Twang (17 page)

The memory was so vivid I could smell Holt like he was right there in my arms again, that lingering scent of evergreen from his cologne mixed with the faint aroma of leather from his hatband you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t oh-so-close. I heard him whispering “Love you, babe,” into that soft place behind my ear, making my breath catch in my throat. I felt his five-o’clock shadow tickly rough, making my insides melt as he whispered, “We’re the next Faith Hill and Tim McGraw, you know.”

For a while I was carried away, my body recalling all the delicious sensations of being held, adored by Holt Cantrell, with his bedroom eyes and that devilish grin he kept on his lips. Then all of a sudden, my breath caught in my throat and everything evaporated as I recalled a recent article in
Country Weekly
.

Maybe I
was
a thief and a psychotic mess! Maybe I
had
pushed and pushed until Holt finally reached his limit, having no choice but to twist my arm around my back until it almost snapped. I shouldn’t have called the police because really, the whole episode wasn’t Holt’s fault! It was mine for pouring his Jack Daniel’s down the sink. That was stealing, really, if I was going to be honest with myself.

I started to cry, and that’s when I dug my cell phone out of the floppy pocket of my sweatpants. I needed to call Holt and apologize, set things straight. He was in Vancouver on tour, but he’d be home in three days, and when he got back to Nashville we could pick right back up where we’d left off.

But right before I pressed the button to call Holt, I remembered Tonilynn saying, “He’s a snake, hon.” It was hard, but I managed to stop myself with the thought that I’d wait and talk to Tonilynn some more about what led up to me pouring Holt’s whiskey down the sink, about what he was watching on the screen of his laptop. Those things he said he wanted me to do!

It was hard, going back and forth between pining for Holt and then remembering Tonilynn’s warning. I had to make it through the two days until I was scheduled to be back in the Hair Chair, and there was nothing on my agenda except playing around with some songs in progress and an afternoon meeting with Mike about the liner notes for my upcoming album.

I wondered if I had it in me to talk to Mike this time. My stomach had started aching continually and I felt like I was walking across an emotional minefield anytime I’d sing or hear “Dirt Roads and Sequin Gowns.” The spirit of the song was supposedly one about rags to riches and overcoming; this poor little girl lives in a shack on the side of a dirt road, and as she grows up, she sings to passersby, with her muddy knees and her dirty feet and wearing tattered dresses. She’s dreaming of becoming a star, and then, years down the road, she’s standing onstage at the Grand Ole Opry, in a sparkly dress, happy.

The final verse goes:
When she sings the song that plays in her heart, she’s wearing a sequined gown. Sometimes it’s red, sometimes
it’s blue, but it’s never gonna be dirt brown. It’s never gonna be dirt brown. When she sings the song that plays in her heart, she’s wearing a sequined gown
.

She comes off sounding victorious, but I knew the story between the lines. I knew the soul-wrenching cost of fame.

Tomorrow came as it always did, and it was a rainy April day. Usually I loved rainy days for songwriting. I’d sit in a spot on the floor at one of the deep windows in the den with my coffee on the low sill and my notebook open between spread-eagled legs, looking out at what was blooming in my garden, and beyond that to the branches of trees reaching upward to the sky. It was calming and inspirational at the same time. But that day I felt a heavy weight pressing down on me as I contemplated the afternoon meeting with Mike. I penned the first words that flashed through my mind;
The dark side of a star
.

I held my notebook to my heart and almost wept from the truth. There was so much from my past I needed to keep buried, and I knew I could do it if I didn’t have Mike constantly pushing, pushing, saying stuff like, “Being happy is awful for writing a country song, Jenny girl. Fans just want to hear about sad things, like leaving and heartbreak,” and “You just need to put yourself in a dark place until you can come up with something good,” and “You know as well as I do that as a songwriter, heartbreak’s invaluable. It’s good to have these terrible things you’ve gone through. Dig deep for that heart-rending song.” He also loved quoting Conway Twitty: “A good country song takes a page out of somebody’s life and puts it to music.”

Just thinking of the superconfident way Mike said all these things made my skin draw up tight.

I dressed in my disguise and drove to Panera Bread for our two o’clock meeting. Even though my stomach had been sending out echoing rumbles, one bite of cinnamon crunch bagel and a third of a cup of espresso was all I could handle. I sat staring at the front door, hugging myself.

“Jenny Cloud! How ya doin’, sweetheart?” Mike said loudly in that charismatic Southern drawl when he walked in, those fancy black cowboy boots of his making a grand entrance. I flinched, ducked down. It was a good thing the other chairs in the front room were empty at this hour.

