A Nashville Collection (7 page)

He sighs and wanders off, leaving me to wait and
not
cry.

Then he's back. “Here.” He dangles my keys in front of my face. “I ran into her at Dottie's after I left your place.”

“Dottie's? What did you have to take care of at Dottie's on a Saturday night? You're such a liar, Rick.”

Cranking the engine, I shift into gear. “You know—” What am I doing? There's nothing more to say. “See you, Ricky.” I pop the clutch and careen over the meadow toward the highway.

6

Tuesday morning, my Willaby's uniforms aren't on the floor
where I left them, crumpled and wrinkled, so I go searching.

In the kitchen, Momma's sitting at the table drinking coffee.

“Morning, Momma. You're up early.” I shove open the laundry-room door to find my uniforms washed and pressed, hanging from a dowel rod.

“Couldn't sleep,” she says.

“You didn't have to wash my uniforms, Momma. I've gone to work wrinkled before.”

She raises her mug to her lips. “So I've heard.”

Good grief. Town gossips at it again. They could drive a mad woman mad. I duck behind the laundry room door and change.

When I come out, Momma says, “Coffee's ready if you want.”

I smile. It's killing her not to pour me a cup. “Smells good.” Flopping my robe over the back of a chair, I twist my wet hair up with a scrunchy.

“I can make eggs.” Momma motions to the black iron skillet on the stove top.

“Thanks, but I'll grab a donut from the bakery.” I pick a mug from the mug tree and sweeten my Maxwell House with sugar and cream. When I put the cream back in the fridge, an old note stuck to the door with a magnet catches my eye.

Lose 25 lbs.

The letters are faded by the years of afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window. I touch it lightly with my fingertips.
I wonder if . . .

Momma breaks into my thoughts. “You can't move to Nashville, Robin.”

Here we go. At three-thirty in the morning, no less. “And why not?”

“Your home is here. Freedom.” She gets up to freshen her coffee, stomping the kitchen chair against the hardwood floor.

“That's not a reason.”

“You'll get your heart broke.”

“By who?”

“Music Row. The business. Do you know how many people move to Nashville to write songs, or to become somebody the good Lord never meant for them to be?”

“What'd you do? Powwow with Ricky?”

“And by the way, were you going to tell me you turned down his marriage proposal?”

I glance out the sink window. Twilight has not yet disturbed the darkness. “Seems the town gossips beat me to it.”

“You know I volunteer at the library on Mondays.”

I face her. “Ah, yes, the epicenter of town lore.”

“How do you think it made me feel to hear the news from Elaine McDougal?”

“Then stop listening to Elaine McDougal.” I take a sip of coffee, thinking how the spiky aroma will always remind me of this kitchen.

“Don't you want to stay here and marry Ricky? Do you know how many girls would love to have what you have?” Forced cheer drives Momma's words.

I lift my chin and meet her gaze. “Perhaps songwriting is what the Lord created me to do.”

She returns to her seat at the table. “I don't think you have any idea of the Lord's will for you.”

Those are bodacious fighting words. “And you do?”

“I'm a mite older and wiser than you, Robin, so yes, I think I have the Lord's mind on the matter.”

I walk over to the fridge and yank off the crusty note. “How long has this been up there?”

Momma snatches at the edge, tearing the corner. “Don't be smart.”

“I'm serious, Momma, how long? Ten years? Twenty?”

“What's your point, Robin Rae?” She drops the torn edge onto the table. Her long fingers are brown from working in the spring garden, but her young face is old with worry.

“Momma.” I kneel beside her. “Maybe some day you'll tell me the truth about why you're against me moving to Nashville, but I'm going. Accept it. I don't want my kids finding a sticky note on the fridge that says ‘Be a songwriter.'”

Mr. Chancy attempts a cartwheel down the back hall when I
give my notice. Seriously, he tries, but he can't manage to get his feet wheeling in the right direction. I watch him jig and jive toward the swinging doors with my face squished, my shoulders hunched, and my chin tucked to my chest. When he starts clapping and singing, I get a little offended. Was I that bad?

