Small Town Girl

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

She reached Nashville at a quarter to five, exited I-40 and wound her way toward Music Row, southeast of downtown. Home could wait. Right now she needed an infusion of what she had missed, the vitality and energy flowing from those twelve square blocks south of Division Street where the business of record producing created the heartbeat of Music City. As if its lifeblood seeped into her own and powered her, she felt invigorated as she approached her office. At the foot of Demonbreun a larger-than-life-sized likeness of Randy Travis welcomed her from a redbrick wall. Tourists moved in and out of souvenir shops and climbed the ramp into the Country Music Hall of Fame. In front of Sony's offices a sign promoted Mary Chapin Carpenter's latest album. MCA lauded Vince Gill's. Along Music Square East and West, headquarters of industry-related businesses lined both sides of the street-law firms, recording studios, video production companies, music publishing companies, ASCAP and BMI, who tracked radio usage and collected royalties, booking agencies, offices of various record labels, offices of America's best-known country recording artists, and restaurants where number-one parties were thrown for the most successful.

Her own office was located in a century-old Victorian house on Music Square West, a three-story monstrosity painted several shades of yellow with a parking lot shaded by four huge basswood trees that were nearly as old as the house itself. Out front on a wooden signpost, an oval brass plaque announced, simply, Wintergreen Enterprises. She had chosen the name to remind herself of how far she'd come from that little burg in Missouri to the top of the country charts and her place as a respected businesswoman in an industry that for decades had been dominated by men. Under the umbrella of Wintergreen Enterprises fell several individually successful companies that had each been born out of necessity or common sense. Her music-publishing company came about when she realized how many talented writers were approaching her to sing their songs, many of which had neither been copyrighted nor published yet. She figured, Why pay another publishing company royalties on her records when she could be collecting them herself? Her specialty clothing operation created custom-designed concert costumes not only for herself but for other recording artists as well. Five years ago when she'd run into a scheduling snag and been kept on tenterhooks not knowing if her posters and buttons would be made in time for one of her concerts, she had purchased a small printing company that created posters, buttons, fan club newsletters and concert programs for her. and did some highly profitable contract work for other performers as well. There was also the small fleet of jets she used and leased to others.

All of this remained secondary, however, to the phenomenally successful operation that kept Tess McPhail on top of the country charts. That operation scheduled roughly a hundred and twenty concert dates a year and provided the essential organizational force allowing her to coproduce her own albums and videos, act as talent in those videos, do publicity, keep contact with fan clubs in every major city of America, and pay the salaries of over fifty permanent employees required to keep such a behemoth operational.

And Tess McPhail oversaw every aspect of it herself.

When she walked into Wintergreen Enterprises, she walked into the hub of her success.

Physical coolness struck her full force when she opened the back door and stepped from the private rear entry through the kitchen that was now used as a copy room and canteen. She passed the former servants' stairway, the one she commonly used to reach her second-floor office, and heard the hum of various conversations as she entered the central hall. The walls throughout the house were cream, the floors were hardwood, and the windows shuttered in white to hold back Nashville's intense summer heat. Country music played softly on a built-in sound system as she entered the main hall where oversized reproductions of her album covers trimmed the walls.

Her receptionist sat at a desk with her back to the ornate stairwell, her blond hair twisted up high in back but left to trail to her shoulders from the temple.

"Hey, Jan, I'm back."

Jan Nash swiveled her chair slowly and broke into a smile. She was in her mid-thirties, pretty as a Barbie doll and shaped like one. Jan looked smashing in a black scuba dress, her makeup fresh and flattering, silver loops at her ears. She rolled back her chair without hurry and rose in black high-heeled boots.

"Hey, Mac, welcome back. We sure missed you." She had a pronounced Southern drawl that made "you" sound like "yeeuuu."

"Thanks, Jan. It feels great to walk in here. I can't wait to get back to work."

"Sorry to hear about Papa John."

"Isn't it awful?"

Others heard Tess's voice and came out of the various downstairs offices to offer much the same greeting. Soon Tess moved on to her own office upstairs. It occupied the entire width of the rear, which faced east and enjoyed the dappled green shade from the basswoods outside. In a smaller adjoining office Kelly Mendoza was talking on the phone, and turned to smile when she saw her boss approaching through the connecting doorway. Kelly was Cu-ban, twenty-nine, five feet eight and regal, with a mass of long black hair as shiny as spilled ink, worn today in an explosion of ringlets. Her jet eyes tilted up at the corners and her skin was smooth and dark as a pecan shell. She was dressed in a silk suit the color of green tea with a multicolored silk scarf caught under the collar.

"Mac… welcome back."

"It's good to be here."

After seven years of working together, the two women hugged, but not for long. They both were geared to accomplish more in a single workday than most people accomplish in two.

