Nashville 2 - Hammer and a Song (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Holden

We get to the Blue Cow at just before eight. Thomas had woken me up around four so we could practice before our set. Sarah’s upset with me because she wanted to have dinner alone and talk, but talking is about the last thing I want to do with Sarah since I have no idea what to say.

She’s sitting at a corner table now, nursing a diet Coke and looking as if she’s sorry the idea of coming to Nashville ever occurred to her.

CeCe is helping us get set up, and we’re avoiding each other as if both our lives depend on it. I’m trying not to notice the way J.B. is openly flirting with her, or the way she’s smiling back at him as if she likes it.

Adrienne comes over and gives me a hug, telling me how much she loves the song we wrote together. “I can’t wait to hear you sing it,” I say.

“Be happy to give you a private show,” she says with just enough teasing in her voice to call the offer a joke if pride needs saving.

I stop short of an answer when Thomas walks over and shakes his head. “I ain’t envying your position, man.”

I don’t bother to ask him what he means. “I had no idea she was coming,” I say.

“Yeah, but didn’t she have the right to?”

“I’m not saying she didn’t,” I admit.

“You just weren’t expecting CeCe,” Thomas says.

“No. I wasn’t expecting CeCe.”

Thunder claps outside the building, loud enough to make itself heard above the pre-show music playing in the bar.

“Whoa,” Thomas says. “They’re calling for some serious storms.”

Thomas taps his phone screen, looks at it for a moment and then says, “Weather.com shows a tornado watch for this area.”

CeCe walks up, deliberately not looking at me. “Tornado watch?” she repeats.

“That ain’t no good,” Thomas says.

“It’s just a watch,” I say. “Probably nothing.”

I meet eyes with CeCe then for the first time since this morning when Sarah had greeted us at the front door. Our gazes snag for a moment, and it feels like both of us have trouble glancing away.

“You got a song in you tonight, CeCe?” Thomas asks.

She looks at him and starts to shake her head.

“Aw, come on. Just one.” He names a couple her uncle wrote.

“What about Sarah?” CeCe says. “She might want to sing with you tonight.”

“We’ll ask her,” Thomas says, “but I’m not sure she’s in a singing mood.”

I give him a look that makes him duck and throw an air punch at me. CeCe looks uncomfortable and says, “You should ask her.”

“This a private meeting, or can I sit in?”

J.B. strolls over, one thumb hooked through the belt loop of his jeans, his gaze focused solely on CeCe.

“We’re just trying to talk her into singing a song with us tonight.”

“I’d sure like to hear you sing, CeCe,” J.B. says, standing closer to her than seems necessary. “We still on for that drink tonight?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “If we don’t get hit by a tornado.”

“Whhhhaat?” J.B. says.

“There’s a watch,” Thomas throws out.

“This place got a cellar?” J.B. asks, and from the look on his face, I’m thinking he’s really worried about it.

“Shouldn’t we be hitting the stage?” I say to Thomas.

“Eight o’clock. I reckon so,” Thomas says.

“CeCe, you wanna hang out until Adrienne and I go on?” J.B. says.

“Sure,” she answers, and if you ask me, her voice is a little too bright to be believable. Even so, her answer leaves me wishing I could remove the satisfied grin from J.B. Langley’s mouth.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CeCe

I know Holden and Sarah aren’t talking. She’s sitting at the back of the room, alternating staring at me with staring at him.

I’d like to go on and decide that I just plain don’t like her, but then I think what it must be like to come all this way to see your boyfriend only to get here and realize that something’s changed in the few days you’ve been apart.

I’m not saying that I think I’m responsible for that change. Maybe I’m just the bump in the road that’s making Holden question whether he and Sarah are right for one another. But even I can see that he’s questioning it.

I’m alternating between feeling like a rotten, relationship-wrecker and a hopeful, crush-stricken adolescent.

I sit at a table near the front of the room with J.B., nursing a Coke while Holden and Thomas bring the crowd of people in the room to life. Just about every person there is listening with the kind of intensity you only get when people really like what you’re doing.

Without doubt, Thomas was born to be on stage. There’s a natural ease to the way he tells something funny or revealing about himself and then segues into a song Holden has written about that exact thing. I could listen to them all night. Not just Thomas’s voice but the way Holden plays the guitar as if it is the only thing he was ever meant to do. As if he feels every note. Every word. I find myself waiting for the moments when he comes in with a background vocal, his voice the perfect accompaniment to Thomas’s thick, country twang.

I try not to meet eyes with them throughout the performance, but it’s like there’s a magnet between us. Every time I feel him looking at me, I can’t help myself from letting my gaze bump his.

J.B. is apparently aware of this because every time it happens, he leans forward and says something in my ear. I get the impression that he’s doing it as much to rile Holden as he is to sweet talk me.

Thomas is talking to the crowd again. I pull my thoughts back to his voice, telling myself I’m not going to look at Holden again.

“This next number, folks,” Thomas says, “is a song Holden wrote one night when we both decided we didn’t really care what we had to do to support our love for this business, singing and writing songs. Short of armed robbery, of course.”

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

“Aside from that, anything we did, whether it’s building a house or waiting tables would just be the means to the freedom to do what we love. This here’s called
A Hammer and a Song
.”

I listen to the words, and I hear Holden in each and every one of them. He has a real gift, and it’s clear that this life means everything to him. I can only imagine how hard that must have been for Sarah to accept. If she has.

When the song is over, a few beats of silence follow the moment when Thomas lays down his microphone. The applause erupts all at once, punctuated by whistles and whoops. I glance at J.B. whose clapping is tentative to say the least, his voice a little clipped when he says, “That’s good stuff.”

