A Nashville Collection (15 page)

“I don't know.” The card is still in my hand, gripping the wheel. The front is his business information, but on the back is a handwritten note. “Meet me at Faith Community Church, Hillsboro Drive, Sunday morning, 10:30, don't be late. Lee.”

They had to hear us squealing down in Freedom, Alabama.

13

Thursday morning before the rooster crows, I drive down
Demonbreun. Five a.m. is an insane hour to think of cleaning toilets and mopping floors.

Half asleep and new to downtown, I turn onto 4th Avenue North going the wrong way. So I cut down another street— Printer's Alley, I think—and end up going the wrong way on 3rd.

Headlights flash. A car horn blares. I swerve left and careen over the sidewalk. Holy smokes. Downtown Nashville is dangerous at five a.m.

I'm awake now. The car horn continues to blow as it passes. A little vehicular swearing. “Yeah, I hear you. I'm new in town. Cut me some slack.”

Tossing up a few flare prayers, I manage to get on the right street in the right direction, and it's
only
five-fifteen when I arrive at First Bank, my first job for Lewis Cleaning Co.

My trainer waits for me outside The Plaza office complex. “Glad you could make it,” she says, sizing me up.

“Got lost.” It's too early to say more, and I'm still a little shaken from being cussed out by a driver.

She grins. “Guess downtown is kind of confusing. Marty Schultz.”

“Robin McAfee.”

Marty unlocks the front door and punches in the security code. “Marc says you're a songwriter.”

“Yep.”

She motions to a cleaning cart and a portable vac pack. “Just what this town needs—another songwriter.”

Just what I need—another skeptic.

She leads me toward the reception area, rattling off the rules of cleaning and how Marc likes things done. “He's a bit anal, so beware.” Marty plops down on a crushed suede chair. “But before we get started—” she reaches down for a Starbucks bag “—coffee and a danish.”

“Oh, bless you.” I grip the tall cup with both hands.

“I figured you'd forget to eat breakfast on your first day.”

She figured right. I wolf down my danish while Marty nibbles at hers.

“I was a songwriter,” she says without looking at me. She picks icing bits from her danish with the well-worn tip of her thumbnail. “And the front woman for the little-known Delaney Brown Band.”

The last bite of my danish is stuck on my teeth as I repeat, “Delaney Brown Band?”

“Yep, and today I sniff Clorox.” Marty drops her barely eaten danish into the Starbucks bag. “I spent two years putting the band together, and we were this close to signing a deal . . .” She pinches her thumb and finger together. “But my dad died unexpectedly, and my mom fell apart. I went home to take care of her.”

“I'm sorry.” Her true confession is doing more to combat my sleepiness than the caffeine.

She shrugs as if it doesn't matter. “I spent a year in Arkansas taking care of Mom and all the loose ends that go with an old-fashioned couple where
he
took care of everything and
she
took care of him. Selling Dad's business took twice as long as I planned, so the band found a new label and a new lead singer. Marty Schultz became a, ‘Huh? Who?'”

She peers right into my eyes as if willing me to share the load of her disappointment. “They recorded my songs, since they were technically—” she air quotes “technically”—“Delaney Brown songs. Last year they won a Grammy for best new country group and the CMA Horizon Award.”

I modulate my tone so I sound like it's no big deal the band moved on without her. “Yeah, I read something about them winning a few awards.”

“A few?” She swigs from her coffee cup. “Never mind. Let's get to work.”

I fumble with my vac pack. “So you gave up?”

She stops at the first office. “Yep.”

“Why? You must know people. Surely they know you wrote the lion's share of the band's hits.”

She slaps her hand over her heart and tips back her head. “Ah, the innocence of a new hopeful.”

“At least I'm determined and trying.” I crash the vac pack against the door frame as we go in the first office.

Marty whirls around, her expression fierce. “I owned ‘determined' for fifteen years. Don't—” She stops. “Here's the cleaning routine.”

Sunday morning, I sit in the back of Faith Community Church,
alone, jotting notes in my little black notebook.

Song about being new to a town. Lonely, homesick feelings.
Missing my family and friends. Can't go home again. Made the
break, can't undo my freedom.

