I Can't Make You Love Me, but I Can Make You Leave

by Dixie Cash

“Why didn’t you use a pot holder and pull the rack out?”

  Edwina seemed to chew on that question for a few beats. “I guess I could’ve done that, but I don’t know where Vic keeps those potholders these days. It’s his kitchen, you know. I gave it to him a long time ago, when we got married. Nowadays, when I go in there, I’m just a visitor. My passport doesn’t authorize the use of any appliance but the microwave.”

  “Oh, hell, Ed. There’s only so many places you can put potholders in a kitchen.”

  Edwina made a little huff of indignation. “Like you’d know a lot about cooking and kitchens.”

  “Were you hurt? Is your scalp burned?”

  “Naw, I’m fine. But that wig will never see light of day again, unless you need a reverse Mohawk next Halloween. Girlfriend, I tell you, there’s a stripe about three inches wide down the middle of that thing, front to back, that’s just plain bald.”

  Lord, a simple conversation with Edwina was entertaining. Debbie Sue laughed, imagining the destroyed wig. “So we’re back to the beehive hairdo?”

  “Well, not quite. Today, it’s a hat. But I’ll go back to the beehive later. My public demands that of me anyway.”

  “You’re probably right, Ed. Why alter a classic?”

  “Exactly. I ask you, would you inject the haunting lips of the Mona Lisa with collagen or put prosthetic limbs on Venus de Milo?”

  “So what’re you gonna do if you have to take the hat off today?”

  “Oh, hell, I’ll just say the damn thing messed up my hair.”

  “Well, I’m just glad you weren’t hurt. You have to take care of yourself, Ed. I need you.”

  “I do take care of myself, hon. I do.” Ed reached across and patted Debbie Sue’s forearm. “You don’t think I want to miss out on any of this fun we’re having, do you?”

  They reached the Salt Lick city limits and turned northeast on the highway. “What did Vic say about us being on the telethon?”

  “He hates to miss it. I knew he would. He didn’t even mind that I lent them his pickup. Of course I didn’t tell him that they’re all crazy. Did you tell Wyatt about the ketchup fight?”

  Edwina was referring to Buddy. Debbie Sue often affectionately called Buddy “Wyatt Earp,” so in private, Edwina did, too.

  “Of course not. I’m taking a chance he won’t hear about it until it’s so far behind us it won’t matter.”

  “But you did tell him about the telethon.”

  “Yep. He was okay with it.”

  “I suppose you persuaded him in the usual fashion.”

  “How I persuaded him is none of your business, Edwina Perkins-Martin. Actually, he didn’t need persuading. He thought it was a great idea. But he won’t be able to come to Midland and watch us. He’s got to be in Austin for some kind of damn class. So like you said yesterday, we need to get a tape.” Debbie Sue pulled a silver disc from above her visor. “And speaking of the telethon, I found this in my pile of CDs. Let’s practice our vocals to The Best of Darla Denman while we ride to Midland.”

  “Oh, hell, yes! Slide that baby in.”

  The enticing aroma of frying bacon woke Darla from her slumber. Morning had come too quickly. She would have sworn she hadn’t slept at all, but the fact was, the last thing she remembered was looking at the alarm clock on the bedside table, and it had registered one in the morning. Now it was seven, meaning she’d had at least six hours of sleep.

  She saw no sign of Valetta Rose or that the girl had slept in the bed beside her overnight. Maybe she really did bed down on the floor in the guys’ room. She pulled on the robe she had left at the foot of the bed and padded up the hall. In the kitchen she saw her drummer frying bacon in a large black skillet and with his free hand, beating out a rhythm with a spatula. She walked in, stretched and said hoarsely, “Mike, you look like you know your way around a kitchen.”

  Stopping to remove a device from his ear, which Darla assumed was some sort of music gadget, he smiled and presented her with a plate piled high with strips of crisp bacon. “Between gigs I work as a short order cook wherever anybody’s hiring. I hate being broke.”

  “I know what you mean,” Darla said sarcastically. “I can cook. That’s an option for me to consider.”

  Taking a slice of bacon, she chewed slowly, savoring the taste. Still trying to lose a few pounds to get in shape for her great comeback, she didn’t usually eat bacon. “Where did we get food? Was it in the fridge?”

