A Nashville Collection (31 page)

I stretch to see my face in the mirror. Now I see it. I'm the spitting image of Mr. Chastain. Red hair, green eyes, square chin, high brow, narrow nose. “It's red like my father's.”

I drop my forehead to the wheel.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” the trooper asks.

“Seventy or something.” Do I cry now? It would really be no problem. My eyes are brewing fresh tears.

He passes back my license and registration. “Seventy-two. But, I'm gonna let you go.”

Let the water works begin.

The officer clears his throat. “Please be safe and drive the speed limit. And next time you get disturbing news, take a walk or ride your bike. Stay off the highway.” He steps away. “Be careful.”

“Thank you,” I blubber, unable to stop the tears.

I creep along the berm until I'm off the exit ramp, and park at an abandoned gas station. With the emotion of my journey collapsing on my shoulders, I fall over on the seat and weep. Fighting fear; braving open-mike nights; falling in like with Lee, but not being ready for more; someone stealing my song; my first songwriter's night . . . and Momma's news . . . Momma's news . . . Momma's news.

I cry so long my face hurts. There are no napkins or tissues in the truck, so I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and blow my nose on the edge of my top. (It's going straight into the trash.)

I'm weary and want to sleep. Maybe stay here forever. Hide. Yeah, hide for awhile. Jesus, you and me, right? I don't need all this mess. Stupid Momma. Stupid James Chastain.

Tap, tap, tap.

Who's there? Come in.

Tap, tap, tap. “Miss? Are you all right?”

I bolt straight up, knocking my funny bone on the gear shift. Gripping my elbow, I glance at my watch. Six a.m. I'm late for work.

“Miss, are you all right?” The trooper who pulled me over last night peers through the passenger-side window.

I stretch to crank it open. A cool Tennessee breeze licks my face. “I'm fine. Guess I fell asleep.”

“Your family is looking for you.”

My family. Suddenly my senses are awake with the reality of the last eight hours. I crank the engine. “Thank you, officer.”

He taps the side of my truck. “Drive safe.”

I watch him walk back to his car.
Drive safe.
Is anything in life safe?

Lee raps on my door around dinnertime. I shuffle over to
answer it.

When he steps inside, I fall into his arms. “Birdie told me what happened.”

Thank you, Birdie.
“I still can't believe it. But for my first mind-blowing, I'm hanging in there.”

He laughs and walks me over to the couch. Good. I haven't lost all my wits. I curl up under his arm.

“You want to talk about it?”

He's so much better than a girlfriend, isn't he?

“James Chastain is my biological father.” I shrug. “What else is there to say?” I am surprisingly practical about this now that my tears have been shed. I had a strange dream, too, where I saw the eyes of Jesus. They were so peaceful and full of love. I tried to remember my fears or why my soul felt so troubled, but as long as I looked in his eyes, I couldn't remember.

Lee smoothes his hand over my hair and kisses my forehead. “The day we toured the Hall of Fame, you looked so much like his picture, I wondered . . .”

“That's what you were trying to ask me . . . when we were leaving and Skyler called. I'm so dense.”

“Dense? Robin, why would you even suspect such a thing? I just thought it was odd you have the same face as he does.” Lee rests his head on the back of the couch. “Man, I'm tired. I quoted five new jobs today, started a new home construction, and finished a remodel.”

“Do you want to order pizza?”

He
hum-ums
, drifting away. I slip out of his arms and spread Grandma's old afghan over him. He looks so cute sleeping under pink and yellow yarn.

“Sleep tight, my prince.”

I call in our pizza order and take a hot shower. As the water runs over me, I see the eyes from my dream.

Yeah, everything is going to be all right.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, in a candlelight service at
Woodmont Baptist Church, a hundred or so black-tie guests watch as Birdie Griffin strolls down the aisle on the arm of her eighty-year-old daddy.

Mr. Griffin escorts Birdie slowly, letting her have her bridal moment in the spotlight. Her cancer test came back benign. She broke the good news to Walt by giving him a cup of plastic dentures soaking in blue water.