“It is,” I say, and then before I know it, Thomas is taking my hand and pulling me up on the stage. My heart is beating a thousand miles an hour and my hands are suddenly clammy. Thomas tells the audience about my Uncle Dobie and the great songs he had written.

“We’re gonna do one of those for you, folks,” he says, nodding at me.

I close my eyes and wait for Holden’s intro, and then Thomas and I dip into the song together. For the next three minutes, I’m in that other place where all that matters is the music. It’s a place I sometimes wish I could stay in, that sweet spot where the notes and the words all come together to create something wonderful, magical.

When it’s over, the crowd gives us their approval with gratifying applause. My heart is no longer racing, and I just feel grateful to Thomas for his generosity. I hug him. He hugs me back while the audience claps harder, and I force myself not to look at Holden.

We’re about to leave the stage when a sudden noise rises above the clapping. Everyone goes silent, and the sudden wail of an alarm fills the room, the noise clogging our ears like smoke in the lungs.

A man in a white shirt and black pants runs over to the stage and takes the mircrophone from Thomas. “Folks, I’m the manager here. A tornado has just been spotted in the downtown area. We have been advised by public safety officials to immediately take cover in the downstairs part of the building. Let’s all keep our cool. Single file if you would, and follow me to the stairwell.”

His voice is even and reassuring as if this is something he does every night. He steps off the stage then and heads for the main entrance to the bar.

“Seriously?” Thomas says, looking at me and then Holden.

Holden glances at the back of the room and says, “I’ll get Sarah. Meet you two downstairs.”

He steps down from the stage and begins winding his way through the crowd to the back of the room where Sarah stands waiting, with a panicked look on her face.

I remember then that Hank Junior and Patsy are at the apartment alone.

“The dogs, Thomas,” I say, feeling a well of panic. “I need to get home.”

“CeCe, that siren means we need to do what they say. I’ll drive you myself as soon as we get the all clear.” Thomas takes my hand, and I follow him through the lobby to the stairwell where people are hurrying downstairs.

“They’ll be all right,” he says over his shoulder. “And look at it this way. This will probably give us something to write about.”

“Then I hope it’s a song with a happy ending,” I say, tears welling up.

The alarm is loud, and I’d like to cover my ears as we head down, but I’m afraid to let go of Thomas’s hand. My heart is throbbing in time with the siren’s wail, and I say a silent prayer that this will be over soon.

The room we’re filing into is large and dimly lit. The alarm has lost its knife edge blare, and I feel like I can again think a little more clearly. We find a spot in a far corner and sit on the floor against the wall.

I see Holden come through the door, Sarah holding onto his arm. I wish for a moment that they would sit at the opposite end of the room from us, but Thomas waves them over.

Holden looks at me and says, “Think the dogs will be all right?”

“I hope so,” I say, not quite able to meet his concerned gaze.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Sarah asks. “They’re inside, aren’t they?”

No one answers her. I’m certainly not going to since what I want to say isn’t likely to make us fast friends.

Holden takes the spot next to me, leaning back against the wall. Sarah studies him for a moment, then wilts onto the floor beside him, as if it is the last place on earth she wants to be.

“How long do we have to stay here?” she asks, the words sounding like those of a petulant seven-year-old.

“Until the threat of a tornado passes, I would imagine,” Thomas says, and I can hear the disapproval in his voice.

The lights in the room, already dim, flicker and extinguish all together as if someone has just blown out a candle.

Voices rise up in protest, and then that of the manager calling out for everyone to please listen. “Sorry about that, folks. Looks like we’ve lost our power. I know none of you came out expecting this tonight. But for the moment, it is what it is. I doubt the lights will be out for long. Let’s sit tight, and give this cloud a chance to pass on over. Oh, and keep your hands to yourself, please.”

This actually pulls forth a chuckle from the crowd, although I notice Sarah doesn’t laugh.

From our basement haven, the wind is muffled, but its fury is still evident. I can hear something flapping at the top of the stairs.

“Sounds like a door,” Thomas says.

The sounds stops, and for a second, it’s silent. And then out of nowhere, another sound hits, like a train speeding through the darkness. The roar is so loud I put my hands to my ears and squeeze hard. I scream and realize I’m not the only one. An arm encircles me from either side, both Thomas and Holden are holding onto me. I feel Sarah’s arms bolt around Holden’s waist, the four of us linked together like a human chain of fear.

I press my face into Holden’s shoulder and bite back the terror that yanks me under like a sudden, unexpected riptide.

I want to melt into him, and here in the dark, I let myself imagine we are the only two here. I remember what it felt like to be in his arms, his mouth on mine, his hands—

But we’re not alone. Sarah is crying now, and Holden is soothing her with his voice, telling her it’ll be over soon, that everything is going to be all right.

I pull myself out of the half circle of his arm, and Thomas hooks me up against him, comforting me with his big embrace.

I’m not sure how long we sit there. It really seems like hours, but it might just be minutes. Or even seconds.

As quickly as the roar descended, it is gone. Just like that. In the snap of a finger. And the room is terrifyingly quiet.

“Is everyone all right?” the manager speaks up, his voice by now familiar even though we can’t see him. He sounds shaken, as if he’s not sure what to do next.

A chorus of yes, yes, yes rises up, followed by sighs of relief. As if in unspoken agreement, everyone stays seated for a couple of minutes. No alarms. No wind. Just silence.

And then footsteps sound on the stairs, followed by an official-sounding voice. “Anyone need help down here?”

“I think we’re all okay,” the manager answers back. “Is it all right to come out?”

“Yes. Your building held up well. But it’s a mess outside. Y’all be careful now. I brought some flashlights for you.”