by Holly Hall
I take a deep breath to pull myself from the depths of my memories. They’ll drown me if I let them. “He was like alcohol—one sip and you want another, too much and you’re screwed. So I guess it’s natural that he turned out to be an alcoholic. He’s a musician, and he began relying on it to turn him into this performer, to stomach the crowds. But the problem got bigger than he did, and it haunted him.” When she gives me a look of pity that I’ve become too familiar with, I say, “He never tried to hurt me, or anyone else. He just retreated into himself. He would shut himself up for hours to write, and he would emerge so depressed and listless each time that I couldn’t understand what the allure could be. He would lose confidence, doubt his abilities, when everyone else could see what I saw: a natural-born talent. He was an army of one against an enemy of one—himself—and nobody could convince him otherwise.”
Lynn nods gently, the usual fire in her amber eyes softening, coaxing me to go on. I take a moment to compose myself. It’s difficult to revisit those emotions, the guilt. There was a vacant place in his soul that he used alcohol to fill, and I’d blamed myself for years for not being enough to occupy it. You can only stay in a toxic relationship for so long before the rest of the world begins to tarnish before your eyes. I noticed myself seeing things as he saw them, shouldering his insecurities, and I couldn’t handle it anymore.
“I stuck by him as long as I could, and we tried everything. Rehab programs, counseling. It would get better for a week or two, and then he would revert to his old ways. I was driving home one night, and I vividly remember seeing the strange, orange glow in the sky. I somehow had this feeling it was our house, and I raced there, convinced I would find out everything was gone and my husband was dead.” The fear resurges in my mind, raw and intense.
“He was sitting in the back of an ambulance when I got there, but our home . . . it was just consumed. I knew there would be nothing left. It turns out he had tried to cook something and caught some grease on fire. He wasn’t in his right mind, and when he attempted to put it out, it only got worse. When he went outside to get away from the smoke and call nine-one-one, he stumbled and hit his head somewhere along the way, or blacked out and hit his head. The story isn’t clear. Needless to say, he didn’t put the fire out, and we lost everything.”
“Holy shit, you were married to Jenson King,” Lynn breathes, holding her coffee but ignoring it. It’s not a difficult conclusion to make after a story like that. News of a country star’s home burning down and his wife leaving him travels fast around the music scene.
“Yes. I tried for years to understand him—it’s all I ever wanted—but that was the last straw for me. Call me a shitty person if you want, but all I could imagine was our future in those flames. Our family. What if we had kids in that house and something happened? Not just a fire, but any kind of emergency when he was incapable of getting help? What if he drank himself to death and our kids had to bury him before he even reached fifty?”
Lynn shakes her head in disbelief, her features taut. “I don’t blame you one bit, sister, no matter who he is.” We stare into our mugs for a few moments before she speaks again. “I just hope you find what you’re looking for here.”
I just chew on the inside of my cheek. I feel like an old rag, wrung out and drained of emotion. One thing our relationship was never short on was feeling. I felt so much in those years that sometimes it seems there’s nothing left to spare.
The moment passes, but still I don’t tell her about the baby. About a time that should have brought a husband and wife together instead of shoving them miles apart. That’s a whole other bag of issues, and I don’t want to risk overloading Lynn with my sob stories. Besides, that one still needs time to heal. I’m afraid if I voice those memories aloud, they’ll just aggravate my invisible wounds further.
The recovery period from my soul-baring is shortened prematurely when a maroon truck parks across the street, right in my line of sight, and Dane steps out of the driver seat. For a reason I can’t yet explain, my eyes stay glued to that tall figure as he pauses, exchanging words with someone inside before he shuts the door. Trey gets out of the back, and an older man with graying hair emerges from the passenger side.
Following my gaze, Lynn says, “Dane, Trey, and Ben Cross. Father and sons.”
Ah, so that explains the third man. Seeing the Cross brothers together reminds me how formidable they are, especially when I’m too far away to be affected by their charm. And their father is just an older, grayer carbon-copy. Lynn smirks back at me.
“What?” I ask, though I’m sure my thoughts are written all over my face.
“Nothing,” she answers innocently, though a corner of her mouth stays raised.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I just recognize that look.”
“There’s not a look,” I say in a no-nonsense tone, but her expression is unchanging. I’m positive my cheeks are stained crimson.
“Lying is not your strong suit, and I know I can’t be the first to tell you that. I take it this isn’t your first time seeing the Crosses?”
“I met Dane at Henderson’s yesterday, when I was there with my car,” I admit, sinking down in my chair and out of sight. The last thing I need is for him to recognize me and come over to talk. Thankfully, he disappears into the hardware store while the other two stop at a block of offices further up the street.
“Swiping customers again? Dirty. Give me the details.” She gestures for more coffee when a waiter passes by to check on another table.
“There are no details. That’s literally all that happened.” It’s truthful enough.
“You can admit you find him attractive,” Lynn presses.
“I don’t. I actually think his beard is disgusting.”
Our waiter chooses that moment to stop at our table, coffee pot in hand. Our bearded waiter. “Not your beard,” I amend. When he raises an eyebrow, I nod my head toward where the Crosses disappeared. “Dane Cross’s beard.”
