Country Heaven

by Miles, Ava

  His shoulders started to shake. “Oh, she cooked in it all right.”

  The other men started laughing.

  She put her hands on her hips. “You deliberately lied to me. I’ll bet you lied about the little family matter that made you get into it with that man at the charity event.”

  Laughter ceased. The whole room grew quiet save for the outside music and the noise of the crowd.

  The gold ring around his hazel eyes looked like fire. “I didn’t lie about that. Wish I had,” he murmured, only loud enough for her to hear.

  She scanned the room. No one would meet her eyes.

  Someone pounded on the door and yelled, “Five minutes.”

  “Excuse me,” Rye said, striding out of the room without a backward glance. The band followed.

  Clayton stared down his nose at her. “Well, that went well. I hope we don’t have another incident tonight.”

  Well didn’t that beat all! “Don’t guilt–trip me here. He’s the one who didn’t tell the truth. How am I supposed to know what he does and doesn’t lie about?”

  “Let me give you some advice about Rye. Don’t judge a book by its cover.” He gestured to the door. “We should get out there.”

  He led her through a tunnel to the stage area. “The best place to see a concert, in my opinion, is from the wings. If you don’t mind standing.”

  “No,” she muttered as the bass reverberated through her body and the lights nearly blinded her.

  Her heart skipped a beat when the hall went totally black, and the crowd began to clap and scream. When a spotlight pierced the darkness and illuminated Rye, he was standing on a slender silver platform a hundred feet above the stage.

  The crowd went wild. He sang three words, “Take the fall.”

  She only had a moment to marvel at how beautiful his singing voice was before a haunting silver light arced up behind the stage. He lifted his arms and fell backwards. Tory screamed, joining the rest of the astonished crowd. For a moment she thought she’d witnessed a public suicide, but then his body bounced off a net that had been obscured by the darkness. The band started to play as Rye crawled to the end, flipped off the net, and jogged to the front of the stage.

  “How’re ya’ll doing tonight?” he drawled.

  The noise became deafening. Tory raised her hands to cover her ears.

  “That good? Well, I want to dedicate this concert to all of you who are struggling right now. I know times are tough, and you paid your hard–earned money to be here tonight. We appreciate you coming and plan to give you the show of your lives.”

  The crowd applauded, and whistles and screams filled the stadium from men and women wearing cowboy hats. Tory looked up at the gigantic TV in the corner of the stadium. Rye’s handsome face filled the screen.

  “You know, I went to a diner last night after a show. Y’all ever need some comfort food?”

  He paused and let the crowd answer.

  “Well, I had the best food of my life last night and found out the cook was having a hard time. She was out of school for the summer like many of you and working a tough job to pay the bills.” He tugged on his guitar strap. “I decided then and there to hire her. Help her out some.”

  Tory lowered her hands from her ears. Could he be…was he talking about her?

  “Tory Simmons, where the heck are you?”

  All the sudden the spotlight flooded her, and she had to lift her hands to shield her eyes.

  “Cute, ain’t she? And her mama was a Catholic school teacher and her daddy the principal. So if I don’t mind my Ps and Qs from now on, I’ll be getting detention.”

  As her eyes adjusted, she realized her image was on the big screen, and her whole body flushed red with embarrassment. A hundred thousand people were staring at her! And he’d just told them her business.

  “So here’s my challenge to you,” he continued as the spotlight shifted back to him. “We can all help each other get through these tough times. If you can do something for someone, don’t hesitate.” He played a few strands on his guitar. “Now, are you ready for some music?”

  He didn’t wait for a response. The band started playing a fast, hard–edged intro.

  Georgia appeared beside Tory and Clayton. “Brilliant! This is going to be incredible PR.”

  So, she was a PR campaign? He was using her? She was a proud and private person who never shared her troubles with strangers. How dare he! And worse, by talking about her parents like that, he was implying she was more than just his cook. Many of his fans were church–going people, and after the charity event incident, something like this might help reassure them.