His final act of celebration is to whip out his tube of Tums and plop it into the trash. Is he serious? I caused
all
his heartburn? Good gravy. The market value of Tums will plummet today.

“You still mad at me?” Ricky asks, leaning against the wall, his arms folded.

“I reckon not.”

The man is an ornery cuss, but he's sweet and tender underneath. I do care for him, and there's no use writing songs about life and how people should give up their grudges if I'm gonna hold on to one.

He steps toward me with his blue gazed fixed on my face. “The thing with Mary Lu . . . It was nothing, Robin. You have to believe me. Mitch called on my way home, said he and some others were going to Dottie's for her new dessert special. Somehow we all wound up at Mary Lu's . . . I was upset . . . She asked about you . . . I said we broke up . . .”

“Don't grovel. You're too good for that. I believe you. This time.”

He exhales. “So, you're really leaving?”

“I'm really leaving.” The confession feels right. Worthy of a true cartwheel.

Ricky raises his chin. “So, then.”

“So, then,” I echo, hoping there's more. Will he finally say he's happy for me?

“Better get to work.”

“Right.”

Hard to imagine a few days ago we were necking behind the stairs.

As I walk to my aisle, Martina is belting “Independence Day” over the PA, and my confidence kicks up a little. I'm sure I'm doing the right thing—I think.

From the end of the upstairs hall, the attic calls me to visit. I
stare at the attic door with my hand wrapped around the handle of Daddy's old leather suitcase.

Leaving home stirs a longing to roam and reminisce, so I sit the luggage inside my bedroom door and creep across the moaning hardwood floor to the attic door. The attic is not off limits—no room in the McAfee house is off limits—but the attic has always contained secrets. Momma's. So, I feel a little devious sneaking up the stairs.

At the top of the steps, the musty fragrance reminds me of rainy Saturday afternoons, playing up here with Eliza and Steve, turning the attic into a wilderness fort or a Star Wars space station.

Remembering Great-Grandma Lukeman's authentic Tiffany lamp is in the far corner next to her worn rocker, I fumble in the dark until my fingers touch the lamp's faded gold chain. With one click, a rosy glow angles across the room.

The attic is cozy and warm, stuffed to the gills with things Momma calls memories.

First, there's the wall of Momma's ribbons. Hundreds of them. Each one embossed with a gold-lettered “First Place.” Great day in the morning. Bit McAfee, Queen of Canning. Queen of First Place. She
should
visit Eliza this summer and stop in on the queen. Jude Perry can write a headline: “Queen of Canning to Visit Queen of England.”

In the corner opposite of the ribbons is Momma's cedar chest. I try the lid. Locked. Still locked. Always locked. We used to asked her about it when we were kids—not because we cared, but because she told us, “Never you mind,” gave us cookies, and turned on the TV.

But today I notice something sticking out from under the chest's lid. I lightly tug on the corner of a picture and carry it over to the light.

In faded Kodak color, there's Momma, her face framed with Farrah Fawcett hair. She's smiling and her expression is one I've never seen before. So carefree.

There are four others in the picture with Momma. Two men and two women. I study their faces. They're young, about my age, but captured in time twenty-five years ago. The guys' long hair flows into their wide, open collars, and one of them sports Elvis-like sideburns. I run my finger over the snapshot's smooth surface.

Who are these people, Momma? What are you doing? Why
have I never seen this before?

I flip the photo over to see if Momma wrote anything on the back. She didn't. At the bottom of the picture, there's a sign or something. But the image is torn, and I can't make out the words. I try to match the photo's tattered edges, but they are too frayed.

“Robin?” A muffled call floats up the stairs.

I jerk my head up.

“Robin, where are you? Eliza's on the phone.”

I hurry to the trunk and try to slip the photo in, but it won't go. Trying a different angle, I only manage to get the picture stuck. Now what? I tug lightly to free the picture, and then
rrrrrip
.

Crap. Perfect. Just perfect.

Another muffled, “Robin Rae! Mercy, did you fall in the toilet? Eliza's waiting. Long distance still costs money.”