  He shook his head. “I had a few coins in my pocket. I had Bob drop me off at the corner store before he left for Midland earlier. It’s only three blocks away. I walked back.”

  Darla was touched that he would spend his own money on breakfast for all of them. She watched as he broke eggs into a bowl. “You know we’ll reimburse you when we get back to Nashville, right?”

  “I know.”

  She was suddenly keenly aware that she was in her nightshirt, alone with a man she scarcely knew. She cursed her decision to not dress before appearing in the kitchen. Dammit, Bob, why would you leave me alone with a stranger? “Bob’s already gone, huh? Did Roxie and Eddie go with him?”

  “Eddie went, but Roxie’s still here. Bob said he was going to talk to the show manager.” He poured the eggs he had stirred up into the skillet and began to scramble them. “They’re going to set up the equipment and do a sound check.”

  Darla was comforted knowing another female was in the house. Not that she could depend on Roxie to come to her aid if she were in trouble. Roxie would be more apt to grab a camera and put a video on the Internet. Beyond that, Darla felt guilty for thinking evil thoughts about Mike. “Roxie’s sleeping in?”

  “Haven’t heard a peep out of that pig.”

  “Mike, you shouldn’t—”

  “What, call her names? Don’t worry. I’d never let Bob hear me. But she is what she is. She’s left footprints across everybody’s back, including mine. I’ll get even with her one of these days though, when she doesn’t see it coming. Want some coffee?”

  Darla didn’t disagree with Mike’s conclusion about Bob’s current wife, but hearing him threaten her made her uncomfortable. “Lord, yes. Coffee sounds great.” She picked a mug from the mug tree that sat on the kitchen counter and extended it to Mike, who poured it full.

  “What time did Bob say he’ll come back for us?”

  “By eight o’clock. They say it takes an hour to drive from here to Midland.”

  “Oh, then we’d better hurry.” She scooped a helping of scrambled eggs on her plate, laid slices of bacon on each side and topped it off with a couple of slices of toast. “I’m hungry as a bear. Thanks again.”

  As she turned away, she had a vision of Bob’s face the evening before when he had begged her to try to get along with his young wife. Contrary to what Roxie and the new band members might think of Darla Denman, she was actually a very nice person and making peace with Roxie wasn’t beyond her. Sighing heavily, she set down her plate, plucked a second mug and extended it toward the cook. “Hit me with some more coffee. I’ll take a cup to Roxie.”

  She carried the hot coffee across the living room, turned left at a narrow hallway and made her way to the door at the end of the hall. She rapped softly with her knuckle and waited for a response. She heard a giggle and a muffled voice. Opening the door slightly, she called, “Roxie? You up? I’ve got coffee if you want some.”

  She saw Roxie on her cell phone. The woman reacted to Darla’s appearance as if she were a teenage girl caught whispering forbidden words to a secret boyfriend.

  “Oops, sorry,” Darla said. “I didn’t know you were on the phone. I thought you’d like some—”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Roxie snapped.

  “I only wanted—”

  “What do you want that would make you ignore a closed door? Why are you snooping around where you aren’t welcome?”

  Darla felt the small hairs at the nape of her neck stand up, her pulse quickened and her heart pounded. She suppose
d this reaction was part of the survival system built in by nature, whether you were in need of fleeing an attacking T. rex, escaping a fate at the hands of the Grim Reaper or slapping the shit out of a prima donna with no manners. She was gathering just the right words to yell when a soft-spoken male voice behind her stopped her.

  “Let it go,” Mike said. She turned and saw him standing in the entrance to the hallway. “Come on back to the kitchen and have breakfast before it gets cold.”

  His invitation was so unexpected, his delivery so calm it had a hypnotic effect on Darla. Pulling the bedroom door closed, she turned and looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since they left Nashville. He was actually quite handsome in a scruffy kind of way. He was much younger than she would have guessed earlier, had blondish hair, had to be over six feet tall and she could see from his muscular neck that his body was most likely firm and toned. And he had the bluest eyes. “Are you wearing contacts?” she asked him. “I’ve haven’t seen eyes that blue since Paul Newman, God rest his soul. I’ve tried colored contacts but never found any that looked that good.”