  She no longer had any desire to see the concert. The music pounded through her like blows as she got up and started to walk away.

  Clayton stood and grabbed her arm. “Tory, there’s no reason to be upset.”

  “Do you really believe that? He humiliated me in front of all these people, and he’s using me to restore his image.”

  Clayton put his hands on her shoulders. “He didn’t humiliate you. He’s helping you.”

  She shoved his hands away. “No, he made me out to be a charity case.”

  “Look, Rye’s trying to save his career. You’re good press. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. Suddenly all she wanted was to be back home in her comfortable life, where people said what they meant and meant what they said. “I want out of my contract, Clayton.”

  “We won’t break the contract, especially not after what Rye said tonight. Look, having his career tank is the last thing he needs. He’s having problems with his family right now.”

  “And what about me? You don’t think I have troubles?”

  “I know you do, and I’m sorry. Come on,” he murmured, his voice soft. “I’ll take you back to the bus.”

  Once she was tucked away in her tiny room, she called Myra and poured her heart out. Hearing her friend’s voice made her long for home. When she ended the call, she stared out the bus window.

  Suddenly the summer seemed too long, and she felt more alone than she had since her grandpa’s death.

  Take the fall,

  Hit that wall,

  Sometimes it’s all you’ve got.

  The pain inside,

  Rages like fire,

  And there’s no extinguisher nearby.

  You won’t break,

  You won’t burn,

  Don’t be afraid.

  Take the fall.

  Rye Crenshaw’s Number One Hit, “Take the Fall”

  Chapter 4

  Avoiding Tory the next morning seemed to be the best approach, particularly after what Clayton had told him. He couldn’t blame her for feeling used, but he hated that she’d felt humiliated too.

  It was hard not to think about her and feel guilty with the bacon smell wafting through his closed door.

  Rye set his guitar on his lap, looked out the window, and studied the passing cornfields. He spied what looked like an invisible man racing through the tall green stalks, trying to outrun the bus. Rye knew the image wasn’t real, that it could be explained away by some physics thing, but he liked watching it.

  When his cell phone rang, he reached for it and his heart burst when he saw his sister’s number on the display. Thank God she’d finally called. He’d hoped she would find a way to defy Mama.

  “Amelia Ann. I’m so glad you called. I missed—”

  Crying and hiccupping was the only answer.

  “Rye, Daddy collapsed on the golf course this morning. He had a heart attack and needs a quadruple bypass. We’re all at the hospital.”

  His daddy? No way. He was as fit as a fiddle. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know! The doctor said he’s been working too hard. Mama said it was all the stress you put the family through with your business with the police, which is the meanest comment ever. I’m scared, Rye.” She started crying again. “I wish you could come home.”

  H
ome? His home was Dare River now or this tour bus. Not the place where he’d been born and raised. “Amelia Ann, you know I can’t. Mama’s made that very clear.”

  “I know. She was awful to me after Taylor Benint let it slip that I’d been in touch with you. I shouldn’t have told her. Mama threatened to disown me if I contacted you again, but I had to tell you about Daddy.” A ragged chain of sobs sounded on the line.

  His knuckles whitened on his guitar.

  “I don’t know if I can take it, Rye. Mama’s still planning to push me into some semi–arranged marriage, just like she did with Tammy. And now Daddy’s sick.”

  The pounding in his head crested to epic proportions, and his helplessness left a gaping hole in his chest. “Honey, you know I want to be there for you.” Only the threat of his Mama’s actions kept him from having Bill turn the bus toward his hometown in Mississippi. “Besides, I’m not sure Daddy would want me there anyway.” God knows, his presence might even harm his father’s recovery, given the fallout between them.

  “Rye, you know it wasn’t Daddy’s idea to disown you. That was all Mama.”

  What did it matter? The result had been permanent banishment. No one messed with a crème de la crème family like his and survived. And he’d done that when he chose country music over following in the footsteps of his male ancestors, all of whom had joined the family firm after graduating from Vanderbilt Law.