Kelly said, "I'm sorry about Papa John."

"We all are. Do you have details about the memorial service?"

"Tomorrow morning, eleven a.m. at the Ryman, singers gathering one hour beforehand for a brief rehearsal."

"Good. What else?"

"I've sent flowers in your name, as well as some from Wintergreen Enterprises, but you'll want to sign the sympathy card on your desk. Burt Sheer called three times since lunch and Jack wants you to call him the minute you get in. He's got studio time scheduled for Wednesday and wants to talk to you about who you want for backup singers. Peter Steinberg got a call from Disney World asking if you'd be interested in them doing a Tess McPhail Day sometime next year-short performance, be in the parade on Main Street U.S.A… do an autographing-that sort of thing. He wants you to call him. Cathy Mack has five dress designs she wants you to look at and Ralph wants to start concert rehearsals as soon as you feel like your head is above water."

Kelly went with Tess into her office, indicating the stacks of correspondence on the console beside her desk. "There are notes on everything I've told you. This stack needs immediate attention, this stack could wait a couple of days, and this one I've already seen to. Oh, one other thing-and this one isn't good-Carla's got an appointment with a throat specialist. That problem with her voice is still hanging on."

Concern crimped Tess's brow. Carla not only sang backup on some of her recordings, she was also supposed to go on this tour.

"•Still?"

Kelly nodded solemnly.

"Is it worse?"

"Not worse, just the same. But she's worried, I can tell."

"No wonder. It's been bothering her for at least six months."

"Closer to a year, she said."

The phone chirped softly, and Kelly picked it up at Tess's desk.

"It's Burt." Kelly handed the receiver to Tess and returned to her own office, giving Tess privacy.

"Hi, Burt," Tess said, dropping into her familiar leather chair.

"You're back. Figured you would be when I heard about Papa John. Hey, I'm really sorry, Tess."

They talked for a while, then Burt said, "I really missed you. babe."

His voice raised within her none of the longing that it had when he'd called her in Wintergreen, before she'd kissed the man across the alley. Though they were supposed to have a date that week, she canceled it, using her sadness over Papa John as an excuse. Whatever feelings she'd had for Burt Sheer had been dulled by the memories she now carried of Kenny Kronek.

But it became clear to Tess within an hour of her return that she was right about Kenny's place in her life. There was none. Though at times over the past four weeks she'd questioned where she belonged, she had merely to face catching up with business to understand that her place here was fixed. She belonged here in Nashville-absolutely-where her career continued to click along even during her absence, where her staff knew her needs even before she could voice them, and where her future was already mapped out.

The latest Gavin Report sat on her desk, faceup, and beneath it Billboard, and Radio & Record. Her next single would be released in mid-June and another one in August (hopefully the one she and Casey hadn't even recorded yet!) before the September release of the new CD. It was expected to go platinum, maybe double platinum-four million fans waiting to buy her songs. The producer of the Super Bowl halftime show wanted to know if she'd headline a year and a half from now. Her major sponsor, Wrangler, called to set up a photo session in some place called the San Bias Islands, where they proposed to photograph her in a pair of their jeans in the surf. They wanted the ad campaign to hit the newsstands at the same time her new CD hit the stores. And Nissan had somehow found out she owned one of their products and wanted to discuss the possibility of a contract for television commercials.

There was no place in her life for a man.

Nevertheless, if one in particular phoned, she didn't want to miss his call.

"Kelly?"

"Yes?" Kelly appeared in the open doorway.

"Phone calls from either Casey Kronek or Kenny Kronek are to be put through to me immediately, no matter what's going on, and if I'm not here, make sure I get the message as soon as possible, okay?"

"Will do."

"Casey is a graduating senior from my hometown who'll be staying with me for a while in June. She's going to do the harmonies on one of my songs."

"Lucky girl," Kelly remarked.

"Talented girl," Tess replied. "She helped me write it."

"Wow." Quiet surprise lit Kelly's face a id made it even more attractive. Without asking questions, she returned to her desk and made a note of the names, amazing Tess again not only with her proficiency, but with her ability to keep her nose out of Tess's personal business. In Tess's line of work, this kind of tactfulness was invaluable.

Tess worked till eight o'clock, discovering, to her surprise, that after a month at her mother's, her body clock demanded supper at six. She ignored the hunger pangs until she could no more, and by the time she was heading home her stomach ached. But she bypassed fast food in favor of familiar surroundings and pointed the car southwest.

She lived in the city of Brentwood, in a subdivision called Woodway. It was announced by a lavish brick entrance surrounded by sculptured shrubbery and flowers of red, white and blue on either side of the gilded sign.

As Tess neared home she lowered the windows on the Z and breathed in the warm, humid southern air, something she would not have thought of doing a month ago when she drove out of here. A month ago she would have sped up the road with her tinted windows up and noticed little of her surroundings.

