He reached up for her wrist and dragged her hand down, freeing his mouth. He held her hand over his hurting heart as they drank each other in, saying good-bye with their eyes and realizing no other ending was possible. “Yes,” he whispered sadly. “We both agreed.”
When they kissed she was crying and his chest hurt so badly he felt as if he had broken a rib.
The kiss was bittersweet, and when it ended the embrace continued for several more heartbeats.
“Watch after Momma,” she whispered.
“I will,” he whispered back.
Then she withdrew, letting her palms slide down his arms until only their fingertips touched. They each tried smiling, doing terrible jobs of it.
“ ‘Bye,” she whispered.
“ ‘Bye,” he mouthed, his voice failing at last.
She took a step back and the contact broke, leaving his arms outstretched before they fell uselessly to his sides.
She opened his office door and looked back at him one more time before walking out of his life, back to her own.
She reached Nashville at a quarter to five, exited I-40 and wound her way toward Music Row, southeast of down-town. Home could wait. Right now she needed an infusion of what she had missed, the vitality and energy flowing from those twelve square blocks south of Division Street where the business of record producing created the heartbeat of Music City. As if its lifeblood seeped into her own and powered her, she felt invigorated as she approached her office. At the foot of Demonbreun a larger-than-life-sized likeness of Randy Travis welcomed her from a red-brick wall. Tourists moved in and out of souvenir shops and climbed the ramp into the Country Music Hall of Fame. In front of Sony’s offices a sign promoted Mary Chapin Carpenter’s latest album. MCA lauded Vince Gill’s. Along Music Square East and West, headquarters of industry-related businesses lined both sides of the street—law firms, recording studios, video production companies, music publishing companies, ASCAP and BMI, who tracked radio usage and collected royalties, booking agencies, offices of various record labels, offices of America’s best-known country recording artists, and restaurants where number-one parties were thrown for the most successful.
Her own office was located in a century-old Victorian house on Music Square West, a three-story monstrosity painted several shades of yellow with a parking lot shaded by four huge basswood trees that were nearly as old as the house itself. Out front on a wooden signpost, an oval brass plaque announced, simply, Wintergreen Enterprises. She had chosen the name to remind herself of how far she’d come from that little burg in Missouri to the top of the country charts and her place as a respected businesswoman in an industry that for decades had been dominated by men. Under the umbrella of Wintergreen Enterprises fell several individually successful companies that had each been born out of necessity or common sense. Her music-publishing company came about when she realized how many talented writers were approaching her to sing their songs, many of which had neither been copyrighted nor published yet. She figured, Why pay another publishing company royalties on her records when she could be collecting them herself? Her specialty clothing operation created custom-designed concert costumes not only for herself but for other recording artists as well. Five years ago when she’d run into a scheduling snag and been kept on tenterhooks not knowing if her posters and buttons would be made in time for one of her concerts, she had purchased a small printing company that created posters, buttons, fan club newsletters and concert programs for her, and did some highly profitable contract work for other performers as well. There was also the small fleet of jets she used and leased to others.
All of this remained secondary, however, to the phenomenally successful operation that kept Tess McPhail on top of the country charts. That operation scheduled roughly a hundred and twenty concert dates a year and provided the essential organizational force allowing her to coproduce her own albums and videos, act as talent in those videos, do publicity, keep contact with fan clubs in every major city of America, and pay the salaries of over fifty permanent employees required to keep such a behemoth operational.
And Tess McPhail oversaw every aspect of it herself.
When she walked into Wintergreen Enterprises, she walked into the hub of her success.
Physical coolness struck her full force when she opened the back door and stepped from the private rear entry through the kitchen that was now used as a copy room and canteen. She passed the former servants’ stairway, the one she commonly used to reach her second-floor office, and heard the hum of various conversations as she entered the central hall. The walls throughout the house were cream, the floors were hardwood, and the windows shuttered in white to hold back Nashville’s intense summer heat. Country music played softly on a built-in sound system as she entered the main hall where oversized reproductions of her album covers trimmed the walls.
Her receptionist sat at a desk with her back to the ornate stairwell, her blond hair twisted up high in back but left to trail to her shoulders from the temple.
“Hey, Jan, I’m back.”
Jan Nash swiveled her chair slowly and broke into a smile. She was in her mid-thirties, pretty as a Barbie doll and shaped like one. Jan looked smashing in a black scuba dress, her makeup fresh and flattering, silver loops at her ears. She rolled back her chair without hurry and rose in black high-heeled boots.
“Hey, Mac, welcome back. We sure missed you.” She had a pronounced Southern drawl that made “you” sound like “yeeuuu.”
“Thanks, Jan. It feels great to walk in here. I can’t wait to get back to work.”
“Sorry to hear about Papa John.”
“Isn’t it awful?”
Others heard Tess’s voice and came out of the various downstairs offices to offer much the same greeting. Soon Tess moved on to her own office upstairs. It occupied the entire width of the rear, which faced east and enjoyed the dappled green shade from the basswoods outside. In a smaller adjoining office Kelly Mendoza was talking on the phone, and turned to smile when she saw her boss approaching through the connecting doorway. Kelly was Cu ban, twenty-nine, five feet eight and regal, with a mass of long black hair as shiny as spilled ink, worn today in an explosion of ringlets. Her jet eyes tilted up at the corners and her skin was smooth and dark as a pecan shell. She was dressed in a silk suit the color of green tea with a multicolored silk scarf caught under the collar.