  “Well, he didn’t do anything to stop it,” he said.

  Her crying tinkled like a soft bell. “Oh, Rye.”

  “Please stop crying,” he whispered, his eyes tracking to the picture of them on his bureau right before he returned to Nashville after his last spring break in law school. It had been at a karaoke bar in Nashville where he’d met his fate. Clayton’s mom had met them there for drinks a few weeks before graduation, and being one of the major country singer managers in the business, she’d instantly picked up on his raw talent. The rest, as they say, was history. He and Georgia always laughed about the fact that he’d been under her nose for years. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “I miss you.”

  God, he missed her too, but saying so would only add to her pain. “You be strong for me.”

  An ambulance siren sounded on the line. He drew the phone away from his ear.

  “Tammy! No!” Amelia Ann suddenly cried. Then the line went dead.

  So Tammy was still Mama’s enforcer. His Stepford–wife sister had turned her back on him with a posture so perfect a book wouldn’t have fallen off her head. Having been best friends with Rye’s fiancée, Emeline, Tammy had felt doubly betrayed by his defection from family tradition and his cancelled engagement.

  Pain seared Rye’s heart, and he stood tall, trying to close it out. To occupy his mind, he studied the invisible runner in the fields for a moment, but then he shoved the sheet music off his desk in a rage. You stupid bastard, he thought. You can’t outrun anything.

  Even though they were estranged, he wanted his Daddy to be okay. It was hard to imagine the lean, tanned golfing lawyer being sick. The man never succumbed to so much as a simple cold.

  Could it be true? Had The Incident stressed his old man enough to make him collapse?

  A whiff of bacon touched his nose, promising comfort, but he only wanted to be alone. He caressed Old Faithful’s burnished wood and hugged it to his hollow chest. The first strums on the guitar were violent and angry. A string broke, and he swore.

  ***

  The rolling green of Michigan passed by as Tory shoved the ribs into the oven to keep them warm and tapped her foot on the tile floor. They had a few more hours before they’d arrive in Detroit, the next concert stop. Rye hadn’t responded to her summons to breakfast and lunch. He hadn’t even come out. Was he really ignoring her?

  She yanked off her new apron, a normal white one courtesy of yesterday’s shopping trip, and stalked down the hallway. She wouldn’t let him hide any longer. His door was shut. She pounded hard enough to make her palm hurt.

  “If you’re not going to eat, at least be respectful enough to tell me as much.”

  When he didn’t respond, the first ripple of worry ran through her. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing. Was something wrong? “Rye? Is everything okay?”

  No response.

  She cracked the door open, seriously concerned now. His big body lay huddled on a brown leather sofa under a caramel and white striped blanket.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, walking forward. His face was white and haggard. She darted a hand out to touch his forehead for fever.

  “I don’t feel good,” he whispered, pushing her hand away.

  “Are you sick?”

  He tugged the blanket up to his neck. “Just leave me alone.”

  She picked up his phone off the floor. “I’m calling Clayton. Give me your passcode.”

  He muttered it, and she located Clayton’s number in his contacts and dialed. Told him what was going on and hung up.

  “You just need to eat,” she said to Rye. “I bet that’s part of the problem. I’ll make you some mashed potatoes and applesauce. That’s why my grandma always made me when I was feeling sick.”

  A half–empty glass of amber liquid sat on the floor. She picked it up and sniffed. “Are you drunk?”

  “No, started to get that way, but couldn’t choke it down.” He groaned. “Christ, I wish I were drunk. I don’t want to think.”

  The bus stopped, and she realized they’d pulled onto the shoulder of the interstate.

  Clayton and Georgia burst into Rye’s room moments later.

  “He’s not feeling well.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Clayton said.

