor Eastrom?”
Damn. He hated be recognized. It was the hair that always got him—that and the Eiffel Tower-sized picture of him on the side of Bridgestone Arena.
“Yes, I am.”
The boy hesitated. “I’ve heard you don’t give autographs, but …”
Thor opened his mouth to give his standard refusal. Then he remembered what Robbie had said. I hope I don’t refuse to give fans my autograph because they might intend to sell it—maybe to be able to afford to pay the outrageous cost of NHL tickets. Maybe he should lighten up. After all, the boy was wearing a Sound cap.
“Tell you what,” Thor said. “I’ll give you my autograph if you’ll lend me that cap.”
“Really?” His face lit up. “You can keep it!” He handed the cap to Thor.
“Your name?”
“Layton.”
As he inscribed the piece of paper that Layton had given him, Thor made a mental note to have some Sound merchandise sent over to him. Then he stuffed his hair up under the cap and went inside.
The room was dark and smaller than he expected. And hot. Too many people and this crazy Southern spring weather. Cold one minute and hot the next. As he walked, he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled them up. He would have liked to have paused to get the lay of the land and a good view of Tradd, but the place was too packed for that. He quickly made his way to the back of the room and found a piece of wall to lean on.
And there she was, prancing up and down the stage with a microphone in her hand emitting charisma he hadn’t known she had.
To his surprise, she wore white Converse shoes, jeans that showed her ankles, and a white T-shirt. He would have thought she would have been more dressed up, but she looked perfect. Her only embellishment was some lace-trimmed socks that barely showed above the tops of her shoes that you had to look hard to see—and he wanted to look hard. He might always want to look hard, and the thought gave him an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
The song she sang had a bouncy beat and rhyming words—something about a heart in motion and the deep, deep ocean. He didn’t pay too much attention to the lyrics. He never got the meaning of songs, mostly because he didn’t try. She put a hand on her hip, winked, and sang out, “And I’ll come sailing back to you, oh, yeah!” and the crowd cheered. He picked up a few other words—commotion, notion, emotion.
What about lotion? She hadn’t said anything about lotion. Maybe he should buy some and inspire her to write another verse about lotion. He could do it, too. Her little T-shirt clung to her breasts. Did they make glitter lotion?
Hey! Arms reached out to her and she walked around the edge of the stage clasping, hands, smiling, flirting. He didn’t like it worth a damn. He was of a mind to jerk her off that stage and take her home—stopping briefly for lotion, of course. And maybe ice cream.
How did she look so shiny and happy when she’d been so sick a short time ago? Maybe she hadn’t been sick at all. Maybe she had been pretending to make him leave. But that was crazy. He was crazy.
He started to sweat. He should have never come here. He ought to leave.
Now she was backing up from the edge of the stage with an arm thrown in the air. “And you’ll see me swimming right past you!”
Fuck. You could see her nipples through her shirt. Was she wearing a bra? She shook her shoulder and he caught sight of strap. So she was wearing a bra, but the headlights were still in full view. What would Mary Lou say about that?
Mary Lou. He’d forgotten about her and Pickens. He surveyed the place. It was dark, but his eyes had adjusted and he was pretty sure they weren’t here.
“Thank you!” Tradd said. “You’ve been great!”
Applause and chants of “Rita May!” rang out.
“You’re so kind.” Tradd stood to the side and motioned to the musicians behind her. “Could you show some love to the best band in Nashville, Tennessee?”
More clapping, more chanting. She put the microphone under one arm, rested her right foot against the back of her left calf, and applauded with the audience—and when she did, her T-shirt rode up, exposing a barely visible ribbon of skin above her waistband—skin he had seen, touched, and licked. And damn it all to hell, he didn’t want anyone else looking at it. Just the thought of someone else touching her or—God forbid—licking that little sliver of skin made him want to tear through the room turning over tables and howling at the moon.
He was losing his mind.
“Thank you for coming out tonight,” Tradd said.
That sounded like the beginning of a goodbye, which was a relief. She would get off that stage. He would go home and take a cold shower.
All would be well.
Then someone yelled out, “‘Some Folks Say!’”
She smiled, all flirty like. “‘Some Folks Say’? You don’t want to hear that again.” That must be her new song—the one that everyone said was a hit. Her expression said that she knew damn good and well they did want to hear it again.
And they did, because they began chanting the name of the song over and over like it was some kind of magic incantation that would save a medieval village from oozing black plague boils.
Tradd sighed, looking charming the whole time, and nodded. “All right. One more song.”
That did not happen at sporting events. When it was over, it was over. You never played another period of hockey just because the fans felt liking seeing it. Rules were important, and there didn’t seem to be any in the music business.
Someone brought Tradd a stool and she slid onto it. So at least she wouldn’t be dancing and shaking her butt for every man in the place to see. “For those of you who weren’t here when I sang this earlier, I’ll repeat the story. I sat down in the wee hours on New Year’s Day a few months ago and wrote this.”
Wee hours of New Year’s Day? That would have been not long after she snuck out of his bed. Had she written a song about them having sex? He held his breath.
“Anyway, who knew?” Tradd went on. “It’s been very good to me.”
The music started soft and slow and she began to sing with her eyes closed.
Some folks say
A single moment can shoot you to the stars
Can turn your life to love
And make you who you are.
<
br /> Some folks say …
* * *
The lyrics were pleasant and easy to understand but didn’t seem to mean a whole lot—and definitely had nothing to do with sex.
* * *
Some folks claim
A chance meeting can wrap you in its arms
Give you joy, give you love
And keep you safe and warm.
Some folks claim …
* * *
More of the same. He relaxed. Clearly the song had nothing to do with their night together. She probably hadn’t even written it on New Year’s morning, but it made for a good story and you had to use what you had.
Well, I had a chance meeting
And a moment or two in time
But all I have to show is this
Hard luck heart left behind.
* * *
What? The hair on the back of his neck stood up. That was hitting a little too near the house. But still, there was no evidence she was talking about them.
I never saw you coming
You didn’t see me leave.
I was just your one-night girl
But you were all to me.
* * *
Oh, hell, no! How dare she? He was all to her? Ha! He was nothing to her, or she wouldn’t have sneaked away—which, by the way, was the only reason he hadn’t seen her leave!
I didn’t mean to love you
Or let you break my heart
But sometimes a single moment
Can tear a life apart.
* * *
Too much! Too fucking much. And none of it true!
* * *
You never wanted to keep me.
Things are never what they seem.
I was just your one-night girl
But you were the love of my dreams.
* * *
Love of her dreams? She didn’t dream. She schemed. And she’d used their night together to write this stupid, insipid song.
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