  Mike laughed. “These baby blues are all mine.” He took her by the arm and led her up the hallway, across the living room and to the dining area attached to the kitchen. He pulled back a chair and she dutifully sat. He put her plate in front of her and asked, “More coffee?”

  She was about to decline when the front door opened and Bob and Eddie entered.

  “Man, I could smell that food all the way out in the driveway,” Bob said cheerfully, “and I was praying it was coming from here.”

  “We got any coffee?” Eddie mumbled. Darla hadn’t seen him eat anything, and the fact that coffee was his first choice surprised her.

  “How’d it go in Midland?” Darla asked, seasoning her eggs. “Any problems we need to take care of?”

  “Nope,” Bob said, grinning at the plate Mike had set before him. “Everything’s great. The acoustics are surprisingly good for an auditorium. Tickets for your portion of the show are sold out. You’ll be pleased with all of it. The stage manager is a big fan and can’t wait to meet you.”

  “Dammit, Bob, it’s bad luck to say everything is great and nothing’s gone wrong. Tell me something bad. Say it’s hopeless, but don’t say all is wonderful.”

  “Sorry,” he said, laughing, “I forgot that old saw in entertainment. Uh, let’s see, the lighting in the dressing room could be better.”

  “You’re on the right track. Tell me more,” Darla prompted him.

  “I’ll have to think of more later on. Hurry now and get dressed. We need to get back for rehearsal. Is Roxie up and around yet?”

  “When you were sweet talkin’ her on the phone a few minutes ago, didn’t you hear me barge in and . . . ?”

  The expression on Bob’s face stopped her short, told her more than she wanted to know. Darla was positive Roxie had been talking to a man on her cell phone and from the look on Bob’s face, it wasn’t him. Darla had seen that pained expression on Bob’s face years before and it was one memory she would just as soon not revisit. She felt uneasy and embarrassed at her blunder.

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll just go make sure she’s up,” Bob said. “Y’all enjoy your breakfast.” He rose and disappeared up the hall.

  Shit. Darla might not want her ex married to a mean bitch, but she didn’t want the job as the messenger of Roxie’s philandering ways, either.

  Chapter Nine

  The drive to Midland barely allowed Debbie Sue and Edwina to complete every song before they reached the civic center, located on the outskirts of the city.

  “It’s a damn good thing we’ll be mouthing these words,” Debbie Sue complained, pulling into the civic center’s parking lot. “After that practice session, I can see we’d be hard-pressed to carry a tune in a bucket.”

  “Not me,” Edwina said. “I sing like a nightingale.” She warbled a verse of the last song they had been listening to.

  “Humph. What I lack in talent I make up for in complete inability to remember the words.”

  Making a wide circle, Debbie Sue parked and killed the engine. She grabbed her purse and they were on their way across the paved parking lot. The early September sun beat on their backs, but the air hinted of upcoming balmy days.

  Inside the large complex they were met with an array of signs giving directions to various meeting rooms bearing the names of legendary Texas ranches—PITCHFORK, 6666, XIT, WAGGONER and KING. But the greatest confusion and noise seemed to be coming from an area marked, simply, AUDITORIUM.

  Debbie Sue and Edwina walked into the cavernous, dimly lit auditorium, looking around for Darla, Bob or the face of anyone who appeared to be in charge. Their gazes landed on a small, wiry man wearing huge glasses. He was shouting orders through a bullhorn—which everyone seemed to be ignoring.

  “Dammit, Gary,” he yelled. “I know you and Jimmy can hear me. Everyone in the county can hear me. Put the buckboard wagon to stage left like I directed. . . . What do you mean ‘which left?’ There’s only one left.”

  As the two teenagers started pushing the object to the right, the man with the horn screamed, “Stop it, stop it, stop it! You’re going right!”

  The teenagers halted and straightened, looking bewildered. “Well if we’re going right, why’d you make us stop?” one of them said.

  The man let his bullhorn sag limply by his side, closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “ ’Scuse me,” Debbie Sue said, touching his arm lightly. “Are you in charge here?”

  The man’s shoulders slumped with dejection. He looked at her through glasses that were as thick as they were huge. “Do I look like I’m in charge here?”