  She left, her anger fading. What he’d done last night wasn’t right, but there was clearly something wrong with him. He looked more sad than sick to her. And his comment about not wanting to think? Well…

  Tory had potatoes and cored apples boiling in separate pots when Clayton and Georgia emerged and walked past the kitchen.

  “Do you think we should cancel Detroit?” Clayton asked.

  “No, it would be devastating to the tour, especially since we couldn’t release the reason. If you have to get him drunk to get him onstage, do it.” Georgia walked past the kitchen. Her snakeskin boots seemed an appropriate choice after that comment.

  They were going to liquor him up to perform? It seemed cruel. Well, she’d try to get some food into him first.

  She checked the apples with a fork to see if they were soft. Yep. All ready. She drained them, reserving a few tablespoons of the liquid. After dumping the mix into the blender, she added nutmeg and honey, pressed down on the lid, and hit the On button.

  She looked back when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Clayton was standing behind her. She turned the blender off. “Yes?”

  He cleared his throat. “I understand you aren’t feeling too friendly toward any of us, so I’m grateful you called me.”

  “I’m not inhuman. He’s not feeling well.” She popped the lid and poured the mixture into a bowl. “Would you let me try and get some food in him before…?”

  “I get him drunk? I know our measures seem harsh to you, but it’s all for his benefit.” He slapped his hat against his knee. “Yes, please give him some food. It won’t stop the reason he’s upset, but maybe it will help a little.”

  So, it was as she’d thought. He was sad.

  “Thanks, Tory.” He strode out the kitchen, boots clicking like a metronome, and the bus started moving again some moments later.

  She blended the steaming potatoes next, adding butter, heavy cream, sour cream, and salt. When she tasted them, she smiled. Was there anything better than mashed potatoes? She dished up both concoctions and headed to Rye’s room.

  He was lying on his back with the blanket tucked around his waist. He rolled his head, saw her, and grunted. “Go away.”

  She placed a napkin and the bowl of mashed potatoes on his chest. “Why don’t you try this? Yo
u’ll feel better if you get something substantial in your stomach.”

  He sniffed and then reached for the spoon. “Smells good.” When he took a bite, his eyelids fluttered closed.

  It was impossible to be angry with him when he was like this. The energy that usually poured from him had all been leached out. He ate with slow determination at first, but by the time he finished the potatoes and she handed him the applesauce, his pace picked up. She sat in silence, cross legged on the floor by the sofa. Somehow she knew he didn’t want to be alone.

  “Tastes good,” he murmured.

  When he handed her the empty dishes, their eyes met. She didn’t look away. She couldn’t say why.

  “My Daddy had a heart attack,” he whispered.

  She gripped the bowls. Oh goodness, no wonder he was so upset.

  “I’m so sorry. When are you going home to see him?” She pushed off the floor, balancing the bowls, and nearly tripped. She looked down. Leaves of Grass lay at an angle. Rye Crenshaw read Walt Whitman?

  “I can’t go home. Gonna rest now. Have to sing…later.” His eyes closed, and he slipped into sleep.

  He couldn’t go home? The thought was abhorrent to her. Her family had been everything to her.

  She tucked the blanket up to his neck and left the room.

  ***

  The sound of someone stomping down the hall woke Tory up. She gazed at the green glow of the clock. 12:47. Rye must be coming back from the concert. She was glad he’d been able to sing.

  She tunneled her head into the pillow, but when a loud curse punctuated the silence of the tour bus, she decided to check on Rye. She pulled on her lavender silk robe, wishing she had something less revealing, and hurried out. When she entered the kitchen, he was bent over at the waist, breathing hard. He turned the sink on and stuck his mouth under it.

  “Are you sick again?” she asked.

  He whirled around and breathed out of his mouth like a panting dog. He pointed to the table. “No. The ribs!”

  Uh–oh. “I might have added a bit too much spice,” she said, knowing that in her anger, she’d been liberal with the cayenne pepper. Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out a slice of bread. “Here. It’ll help counteract the heat better than water.”