Nashville 2 - Hammer and a Song (8 page)

Sarah’s fluster is immediately apparent in the red stain on her cheeks and the way her lips part as if she wants to say something, but is trying desperately hard to stop herself from doing so.

“If we get past this audition,” Thomas says, “then we can look at shaking out some of the kinks that might be bothering either of us. But until then, I say spit shine the heck out of the pair of boots we’ve been offered to walk in. All in favor, say aye!”

No one actually gives a verbal assent, but we all nod our agreement. Sarah appears to put on emotional blinders for the rest of the session.

Three hours later, I can’t believe where we are. We actually sound
really
good. Holden makes a recording on his computer and plays back what we have so far. I’m amazed at how we sound. Like we’ve been playing and singing together for ages. I’m not sure how that could actually be possible, but we do.

Even with all the undercurrents working so hard to pull us under, we somehow manage to rise above them, and our sound has something fresh and unique to it. I’m suddenly in love with it.

Sarah’s voice is like honey, smooth and golden, fluid and flowing. My voice has grit to it, an edginess I’ve been told by some, that somehow synchs with Sarah’s. Thomas has his own thing, a voice so big and rooted in country that the truth is he doesn’t need either one of us to own the stage. I love listening to him, especially when he drops the melody for a Georgia infused rap that catches and holds the ear.

And I love the song itself.

Holden loves sound, and every line of music holds something so catchy that I know listeners will want to hear more.

It is four-fifteen by the time we put the last bit of polish on the song. We’re supposed to be at Case Phillips’s house at five, and neither of us has showered or changed yet.

I for one feel in need of a few minutes under the faucet to regroup and get a handle on the flutters of panic intent on welling up inside me.

We talk for a few moments about what to wear, agree that Sarah and I should opt for something simple and basic. I’m glad since I don’t have a lot to choose from. Holden and Thomas agree on a light blue shirt and jeans.

In my room, I stand in front of the mirror and give myself a long hard look. From the corner of my eye, I catch Hank Junior staring at me from his spot on the bed. I shrug at him and say, “You know how I get before I sing. Well, this is like a million times more nervewracking than all the other times put together.”

My sweet dog cocks his head to the right, his long Hound ear lifting like a question mark. “I know all the logical stuff. I’ve sung in front of people before. It’s a waste of energy. You’re right. But I can’t help it.”

I go over to the bed and sit down next to him, rubbing under his chin the way he likes me to. “This could be it, you know. This could be
the
only shot I get here. What if I’m not ready? I thought I would have all kinds of time to get better before anyone was really looking.”

Hank lifts his head to lick my cheek. I lean over to give him a fierce hug. “I wish you could be there. That would make me feel better.”

Hank rolls over on his side and bats me with one of his big paws as if to say, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I know,” I agree. “Suck it up, right?”

In the shower, I think about a book I read not too long ago on focus and how it can be the determining factor between people who are good at something and people who are great at something.

I admit it. I want to be great at singing.

I would never say this out loud because I know how it would sound. But deep down inside, I feel like I already am. Intellectually, I know how much growth I have ahead of me. But the depth and breadth and scope of my love for singing is so immeasurable that it feels like the very best part of me. Something that’s good and pure. I’ve actually worried about what would happen to my love for music if I don’t make it here. If I reach a point where I have to admit I’m never going to be able to make a living with my music. Concede defeat.

I haven’t let myself think this very often because it’s really too painful to consider. But I know it happens all the time. Every day in places like this, in L.A. and New York City. Kids who are drawn to the lure of fame, giving the dream everything they have. Only to find that the dream was only that. A dream.

Realizing that my thoughts are not exactly fuel for focus, I drop my head back and let the water pummel my face, beating the negativity out of me. I force myself to look at this as a gift, dropped from above, at random, perhaps, Holden and I the lucky recepients.

Something my pastor had said once in the church Mama and I went to when I was a little girl comes to me then. A gift is a wondrous thing. But it’s the ways in which we share it that can give it wings.

I think about this in light of all the reasons why Holden, Thomas, Sarah, and I are such an unlikely match. And I know that if I let myself think about that for even a second longer, I’m going to waste something I may never be offered again.

And that’s when I decide that no matter what happens on anyone else’s part tonight, I’m going to give this everything I’ve got. If we fail, at least I’ll know I gave it the very best I am currently capable of giving.

AS A GROUP, we clean up pretty well.

We leave the dogs at the apartment and the four of us ride church-pew style out of Nashville central and into the countryside.

Thomas is driving and I’m sitting next to him, Sarah wedged in between Holden and me.

We’re breaking the seat belt law. Holden had insisted he be the one to go without, even though I had argued without success to share one with Thomas. Admittedly, it would have been an interesting position necessary to make that work. Thomas and Holden had both laughed while Sarah merely rolled her eyes.

Once we table the seat belt discussion, we drive the remainder of the way to Case’s house in silence. I think we’re each doing what we need to do to get our best game on.

Again, we roll by estate after estate, and Thomas offers up several whistles of appreciation. Sarah’s expression indicates she sees such magnificence every day of her life. Either that, or she doesn’t want to let on she’s impressed.

Thomas pulls up in the circular driveway, and we slide out, silent and solemn-faced. Holden lifts his guitar case from the truck bed. We walk in a straight line to the front door, Holden in the front, Thomas in the back, Sarah and I sandwiched in between.

Holden rings the doorbell, and a housekeeper answers. Dressed in a white unifrom, her instant smile welcomes us. She’s round-faced, round-hipped and warm as a butter biscuit. “Y’all come on in,” she says. “Mr. Case is expecting you. Right this way.”

