Somebody's Baby

by Lurlene McDaniel

  Sloan quickly agreed. The bag in her hand felt heavy, not because of the weight of the CDs but because of the weight of the choices and decisions she would have to make about the songs on them. And because of the monetary advance she’d been given. Enough of her music had to sell in order to repay the advance, while the music built a fan base that would grant her future contracts and albums.

  And the bag felt heavy because Lindsey, her possible half sister, was dying hundreds of miles away.

  And because Sloan was scared.

  Still, as she walked down the carpeted hall with Terri toward the reception area, she dug deep for bravado and belief in herself. “By the way, Terri,” she said, shouldering the bag and her purse. “One day producers and agents will be tagging other’s voices by saying, ‘in the tradition of Sloan Gabriel.’ ”

  Terri tossed back her head and laughed heartily. “That’s the attitude I like hearing!”

  Dawson and Lani were driving home from a friend’s house when a song began to play on the truck’s radio, the singer’s voice unmistakable. Dawson reached to change the station, but Lani’s hand stopped his. “No…don’t. I want to hear it…all of it.”

  Lani knew about the song “Somebody’s Baby” because colleagues at work were talking about it, but she hadn’t yet listened to it. Now, with Dawson beside her, she figured it was time.

  “We don’t have to listen,” Dawson said.

  “Yes…I want to.” Lani closed her eyes as the music touched sore and tender spots still inside Lani’s heart, and as Sloan’s voice brought every achingly beautiful word to life. On the surface, the verses told a story of love forever lost. Yet Lani heard another truth simmering beneath. Her eyes filled with tears, and she let them slide down her face unchecked.

  When the final notes of the song faded, a DJ came on, spouting such phrases as “fast rising” and “most requested.”

  “She wrote a song about what happened to the three of us,” Lani whispered.

  “I get why she wrote the song, but why did she have to record it? That’s the part I resent. Why would she put out a song that’s so personal?” The song had sliced Dawson’s heart like a razor when he’d first heard it, and now he was just plain angry about it.

  Lani sensed his mood, put her hand on his shoulder. “It was how she coped. Just like me working all those long hours at Bellmeade. She had to get it out…her pain. She did it with music.”

  “But it hurts us too! Did she ever once think about you and me?”

  Lani stroked his cheek. “Nobody knows it’s us, love. To the rest of the world, it’s simply a heart-touching song. Only we three understand its true meaning.” Lani fumbled in the glove compartment, where Dawson was in the habit of stuffing extra napkins from fast-food drive-through windows. She blew her nose, dabbed her eyes, pushed away sad memories.

  Dawson took Lani’s hand, squeezed her fingers. “I still wish she hadn’t recorded it.”

  Lani leaned into him, straining against the seat belt’s resistance. “I want to make peace with the past, Daw. I want to wake up every day without a terrible weight on my heart.” She had substituted weight for guilt because it was easier for him to hear. For months she’d been climbing out of the mire of tangled emotions, and she’d made great progress. She loved Dawson, and he loved her. She was again working as a nurse. Her sister and her parents were happy for her. Yet every now and again, she’d get sucked into the vortex of what had happened on one particular and unforgettable autumn day. Hearing Sloan’s poignant song had thrown her there this night.

  Another song came on the radio, this one upbeat and raucous. Dawson cranked up the volume, filling the cab with music from woofers that made the dashboard tremble. He and Lani joined the singer at the refrain, drowning out the melancholy notes of the former song and the heartache that had come with it.

  Sloan spent the next two weeks following Terri’s strict schedule of interviews, small-venue performances, and listening to so many songs that the melodies all began to run together in her head. She also received texts and snippets from Lindsey, all cheerful, upbeat, and full of encouragement, with never a word of complaint about her life and health. A few texts arrived from Cole, just to say hello, but for reasons she couldn’t explain, whenever his texts popped up, her heart beat faster and her whole day grew brighter.

