Nashville - Combined Edition - Part One and Part Two Page 13

  Holden and I sit, again puppet-like.

  “So what’s your story?” Case asks, his blue eyes direct on us both.

  “Ah, I’m not sure what—” Holden begins.

  “Why are you two in Nashville?” Case says. “Music I’m assuming.”

  We both nod, and Case and Lauren smile.

  “Relax, y’all,” Lauren says. “I know you two aren’t this uptight at the restaurant.”

  I make an effort to do exactly that just because I feel so foolish sitting here like a bowling pin. I let my shoulders dip in and sit back in the chair.

  “What’s your plan for making it here?” Case asks. “You write? Sing? Play?”

  “I write,” Holden replies. “Sing a little.”

  “I sing,” I say.

  “I have a partner I play with,” Holden adds.

  “Look, the reason we called y’all over this morning,” Case says, “is first to thank you for what you did for Lauren.” He reaches over and takes her hand in his. I realize then that in spite of the scene we witnessed in Lauren’s office, the two of them are no casual thing. They have real feelings for one another. That actually makes me happy for Lauren, even though I am one of the countless thousands of females who have no doubt had illicit dreams about him.

  “If you hadn’t stopped to help her—” He breaks off, squeezes her hand and then looks at us again. “Thank you.”

  I nod.

  “I’m glad we could,” Holden says.

  “So when Lauren said you were both wanting to get into the music business, I thought I’d put this in front of you first. No guarantees it’ll work or you’ll be what I’m looking for, but even a shot is hard to come by in this town.”

  My heart kicks up to a level I can hear in my ears. Thrump-ush. Thrump-ush.

  “I’m looking to develop a young group. Three or four members, raw talent in place but with the ability to still be shaped. That fit y’all at all?”

  I’m actually holding my breath. Waiting for Holden to say I’m not part of his and Thomas’s gig. But that’s not what he says. “Absolutely,” he answers, and I feel my chest release like an air valve has just been turned. I look at him with the most neutral expression I can muster, waiting to hear what he’s going to say next. “We’d be really grateful to have the chance to play for you, Mr. Phillips.”

  “It’s Case,” he says. And then, “Two guys and two girls is what I’d planned to look at putting together. You got someone in mind for that?”

  Holden answers without hesitating. “We do.”

  “All right then,” Case says, slapping his hands on his thighs and standing. “Y’all come back around five this afternoon. I’ve got a studio here. We’ll see what we come up with.”

  “I’ll call the restaurant and get someone to take your shifts for tonight,” Lauren says. “It won’t be a problem.”

  “Thank you,” I say, standing.

  Holden gets to his feet and says, “Yeah, thank you so much. Both of you.”

  Case walks us to the door, pulls it open and once we’ve stepped outside, says, “Really. You have no idea how much I appreciate what you did for her last night. I can’t imagine—”

  “It was our pleasure,” Holden says. “And you know, you don’t have to do this for us just because—”

  “I know I don’t,” he says. “But I want to.”

  There’s a cab waiting out front by the Rover, and I realize he must have already had that arranged.

  “The fare’s taken care of,” he says. “See you at five.”

  And with that, he goes back inside the house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Holden

  “What exactly just happened?” I ask as we roll down the long driveway toward the main road.

  “I’m still wondering myself,” CeCe says. “Did we just get the kind of break that people wait years for?”

  “I think we did.”

  “But we’re not actually a group,” I say, starting to panic, “and how are we going to become one before five o’clock this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know, but we are,” I say.

  “Are you talking about Sarah as the fourth person?” CeCe asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, and just saying it out loud makes me realize how ridiculous it is to think that she’ll even consider doing it. After the arugment we’d had this morning before I left, it’ll be amazing to me if she hasn’t already left to drive back to Atlanta.

  “Do you think she will?” CeCe asks.

  “She has to,” I say.

  “What if she won’t?”

  “Let’s not even think that right now.”

  “I really don’t see her wanting to be on a stage with me.”

  She’s right, but how can I admit that? We’ve just been handed an opportunity that we might never get again. Just to be heard by Case Phillips, not to mention being considered as a project he’s willing to develop.

  “Shouldn’t you call Thomas?” CeCe asks.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and tap the screen for his number. He answers with a groggy, “Hello?”

  “Are you still in the sleeping bag?”

  “What? You’re speaking to me now?”

