“Nobody named Casey?”
“No.”
“Casey Kronek?”
“No.”
“Anyone named Kenny?”
“No.”
“Oh,” Tess said softly to herself, disappointed. She raised her voice and bent over the rail again. “If either one of them calls—whenever—you’re to put them through to me immediately. Casey or Kenny Kronek—got that?”
“Got that, Miss Mac.”
Like Kelly, Maria knew how to keep Tess’s personal life personal. She did her job, refrained from gossip and didn’t ask what was none of her business. If she garnered inside information during the general day-to-day activities around the house she treated it all as confidential. At Christmastime she got a bonus that many executives would envy.
Upstairs, Tess washed her face, stripped off her jeans and put on a one-piece cotton lounger, then returned to the kitchen, a tile-floored room with copper pans hanging over an island stove, and French doors set into a bay that jutted into a screened porch. Without a word of instruction, Maria had set out a Caesar salad topped with grilled Cajun chicken, a cobalt-blue goblet of water, a smaller goblet of skim milk and an inviting plate of fresh fruit. It waited on a blue placemat on the distressed pine table where Tess ate her informal meals. In the center of the table was the pitcher full of zinnias, more than likely picked from Maria’s own garden.
“Maria, bless your soul,” Tess said, sitting down immediately and stabbing a forkful of crisp romaine.
“Looks like you put on a couple extra pounds,” the housekeeper noted. “I’ll get you back in shape in no time.
I pressed your midnight blue suit for the memorial service tomorrow. Too bad about Papa John.”
“Thank you, Maria. Now will you please go home?”
“Yes, Miss Mac, I believe I will. You can put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher when you finish.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
Maria found her sweater and purse. “Well, good night, then. It’s nice to have you back. There’s fresh-squeezed orange juice in the fridge and bagels in the drawer for morning.”
“Thanks again, Maria.”
When the back door closed and the garage door quit rumbling, Tess was left in silence. She stopped chewing and listened to the hum of the refrigerator. She glanced at the copper pans above the stove, at the uncluttered cabinet tops—perfect order everywhere—and sat motionless in her chair, experiencing nine-thirty on a weeknight in a 1.4-million-dollar house big enough for eight but built for only one. She had resisted building it, but her accountant had advised her she needed to diversify her investments, and since real estate would appreciate, why not have the comforts of a nice house at the same time that her money was growing? She had bought the first jet by then so she could be home more nights, even during concert season, and she’d thought, why not?
But as she rinsed her plate and put it in the dishwasher she wished for her small apartment up on Belmont Boulevard where she could hear the owners’ television through the floor and the occasional sound of voices drifting up from an open window.
She turned out the lights downstairs and went up to take a whirlpool bath in the marble tub that could easily hold two but never had. While she was sitting in it with the jets on, the phones rang—seven of them, all over the house—and she answered the one on the wall at the foot of the tub.
“Hello?” she said, killing the jets.
“Hi, Mac, it’s me, Casey.”
“Oh, Casey, it’s good to hear your voice!” Joy sluiced through her, coupled with the realization of how lonely she’d been. “Hold on just a minute, will you?”
She got out of the tub, wrapped herself head and body in thick white terry, and transferred to the bedside phone, tossing five assorted pillows onto the floor and sitting back against two big square European jobs with custom cases.
“Casey? I’m back. Listen, hon, I’m sorry I had to leave Wintergreen so suddenly without telling you.”
“It’s okay. Dad told me about your friend. I’m sure sorry, Mac.”
“I won’t be brave and pretend he wasn’t important to me, because he was.”
“I know. Dad told me you were crying.”
“Yes, well …” She’d been crying not only for the loss of Papa John, but because she was leaving Kenny. “It’s good to be back and keeping busy. It takes my mind off things.”
“You still working?”
“No, I’m done for the day. I just had supper and took a bath.”
“I hope it’s okay that I called there … at your house, I mean.”
“Of course.”
“I know it’s your unlisted number and everything, but Dad said—”
“It’s fine, Casey, anytime. I told both Maria and Kelly that they’re to put you through anytime.”