“Mac … welcome back.”
“It’s good to be here.”
After seven years of working together, the two women hugged, but not for long. They both were geared to accomplish more in a single workday than most people accomplish in two.
Kelly said, “I’m sorry about Papa John.”
“We all are. Do you have details about the memorial service?”
“Tomorrow morning, eleven A.M. at the Ryman, singers gathering one hour beforehand for a brief rehearsal.”
“Good. What else?”
“I’ve sent flowers in your name, as well as some from Wintergreen Enterprises, but you’ll want to sign the sympathy card on your desk. Burt Sheer called three times since lunch and Jack wants you to call him the minute you get in. He’s got studio time scheduled for Wednesday and wants to talk to you about who you want for backup singers. Peter Steinberg got a call from Disney World asking if you’d be interested in them doing a Tess McPhail Day sometime next year—short performance, be in the parade on Main Street U.S.A., do an autographing—that sort of thing. He wants you to call him. Cathy Mack has five dress designs she wants you to look at and Ralph wants to start concert rehearsals as soon as you feel like your head is above water.”
Kelly went with Tess into her office, indicating the stacks of correspondence on the console beside her desk. “There are notes on everything I’ve told you. This stack needs immediate attention, this stack could wait a couple of days, and this one I’ve already seen to. Oh, one other thing—and this one isn’t good—Carla’s got an appointment with a throat specialist. That problem with her voice
is still hanging on.”
Concern crimped Tess’s brow. Carla not only sang backup on some of her recordings, she was also supposed to go on this tour.
“Still?”
Kelly nodded solemnly.
“Is it worse?”
“Not worse, just the same. But she’s worried, I can tell.”
“No wonder. It’s been bothering her for at least six months.”
“Closer to a year, she said.”
The phone chirped softly, and Kelly picked it up at Tess’s desk.
“It’s Burt.” Kelly handed the receiver to Tess and returned to her own office, giving Tess privacy.
“Hi, Burt,” Tess said, dropping into her familiar leather chair.
“You’re back. Figured you would be when I heard about Papa John. Hey, I’m really sorry, Tess.”
They talked for a while, then Burt said, “I really missed you, babe.”
His voice raised within her none of the longing that it had when he’d called her in Wintergreen, before she’d kissed the man across the alley. Though they were supposed to have a date that week, she canceled it, using her sadness over Papa John as an excuse. Whatever feelings she’d had for Burt Sheer had been dulled by the memories she now carried of Kenny Kronek.
But it became clear to Tess within an hour of her return that she was right about Kenny’s place in her life. There was none. Though at times over the past four weeks she’d questioned where she belonged, she had merely to face catching up with business to understand that her place here was fixed. She belonged here in Nashville—absolutely—where her career continued to click along even during her absence, where her staff knew her needs even before she could voice them, and where her future was already mapped out.
The latest Gavin Report sat on her desk, faceup, and beneath it Billboard, and Radio & Record. Her next single would be released in mid-June and another one in August (hopefully the one she and Casey hadn’t even recorded yet!) before the September release of the new CD. It was expected to go platinum, maybe double platinum—four million fans waiting to buy her songs. The producer of the Super Bowl halftime show wanted to know if she’d headline a year and a half from now. Her major sponsor, Wrangler, called to set up a photo session in some place called the San Bias Islands, where they proposed to photograph her in a pair of their jeans in the surf. They wanted the ad campaign to hit the newsstands at the same time her new CD hit the stores. And Nissan had somehow found out she owned one of their products and wanted to discuss the possibility of a contract for television commercials.
There was no place in her life for a man.
Nevertheless, if one in particular phoned, she didn’t want to miss his call.
“Kelly?”
“Yes?” Kelly appeared in the open doorway.
“Phone calls from either Casey Kronek or Kenny Kronek are to be put through to me immediately, no matter what’s going on, and if I’m not here, make sure I get the message as soon as possible, okay?”
“Will do.”
“Casey is a graduating senior from my hometown who’ll be staying with me for a while in June. She’s going to do the harmonies on one of my songs.”
“Lucky girl,” Kelly remarked.
“Talented girl,” Tess replied. “She helped me write it.”
“Wow.” Quiet surprise lit Kelly’s face and made it even more attractive. Without asking questions, she returned to her desk and made a note of the names, amazing Tess again not only with her proficiency, but with her ability to keep her nose out of Tess’s personal business. In Tess’s line of work, this kind of tactfulness was invaluable.
Tess worked till eight o’clock, discovering, to her surprise, that after a month at her mother’s, her body clock demanded supper at six. She ignored the hunger pangs until she could no more, and by the time she was heading home her stomach ached. But she bypassed fast food in favor of familiar surroundings and pointed the car southwest.
