“No! I just want to know what she’s been up to lately.”
“She got drunk and tore up Becky’s place down on Highway 45. Deputy Peeler tried to arrest her, and instead of going quietly, she kicked him … well, down there. Wayne ended up in the ER, and Greer got sentenced to work volunteer hours at that foundation Bill Duckett’s stepdaughter started. Nepotism at its finest.”
Emmett was torn between shock and laughter. Laughter won out.
“It’s not funny,” his dad said. “She had to move home because she couldn’t make it in Nashville—not that anyone is surprised—and now she’s stirring up trouble in Madison. I don’t want you seeing her again.”
His dad’s holier-than-thou, deacon-of-the-church attitude smothered Emmett’s amusement. “First off, I’m a grown man. Next, unless Wayne Peeler has had a personality transplant, he’s still a little prick who probably deserved to suffer permanent damage to his balls. And, lastly, Greer is a talented musician and the Music Tree Foundation is lucky to have her, no matter how she ended up there.”
“She’s a mess, Emmett, and will pull you down with her.”
“News flash, Dad, I’m an even bigger mess than she is. Tell Mom I’m looking forward to the hoppin’ John.” He disconnected and tossed his phone, not caring where it landed.
Exhaustion blanketed him like the darkness, stifling and oppressive. He flopped back on the couch and closed his eyes. It was the first night in a long time he wasn’t going to sleep with the help of alcohol numbing his senses.
His brain sputtered like an old truck with a drained battery. His thoughts circled Greer and his parents until he fell into dreams that thankfully didn’t tread old, nightmarish ground.
Chapter 6
Greer walked through the foundation’s doors with a smidgeon more confidence than she usually carried. Her last session with Ally had felt like a turning point. The question was whether or not she could strengthen the tentative connection. A lot could happen in a teenager’s life over a weekend.
As Greer strode down the hall, Amelia’s voice rang out from her office. “Greer! Do you have a second?”
Greer backtracked and took a seat. “What’s up?”
“I got an interesting call this morning from Mr. Lawson. You ruffled his feathers.”
“By trying to help his son?” She clenched her teeth.
“You didn’t tell me you planned to talk to the Lawsons.”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal. I know them from church.”
“Mr. Lawson said you took Emmett’s guitar.” While Amelia’s voice didn’t reflect any judgment, the accusation hung in the room.
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what Mr. Lawson implied. Emmett’s mama asked me to give it to him.” Greer slid down in the chair and crossed her arms. The defiance rushing her body should have been dammed by her age. “So I ran it by his place.”
Amelia leaned forward, propping her chin in her palm. “How did your visit go? Any progress?”
Greer shrugged before saying, “He didn’t threaten to shoot at me this time, which I’m counting as a win.”
It didn’t seem right to talk about the lined-up shots of whiskey, punched-out picture, and general chaos.
“Based on your … reason for joining the program, Mr. Lawson is worried your influence on Emmett won’t be … positive.” Amelia spoke as if she were picking her way across a cottonmouth-infested stream, and ended with a sigh. “He asked me to pull you from Emmett’s case.”
“That old coot.” She popped up and paced. “It’s not like anyone else is banging down Emmett’s door with offers to help. His dad wants to believe Emmett will be back to normal—whatever that is—and holding down the front pew at church in a couple of weeks.”
“You don’t agree?”
“The more time Emmett spends at that cabin alone, the harder it will be to get him out. I may not have been an A student, but I understand inertia.” She threw up her hands and sprawled back in the chair. “But whatever. Emmett is not my problem anymore, apparently. He can pickle himself in Jack and rot out there for all I care.”
Her conscience niggled with the lie. She didn’t not care, but she was juggling her own problems like a drunk clown on a unicycle.
“You’re ready to write him off?” Amelia asked.
“What else can I do? You’re taking me off his case, right?”
“I said Mr. Lawson wants you off Emmet’s case.”