“Great. Well, listen, I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. I can’t wait for June. Now Dad wants to say something … talk to you soon. ‘Bye, Mac.”
Before she could prepare for the impact of his voice it came across the wire, subdued, hushed, somewhat thick-throated like his good-bye that morning.
“Hi,” he said, nothing more, only the single, lonesome word. It filled her heart with an amazing rush of emotion as she sat in her big empty house missing him, wishing she could see his face, touch it, talk, laugh, maybe ride out to Dexter Hickey’s and scratch some horses’ noses.
“Hi,” she managed at last, feeling her senses reaching out to him even from two hundred fifty miles away. Seconds passed while neither of them spoke, only pictured themselves as they’d been in his office, kissing good-bye.
Finally he said, “You got home okay?”
“Yes, just fine.”
“I worried about you.”
There were men who worried about her daily—her producer, her business manager, her agent—but they were paid to. Nobody paid Kenny Kronek to worry about her. The very notion brought pressure to her throat and lowered an anvil to her chest.
“You mustn’t worry about me, Kenny.”
“You were crying.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. Why won’t you admit it?”
“All right, I was, but not for long. I put a tape on and just drove it out of my system.”
“Drove what out of your system?”
“You,” she admitted. At the other end of the line she heard only his breathing, and thought how pointless this was. “Is that what you wanted to hear, Kenny?”
No reply came, only the electronic hum of the phone, and finally, the sound of Kenny clearing his throat. “I’m shuffling around here looking out the back window at your mother’s house and it seems like I should be able to walk over there and knock on the door and you’ll answer.”
“Kenny, that’s never going to happen, not … not like it did this past month.”
“I know,” he said, so quiet and forlorn she could almost picture his chin on his chest.
“It was a fling at a wedding, nothing more. We agreed, remember?”
“Yeah …” He cleared his throat again. “Yeah, right. We agreed.”
Yet another silence crawled by, filled with useless wishes.
“Well, listen … I’m bushed, and tomorrow’s going to be rough, so I’d better say good night.”
“Sure …” he said. “Well, take care. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. Tell Casey good night.”
“I will.”
“Are Momma’s lights still on?”
“No. It’s dark over there.”
She smiled. And closed her eyes. And realized there were tears on her lashes. “I forgot to call her and tell her I got here okay.”
“I’ll tell her in the morning before I go to work.”
“Thanks, Kenny.” Dear Kenny, always concerned about Mary.
“Sure. Well … sleep tight, Tess.”
“You, too.”
When she’d hung up she remained on the bed, heart-heavy,
the phone on her stomach, her ankles crossed, still wrapped in her white terry robe, aware of her nakedness inside it, and of how much she missed sex, wishing she’d allowed herself to have it with Kenny last Saturday night.
Two tears rolled down and stung the skin beside her nose. She swiped at them with the tail end of her terrycloth belt, and sniffed once, then sat on, staring through a blur at the end of the belt while working it over with a thumbnail. She wondered if Faith had been at Kenny’s house tonight. Had they eaten supper together like a regular little Cleaver family? Had he kissed her hello when she arrived? The thought made Tess angry and depressed by turns. She wondered if he’d call here often—she hadn’t expected him to do so at all—and if he would continue his plaintive pursuit which could not, must not, lead anywhere. She wondered if, when Casey came to Nashville, he would bring her or if she’d drive down alone. (In that rickety pickup truck? No way.) So if he came, and if the opportunity presented itself, would they take this ill-fated affair to bed the way they wanted to?
She sighed, tipped her head back against the wrought-iron headboard and closed her eyes.
There were no answers, of course, only the enormity of her obligations, the silent luxury of her home, and the confusion in her heart.
They laid Papa John to rest but kept his memory alive—Tess McPhail and a list of mourners that read like the Who’s Who of country music: Garth, Reba, Vince, Alan, John Michael and more.