She lived in the city of Brentwood, in a subdivision called Woodway. It was announced by a lavish brick entrance surrounded by sculptured shrubbery and flowers of red, white and blue on either side of the gilded sign.
As Tess neared home she lowered the windows on the Z and breathed in the warm, humid southern air, something she would not have thought of doing a month ago when she drove out of here. A month ago she would have sped up the road with her tinted windows up and noticed little of her surroundings.
Tonight she noticed … and appreciated.
It was one of those evenings when twilight refuses to hurry, and as her car climbed up Heathrow Boulevard, the oaks and elms spread like black chapel veils against a butter-yellow sky that thickened to peach at the tree-caps. In front of the house two doors from hers, Mr. Ruddy had just finished waxing his classic ‘68 Corvette. He waved as she passed, but she encountered him so seldom that she didn’t even know his first name. She thought he worked at NationsBank but wasn’t sure. Two boys came coasting down the hill on bicycles, and she waited for them to pass her driveway before pulling in. It struck her that she knew neither of the boys; knew, in fact, no children in the neighborhood, or any of the homeowners.
She couldn’t help recalling Mrs. Perry reminiscing at the wedding reception about how Tess, as a little girl, had come to her door asking for English toffee. She thought of the view out her mother’s kitchen window and how she herself had watched the comings and goings at the house across the alley.
So different here. So isolated by success.
Her towering living room windows faced the street, and through them Tess saw that Maria had left a lamp on. The garage door rolled up at the touch of a button, and Tess noted, to her surprise, that Maria’s little blue station wagon was still inside. She hauled her duffel bag and a green suitcase through the back entry, calling, “Maria, are you still here?”
“Miss Mac, welcome home!” Maria was in the kitchen, topping off the water in a bouquet of red zinnias that sat in the middle of the the table.
Tess dropped her gear. “Lord o’ mercy, what are you still doing here?”
“Waiting for you. Nobody likes to come home to an empty house.”
“But I always come home to an empty house.”
“Not after you’ve been gone this long. I’ll take your bags upstairs, Miss Mac.”
“Thanks, Maria, but I can do it myself.”
“Nonsense. Give me that.”
Maria was Mexican, in her fifties, spindle-legged and bantam-sized. Her hair was streaky gray and held back in an unceremonious French roll. Though she looked about as strong as a ten-year-old boy, she had no trouble wresting the suitcase out of Tess’s hand.
“All right, then, we’ll each take one,” Tess conceded, hauling the duffel bag herself. “But your family will be expecting you.”
“I told them I might be late. I didn’t know what time you’d get in. How is your momma?”
“She’s doing very well, walking with a cane, getting happy on wine at weddings.”
“And your sisters?”
“They’re fine. I saw them a lot while I was gone. Maria, thank you for staying.”
Maria flapped a hand as if no thanks were needed, and the pair climbed an open, flying stairway that curved up to the second story, where a C-shaped landing overlooked the living room. The guest suites lay straight ahead and to the right. Tess turned left through double doors into her own bedroom suite. Unlike at Mary’s, everything here was new, bright, coordinated, all the decorating done in neutrals with only touches of pastel color here and there.
Maria had made sure lamps were lit everywhere, and Tess paused to let her eyes wander over the black metal crown bed with its canopy frame looped with yards of white gauze that trailed on the floor at the four corners. Other than that gauze and some throw pillows on the bed, the decorating was spare the windows were naked, the walls ivory, the carpet and sofa white. Double doors—closed tonight—led to a balcony overlooking the pool.
Tess dropped her bag onto an upholstered
bench at the foot of the bed, and there beside it stood her brand new M. L. Leddy boots. They were made of green ostrich skin and brought a smile—everything perfect here, so different than at Mary’s. Everything seen to for her.
She sat on the bench to try on the boots.
Maria said, “I saved the box in case they have to be sent back.” She went around the room lowering white pleated shades.
“Thanks, Maria.”
“You want me to help you unpack?”
“No thanks, tomorrow will be time enough. You can go home now.”
“I’ll go home when I think I should,” the woman said with her back turned as she headed downstairs again. Tess smiled and took a walk across her bedroom to the white marble bath/dressing room, sampling the fit of the new boots, smiling at the bud vase with a single peach-colored rose that Maria had put on the vanity, the fresh salmon-colored towels on the racks, her favorite robe lying on a bench in the corner. Though she was used to living alone, she was remarkably happy to have the garrulous house-keeper here tonight to make some noise around the place and create a welcome. She went back through her bedroom to the central balcony and stood looking down into the living room. It had sixteen-foot ceilings and was decorated in tones of white ranging from snow to oyster with only a touch of peach in the furniture. A cream-colored grand piano—one of two in the house—stood at the foot of the immense front windows. A white-brick fireplace on the left was flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A giant slab of glass resting on two short white plaster columns created the coffee table between two sofas that faced each other at a right angle to the fireplace.
It was as different from the houses in Wintergreen as Picasso is from Renoir. The contrast struck her fully, and for only a second, left a faint emptiness.
Leaning over the railing, she called, “Hey, Maria, anybody call?”
“No,” Maria shouted back from the depths of the kitchen, “just Miss Kelly this afternoon to let me know you got in.”
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