Tonight she noticed… and appreciated.

It was one of those evenings when twilight refuses to hurry, and as her car climbed up Heathrow Boulevard, the oaks and elms spread like black chapel veils against a butter-yellow sky that thickened to peach at the tree-caps. In front of the house two doors from hers, Mr. Ruddy had just finished waxing his classic '68 Corvette. He waved as she passed, but she encountered him so seldom that she didn't even know his first name. She thought he worked at NationsBank but wasn't sure. Two boys came coasting down the hill on bicycles, and she waited for them to pass her driveway before pulling in. It struck her that she knew neither of the boys; knew, in fact, no children in the neighborhood, or any of the homeowners.

She couldn't help recalling Mrs. Perry reminiscing at the wedding reception about how Tess, as a little girl, had come to her door asking for English toffee. She thought of the view out her mother's kitchen window and how she herself had watched the comings and goings at the house across the alley.

So different here. So isolated by success.

Her towering living room windows faced the street, and through them Tess saw that Maria had left a lamp on. The garage door rolled up at the touch of a button, and Tess noted, to her surprise, that Maria's little blue station wagon was still inside. She hauled her duffel bag and a green suitcase through the back entry, calling, "'Maria, are you still here?"

"Miss Mac, welcome home!" Maria was in the kitchen, topping off the water in a bouquet of red zinnias that sat in the middle of the the table.

Tess dropped her gear. "Lord o' mercy, what are you still doing here?"

"Waiting for you. Nobody likes to come home to an empty house."

"But I always come home to an empty house."

"Not after you've been gone this long. I'll take your bags upstairs, Miss Mac."

"Thanks, Maria, but I can do it myself."

"Nonsense. Give me that."

Maria was Mexican, in her fifties, spindle-legged and bantam-sized. Her hair was streaky gray and held back in an unceremonious French roll. Though she looked about as strong as a ten-year-old boy, she had no trouble wresting the suitcase out of Tess's hand.

"All right, then, we'll each take one," Tess conceded, hauling the duffel bag herself. "But your family will be expecting you."

"I told them I might be late. I didn't know what time you'd get in. How is your momma?"

"She's doing very well, walking with a cane, getting happy on wine at weddings."

"And your sisters?"

"They're fine. I saw them a lot while I was gone. Maria, thank you for staying."

Maria flapped a hand as if no thanks were needed, and the pair climbed an open, flying stairway that curved up to the second story, where a C-shaped landing overlooked the living room. The guest suites lay straight ahead and to the right. Tess turned left through double doors into her own bedroom suite. Unlike at Mary's, everything here was new, bright, coordinated, all the decorating done in neutrals with only touches of pastel color here and there.

Maria had made sure lamps were lit everywhere, and Tess paused to let her eyes wander over the black metal crown bed with its canopy frame looped with yards of white gauze that trailed on the floor at the four corners. Other than that gauze and some throw pillows on the bed, the decorating was spare, the windows were naked, the walls ivory, the carpet and sofa white. Double doors-closed tonight-led to a balcony overlooking the pool.

Tess dropped her bag onto an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, and there beside it stood her brand new M. L. Leddy boots. They were made of green ostrich skin and brought a smile-everything perfect here, so different than at Mary's. Everything seen to for her.

She sat on the bench to try on the boots.

Maria said, "I saved the box in case they have to be sent back." She went around the room lowering white pleated shades.

"Thanks, Maria."

"You want me to help you unpack?"

"No thanks, tomorrow will be time enough. You can go home now."

"I'll go home when I think I should," the woman said with her back turned as she headed downstairs again. Tess smiled and took a walk across her bedroom to the white marble bath/dressing room, sampling the fit of the new boots, smiling at the bud vase with a single peach-colored rose that Maria had put on the vanity, the fresh salmon-colored towels on the racks, her favorite robe lying on a bench in the corner. Though she was used to living alone, she was remarkably happy to have the garrulous housekeeper here tonight to make some noise around the place and create a welcome. She went back through her bedroom to the central balcony and stood looking down into the living room. It had sixteen-foot ceilings and was decorated in tones of white ranging from snow to oyster with only a touch of peach in the furniture. A cream-colored grand piano-one of two in the house-stood at the foot of the immense front windows. A white-brick fireplace on the left was flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A giant slab of glass resting on two short white plaster columns created the coffee table between two sofas that faced each other at a right angle to the fireplace.

It was as different from the houses in Wintergreen as Picasso is from Renoir. The contrast struck her fully, and for only a second, left a faint emptiness.

Leaning over the railing, she called, "Hey, Maria, anybody call?"

"No," Maria shouted back from the depths of the kitchen, "just Miss Kelly this afternoon to let me know you got in."

"Nobody named Casey?"

"No."