  Late one afternoon, Terri brought Sloan to Tom Jackson’s recording studio, where they all listened to the songs she’d chosen. The threesome migrated into a small studio, and she recorded a couple for playback. Then they returned to the small conference room, where Tom played the recordings. Sloan heard every ragged breath she took and every weak note she hit, cringed and graded her performance as poor and unimpressive. She cut her eyes to the two people who held her career in their hands, Terri doodling on a yellow pad, Tom leaning back in a chair, staring at a blank wall, his fingers locked behind his head. Sloan squirmed, swallowed nervously. Finally Tom unlocked his fingers, leaned forward, and rested his forearms on the table. He said, “You need better songs.”

  “I—I can make these work…maybe with musicians.”

  “No need,” Terri interrupted. “You’re country, and you need a producer in that field. I’ve got a top-notch man lined up. In Nashville.” She made eye contact with Sloan. “Think you’d like to go home to record this album?”

  Sloan instantly understood that Terri was offering her a win-win opportunity, to both make her album and check out her family roots. Emotion clogged her throat. “I was born ready,” she said.

  “I’m so happy you came with me, Sloan.” Lindsey was resting in a lounge chair on Cole’s deck, where parents had gathered for a cookout to kick off the summer baseball season for Coach Cole’s team after Memorial Day. Sloan had positioned a chair beside the lounger, ostensibly to keep Lindsey company, all the while feeling like a stranger in a strange land. She nursed a glass of red wine, ignoring buzzing chatter from clusters of parents, and raucous shouts from kids playing baseball in the backyard.

  “Did I tell you I was a cheerleader in high school?” Lindsey asked. “I wasn’t very good at cartwheels, but they never tossed me off the squad.” The early-May evening was balmy, but Lindsey wore long sleeves and had a quilt spread across her lap because she said she always felt cold.

  Sloan had dressed in capris, an off-the-shoulder top of bright orange, and trendy sandals. “I couldn’t do cartwheels either. On an athletic scale of one to ten, I’m a zero.”

  Lindsey chuckled. “What did you do in high school? Belong to any clubs? The chorus? With your voice you must have been popular.”

  The truth was so far away from what Lindsey was describing that Sloan couldn’t confess it. “I was in a garage band. Sometimes we performed at football games.”

  “That sounds exciting. Wish I could have known you then.”

  The crack of a bat broke the air, and people on the deck leaned over the railing to cheer a blond boy on to second base. Lindsey watched through the railing, smiling. “Toby can’t wait to play on Cole’s YMCA team. Season starts in June. Maybe you can come to some of the games.”

  “I—I have a heavy tour schedule this summer.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking? Maybe you can make it to Toby’s birthday party. He’s turning seven on June thirtieth.”

  “Late June.” Cole’s words returned to Sloan from his poolside visit, an evening she’d replayed in her head many times.

  “Maybe.” The sad truth was that Lindsey herself might be gone by Toby’s birthday, and would certainly be missing Little League games in her son’s future.

  “Gloria’s already making plans and telling me it’ll be the best party ever. And, Sloan, I told her you’re my sister but swore her to secrecy, insisted you needed your privacy. She won’t tell anyone else, but she’s sure excited about it.” Lindsey’s smile turned wistful. “I wish—” Lindsey hiked up the quilt on her lap, cleared her throat. “I’m parched….Would you please grab me a soda?”

  “I’m on
it.”

  The cooler, a large galvanized washtub, was at the far end of the deck, where Cole stood over a giant stainless steel grill, spatula in hand, flipping his specialty gourmet burgers, talking to friends, and sipping a beer. Except for greeting Cole when she’d walked onto his deck, Sloan had stuck close to Lindsey. When Sloan had called the day before to say she was in Nashville, Lindsey had insisted that Sloan come to the cookout with her. Sloan had tried to beg off, but Lindsey wouldn’t hear of it. “Cole always has a ton of food. Plus Gloria’s working, and I’d love to talk to you some more.”

  So Sloan had come along, and although she’d been sitting next to Lindsey the whole time, every cell in her body was acutely aware of Cole at the far end of the deck. If they’d kissed, she could have stopped thinking about it. But he hadn’t kissed her. He’d walked away and left her holding the burden of Lindsey’s impending death, and a longing for more of him.

  Sloan went to the washtub cooler filled with ice and drinks, rooted through the assortment buried in cold water, and dragged out a cola.

