Country Heaven (8 page)

The pounding in his head crested to epic proportions, and his helplessness left a gaping hole in his chest. “Honey, you know I want to be there for you.” Only the threat of his Mama’s actions kept him from having Bill turn the bus toward his hometown in Mississippi. “Besides, I’m not sure Daddy would want me there anyway.” God knows, his presence might even harm his father’s recovery, given the fallout between them.

“Rye, you know it wasn’t Daddy’s idea to disown you. That was all Mama.”

What did it matter? The result had been permanent banishment. No one messed with a crème de la crème family like his and survived. And he’d done that when he chose country music over following in the footsteps of his male ancestors, all of whom had joined the family firm after graduating from Vanderbilt Law.

“Well, he didn’t do anything to stop it,” he said.

Her crying tinkled like a soft bell. “Oh, Rye.”

“Please stop crying,” he whispered, his eyes tracking to the picture of them on his bureau right before he returned to Nashville after his last spring break in law school. It had been at a karaoke bar in Nashville where he’d met his fate. Clayton’s mom had met them there for drinks a few weeks before graduation, and being one of the major country singer managers in the business, she’d instantly picked up on his raw talent. The rest, as they say, was history. He and Georgia always laughed about the fact that he’d been under her nose for years. “You’re breaking my heart.”

“I miss you.”

God, he missed her too, but saying so would only add to her pain. “You be strong for me.”

An ambulance siren sounded on the line. He drew the phone away from his ear.

“Tammy! No!” Amelia Ann suddenly cried. Then the line went dead.

So Tammy was still Mama’s enforcer. His Stepford–wife sister had turned her back on him with a posture so perfect a book wouldn’t have fallen off her head. Having been best friends with Rye’s fiancée, Emeline, Tammy had felt doubly betrayed by his defection from family tradition and his cancelled engagement.

Pain seared Rye’s heart, and he stood tall, trying to close it out. To occupy his mind, he studied the invisible runner in the fields for a moment, but then he shoved the sheet music off his desk in a rage.
You stupid bastard
, he thought.
You can’t outrun anything
.

Even though they were estranged, he wanted his Daddy to be okay. It was hard to imagine the lean, tanned golfing lawyer being sick. The man never succumbed to so much as a simple cold.

Could it be true? Had
The Incident
stressed his old man enough to make him collapse?

A whiff of bacon touched his nose, promising comfort, but he only wanted to be alone. He caressed Old Faithful’s burnished wood and hugged it to his hollow chest. The first strums on the guitar were violent and angry. A string broke, and he swore.

***

The rolling green of Michigan passed by as Tory shoved the ribs into the oven to keep them warm and tapped her foot on the tile floor. They had a few more hours before they’d arrive in Detroit, the next concert stop. Rye hadn’t responded to her summons to breakfast and lunch. He hadn’t even come out. Was
he
really ignoring
her
?

She yanked off her new apron, a normal white one courtesy of yesterday’s shopping trip, and stalked down the hallway. She wouldn’t let him hide any longer. His door was shut. She pounded hard enough to make her palm hurt.

“If you’re not going to eat, at least be respectful enough to tell me as much.”

When he didn’t respond, the first ripple of worry ran through her. Pressing her ear to the door, she heard nothing. Was something wrong? “Rye? Is everything okay?”

No response.

She cracked the door open, seriously concerned now. His big body lay huddled on a brown leather sofa under a caramel and white striped blanket.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, walking forward. His face was white and haggard. She darted a hand out to touch his forehead for fever.

“I don’t feel good,” he whispered, pushing her hand away.

“Are you sick?”

He tugged the blanket up to his neck. “Just leave me alone.”

She picked up his phone off the floor. “I’m calling Clayton. Give me your passcode.”

He muttered it, and she located Clayton’s number in his contacts and dialed. Told him what was going on and hung up.

“You just need to eat,” she said to Rye. “I bet that’s part of the problem. I’ll make you some mashed potatoes and applesauce. That’s why my grandma always made me when I was feeling sick.”

A half–empty glass of amber liquid sat on the floor. She picked it up and sniffed. “Are you drunk?”