  “No, hon, you really don’t,” Edwina said gently.

  “Shut up, Ed.” Debbie Sue redirected her attention to the man with the bullhorn. “Yes, yes, you do look like the man in charge. I’m Debbie Sue Overstreet and this is Edwina Perkins-Martin. We’re backup singers for Darla Denman.”

  The man’s expression brightened and he became animated again. “Oh, my goodness, is Miz Denman here? I’m a huge fan of hers.”

  “I’m not sure where she is. We just got here and we’re looking for her. What did you say your name is?”

  “Oh, how rude of me.” He offered his hand. “I’m Matt Rash. My mother volunteers me to direct this telethon every year and I hate it. I had one semester of theater arts at Sul Ross and she thinks that makes me qualified to do this job.”

  “What’s your regular job?” Debbie Sue asked.

  “I’m a tattoo artist. I own Tatts by Matt off Interstate Twenty. Corny, huh? But I was going for a play on words. When you speak to me, please don’t call me Matt. Call me Tatts by Matt. Having people call me by the name of my business is my own little way of advertising. You see, someone will invariably ask me what that means and that gives me the opportunity to give a business card and the address of my tattoo parlor.”

  “Ah,” Edwina said, lifting her chin knowingly.

  Debbie Sue frowned. “Guess that’s better than Rash Tatts.”

  “Is that next to Love’s Travel Stop?” Edwina asked with more interest than Debbie Sue thought necessary.

  “Yes!” Matt answered. “Do you know it?”

  “Y’all stay open on Saturdays ’til midnight?”

  “We sure do, although I’m closed today. Sounds like you do know my business. Love the hat, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” Edwina said, preening and placing her hand on the back of the hat.

  Wondering what circumstances had taken Edwina to Tatts by Matt’s business, Debbie Sue turned her full attention to her partner.

  “It’s Vic,” Edwina stage-whispered close to Debbie Sue’s ear. “I’ll explain later.”

  “Now I remember,” Matt exclaimed. “I thought I recognized you. I did a yellow-and-black ruler on your husband. How’d he like that tatt after he wore it for a while? One of the better ones I’ve done, I must say. I was extremely proud of that work
. I wanted to get pictures, but well . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and opened his palms.

  Debbie Sue thought she saw a hint of color on his cheeks. She switched her gaze to Edwina again. “A yellow-and-black ruler?”

  “It’s kind of personal. It was one of his Navy buddy’s ideas. He and Vic had a bet and wanted to see—”

  “Eeew! Yuck!” Debbie Sue contorted her mouth. “Do not say another word, Ed. I mean not another word. There are some things best left unknown and I wish I didn’t know all the other personal stuff I already do about Vic.”

  “I’m not the one who brought it up,” Edwina said defensively. She broke into a cackling laugh and slapped Matt’s shoulder. “Brought it up. Get it?”

  “Matt,” Debbie Sue said loudly. “Could you please tell us where we need to go?”

  Tatts by Matt raised his index finger and gave a phony smile. “That’s Tatts by Matt, remember? Advertising?”

  “We got it,” Debbie Sue said.

  “I’ll take you to the hospitality room,” Tatts by Matt said. “You should be able to catch up with the other performers there. My notes say one of you is twirling a flaming baton. We want to make sure that person stands near a fire extinguisher.”

  Debbie Sue stared at Edwina, who stared back. They both swerved their eyes to Tatts by Matt. He broke into a belly laugh. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. You should see your faces. What a hoot. Come on, girls. We’re gonna have a ball the next couple of days.”

  “Good Lord, Ed, I thought he was serious,” Debbie Sue whispered as they trailed behind Tatts by Matt. “All of these show-business people must be crazy.”

  “I know,” Edwina said. “I’ve always heard that about them.”

  As their borrowed crew cab pickup, filled shoulder to shoulder with passengers, pulled into the Midland Civic Center’s parking lot, no one spoke. Darla was content to keep it that way. A whole flock of butterflies fluttered in her stomach and she didn’t want to reveal to anyone that she had a case of nerves. After all, she was the star as well as the one in charge. She was the glue between the mosaic pieces, the musicians that were part of her performance, so to speak.