  “If that’s for Lindsey, she likes the orange flavor best.”

  Cole was flashing his dimpled grin at her. Sloan realized she hadn’t even asked Lindsey for a preference. She felt foolish, returned the cola, and fished out a can of orange soda. “Got it.”

  Cole lowered the lid on the grill, stepped closer. “I’m glad you came.”

  He smelled of smoke and sizzling meat—in other words, delicious. Her stomach growled, and they both laughed. “Well, I missed the last cookout, and your cooking is legendary, according to Lindsey, so…” She shrugged. “Tasting is believing.”

  His gaze dropped to her lips and sent shivers up her back. He found her eyes again. “Lindsey tells me you’re cutting your album in Nashville.”

  “Does Lindsey tell you everything that goes on in my life?”

  “Only the good stuff. And from where I’m standing it’s all good.”

  Touché. “I’m being sent to Nashville because it has some terrific producers who make magic happen in the studio. I’m meeting with one tomorrow to hash out song selections for my album. And also because my agent knows about Lindsey’s claim and thinks I should be nearer to both her and to Nashville.”

  “So you’ll be living in Nashville?”

  “Yes…at one of those extended-stay hotels not far from the studio where I’ll be working.”

  “I’m hearing your songs played a lot on the radio. Some of the people here”—he motioned toward groups of parents standing or sitting at a large outdoor table—“would like your autograph. You up for that?”

  A man leaning on the rail of the deck yelled, “Hey! Langston! Don’t let my supper burn while you’re checking out a pretty woman.” Several others backed up the good-natured request.

  Cole waved them off, told Sloan, “I’m glad you’ll be closer, not only because I like seeing you, but because Lindsey can’t stop talking about you. When you texted you were coming again, it made her day.” He winked. “Mine too.”

  Yells and cheers from the backyard made the people on the deck whistle and stomp. Sloan looked around Cole’s shoulder to see Toby running bases and a boy far out in left field racing after a baseball bouncing across lumpy ground. Cole watched, grinned, and gave Toby a shout-out.

  When the cheering died down, Sloan said, “I know Lindsey wants her story about me to be true, and I know time’s running out for her, so I’m in no hurry for a DNA test.”

  His smile broadened. “Thank you for that kindness, Sloan. This way she can go on believing and staying happy.”

  Cole’s approval made her feel good. It mattered. He mattered.

  He returned to the grill, raised the lid, and said, “And for what it’s worth, your song ‘Somebody’s Baby’ is amazing. I’ll bet it sells a zillion copies. On the CD it says you wrote the music and lyrics. Maybe someday you can tell me more about it.”

  She clutched the cold drink can so tightly that her fingers, numbed from the cold, dented the can. “Maybe someday,” she said, spinning and hurrying back to Lindsey’s lounger, knowing full well she would never have a reason to tell him that story.

  The sun went down, the ball game ended, and everyone ate dessert—fresh-churned ice cream and strawberry cake. Outdoor lights on the deck and in Cole’s yard lent the evening a soft gauzy quality. Inside the house, cleanup progressed and an NBA basketball game entertained people who lingered. “I need to go home,” Lindsey told Sloan from the lounger where she’d remained all evening. “Don’t bother Cole. He still has guests. Just run me and Toby to our house. That’s why I drove us over in my car for the party. I knew I’d poop out. You can come right back.”

  Even in the dim light Sloan could see beads of sweat on Lindsey’s forehead. Sloan’s stomach tightened. “There’s no way I’m not telling Cole.” She found him and Toby watching the game. The four of them slipped from the house, and Cole settled Lindsey in the front passenger seat of her car. “I’ll drive,” Sloan said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Stay with your guests.”

  “They’ll never miss me.”

  “Go!” Lindsey said, giving him a verbal nudge. “Gloria will be home in an hour.”

  Sloan’s stomach was in knots. “I’ll stay there and text you once Gloria arrives.”

  Toby leaned over from the backseat, put his small hands on Lindsey’s shoulders. “I’ll help Sloan, Cole. I know what to do.”