“No, started to get that way, but couldn’t choke it down.” He groaned. “Christ, I wish I were drunk. I don’t want to think.”

The bus stopped, and she realized they’d pulled onto the shoulder of the interstate.

Clayton and Georgia burst into Rye’s room moments later.

“He’s not feeling well.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Clayton said.

She left, her anger fading. What he’d done last night wasn’t right, but there was clearly something wrong with him. He looked more sad than sick to her. And his comment about not wanting to think? Well…

Tory had potatoes and cored apples boiling in separate pots when Clayton and Georgia emerged and walked past the kitchen.

“Do you think we should cancel Detroit?” Clayton asked.

“No, it would be devastating to the tour, especially since we couldn’t release the reason. If you have to get him drunk to get him onstage, do it.” Georgia walked past the kitchen. Her snakeskin boots seemed an appropriate choice after that comment.

They were going to liquor him up to perform? It seemed cruel. Well, she’d try to get some food into him first.

She checked the apples with a fork to see if they were soft. Yep. All ready. She drained them, reserving a few tablespoons of the liquid. After dumping the mix into the blender, she added nutmeg and honey, pressed down on the lid, and hit the On button.

She looked back when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Clayton was standing behind her. She turned the blender off. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat. “I understand you aren’t feeling too friendly toward any of us, so I’m grateful you called me.”

“I’m not inhuman. He’s not feeling well.” She popped the lid and poured the mixture into a bowl. “Would you let me try and get some food in him before…?”

“I get him drunk? I know our measures seem harsh to you, but it’s all for his benefit.” He slapped his hat against his knee. “Yes, please give him some food. It won’t stop the reason he’s upset, but maybe it will help a little.”

So, it was as she’d thought. He was sad.

“Thanks, Tory.” He strode out the kitchen, boots clicking like a metronome, and the bus started moving again some moments later.

She blended the steaming potatoes next, adding butter, heavy cream, sour cream, and salt. When she tasted them, she smiled. Was there anything better than mashed potatoes? She dished up both concoctions and headed to Rye’s room.

He was lying on his back with the blanket tucked around his waist. He rolled his head, saw her, and grunted. “Go away.”

She placed a napkin and the bowl of mashed potatoes on his chest. “Why don’t you try this? You’ll feel better if you get something substantial in your stomach.”

He sniffed and then reached for the spoon. “Smells good.” When he took a bite, his eyelids fluttered closed.

It was impossible to be angry with him when he was like this. The energy that usually poured from him had all been leached out. He ate with slow determination at first, but by the time he finished the potatoes and she handed him the applesauce, his pace picked up. She sat in silence, cross legged on the floor by the sofa. Somehow she knew he didn’t want to be alone.

“Tastes good,” he murmured.

When he handed her the empty dishes, their eyes met. She didn’t look away. She couldn’t say why.

“My Daddy had a heart attack,” he whispered.

She gripped the bowls. Oh goodness, no wonder he was so upset.

“I’m so sorry. When are you going home to see him?” She pushed off the floor, balancing the bowls, and nearly tripped. She looked down.
Leaves of Grass
lay at an angle. Rye Crenshaw read Walt Whitman?

“I can’t go home. Gonna rest now. Have to sing…later.” His eyes closed, and he slipped into sleep.

He couldn’t go home? The thought was abhorrent to her. Her family had been everything to her.

She tucked the blanket up to his neck and left the room.

***

The sound of someone stomping down the hall woke Tory up. She gazed at the green glow of the clock. 12:47. Rye must be coming back from the concert. She was glad he’d been able to sing.

She tunneled her head into the pillow, but when a loud curse punctuated the silence of the tour bus, she decided to check on Rye. She pulled on her lavender silk robe, wishing she had something less revealing, and hurried out. When she entered the kitchen, he was bent over at the waist, breathing hard. He turned the sink on and stuck his mouth under it.

“Are you sick again?” she asked.

He whirled around and breathed out of his mouth like a panting dog. He pointed to the table. “No. The ribs!”

Uh–oh. “I might have added a bit too much spice,” she said, knowing that in her anger, she’d been liberal with the cayenne pepper. Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out a slice of bread. “Here. It’ll help counteract the heat better than water.”

