Winston (BBW Bear Shifter Wedding Romance) (Grizzly Groomsmen Book 3) (89 page)

That little voice was right, of course. If her father did not already have a private investigator on her trail, she would be surprised. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise her to see her father waiting for her at the bus terminal in Nashville, but she hoped not.

She had been careful. Her father always, without fail, disappeared into his suite at nine-thirty sharp on any night she wasn’t performing. He was rarely alone and always left orders not to be disturbed. Having lost her mother at a very early age, Meg had no illusions about what her father did with the beautiful women who seemed to always be available to him in whatever city they were visiting, and she had learned early to cherish these rare nights of knowing her father was otherwise occupied.

Meg had her one soft bag and her old violin packed and ready to go, along with her new ID and the cash she had been stashing away over the past six months, thanks to various maids and bellhops who were only too happy to change the one-hundred dollar bills her father insisted she carry to impress people for much smaller denominations in exchange for a generous tip. Dressed in jeans, simple walking shoes, and a warm, serviceable coat she had purchased from one of the hotel maids, she’d slipped out of her suite just after her father had turned in for the night, taking the stairs instead of the elevator to the opulent lobby below. Before stepping out of the stairwell, she’d donned a plain, navy blue baseball-style cap, pulling her white-blond tail out the hole in the back—like she’d seen women on the streets do
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—then wrapping a scarf around her neck to both ward off the chill night air and hide the rest of her hair. She’d thought about getting a Yankee’s cap, but had opted for a plain one, since she was headed for Nashville and didn’t want to stick out as an out-of-towner once she reached her destination. Her eastern-educated, upper-class accent would be enough of a giveaway.

Walking the first three blocks, she’d timed her arrival at Carnegie Hall so the musicians would be heading out after an evening concert, because while most of them still wore their concert clothing, with a winter coat and a violin strung over her shoulder, she fit right in with the crowd of people looking for taxi cabs. She managed to flag one down, directing the driver to take her to the 42
^nd
Street Port Authority Bus Terminal, where she quickly used cash to buy a bus ticket to Cleveland, Ohio. She had been researching the best way to get to Nashville and had opted for a Greyhound Bus ticket, with five stops between New York City and Nashville and two transfers. In Cleveland, she had bought a ticket only as far as Louisville, Kentucky, and from there, she purchased a ticket for the final leg to Nashville. She’d done something to change her appearance in both Cleveland and Louisville. In Cleveland, where she’d had almost a two-hour layover, she’d found a meal and traded her warmer New York coat, for a lighter, short jacket in a thrift store near the terminal. She’d also traded her blue ball cap for a brown one and her white woolly scarf for something lighter weight in a buttery-yellow.

She sighed, now, praying all her efforts hadn’t been for naught. The bus in Louisville had been delayed by a half-hour, which had put them right in the middle of rush-hour traffic coming south on I-65. Now instead of dusk, she was arriving in Nashville at full dark. She would need to find someplace to stay, and she didn’t really know where to start. She hadn’t dared research hotels in Nashville from her own computer, because she was certain her father would check there first. She’d found out about the bus schedule, thanks to a former classmate at Julliard, who’d come from Nashville originally and had let her play with his new iPad, when they’d had coffee together just before Christmas. (She’d hoped it was long enough ago, that her father wouldn’t think to ask Bryan about it.)

Meg straightened in her seat and strained to see forward. Traffic picked up as I-65 merged into another wide Interstate to pass through the city. They stayed on the new highway—I-24 this time—but then shortly took an exit ramp that wound down sharply to the right before making a left turn onto the city streets.

As the passengers around her began collecting their belongings, Meg tucked the Nashville tourist book she had found in the Louisville bus terminal into her jacket pocket. She then wrapped her hands around her violin case strap and pulled her small, canvas travel bag from under the seat in front of her. There was something quite liberating about being able to carry everything she owned in these two small bags. With the exception of her violin—which had been a birthday gift from her grandmother on her thirteenth birthday—everything she carried had been purchased recently, either from hotel maids or thrift stores. She owed nothing to anyone and was free to be herself for the first time in her life.

Whatever happens, I’m not going back to that life,
she promised herself. With New York behind her and Nashville ahead, she took a deep breath and waited for her new life to begin.

“Fourth Avenue and Symphony Place, please,” she said to the driver, as she slipped into the back seat of a taxi she found waiting at the bus terminal and named the cross-street her friend from Nashville had given her, because she couldn’t think of anything else that would get her away from the bus station as soon as possible. It wasn’t only the fear of being followed that had her moving quickly. Unlike the New York terminal, the Nashville bus station seemed to be in a very dark, very remote part of town—definitely someplace she didn’t want to be alone at night. The taxi was cleaner than many in New York, though this one smelled of cigarettes, which rarely happened in the east.

“Dressed like you are at this time of night, you’ll prob’ly have better luck over on Broadway with that fiddle of yours,” the driver said, grinning at her.

“You may be right,” she said, opting to respond to the man’s friendly banter in like manner. “I just wanted to see the big house, first.”

He laughed. “It is big all right.”

You New Yorkers don’t know what friendly is,
Bryan had always insisted.
Now, where I come from, people actually make eye contact with strangers and say good mornin’ like they really mean it.

After only a few minutes in Nashville, Meg was already beginning to experience that friendliness for herself. She did remind herself that she couldn’t trust everyone—she’d be a fool to let down her guard completely with strangers—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be pleasant to the people who were pleasant to her. And what better way to blend in? If she remained remote in this town, people would notice and wonder about her—and they’d remember her, when her father’s PI came asking about her. She doubted very much that anyone tonight would recognize her from either a description or a photograph someone working for her father might have.