“Hum. Maybe.”

Song about crazy cousin.

Song about waiting. Will he come? Is he the one I'll love?
The one with eyes the color of shallow southern seas?

The worship leader is on stage with her guitar, and the folks milling around in the aisles slide into their seats. “Welcome,” she says, beginning to play, “to the Faith Community. For those of you who don't know, I'm Rebekah Gunter.”

With the rest of the congregation, I stand, craning over my shoulder for a shot of Lee. Still no sign. Where is he?

The opening song is about the beauty of God, so I close my eyes and enter into the truth of the lyrics, loosening my grip on my notebook.

“Sorry I'm late.” Lee's baritone voice whispers in my ear. His woodsy cologne scents the air around me.

Without opening my eyes, I say, “You had me thinking I was stood up.”

“Stood up? Who do you think I am?”

John Wayne.

As he brushes past me, his hand touches mine, and electric tingles shoot up my arm. My notebook slips from my fingers. As it tumbles forward, Lee snatches it in midair.

“I think this belongs to you.”

Shawn Bolz, the pastor, preaches with passion about God's
love, then calls us to stand for the closing prayer. Lee takes my hand as if he's done it a thousand times before, and I let him.

When Shawn says amen, Lee smiles down at me. “You thought I stood you up?”

“You were late.” I relax my fingers so he can let go of my hand if he wants. He doesn't.

“My clock stopped in the middle of the night,” Lee explains, waving to Shawn as we join the herd heading for the door.

“‘My clocked stopped'? That's your best excuse?”

He squeezes my fingers. “It's the truth. Good morning, Mrs. Ferguson, this is Robin McAfee.” Lee introduces me like it's a privilege.

“Lee, sugar, wait up.” An older woman with flaming red hair and tight gray slacks shuffles our way.

“Oops, it's Miss Millie.” Lee shoves me out the door. “Sorry, but I have to run. I'll call you tomorrow about the remodel.”

He drags me down the front steps.

“Whoa, where's the fire?”

He holds onto my arm. “Miss Millie wants me to date her niece.”

“I see.” I laugh and hurry to keep up with his long, quick stride.

“Here we are.” He stops by my truck. “
Freedom's Song
.” He smoothes his hand over Ricky's airbrushed inscription.

“Yep, here we are at
Freedom's Song
.” Is this it? Please don't say good-bye.

“Do you have lunch plans?” Lee crosses his arms and falls against the tailgate.

“What do you have in mind?” I grin up at him. Being in church makes me feel bold.

He steps around and opens my truck door. “You game?”

“For what?” I slip in behind the wheel.

“Follow me.”

Lee takes me to Centennial Park.

“That's an exact replica of the Parthenon,” he says, pointing to a large stone building looming on the green lawn.

“How amazing.” A replica of ancient Greece right here in Nashville. I smooth my hand along the thick stone column and imagine Greek philosophers pacing the portico.

Lee grabs my hand. “Come on. This isn't why we came here.” He leads me down a grassy knoll and stops under the shade of a seasoned oak, where he pops a blanket open and spreads it over the grass. We sit. The spring air is sweet and weighted with shouting and laughter. Across the way, two guys and two girls with Greek letters on their T-shirts toss a Frisbee.

“What are we doing?” I don't really care. In the span of one church service, I've discovered the pleasure of Lee's company.

“A picnic.”

Okay, Lord, let's talk. How much for the ruggedly handsome carpenter?

Lee claps his hands together. “Beef or chicken?”

“What?”

“Come on, I'm hungry. Beef or chicken?”

I smirk. “Beef.”

“Large or small?”

“Large, naturally.”

“Diet or regular?” he asks.

“Regular.”

Lee dashes off, hops a low stone wall, crosses busy West End Avenue, and runs into Wendy's. I fall back on the blanket, laughing.

A few minutes later, he jogs back, his church tie askew and his white shirt collar open. He drops to his knees, huffing and puffing.

“You're a nut,” I say.

He holds out a food bag. “Your feast.”

As I reach for the bag, our hands touch, and I swear it's like a spark of electricity between us. Our eyes meet. Then, as if there's a blip in the time-space continuum, I feel as if Lee and I are the only two people on earth.