  “Not out of choice,” I say.

  “Maturity never was your thing,” he grumbles.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but Case Phillips just asked us to play for him this afternoon at five o’clock.”

  “What?”

  Thomas is awake now. I smile. “He’s looking to put together a group. The only thing we have to do before this afternoon is talk Sarah into auditioning with us.”

  “Oh, no problem,” Thomas says, blowing out a sigh. “I’ll run on over to Music Row and see if I can hunt down Miranda Lambert while I’m at it.”

  “She’s still there, right?” I ask.

  “Somebody’s running the shower in your room.”

  “Good. Don’t let her leave, okay. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ve never all played together,” CeCe says as I drop my phone in my shirt pocket.

  “We’ve never all had an opportunity like this,” I say. “It’s like winning the lottery. How many times do you win the lottery?”

  “Odds are never.”

  “Exactly,” I say. I just hope I can convince Sarah of this.

  SHE’S AT THE DOOR with her suitcase when we get back.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, as if I don’t already know.

  “Back to Atlanta,” she says, glancing at CeCe and then forcing her gaze on me.

  “Did Thomas tell you what just happened?” I ask.

  “Yes. And I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

  “We need you to audition with us, Sarah. He’s looking for a group. Two guys. Two girls.”

  Sarah tightens her grip on her purse strap and says, “This has always been your dream. It was never mine. And I came here for you. Not to be part of some ridiculous rainbow-chasing.”

  The words cut. I can’t deny it. I’m sure the wound shows on my face, and I can feel CeCe and Thomas both looking at me with resignation, like they know she’s never going to agree.

  “Maybe it is, Sarah,” I say. “But this is a chance that comes along about as often as the pot of gold. What do we have to lose in going for it? What do you have to lose?”

  She looks at me for a long moment, and tears well in her eyes. “You,” she says.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CeCe

  I’m not sure if I should clap or cry.

  Holden doesn’t look at me before he follows Sarah into the bedroom. Hank Junior and Patsy stare at me from the couch. Hank Junior jumps off and trots over to greet me with a body wag. Patsy thumps her tail but doesn’t get down.

  “You gonna consider that a victory or a defeat?” Thomas throws out from the kitchen where he’s unloading the dishwasher.

  “Victory,” I say, walking over to help him.

  “For the audition, yeah. Your he
art, not so much.”

  “I’m taking my heart out of the equation.”

  “Easy said.”

  I want to say not really, but choose silence as a better alternative.

  Within five minutes, Holden and Sarah walk into the kitchen. Her eyes are dry, and she looks resigned if not happy.

  “We’ve got the rest of the day,” Holden says, “to get three songs down dead and figure out how we’re going to look like we’ve been playing together forever. Let’s get on it.”

  IF I WERE AN OUTSIDER looking in, I would have to give the four of us credit.

  We do exactly what Holden said we would need to do and get down to business. We set up in the living room, Hank Junior and Patsy watching from their perch on the couch. Except for a couple breaks to take them outside and grab something to eat, we don’t stop practicing.

  We decide to go with two covers that everybody knows, a Rascal Flatts and a Faith Hill. On the Rascal Flatts, Thomas takes the lead, while Sarah and I do harmony. On the Faith Hill, I take a verse, Sarah takes another and Thomas joins us on the chorus.

  The third song is an original of Holden’s, and both he and Thomas decide that I should do the lead vocal. I feel the needles in Sarah’s glare, but she actually doesn’t say anything. She just goes along with every indication of being a team player. That is, until I butcher the fourth line of the first verse for the seventh or so time.

  “Seriously?” She throws her hands up in the air, turns to Holden and says, “I know this song. Why is she singing it?”

  She glances at me and then back at Holden. “You think she’s better than I am?”

  “You know that’s not it,” Holden says, rubbing the guitar pick between his thumb and index finger.

  “Then what is it?” she asks.

  Thomas shakes his head and starts to laugh. “Here’s how I see it. By some stroke of good fortune,” he says, nodding at me and then at Holden, “these two have managed to get us an opportunity that few people would ever get no matter how hard they worked their tails off in this town. Case Phillips wants to pay them back for pretty much saving the life of the woman he loves. And I for one am not gonna laugh in the face of that. I am totally content to ride shotgun on this one. Sarah. If I were you, I would be, too.”

  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 laug
hed 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.”