Leaning against the trunk lid and thumping it with the heel of my hand, I work the stuck half of the picture free and hurry down the attic stairs, hiding the picture in my hip pocket. Surely there's a place in Nashville that fixes photos. But the original is torn. Forever.

“Where've you been?” Momma asks, handing me the phone. “Eliza's getting ready to go to England, and you're dilly-dallying.”

“I do
not
dillydally.” I hop up on the counter. Savory smells drift from Momma's oven. “Hey, Liza.”

“How's Momma behaving?” she asks.

I mutter into the receiver, “She's not on board, but she's accepting it.”

“That's something. I can't get why she's so boiled over you moving to Nashville but so accepting of me going to England.”

“Story of our lives, I reckon.”

“Are you going to e-mail me when I'm in England?”

“Did I e-mail you at Auburn?”

“No.”

“There you have it.”

“You're a horrible big sister.”

“Oh, really?” I cup my hand over the phone. “Say, Daddy, remember when Granddaddy's valuable coin collection was stolen?”

Eliza's laugh floats down the line. “Okay, you win best big sister
ever
! You did take my punishment for me.”

“What's that, Robin Rae?” Daddy cranes around his easy chair, a red licorice whip dangling from his lips. He quit smoking twenty-five years ago and took up licorice.

I smile. “Nothing, Daddy.”

Eliza tells me a letting agent (translation:
realtor
) found her a flat (translation:
apartment
) in Cambridge near the university. She can walk or bike to most places or take the buses.

Then, too soon, she says, “I'd better go. I still have a lot to do.”

My heart lurches. It's hard to say good-bye. I ward off my tears by picking at the small hole in the knee of my jeans. “Be careful, you.”

My baby sister, thousands of miles away. It was one thing when she was only a few hours south in War Eagle country. One small plea for help and we'd send down the cavalry. But all the way over in England? I suppose Eliza has to find out what she's made of too. Steel or clay.

“You know I will.”

“Eliza, I tease you about being all brains, but you're very beautiful. Be smart about it.”

She sniffs. “Same to you, Robin. Don't let no sweet-talking cowboy get in your way, because once they hear your songs, they'll fall in love with your soul.”

“Sure they will. As soon as I work up the nerve to sing to them.”

“Let me talk to Momma again. I want to say good-bye.”

Handing the phone back to Momma, I realize how soon my own life will change. I'm leaving home. Leaving the comforts and sounds of Freedom for a life and a city I don't know. And that doesn't know me.

Will Nashville welcome me?

I meander into the living room where Daddy's dozing off. Sitting on the floor, I press my cheek against his knee, defenseless against the tears that form when his hand rests gently on my head.

“Last day?”

I look up as Ricky approaches me Friday afternoon with his work apron wadded in his hand. His cowlick sweeps his thick blond hair off his forehead.

I smile though the sad shimmer in his eyes, and it stings my heart. “This is it. Just finishing up next week's order for Lil. She's taking over my aisle.”

“I need your truck,” he says.

“My truck? Why?”

“Because.”

“Because? You can't have my truck on a ‘because.' I still remember what you and Mitch did to Reed Larson's car.”

His jaw drops as if he's completely innocent of painting the man's car pink and green. “Robin, please, I never touched Reed's car.”

“Right. But the paint did, didn't it?” I wink at him. He and Mitch, who owns Pearce Paint & Body Shop, are kings of innuendo and double-talk. They've planned and executed more secret missions than the CIA.

“I'm not going to hurt your truck. Please, give me the keys.”

“You're not going to put tractor tires on it, are you? Or paint angry, hood-eating flames across the front?”

He narrows his eyes. “No, but I still think flames are a great idea.”

“No flames.” We had this argument at Christmas. He wanted to paint flames on my hood as a present. I refused. Got a year's worth of guitar strings instead. Good man.

“Let me have your truck.” He leans down to my ear. “Please.”

His warm breath melts every “No” in my body. “O-okay.” Is it hot in here?

He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me tight to kiss me. “I'll come by tonight and pick it up.” The man has the best lips. “And just to clarify, I did not touch Reed's car.”