His suspicious expression remains even as he pours our coffee, then slowly turns and walks away.
“Well, Mike is always coming up with these conspiracy theories that the Crosses are Heronwood’s crime family or something,” Lynn snorts, pouring more sugar from the canister. If she keeps that up, there will be none left for the rest of the world. “Like this is New York and they’re the mafia. It’s ridiculous.”
“Wait, who’s Mike and why would he say that?” I ask, my bleak thoughts thoroughly shoved out of the way by this news. There’s another guy coming up the street—shorter but more broad than all of them, with a buzzed haircut. Even from here I can see the tattoos on his neck and down his arms.
“Mike’s the sheriff. Adam and him are sort of buddies, in that they meet up sometimes to watch football together at The Pit. The Cross boys both have a bit of a record. Fights, running with the wrong crowd, supposed involvement in the drug trade . . . you know the drill.”
My head withdraws back into my neck. “No, I do not know the drill. Is there any truth to that?” In a town like this, I can’t imagine those things being accepted so casually by the rest of the citizens as they are by Lynn. But she couldn’t be any more impassive.
“I don’t know. Trey, sure, but Dane? Doesn’t seem to add up to me. He got into some trouble in high school—assault—and nobody will forget it. The fucking rumor mill in this town is unmatched. My theory is that it’s just Mike holding a grudge. Dane was seriously talented before he got sent to jail for punching one of the dads of the other players on the baseball team, and Mike could never quite get out from under his shadow. But I know Dane, and he has a good heart. People like that just don’t stoop to the reputations some people collar them with. Unfortunately, being on a guy like Mike’s bad side—with all his influence—Dane never stood a chance.”
I nod along with Lynn’s story, still skeptical, but undeniably drawn in. Just across the street, the tattooed stranger stops alongside Trey and the older man,
and they exchange a few words before walking into the office building. I don’t know much about them, and I try not to judge anyone based on hearsay, but I guess I wouldn’t blame people for keeping their distance from the Crosses after hearing that rap sheet. Drugs? Assault? It’s only now I remember they have my car. I say a quick prayer that it survives Cross Automotive.
“Anyways, I know all that, and I know about every single one of his sexual partners, and I’ll still admit he’s good-looking. Seriously, I can tell you intimate details about the night he lost his virginity. It’s no big deal.” She waves her hand flippantly, but her words divert my attention.
“Fine. Okay? He’s attractive. And why do you know details about the night he lost his virginity?”
Lynn sits back, a devilish grin on her face. “Who do you think he lost it to?”
SIX
I arrive home to find my car parked in the driveway—freshly washed, by the looks of it—with a note trapped beneath the windshield wiper. The only words written on the paper: See you soon. Hmm, that’s a little foreboding, but okay. As for my keys, I find them in the mailbox when I check it.
Inside, the silence hits me like a wall. It’s settled like a fine layer of dust over everything, a stark reminder that there is no one expecting me. Meanwhile, my thoughts are loud enough to fill the room. I sit on my couch and lean my head back, mind whirring with the conversation from my and Lynn’s coffee date. Not just the part about the Cross-family legacy, but the dissolution of my marriage. I’ve told hardly anyone those details save for Caroline, and she ditched me for Jenson. Despite that betrayal, my gut tells me I can trust Lynn. I’ve ignored my intuition before only to see my life crumble in the aftermath. Maybe this time I’ll stay true to it, but that’s easier said than done. I was virtually shredded by friends, the minor tabloids, and gossip blogs for leaving my “emotionally damaged” husband in his “time of need.” I place the blame on myself more often than not, but there is more to the story than just his inability to cope without alcohol.
Everyone could tell you how passionately in love we were in the beginning. I didn’t start to notice the stark differences in the ways we loved each other until about two years into our marriage. It was like everything he did, everything he said, was all to get a reaction out of me, to better figure me out. It was exhausting. He didn’t understand me and my need to be left alone sometimes. And maybe I didn’t understand him and his need to fit me into his life.
He had this paper-doll cutout in mind of what his wife should be. He even sang songs about her. The woman in the lyrics was like a stranger, though he’d say they were about me. Maybe he thought I would strive to be that woman, that over time he could mold me into the muse he envisioned. But my edges were all spiky and barbed from past lies and deceit, and try as I might, I couldn’t quite fit into the stencil he’d created. My outlines were a little too rough for that smooth silhouette.
I have a theory that Jenson loved me as much as he did because I was never completely a part of his world. I’m not someone who is able to force every thought and feeling into my words to tell you how I feel, but he is. He poured everything he had into his music, and when it was all said and done, he would play me his latest chart-topper like he was offering up his heart on a platter. I am much more obscure than that, and maybe that fascinated him as much as it frustrated him. It was difficult to show him one hundred percent of what I was feeling, and that just made him push further to find out exactly what I was made of.