She leads us through the enormous house, wood floors echoing our footsteps. At the far back right corner, she opens a heavy door behind which sits the most incredible recording studio I never thought to imagine. Red leather chairs are scattered about, dark walnut walls a backdrop to soundproofing boards disguised as artwork.

Behind an enormous recording desk sits Case Phillips and a man I don’t recognize. Case stands, waves a hand at us and says, “Welcome. This is my producer Rhys Anderson. Rhys, I’ll let these folks do their own introductions.”

Holden shakes the other man’s hand and says, “I’m Holden Ashford. This is Thomas Franklin. CeCe MacKenzie and Sarah Saxon.”

The man shakes each of their hands, his smile genuine and also welcoming. “How y’all doing?” He looks smart, like someone who’s been very successful in this business. His clothes agree with the assumption, his shirt and jeans carrying the stamp of some exclusive men’s department.

“This here’s my band,” Case says, indicating the other five people in the room. “And that over there in the corner is my son Beck. He’s sitting in for one of our guitar players tonight who’s out sick. He might look young, but don’t worry, he can hold his own.”

We all smile, and Beck drops us a nod of greeting. He looks so much like his dad. No one would need to be told they were father and son. He meets my gaze and smiles, and I smile back.

“What’d y’all bring to sing tonight?” Case asks.

“Two covers and another song that I wrote,” Holden says, his tone respectful and a little uncertain.

“How about we hear the original?” Case asks. “I’m lookin’ to see who y’all are without the instant comparison to someone who might have sung a song before. Y’all come on in and get set up. You got a chord chart for these guys?”

“I do,” Holden says, reaching inside his guitar case and pulling out the sheets.

“Good man,” Case says.

The players glance at the sheets and almost immediately start to strum at the chords. Under their expertise, the song is instantly recognizable, and I notice the pleased look on Holden’s face. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to him, hearing people of this caliber playing a song he wrote.

“You’ll be playing with them?” Rhys directs to Holden.

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, it is.”

In less than fifteen minutes, Cases’s guys have the song nailed and Rhys directs Sarah, Thomas, and me into the sound booth that runs along the outer wall of the room.

Sarah whispers something in Holden’s ear, clinging to his arm like he’s a buoy in the middle of a raging ocean. I almost feel sorry for her. It’s clear that she’s out of her element. Not that I’m brimming over with confidence. But maybe the difference is that I want this to be a success. And maybe she just wants to get through it.

Holden leans down and says something to her. She walks to the microphone, her expression set and uneasy.

The band runs through the song once without stopping, and I’m amazed at how it sounds like they’ve played it a hundred times before. Thomas, Sarah, and I wade into the melody with tentative effort. I feel their unease as part of my own. I will myself to block out everything except my role in this.

The band starts the song up again, and the three of us are a little more confident, but not much.

Case stands and holds up a hand, motioning for us to stop.

The music drops to silence, and we stop singing.

“Hey, look y’all,” Case says, running a hand around the back of his neck. “The only way this is going to turn out worth a hoot is if you forget where you are. You’re just singing in church back home with all your aunts and uncles. That’s the you I want to hear. Okay?”

The three of us nod, mute, and I force the knot of pressure in between my shoulder blades to relent. I can’t think about Thomas or Sarah and their own batch of nerves. I can only control my own. I close my eyes and picture what Case just described. The little Southern Baptist church where I grew up. The tiny pulpit from which our choir belted out old-fashioned gospel hymns every Sunday morning.

And I see myself performing solos when I was nine, the familiar faces of the congregation smiling up at me, the smell of the coffee brewing in the church kitchen wafting up into the sanctuary. The way rain pinged off the tin roof of the old building and how that sound became part of whatever music we were singing.

By going there, I forget all about the here and now. I’m just me. Singing like I always have. For the pure love of it. For the joy it makes me feel.

That’s how the next several hours pass. I can hear that Thomas, and even Sarah, have found their own ways to shake off the stage fright and just sing.

It’s nearly eleven p.m. when Rhys raises a hand and says, “I think we got it.”

He sounds pleased, and relief washes through me.

Only then do I let myself come back to the present, the laughter and good-natured ribbing of the band members seeping into my awareness. I step out of the booth, and Cases’s son, Beck, walks over and says, “Y’all rocked that.”

I smile and shake my head. “Y’all made us look good.”

“It seems like you’ve really got something,” he says, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, the smile on his face less confident than I would have expected from someone who’d grown up with a country music star as his father.

“Thanks,” I say. “It’s really an incredible opportunity.”

“Yeah, well, my dad doesn’t waste his time. So if he brought you here, he thought he had good reason.”

I start to bring up the thing about Lauren, but decide against it since she isn’t here tonight, and I’m not sure how public their relationship is.

Case walks over to the stainless steel refrigerator in one corner of the room, opens the door and starts passing out bottled beer. “If you’re not old enough to legally drink this,” he says, “then don’t. Honor system here.”

“That leaves me out,” Beck says.

“Me, too,” I say, shrugging.

“Can I get you something else?”

“Water would be great,” I say.

“Coming right up.” He turns and crosses the room, grabs a couple bottles from the refrigerator and walks back over to hand one to me.

Holden, Sarah, and Thomas are talking together several yards away. I can feel Holden’s gaze on me, but I refuse to look at him.

“So what’s your story?” Beck asks.

“Story?”

“Yeah. How’d you get to Nashville?”

“Wing and a prayer?”