Walt can't keep his brown eyes off of her. His two-toned hair is slicked back and his goatee trimmed. The man has found love again, and it's written all over his face.

I stand at the altar, holding my shivers together, trying not to look like I feel. Terrified. Blaire dressed me up in a sage-green bridesmaid's dress we bought from a secondhand store. She assured me it was the way to go. And for the first time in my life, I'm wearing pumps. Taupe, toe-pinching, pumps. I didn't even know taupe was a color.

Among the guests in the pews, Lee sits with my parents. When I peek at him, his wink makes my heart go
kerplunk
. He said he needed to ask me something at the reception. Oh, please, he's not going to push the marriage thing, is he? It's been almost two months since he told me he loved me, but I have yet to confess the same. I'm still not ready.

Shew,
is it hot in here? Where's the door?

Steady, Robbie, steady.

Until now, I've been doing fine. I'm happy to be Birdie's maid of honor. But as I watch her glide down the aisle, I feel trapped. Such a solemn moment . . .

My chest rises as my lungs gasp for air. Need. More. Air. My skin is hot and prickly.

Run . . .

My heart races. I don't want to be here. I want to be outside in the cold night air, running as fast as I can. Pumps or no pumps.

My foot jerks. My leg quivers. I scan for an escape route. In the pew behind Lee, Blaire clings to Ezra. Next to her, a bored-looking Skyler sits with Kip, who's talking, oh brother, on his cell phone. And the only exit sign I see is way at the end of the sanctuary. The best way out is the way I came in—down the main aisle.

Walt takes Birdie's hand when Mr. Griffin stops at the first pew. The old man kisses his daughter's cheek then releases her into Walt's care. His wrinkled cheeks are wet with tears.

Birdie hands me her bouquet. “How're you doing?” she whispers.

With a vigorous nod, I squeak, “Good.”

“Welcome, beloved,” Pastor Shawn says, commencing the ceremony.

I hear a subtle creak from the back of the sanctuary, and from the corner of my eye, I see him.

Holy Toledo. My eye starts to twitch. My pulse races, and is it me, or are the walls moving in?

“. . . join in marriage, before God and men, until death . . .”

Mr. Chastain slips into a back pew. The white and gold lights of the sanctuary fade to browns and blacks.

Why is he here? What does he want? Please don't make a scene.

I glance at Lee for a dose of courage. Nothing. He looks at me like, “What?”

Fear spews all over me. I close my eyes and try to conjure up the picture of Jesus' eyes from my dream. But all I see is James Chastain sitting in the back of the church.

I ditch the bouquets and run, down the altar steps and up the main aisle, the heels of my pumps clicking every step of the way.

29

A block away, it's clear I didn't think this thing through. I don't
have my truck since I rode with Lee, and my purse is in the church's bridal room. But I can't go back, so I press forward, pitifully limping and waddling down the narrow side of a busy Hillsboro Road.

I glance over my shoulder a few times to see if Lee or Daddy is coming after me, but they aren't. Good. I don't want everyone to ruin Birdie's big day— I stop, jamming my toe into the grass.
Crud.
I'm the one who ruined Birdie's big day. Her maid of honor. Oh, Birdie, I'm so, so sorry. How could I have been so selfish? How could I have surrendered to my enemy—fear—once again?

Salty tears gather in the corners of my lips. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. How will I ever be able to make it up to her?

I wander for awhile, crying, until I see the Bluebird Café. Ah, my harbor in this storm. I dash inside. The early songwriter's session is going on.

“I just came from a wedding,” I explain to Zoë, the hostess at the door. “Are there any seats?”

She smiles. “Sure, you can sit at the bar.”

I give her a soft smile. “Thanks, Zoë.” Cold, drained, and weary, I make my way to the bar, and without asking, Trevor slides me a Coke. I let the pumps drop from my feet to the floor.

“I don't have any money,” I say.

“Don't worry, we'll make you sing for it.”

For a long time, I sip my drink and dry my tears. How could I have given up the fight so easily? I'd made such progress. Dern, I owe Blaire a whole bottle of Lexapro.