Things were mostly just fun in the early days, witnessing his deep-rooted passion while he traveled around and played his shows. As often as I could make it I would stand off to the side of the stage with a love-drunk grin on my face as I sang along to songs he’d written about me. The girls would clamor for his attention at meet-and-greets, standing in line with unrestrained enthusiasm as they waited for their turn in the spotlight that was Jenson’s attention. He never gave me reason to question him, and so I didn’t. I trusted him completely . . . until the drinking.
It started out innocently enough; beers during the set, a shot or two of whiskey to celebrate a show well done. Then it was rounds of shots sent to the stage from admirers, after-parties with generous bartenders, music festivals where binge-drinking was the least offensive thing you could do. A part of it is because he was more introverted than anyone knew. Crowds freaked him out, and the pressure of meeting with press and music executives often overwhelmed him. He became a master of self-medicating, and booze was his drug of choice. It was the tool he used to boost his charisma, but it became the instrument to his demise. It was bad when he was recording, but it was when he wrote that it was the worst. It’s like he would put everything he had into his music until he was drained, then he was left to try and fill the void with something else. That something was usually Maker’s.
When I finally confronted Jenson about his drinking, he made promises and halfhearted attempts to change. There were rehab programs and support groups and prayer sessions, but nothing stuck, and in the end, it wasn’t enough. The fire happened and I was done. It was heated in the weeks that followed me packing up the belongings I had left. I was angry at him and he was angry at me. Angry that I couldn’t be the girl from his songs who just gives and gives until there’s nothing left to her of any substance.
They say true artists put their heart and soul into their work when they’re creating. Jenson did that, but I don’t think he ever got those pieces back. He got so lost in his work that it became more and more difficult to pull him out when it was all said and done. There’s a reason his voice sounds so heart-wrenchingly beautiful. When you slice yourself open and bleed into your music, every song contains a pulse that beats to the rhythm of your heart, and everyone listening can feel it.
I drag myself off the couch, fighting to cut loose the weight of my memories. This has been an unexpectedly long day, though I didn’t accomplish much. Slow and steady, I tell myself. In the madness of this journey called life, I am not in a race with anybody.
Serena, my older sister, would tell me to pull up my big-girl panties and get on with it. My mother, on the other hand, sent her well-wishes in the form of self-help books. A whole stack of them that I’ve yet to figure out what to do with. They are offensively inspirational. Most people think she means well, but most people don’t know my mother. She’s furious with me for ruining “the one good thing I had going for me”—her words, not mine. My suspicion is that she hopes I’ll “find myself” in those books and recognize the mistake I made. It’s either due to denial or an actual lack of need for them that I refuse to even flip their pages, and I won’t even consider the former. I shove them into a shoebox and nudge that into the corner with my foot.
I should probably call them to tell them how I’m doing, but I don’t particularly want to be questioned by my mother, or lectured by my sister, so I put it off for another day. I think I’ll go sit in the shower instead.
My alarm cuts through the silence, and in the dark of the morning, I almost forget where I am. My bare room is still unfamiliar, even more so in the absence of light. It’s my first day back at work in a month, and I’ve fallen well out of the routine required by such monotonous tasks. It will take me a few days to get back into orbit.
I get ready in slow motion, then pad downstairs to brew some coffee. It’s only when I’ve gulped down half my mug and a granola bar on the highway that I notice there’s none of the traffic I prepared myself for. Heronwood at six a.m. is a ghost town, and the only vehicles humming down the two-lane roads are big-rigs that hurtle along at alarming speeds. I’ll definitely be early.
I’m drumming my fingers to the music from my iTunes playlist, unaware that I’m speeding until I see the flash of lights behind me; blue and red and obnoxious. Damn these country roads and their bored country cops. I ease on the brakes and pull off onto the grassy shoulder, rooting around for my license and proof of insurance, grumbling curse words under my breath.
“Morning, ma�
�am,” the cop greets when he reaches my window, tipping his head with a sly grin. He’s dressed in the typical khaki garb, with a tie and a gleaming silver badge. His hair is slicked into a style I’m sure he saw in a magazine, just missing the mark of what I would call trendy.
“Good morning, Officer.” I hand over my license, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He holds it between two fingers, a satisfied grin still on his face like he knows something I don’t. It’s unnerving.
“Sheriff Mike Branson,” he corrects me, lifting one shoulder to draw attention to the badge on his chest.
The sheriff. “My mistake.” I smile tightly.
Sheriff Branson finally scans my license and lets out a low whistle. “Nashville, huh? You just passing through, Ms. Sutter?” he asks, popping the wad of gum in his mouth.
“No. I live here now. Just heading into town for work.” And thank goodness I left when I did.
“Here as in . . .” he waits for me to fill in the blank, and I get the feeling he enjoys making people feel smaller than they are. I sit up a little straighter in my seat.
“Heronwood. I live in Heronwood.”
“Ahh. Newcomer, must be. In that case, welcome to town, Ms. Sutter. Now where are you headed off to in such a hurry?”
“I work in a dental office in Clarksville. I’m not used to the lack of traffic. Let the gas pedal get away from me.” I punctuate that sentence with a smile, hoping that if I seem friendly enough, he’ll let me off without a ticket. I may not be hurting for money, but I don’t want to deal with the hassle.