Congregating with her peers, sharing music with them again, even if for so sad a reason, pointed out to Tess that she had been out of the mainstream too long. She was back. She had music to make, work to do, work she loved. She’d better get to it without mooning about Kenny Kronek.
She did exactly that in the days that followed.
On her first full day back in the office she had an intense six-hour meeting with her business manager, Dane Tully, to go over everything that had happened since she’d been away. She met with Ross Hardenberg, Ralph Thornleaf and Amanda Brimhall, respectively her road manager, producer of her upcoming tour and clothing designer to discuss the show in detail before rehearsals began. She went into the studio and recorded the overdub for “Tarnished Gold,” so Jack Greaves could complete the vocal comp of the song, then went back afterward to give her final approval of the finished product. Working with Jack, she chose the background singers and studio musicians for “Old Souls,” the new song by Ivy Britt, and spent a day in the studio recording it. Seven record label executives—from the president down to the vice president of marketing—came by to hear the album in progress. Tess and Jack met with them to discuss jacket photo, jacket design and the release dates of individual singles from the album. Tess explained that they had one more song to record and she wanted it to be the title song—could they wait till they heard it?—because she thought it would make the best video off the entire album. They listened to the rough cut of “Small Town Girl,” the one made in Mary’s living room, and agreed to wait until it was recorded and mixed before deciding on the album title. She and Jack discussed sequencing (the order in which the songs would appear on the album), which everyone considered vital to an album’s success.
Tess met with Sheila Sardyk, the woman who coordinated all of her fan clubs, so Sheila could compose the next newsletter for fans and get it out to club leaders in all the cities around America. She spent two days on the photo shoot, for which a photographer, his assistant, and a stylist were flown in from New York. At the end of the shoot she took them out to dinner.
She had her quarterly meeting with her CPA to project both her income and her quarterly taxes, and to discuss the changing laws regarding payment of contributions into the retirement funds of her employees. She talked with her advisor from Merrill Lynch about long-term investments and the constant shifting and diversification of Wintergreen Enterprise’s financial portfolio.
She received a treatment for a video, which she read and disliked, and called the MCA marketing department with ideas of her own. She did an interview with Good Housekeeping magazine for an article that would run in September, to coincide with the release of her new album. She posed for their photographer for two hours, then played hostess over luncheon with the Good Housekeeping crew at her own home before they flew back to New York.
She signed over three hundred autographs (in six batches) on postcards and publicity photos for fans who had requested them by mail and had sent in their requests through the clubs.
Concert rehearsals began.
On the personal side, she went to the doctor complaining of fatigue. He took a blood count and ordered her to eat more red meat. She received a beautiful letter and card from Mindy Alverson, complimenting her on her singing at the wedding, promising they would not lose touch again, and asking for a luncheon date the next time Tess came to Wintergreen. She answered Mindy’s letter with a handwritten note, accepting the invitation for next November (after the tour ended) and offering free concert tickets anytime Mindy and her husband wanted them, in any city they chose. She lost the five pounds she’d gained in Wintergreen. She made sure she called her mother every other night, and Renee on the weekends. She received a graduation announcement from Casey—she would graduate the Friday night before Memorial Day—and put off answering it, wanting to fly up there and see Momma and Kenny, too, but afraid she couldn’t afford to take the time off.
Burt got back in town and called again, and she finally agreed to go out with him. They met at the Stockyard and sat in one of the small, intimate dining rooms fashioned from yesteryear’s cattle exchange offices. Burt ordered the Cowboy, a hearty beef steak with grilled onions, and Tess ordered the live Maine lobster from the tank up front. They toasted each other with wine, and caught up on each other’s lives, and after dinner went downstairs to the Bull Pen Lounge and danced a couple fast ones to the house band until some tourists who’d been eyeing her finally got up the courage to come over and ask for autographs, then she and Burt left.
At Tess’s house Burt sat down at the piano in the living room and said, “I wrote a song for you. Come here and I’ll sing it.” She sat beside him on the sleek cream-colored bench and watched his blunt fingers move over the keys while he sang a song that would have swelled the hearts of most women. It was called “I Wanna Be There When You Come Home,” and when it ended Burt Sheer took Tess into his arms and lowered his bearded face and kissed her with enough feeling to raise the fine hairs all over her body. But while he did so, she pretended he was Kenny Kronek.