“You want me to go against the wishes of his father?”
“Emmett is a grown man.”
“You should know that Emmett doesn’t want me to come back either. He doesn’t want anyone around to watch.”
“Watch what?”
“His self-destruction.”
Amelia’s sigh made Greer feel younger than the years between them. “It’s entirely up to you. I can take him off your docket. You’ll still have Ally, and two veterans will be starting in the program next week. I’ll assign you one or both of them. They’re excited about music and won’t shoot at you. No doubt, it’ll be easier.”
“Sounds good. I need easy. My life is already too complicated. I’ve got my own future to figure out, including finding a job that actually pays money. Emmett needs more than a music volunteer; he needs a PhD psychologist. I can’t help him.” Every single excuse was valid. Then why did Greer feel like a disappointment? It was a feeling she had become intimately familiar with.
“I’ll make the additions to your schedule.” Amelia half turned, effectively dismissing her.
Greer headed to the room to wait on Ally, but was too upset to sit and paced instead. Mr. Lawson’s interference was both infuriating and embarrassing. Any confidence she had entered the foundation with had been wiped away by Mr. Clean.
“Worried I wasn’t going to show?” Ally slumped her way into the room and to the chair across from the table.
Greer took a deep breath and tried to focus on Ally. Thick liner only emphasized the dark circles hanging under her eyes. Her clothes were wrinkled as if she’d slept in them the night before, and her roots were noticeable, which added to her haggard appearance. A general air of not giving a damn reminded Greer of her younger self, but it had always been a front. Greer had cared what people thought of her too much. Considering how Mr. Lawson’s poor opinion burned, she still cared too much. Was the affectation a defense mechanism for Ally too?
Greer sat down. “I’m worried about someone else in the program. Believe it or not, he’s way more screwed up than you. You’re a teacher’s pet in comparison.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
What was protocol in terms of volunteer-client privilege? Music therapy certainly wasn’t brain surgery. “He’s a friend of mine from high school. Lost a leg in combat. Drinks too much. I went to visit him and he tried to scare me away with a gun. On top of that, his dad is convinced I’m a terrible influence and wants me removed as his volunteer. What do I do?”
Ally’s eyes flared with surprise. “You want to know what I think?”
“Sure. Why not?” Just because Greer sought advice from a fifteen-year-old girl didn’t mean she had to take it, but she was glad she asked.
Ally sat a little straighter. Hints of the girl she had been before tragedy banished her smirking indifference. “Did he wave the gun around or actually fire it?”
“Into the air to scare me off. He’d never hurt me. The question is, should I back off like his dad wants or make myself a huge pain in the ass?”
“Like you do with me?” The smile that came to Ally’s face was teasing but not mean.
“Is that a vote for back off?”
“No. You should keep at him. You’re good at being super-humanly annoying.”
“Gee, thanks.” Greer had trouble summoning even a whiff of pretend outrage. Inside, she buzzed with the realization that no matter how bitchy Ally got or how hard she pushed Greer away, really, really, really deep down, Ally didn’t want Greer to give up on her either.
�
�Enough about other clients. How about we explore old-timey bluegrass and mountain music? A history lesson, if you will.”
Interest flashed over Ally’s face before she reassumed her expression of apathy. “Whatever.”
The giveaway was the pencil Ally tapped on the table. Impatient. Not to leave but to hear the music. Interpreting Ally’s moods and words and gestures was like learning a foreign language, but Greer was slowly becoming fluent.
The hour passed with astonishing speed, considering how time had defied the laws of science during their sessions of silence. From the magic of the Internet, Greer played grainy recordings from the early days of bluegrass to modern takes on the same songs to current music on the radio that tipped a hat to its roots.
“What do you think?” Greer asked as casually as possible.
“The songs on the radio right now are so shallow compared to the older stuff. Those songs are haunting.” Ally had taken up two pencils and used them like drumsticks on the table.