“Fine,” I said around a powerful whiff of Herrera for Men.

“Good, good. Lemme run grab a libation and we’ll talk. ’Kay?”

“Sure.”

Mike returned with coffee, sunk into a chair, and stretched his long khaki-clad legs out in front of him. “So,” he said after a gulp, “you’re absolutely gonna love what marketing came up with for our new album. No other word for it but genius.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and smoothed it out flat on his thigh. “Okeydoke. Listen at this: ‘A country music star and the autobiographical songs that reflect the sorrows and pain, the disillusionment of her childhood.’ ” He looked up at me with those hazel eyes like bullets to my soul. “Nice, huh?”

I didn’t answer.

“Or how ’bout this one? ‘A Country Music Diva grapples with the drinkin’, cheatin’, lyin’, and leavin’ of her Southern roots’?” Without pausing for my response, he continued. “Here’s another: ‘When the music calls her home, a country music superstar must deal with the dark memories and the people who didn’t keep their promises.’ ”

Mike grew even more excited, talking fast and gesturing with his free hand. “ ‘Each of the songs on this album is the kind of a steel guitar-drenched, tear-in-your-ear ballad that Jenny Cloud can deliver like no one else. These are stories, songs carved from Cloud’s own experience.’ ”

I finally managed to make a sound. I laughed, a humorless little snort.

Mike leaned forward and touched my wrist. “I knew you’d like them too. These are incredible, like I said.” Smile crinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. “Flint Recording is sure taking care of you, aren’t they darlin’? We’re gaining visibility in places where country music doesn’t usually go. We are on a roll!”

I lifted my espresso for a drink and my hand was trembling so that some trickled from the corner of my mouth and dripped down onto my blouse.

“Key words here are
support
and
visibility
, Jenny,” Mike continued, “which we’re getting from radio and from the digital retailers. The goal here is to sell more albums, and speaking of that, we’ve got to make sure your CD’s packaging will achieve that as well. I’m supposed to be getting design ideas for the cover tomorrow. You want me to e-mail them on to you, or do you trust me to choose?”

I dried my chin on my shoulder and looked at Mike, beseechingly, I thought.

“Okay,” he said, switching directions seamlessly, “that’s settled. I’ll call on the cover. Now let’s talk about what you’re currently working on. What you got in the channel, darlin’?”

“I’m . . . a song called ‘The Dark Side of a Star.’ ” This came out sounding like a question.

“Well, now, that’s certainly a catchy title—‘The Dark Side of a Star.’ Can’t wait to hear it.” Mike’s eyes were bright. He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers across his big silver
belt buckle. “Got Jerome playing around with the chords for ‘True Love and Wild Blackberries,’ and I believe he’s really pleased with it. You’ll have to come by the studio and give it a listen.”

It felt like Mike had leaned forward and slapped me. I did not want to even
think
about that song. I’d written it, along with several other similar ones, while I was high on love for Holt Cantrell. I opened up my mouth, but the words of protest in my head wouldn’t come out. I yelled internally;
Jennifer, you weakling! When are you ever going to learn to assert yourself! This is literally killing you!

Loving music the way I did was a double-edged sword. It certainly seemed like I’d continue to sell myself out purely because I adored writing, singing, and performing. And, yes, I adored success, if I was going to be honest.

It was hard to fall asleep that night, and finally, as I closed my eyes sometime after two a.m., right as I fell into that no-man’s land between awake and asleep, an unspeakable image from my past began playing on the screen of my mind. In that odd way of dreams, it was all tangled up with a vision of a business downtown on Demonbreun Street. Déjà Vu Showgirls was a nude club with a pulsing neon sign showcasing a woman’s legs in a seductive pose. Every time I passed it, I felt heartbreaking, overwhelming pity for those young girls inside, the couch dancers. That night my pity mixed with a sharp, bright fury as I saw my own vulnerable self so long ago. The film rolled on and the darkness grew deeper, mixing with astonishment that he would use me like that, my own father!

Some vaguely conscious part of me was aware that the whole poisonous mix of guilt and the loss of my innocence would come crashing down, full force, if I didn’t stop it. I struggled to
sit upright, shaking in the dark, the breath-snatching shame like a hot cattle brand on my soul. I did not sleep one wink that night. My survival instinct kept me pacing through Harmony Hill, telling myself I’d keep awake forever, reassuring myself
I’ll never let this one out. Not even for a perfect country song
.

It’s been raining cats and dogs so many days I feel like I’m growing moldy. But like they say, April showers bring May flowers. I went out this afternoon when it slacked off a spell and cut two early irises for Bobby Lee to give Jennifer when she comes for supper.