She forced Kenny from her mind, giving the kiss an honest chance, kissing Burt back the way he wanted to be kissed. But the beard, though soft, somehow no longer appealed. And the taste, though pleasant, was not the one she knew. And his beautiful musical accolade, though touching, was eclipsed by the kind deeds of another for her mother, and even for herself.
Burt ran his hand to Tess’s breast and she thought how ideal that the hand played music, like her; that he sang, like her; that he was part of the close Nashville family of musicians, like her. How simple it would be for them to slip into each other’s lives, two who understood the performers’ lifestyle and all its demands and vagaries.
But nothing happened inside Tess. In that visceral, carnal core where sexual abstinence should have created a quick starburst … nothing happened.
She caught his wrist as it descended toward her stomach, and said, “No, Burt.”
He drew back and looked into her eyes. “I thought you wanted it, too.”
“I thought I might, but … I’m sorry.”
He returned his hand to her ribs and said, “The last time we were together I thought this was where we were headed.”
“The last time, maybe. But things happen.”
“Things?”
She took his hand from her ribs and held it, dropping her eyes while the two of them remained side by side on the piano bench.
“You met someone,” he said.
“Sort of.”
He studied her downcast face, then hook
ed both hands over the edge of the bench and hunched his shoulders.
“So is it serious?”
“No.”
“Well, if it’s not serious, then what’s going on here?”
“It’s someone I knew when I was young. Someone from back home. He’s sort of a friend of the family.”
Burt studied her in silence awhile, thoughtful. Then he raised his hands and let them slap his knees. “Well … how can I compete with that? You and I haven’t got a history.”
“I enjoyed supper though, and dancing.”
Paltry crumbs, her words, and they both knew it.
“Well …” He sighed and pushed himself up. “I know when it’s time to make an exit.”
She walked him to the door. Their good-byes were stilted until he took her hand and looked down at it while speaking. “You probably think that every struggling musician who comes along is playing you for how you can boost his career. I just want you to know I’m not one of ‘em.”
And with that he walked out, leaving her to realize that what he’d said was true, and had been for years. Every struggling musician who paid her attention became suspect for exactly the reason he’d cited. Though she’d had a gut feeling Burt’s motives were honorable, how in the world could she tell, when she was worth upward of twenty million dollars? When she could spark a career with little more than a word to the right label executive?
But Kenny had no musical career. He didn’t want her money or her fame or a home in Nashville. He wanted exactly what he had in Wintergreen. He’d told her so, and that’s why she hadn’t called him or answered Casey’s invitation, afraid that he might be the one to answer the phone and she’d get all soft and mushy about him again.
She put off making that call until it absolutely could not be avoided. Casey would graduate on Friday night. At nine on the preceding Tuesday night, Tess was exhausted. She had just finished another hundred signatures and writer’s cramp had set in. She had a bad case of PMS that had given her the disposition of Joan Crawford, and she wasn’t too crazy about the haircut the New York stylist had given her. Kelly had had to leave the office early to go to the dentist, and Tess, forced to do her own dialing and waiting, had been put on hold by a new secretary who forgot her on the line. Shortly after that Carla Niles had called with the news that her regular doctor said there was nothing wrong with her throat, but she still had a raspiness in her voice, so she had set up an appointment with a throat specialist. Until she saw him the rehearsals for the concert were in limbo. Then, to top it all off, Tess had run out to grab a sandwich for supper and on her way she caught the handle of her favorite big gray bag in the car door and it had trailed on the blacktop all the way to the restaurant and gotten rubbed in half. Returning to the office, Tess made the mistake of reading a batch of fan mail in which one letter chewed her out for insulting half the women in the world by using the phrase “just a housewife” in one of her songs. Did she think being a housewife was easy? If so, she should give it a try and find out what real work was!
Small Town Girl Page 27