“Consider what the early settlers had to endure. It was a hard life. Most of them were poor and illiterate. What did they have as an outlet? Music was a way to deal with their sorrows.”
“Where did they get instruments?”
“Some were passed down from their ancestors as family treasures. Some people became skilled enough to make their own. But, regardless, the most important instrument is a voice, and everyone has one of those.”
“Not everyone can sing.” Ally looked up through her lashes.
“Not everyone can sing well. What about you? Do you like to sing?” Greer tried to look casual, but found herself leaning over the table. It was dangerous to give Ally a nudge when they walked a tightrope between trust and failure.
“I’m okay.” A half smirk indicated Ally was better than okay. At least in her own mind.
Greer checked the time. Richard would be knocking soon. “How about we try to write a song next time? A real song.”
“Are you serious?” Ally asked as if Greer had suggested they hold up a liquor store together.
“Sure. It can be about whatever you want. A hanging or a highwayman. Lost loves are always good. Why don’t you work on some lyrics over the weekend?” Greer kept her voice super-chill. The moment was a springboard into new territory, and the possibility of falling on her face was better than average.
“Should the lyrics rhyme like a poem?”
“There are no rules. They can rhyme but don’t have to. It can be complicated or simple. What’s important is that it has a rhythm.”
“What kind of rhythm? Like this?” Ally used the pencils to tap out a simple one-two march.
“More like a heartbeat. Something internal. Rappers call it flow.”
“You listen to rap?” Ally’s incredulity made Greer smile.
“I listen to anything if it’s good. Classical. Pop. Country. R and B. And yes, rap.”
“What if I suck at writing?” Ally’s attention was on the still-drumming pencils, the cadence picking up in speed and intensity.
“You’ll for sure suck. No doubt about your massive level of suckage.”
Ally’s gaze bounced up, her face a mask of shock. Then, she laughed, the noise bouncing around the room like bubbles at a kid’s birthday party. “You are really bad at this encouraging thing.”
The effervescence infected Greer and made her smile. “I’m encouraging you not to get discouraged. The magic of songwriting happens when you put the lyrics to music and make everything fit together. Most of the time it’s painstaking, frustrating work.”
“But not always?”
“There are rare instances when songs seem to manifest fully formed. It’s special when that happens. A moment to be savored.”
A knock preceded Richard’s head popping through the crack. “Almost done?”
“Yep. The room is all yours.” Greer grabbed her bag and followed Ally out the front door. “Do you want to grab a quick bite before you head home? My treat.”
As soon as the offer was out, Greer worried she’d overstepped some unwritten rule about fraternizing outside of the foundation. She hadn’t exactly studied the fine print.
“Thanks, but I can’t. Mom is waiting for me at home.” A shadow passed over Ally’s face even though she stood in sunshine.
It was only four. “Did she find a job?”
“Sure.”
“Doing what?” As soon as the question was out, Greer knew she’d set off a trip wire.
“I gotta go.” Ally turned and walked away.
Nothing of the girl who had laughed earlier remained. Ally picked her way through a straggly copse of pines and disappeared behind the office building next door.
Anger at herself warred with worry for Ally. Maybe things were fine at home. Normal. Even if things weren’t fine and normal, was it any of Greer’s business? Where was the line?
Emmett was another problem niggling her conscience. Greer was no longer on his case. Emmett and Mr. Lawson would be relieved. She would stay away and let sleeping dogs lie.
Trouble was, Greer was prone to cross lines and wake up dogs.
Chapter 7
Greer sat cross-legged on her bed and painted the nail on her index finger a sparkly purple. Her mama wouldn’t approve. A subdued light pink would have been a classier choice. She’d never gone for safe, though. She’d taken risks, assured by the books and movies she’d ingested that risk equaled reward. Except it hadn’t. Risk equaled loss.