The familiar atmosphere of the Bluebird is comforting. And as I ponder my plight, I see His eyes again, and peace fills me once again.

“Hey, Trevor, another?” I motion to my empty glass.

“I'll have what she's having.” I turn to see the square-jawed face of Mr. Chastain.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” His voice is deep and steady, like that day in his office.

“It only took you twenty-five years, but hey, pull up a stool.”

He sits. “Better late than never.”

“According to whom?” I'm mad at myself; might as well take it out on him.

Trevor refills my Coke and serves one to Mr. Chastain.

“Why'd you come to the wedding?” I ask.

He twirls his glass between his hands. “Birdie invited me. We've made our peace.”

“Guess there's a lot of that going around.”

“I'd like to make my peace with you.”

I look him square in the eye. “Why?”

He doesn't flinch. “Because I shouldn't have abandoned you and your mother. I'm sorry, Robin. I was a selfish, arrogant bastard. I can't change the past, but I'd like to change the future.”

My eyes well up. Mr. Chastain is trying. He's asking for forgiveness. “Why did it take you so long?”

He adjusts his suit jacket and holds up his glass for a refill. “Actually, I tried to get in touch with you about ten years ago, but your mom thought it best to leave things alone.”

Figures. “I didn't know.”

When Trevor hands him a refill, he lifts his glass to me. “What do you say? Friends?”

I hesitate. Friends? With James Chastain. It could make my life in Nashville a whole lot easier. Momma didn't raise no dummy. I hoist my glass too. “Maybe. Friends.”

We listen to the last few songs of the early in-the-round show. Two of the songwriters come over to Mr. Chastain to say hello. One of them writes for Nashville Noise Publishing, the other for Wrensong.

Quickly, the Bluebird clears out and Mr. Chastain drops a bill on the table, offering me his arm. “Care to be my date to a wedding reception?”

“You think they'll let me in?” I work my feet back into those cruel pumps.

“I think so.”

“I'd love to go, Mr. Chastain.”

“Jim. Please call me Jim.”

He escorts me to his silver Mercedes. “Thank you for finding me.”

“What are friends for?”

Walt and Birdie dash away from the reception after a smash of
cake and gulp of punch.

“We waited to . . . you know . . .” Birdie giggles as she sets her punch glass on the linen covered table. “For our honeymoon.”

I blush. She's said nothing about my abandonment. When I came in with Jim, she hugged me and said, “Welcome back.”

But I can't let it go that easily. “Birdie, I'm sorry I ran out. It was rude. I was only thinking of myself.”

She presses her finger to her lips. “Shush. All's well that ends well.” She wraps me in a bosomy hug. “We'll have supper and talk when we get back.”

I smile. “The Caribbean will never be the same.”

She wiggles her tush as she turns to find her groom. “I certainly hope not.”

Driving home from the reception with Lee is chilly and stuffed
with inane chatter like:

“Looks like the leaves are all gone.”

“Yep.”

“They're saying winter is going to be harsh.”

“I heard.”

“Better check your tires in case it snows.”

“Oh, good thinking.”

He parks in Birdie's drive and walks me to the front door.

“Aren't you coming up?” I reach for his hand. It's like holding a dead fish.

“No, I'd better run.”

“Lee.” I lean into him. “Don't go. I just sorta freaked out is all.”

He peers down at me. “Does it really scare you that much? Commitment?”

“No. Well, just a little, but today was about everything. Momma and Jim, my song, getting up early, staying up late, the rush of helping Birdie with wedding plans, you wanting to ask me a question—”

“What question?”

“You said you wanted to ask me something during the reception.”

He grins. “Freaked you out, did I?”

I pop him. “This is not funny.” Truth is, I've been freaking myself out for years.”

“One of my clients is having a house-warming party. I was going to ask you to go with me. Next Friday.”

“Oh.”

He sighs. “Robin, we agreed to wait for your signal. I'm not going to pressure you.”

“My bad. I'm sorry.”

He snickers. “I wish we had video of you running down the aisle in those shoes. It's about the funniest thing I've ever seen.”

“Be nice or I won't go to your silly house warming.”