  Cole watched the car back out, turn left onto the road, and drive the quarter mile to Lindsey’s driveway, where Sloan parked and the trio went inside. Yet even then, he didn’t return to his party flowing with music, laughter, and TV game noises. Seeing Sloan tonight had been unexpected and pulse pounding. He kept reliving his missed opportunity on that other night, when moonbeams had bathed her upturned face inches from his own. He’d kicked himself mentally many times for not kissing her when he’d wanted to so badly. Instead he had choked, lost the chance, which had left him to wish he could rewind time to those lost moments and, instead of backing off, taste her beautiful lips.

  Cole shoved his hands into his pockets, gazed up at the night sky, and took deep breaths of air, where the scent of smoke from the grill floated. Stars were sprinkled across the black canopy, tiny pinpricks of light from journeys begun before Earth’s creation. Sloan was a star too…a beam of light just beginning its journey but destined to cross the sky in a brilliant arc. And how did an ordinary man like himself catch a shooting star?

  Cole shook away his introspection, along with his foolish longings, and jogged up the stairs of the deck to return to a world where he belonged.

  Once inside Lindsey’s home, Sloan felt her nerves fraying. What had she agreed to? She knew nothing about helping Lindsey. What kind of care did a cancer patient need? “Sit yourself on the sofa,” Lindsey said, motioning to the old couch.

  “But isn’t there something you want me to do?”

  “Just having you in my home is all I need. Gloria should be home soon, and Toby knows what to do for me.” Lindsey turned to her son. “Now, you go take a shower, ’cause you smell like gym socks.”

  “We won!” Toby pumped his fist in the air.

  “No gloating.” His mother tousled his hair.

  “Aw, Mom…”

  “Shower!” She pointed, and he scampered off. “And use shampoo and soap!” she called, glancing at Sloan with an amused smile. “Sometimes a mama has to remind a six-year-old of washing rituals.”

  Sloan still stood because Lindsey looked so tired and frail. Sloan feared she might collapse. “Let me do something for you. Please.”

  Lindsey hesitated, then said, “Maybe help me get into my sleep shirt. By then Toby will be out and he can take over.”

  Sloan did as asked, undressing Lindsey, consciously ignoring pale and bruised skin, jutting hip bones, the port for administering chemo in her chest, and her bloated abdomen. She eased Lindsey into a long nightshirt and onto the bed, propping her back with a few pillows when she aske
d. The process had caused Lindsey pain, making Sloan feel guilty. “You all right?”

  “Let’s not talk about me—too boring.” Lindsey patted a spot beside herself on the bed, and Sloan sat. “I saw the way you and Cole worked at avoiding each other all night. What was that all about?”

  “We spoke.”

  “For all of ten minutes when I asked for a soda. I know you two see something special in each other, but you’re both fighting it. Whatever for?”

  “Are you a matchmaker? I can go to any online site if I want a date.” She smiled to brighten the serious look on Lindsey’s face.

  “He is a good man, Sloan, in a world where good men can be few and far between. Believe me, I know quality when I see it, and Cole is quality. Don’t you like him?”

  Lindsey’s earnestness stopped Sloan cold. She’d never had a best friend with whom to share her secrets, her crushes, her good times and bad times. For Sloan, growing up had never been about confiding or belonging—it had been about keeping secrets and surviving. Lindsey’s best friend, Gloria, had moved across the state to help her, while no one had ever clung to Sloan. Perhaps Dawson had come the closest…but that was over with now. Sloan’s habit was to shut down closeness. Life was safer that way. And hearts were better protected.

  Still she thought Lindsey deserved an honest answer. “I’m not about dating and becoming involved with anyone, Lindsey. Music has always been my life story. It’s all I ever wanted, and now I have a shot at the brass ring. Can’t let anything or anyone hold me back.” She offered a wistful grin. “Not even a good man.”

  “So you’ll never fall in love?”

  “I won’t say never, but I sure don’t have time for it now. Besides…love is complicated. Who needs the pressure? Music is the one thing that’s never let me down.”

  “Well, that song you wrote sure made it sound like you understood what it is to love someone.”

  She couldn’t discuss, wouldn’t discuss, the song with anyone. She deflected with a comeback question. “Were you in love with your ex-husband when you married?”