She hesitated with the brush trembling over her next nail. If she toed the line and played by the rules, would her life’s trajectory change for the better? She scrubbed the purple polish off with an acetone-soaked cotton ball, leaving a clean slate.
It was Saturday. In Nashville she would have been in full-hustle mode. Busking on the streets for the tourists during the day. Playing dive bars in the evening. Bartending until two in the morning. Contrary to the image of a dissolute musician, partying all night and getting up late the next day, Greer had worked until her fingers bled—sometimes literally.
The first couple of weeks at home in Madison with nothing to do but sleep, read, and let her parents take care of her had been heavenly. But boredom and uselessness had moved home with her. She needed a job. A real job that paid steady money.
A knock accompanied the squeak of her door. Her mama stood with their cordless phone, her hand over the mouthpiece, and whispered, “A call for you. A man.”
Beau had been blocked from her cell. He had some nerve calling their house phone. “Tell Beau to go to—”
“Doesn’t sound like Beau.” Her mama’s cheeks flushed.
“Who is it, then?”
Her mother shrugged and held the phone out. As if poking a toe in water whose temperature was unknown, she took the phone and waited until her mother backed out of the room. “Hello?”
“That took long enough.” The growly impatience on the other end marked Emmett like a fingerprint.
“Terribly sorry to inconvenience you, sir.” Her response had more layers—of irony and sarcasm—than her mother’s famous coconut cake.
“You should be. I’m a busy man.” The unexpected humor in his voice bordered on charming.
“Shooting whiskey—and at trespassers—must be terribly time-consuming. How do you fit in the required rocking on the porch?”
“I have a tight schedule. In fact, I have a thousand more rocks to get in before noon.”
“You’re crazy.” She was glad he couldn’t see her smile.
“Not yet, but headed in that direction.”
She wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious. “I guess you heard.”
“About your breakdown at Becky’s? Yep. Got the story from my dad.”
A flush heated her body. No doubt Mr. Lawson put the worst possible spin on her actions. She wasn’t proud of herself, but she was atoning for her mistakes. Or at least trying to. “No, about your big-shot daddy calling Amelia at the foundation and complaining about me.”
“He d
idn’t.” Anger morphed the denial into a statement.
“Apparently I’m not the sort of person he thinks you should be hanging out with.” Silence from the other end had her hastening to add, “Not that what we were doing was hanging out.”
“Of course not.” Hesitation hitched his next words. “What would you call it?”
“Court-ordered volunteer hours for me; a pity party for you.”
“Ouch.” A pause. “I’m craving cake now.”
A laugh spurted out despite her best efforts. “You have a kitchen.”
“Yeah, but not the ability to use it or the fixings for cake. I’ve been surviving on frozen pizzas.”
“Poor baby.”
“I sense your sympathy is insincere.”
“Very.”
“I lost a leg fighting for the red, white, and blue, for God’s sake. Don’t I deserve a rum cake?”
“I imagine a pity party would be better served by a fruit-cake. One that’s been frozen since Christmas.” She bit the inside of her cheek to stem another laugh.
“That’s just plain mean.”
“I’m not here to coddle you.”
“Cobbler? I would love warm cobbler. Blackberry or peach. And ice cream.”
“You’re talking like I’m actually going to bring you something.”
“You owe me. I found out what you did to poor old Wayne. Is the damage permanent?”
“I’m not planning on finding out. Aren’t you afraid I might do the same to you if you make me mad?”
“Should I be afraid of you?” His voice had lost some of its tease.
“Probably. I’m a terrible influence or haven’t you heard?”
“Perfect. Good influences never got me anywhere.” After a few heartbeats of silence, he said, “A six-month-old half-thawed fruitcake doesn’t sound half bad. What’s wrong with me?”
“More things than I have time to list over the phone.” She gnawed on her bottom lip. She had almost convinced herself to play it safe. Almost. “I’ll bring the cake if you’ll provide the drinks for your next pity party.”
An Everyday Hero Page 7