He shoved half a slice in his mouth and chewed. “Those are the hottest ribs I’ve ever tasted,” he said finally.

That was the idea, my friend. She tapped the Food Wish List. “Do you see ribs here? I do.”

He made a growling sound.

She tugged on her sash. “Well, I guess we’ll need to communicate better. If you specify hot, medium, or mild, I’m happy to make the food to your liking. You must be feeling better if you wanted ribs.”

He downed another glass of water. “I was until I ate them. Christ, woman. They almost killed me.”

“Eat some more bread. And don’t brush your teeth. It’s the worst thing you can do. I’m going back to bed.” Considering the mood he was in, it would be too friendly to say she was glad he was feeling better, so she didn’t. She just turned and left.

“Tory,” he called when she was two steps from her door. “Thank you for earlier. I know I’ve…been a prize jerk. You didn’t have to be nice to me.”

“Your daddy was hurt. I…know how that feels. Have you gotten any more news?”

His fingers squashed the bread in his hand. “No.”

Since she didn’t know what to say, she only responded, “Well, good night.”

“Wait a sec. Do you always wear stuff like that to bed?” he asked.

Turning around, it was hard to miss his lazy perusal. But she knew he was just trying to hide the sadness he felt for his father under other emotions. Still, his gaze skated across her skin, sending tingles down her spine. “Sorry, I would have changed, but I heard you curse and thought I’d better check on you.”

His fingers ripped off a piece of the squashed bread. “Never figured you for the lingerie type.”

Why did his eyes make her feel this way?

“I never figured you for a spice wimp,” she responded, trying to stay on level ground. “Maybe I’ll only make you soft food from now on.”

“Don’t count on it,” she heard him say before she disappeared into her room.

She tossed the robe aside, promising herself she’d change into something more proper next time—even if things sounded dire.

***

Clayton woke him the next morning, calling way too early. Rye swiped his hand across his unshaven face, sitting up. “This had better be good.”

“It is. A tabloid reported online that you left the charity event early and got into a scrap with that man because of a family matter, and now they’re asking questions about your family.”

His hand fell to his sides. “You’re kidding me,” he said, wide awake now.

There was silence on the line for a few beats, and then Clayton said, “Mama and I talked, and the only person who knew that—”

“Was Tory,” Rye finished, pushing aside the covers. Hell, it was so hush–hush he hadn’t even told anyone in the band. “Dammit! I knew she was angry, but…”

“We don’t know it was her, Rye, but she needs money, and she was totally pissed about being used as PR in Minneapolis.”

Hadn’t she coolly negotiated with him for his meal in the diner? Of course this would happen…and just when he’d started to trust her, a rarity for him. So much for her being a wholesome Catholic school teacher’s daughter. “Did she say anything about Daddy’s heart attack?” he asked, his stomach sinking at the thought.

“No. There was only a vague allusion to a family matter. Nothing more.”

Well, at least she’d hadn’t gone that far. He would have tossed her off the bus if she’d mentioned that. “I’ll find out the details,” he growled, “and put a stop to it.”

“I think you should let me handle this.”

“No. I brought her on. I’ll take care of it. Bury the rest of the story, Clayton. I don’t want anyone to start talking about Hollinswood and Meade.” His past fit his image about as well as if he’d decided to wear his old blue and white striped seersucker pants.

“Don’t outright accuse her. There’s legal—”

“Did we or did we not attend the same law school?”

“You dropped out,” his friend reminded him. “I didn’t.”

“It was three weeks before graduation. We’d covered everything by then.” And the memories of tort law and all of the other kinds of law he’d studied made him shudder. He was so glad those days were over.

“Rye, I’m sorry about this, but let’s look on the bright side. Maybe this will help your image. It might be good for everyone to know why you responded to that man’s harassment like you did.”

After ending the call, Rye yanked on a pair of jeans and a shirt. Maybe Clayton was right, but he frankly didn’t care. He didn’t want any talk surfacing about his past. His record label had done everything in the beginning to bury his roots, using their influence to shape his image into a low–country bad boy.