He leans. I pucker.

“One Wendy's hamburger, large fry, and a regular Coke.” He rattles the bag under my nose. “Here, take it while it's hot.”

I unpucker. “Thanks.” The world comes back into focus as Lee digs in his bag for his sandwich and fries. I unwrap my burger, feeling like an idiot.

“So, what do you have? A sister? Brother? Couple of dogs?”

Since my teeth are stuck in my burger, I nod. “Both,” I say after chewing and swallowing. “And you?”

“Two brothers, no dogs.” He also tells me he's thirty and a Yankee from New
Joisy
, which I'll overlook for now.

I'm mid chomp on a fry when Lee scoots close and points to my nose. “I like your freckles.”

With a gulp, I swallow. “You can have them if you want.”

“Great, and I'll keep them right where they are.” He smiles with a wink. Every time he does that, my insides melt and run all over. And I have this bizarre urge to kiss him.

“Thanks for coming on my little picnic.” He grabs the Wendy's wrappers and stuffs them into the bag, then flops back on the blanket, locking his hands behind his head. “Don't you love days like this?”

“Y-yes, it's a beautiful day.” My eyes keep wandering to his lips. Are they as soft as they look? This is nuts. Lord, help. I feel suspended in midair without a net.

He rises up on his elbows. “I know a great place for ice cream. Want to try it out?” He hops up and walks over to the trash barrel with the wadded Wendy's bag.

“Ice cream sounds good.” I fall back on the blanket, grasping for my bearings. Lee Rivers and his sultry magic.

“Let's go,” he says, tugging on the edge of the blanket. “Ice cream is calling.”

“Okay, okay.” But before I can smooth my skirt and get up without flashing the Frisbee players, Lee jerks on the blanket's edge and shoots me down a sloping knoll like a human log, rolling over and over. Face down, face up, face down, face up.

I scream, “Leeeeeeeee!” while his laughter trails behind me.

At McDonald's, Lee hands me an ice cream cone without look-
ing me in the eye. “Here you go,” he says with a dull snort.

I look at my shoes and force out a thank you.

“Let's go sit on my tailgate.”

“Nice ice cream place, Lee,” I say, motioning toward McDonald's while the image of me rolling down the hill yelling, “Leeeeee”—continues to burn in my brain. A snicker leaks out.

“Thanks.” He clears his throat and then adds in a low, wispy voice, “Leeeeee!”

We fall against the tailgate, hooting, our ice cream melting down the sides of our cones.

“Man, that was funny.” I wipe my eyes.

“I never expected it.” He looks down at me. “I like you.”

My stomach cartwheels.

We finish our cones and wipe our hands on the Armor All wipes Lee carries in his truck. “Can you believe it's four o'clock?”

“Really?” I flip my wrist over to see my watch. Time flies.

“I didn't mean to hijack your day.”

Hijack my day? “You made my first Sunday in Nashville very special.”

“I had a great time.” He walks with me to my truck.

Every molecule in my body is still curious about the taste of his kiss. Warm? Sloppy? Firm? Sweet? Or like Ricky, all about himself?

“Here we are.” He pulls me into his arms.

My brain sends a signal to my lips. Pucker up. This is where my questions are answered. I lift my face. “Here we are.”

He picks me up and whirls me around so that my feet fly behind me like maypole ribbons. “I had a great time.”

Oh, swirly whirly. “Me too.” He takes my breath away. “Thanks for inviting me.”

He sets me down and backs away without so much as a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for joining me.” I watch him head over and open his truck door, then turn.

“Oh, say, Robin,” he calls.

“Yeah?” I step forward.

“Do you know how to get to Birdie's from here?”

My shoulders droop. “Over there.” I point in the general direction of my new home.

He pats the bed of his truck and waves. “You got it. See you.”

When I arrive home, the house is quiet. “Birdie?”

I jog up the stairs, unraveling my thoughts from the dash and smash of Lee Rivers. The afternoon had all the elements of a great love song. Spontaneity. Chemistry. Blue skies. The
almost
kiss.