In a surprisingly short time, they pulled up beside the forbidding structure of the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. It was beautiful, Meg thought as she alighted from the taxi after paying her fare with wrinkled small bills. The Roman columns marched proudly along the street, enclosing a beautiful outdoor space rather like a miniature Roman forum. It was small scale—everything she had seen of Nashville thus far seemed small after spending most of her life in some of the greatest cities throughout the world—but it had an unmistakable charm about it, and from Bryan’s iPad, she knew it housed multiple performance spaces for a variety of music styles. She sighed, wondering how one went about auditioning for a chair in Nashville’s Symphony Orchestra.

Curious, she turned right down the broad pedestrian way that ran along the front of the main hall. Trying not to think about her appearance, she hurried up the steps before she could change her mind and entered the lobby, where ushers were posted at the doors to the hall. One stepped forward to meet her.

“I’m sorry, miss, but the concert’s already started, and you can’t go in until intermission.”

She smiled. “That’s all right. I’m not here for the concert. I only wondered if I might buy a program?”

“Oh. Sure.”

He directed her to a small sales counter across the lobby, and smiling her thanks, she hurried over.

“One program, please,” she said to the young woman working the counter.

“Are you comin’ on another night, then?” the girl asked, as she made Meg’s change.

“I hope so. Thank you.”

Meg tucked the program into a pocket of her bag then made her way back outside.
Can’t know the players without a program,
she remembered her grandmother used to say. With a concert program, she would have both names and contact information. All she needed now was a library with computers, where she could set up an e-mail account and contact the symphony. She quickly retraced her steps down the grand stairway then turned back to 4
^th
Avenue and turned right toward the lighted intersection ahead. Another block and she was on Broadway in the heart of Nashville’s nighttime music scene.

Like New York’s Broadway, the sidewalks were crowded with people enjoying the nightlife, but that was where any comparison ended. Besides being much shorter in length, the buildings that lined the street were no more than three or four stories high, their walls mostly red brick, though some had been painted outlandish colors. While the occasional modern tower could be seen from a distance, this old part of town, the entertainment district, was old and worn. Like an old lady, it used bright lights, decorations, and color, in an attempt to mask its wrinkles. Cowboy boots and hats seemed to be the style of choice for both men and women, and the facades of the various eateries and music venues boasted huge guitars, fiddles, boots, and hats, all outlined in flashing neon lights. Businesses ranged from boot and tourist shops to saloons and bars offering live entertainment from “real” country music to karaoke to hillbilly to honky-tonk. One or two even displayed banners bragging “smokers welcome.” She shook her head in disbelief and began to look for a place she thought she might safely enter on her own. Whatever the entertainment, she was hungry after her long trip.

Then she saw it. The sign on the narrow red-brick building across the street said “The Fiddlers’ Cave,” and she quickly moved to the corner, waiting for the light with the rest of the crowd before crossing to approach the place. The windows and door frames were painted a solid, stop-sign red, and the windows displayed vintage photos of what she assumed were famous fiddlers. She could hear the music pouring through the front door, which had been left open on what she assumed was an unusually balmy mid-March evening.
 

As she approached, she saw the welcome—to her— “no smoking” sign in the front window as well as a posted menu. They offered mostly bar food and one main dish, which changed daily. She checked Tuesday and decided she could handle a burger and fries this once, and headed inside.

The stage was situated on a rough platform just inside the door, with a railing of split rails for safety. The floor between the stage and the front corner of the long bar that ran the length of the room was crowded with couples dancing to the lively music. Meg made her way around the dancing crowd and saw the room was three or four times longer than it was wide. The walls were decorated with vintage signs, radios, gramophones, and larger-than-life musical instruments. Half-tables were attached to the wall opposite the bar, each with two or three stools. An equal number of tiny round tables ran down the center of the room. Along the bar, more of the same kind of stools sat. Most were occupied by a variety of people ranging widely in shapes, sizes, and dress.

Meg made her way over to the bar and sat on one of the unoccupied stools at the short “L” of the bar. She half turned toward the front of the room, taking in the stage, where four young men performed. They looked as though they must be in their twenties and related, for they were all very tall, and well-built, broad-shouldered and slender-waisted. They sported the same thick dark wavy hair, and their faces seemed chiseled by the same craftsman. But it was their eyes that really caught her attention, for they were a deep golden color, even from a distance. She had never seen the like anywhere in the world.

It was the smallest of the four who really caught her attention, though, for he stood to one side, hipshot, his fiddle under his chin, his eyes half-closed. She might have thought he was asleep but the music pouring from his fiddle was amazing, and unlike any she had ever heard before. They all played acoustical instruments—guitar, double-bass, drums, and fiddle—and while she saw there were microphones, they didn’t depend upon them for their sound. The fiddler was an absolute magician, though, for he played without any pausing, any hesitation, and the music simply rolled off his fiddle.

“I.D., please.”

Startled, she turned to see the bartender had come to her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s after six. I need to see some I.D., if you’re gonna be here.”

“Oh. Of course.”
 

Meg relaxed instantly and reached for her wallet, handing him the new, laminated I.D. card she had recently obtained. She didn’t have a driver’s license—she’d never needed to learn to drive—but she had photo identification from the New York D.M.V. It was newly purchased, after recently learning that while her father had changed her name publicly, he had never done so legally. Part of her escape plan had been to go back to using her real name, and once she’d found her birth certificate—thanks to a rather unorthodox search of her father’s home office—she had been able to get the I.D., for which she had paid cash.
 

The man eyed it closely, with an attention she hoped was due to the card being from out of state rather than newly minted. There was nothing wrong with it, though, and it passed muster.