"Casey Kronek?"

"No."

"Anyone named Kenny?"

"No."

"Oh," Tess said softly to herself, disappointed. She raised her voice and bent over the rail again, "if either one of them calls-whenever-you're to put them through to me immediately. Casey or Kenny Kronek-got that?"

"Got that, Miss Mac."

Like Kelly, Maria knew how to keep Tess's personal life personal. She did her job, refrained from gossip and didn't ask what was none of her business. If she garnered inside information during the general day-to-day activities around the house she treated it all as confidential. At Christmastime she got a bonus that many executives would envy.

Upstairs, Tess washed her face, stripped off her jeans and put on a one-piece cotton lounger, then returned to the kitchen, a tile-floored room with copper pans hanging over an island stove, and French doors set into a bay that jutted into a screened porch. Without a word of instruction, Maria had set out a Caesar salad topped with grilled Cajun chicken, a cobalt-blue goblet of water, a smaller goblet of skim milk and an inviting plate of fresh fruit. It waited on a blue placemat on the distressed pine table where Tess ate her informal meals. In the center of the table was the pitcher full of zinnias, more than likely picked from Maria's own garden.

"Maria, bless your soul," Tess said, sitting down immediately and stabbing a forkful of crisp romaine.

"Looks like you put on a couple extra pounds," the housekeeper noted. "I'll get you back in shape in no time. I pressed your midnight blue suit for the memorial service tomorrow. Too bad about Papa John."

"Thank you, Maria. Now will you please go home?"

"Yes, Miss Mac, I believe I will. You can put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher when you finish."

"I'll be sure to do that."

Maria found her sweater and purse. "Well, good night, then. It's nice to have you back. There's fresh-squeezed orange juice in the fridge and bagels in the drawer for morning."

"Thanks again, Maria."

When the back door closed and the garage door quit rumbling, Tess was left in silence. She stopped chewing and listened to the hum of the refrigerator. She glanced at the copper pans above the stove, at the uncluttered cabinet tops-perfect order everywhere-and sat motionless in her chair, experiencing nine-thirty on a weeknight in a 1.4-million-dollar house big enough for eight but built for only one. She had resisted building it. but her accountant had advised her she needed to diversify her investments, and since real estate would appreciate, why not have the comforts of a nice house at the same time that her money was growing? She had bought the first jet by then so she could be home more nights, even during concert season, and she'd thought, why not?

But as she rinsed her plate and put it in the dishwasher she wished for her small apartment up on Belmont Boulevard where she could hear the owners' television through the floor and the occasional sound of voices drifting up from an open window.

She turned out the lights downstairs and went up to take a whirlpool bath in the marble tub that could easily hold two but never had. While she was sitting in it with the jets on, the phones rang-seven of them, all over the house-and she answered the one on the wall at the foot of the tub.

"Hello?" she said, killing the jets.

"Hi, Mac, it's me, Casey."

"Oh, Casey, it's good to hear your voice!" Joy sluiced through her, coupled with the realization of how lonely she'd been. "Hold on just a minute, will you?"

She got out of the tub, wrapped herself head and body in thick white terry, and transferred to the bedside phone, tossing five assorted pillows onto the floor and sitting back against two big square European jobs with custom cases. "Casey? I'm back. Listen, hon, I'm sorry I had to leave Wintergreen so suddenly without telling you."

"It's okay. Dad told me about your friend. I'm sure sorry, Mac."

"I won't be brave and pretend he wasn't important to me, because he was."

"I know. Dad told me you were crying."

"Yes, well…" She'd been crying not only for the loss of Papa John, but because she was leaving Kenny. "It's good to be back and keeping busy. It takes my mind off things."

"You still working?"

"No, I'm done for the day. I just had supper and took a bath."

"I hope it's okay that I called there… at your house, I mean."

"Of course."

"I know it's your unlisted number and everything, but Dad said-"

"It's fine, Casey, anytime. I told both Maria and Kelly that they're to put you through anytime."

"Great. Well, listen, I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. I can't wait for June. Now Dad wants to say something… talk to you soon. 'Bye, Mac."

Before she could prepare for the impact of his voice it came across the wire, subdued, hushed, somewhat thick-throated like his good-bye that morning.

"Hi," he said, nothing more, only the single, lonesome word. It filled her heart with an amazing rush of emotion as she sat in her big empty house missing him, wishing she could see his face, touch it, talk, laugh, maybe ride out to Dexter Hickey's and scratch some horses' noses.

"Hi," she managed at last, feeling her senses reaching out to him even from two hundred fifty miles away. Seconds passed while neither of them spoke, only pictured themselves as they'd been in his office, kissing good-bye.

Finally he said, "You got home okay?"

"Yes, just fine."

"I worried about you."

There were men who worried about her daily-her producer, her business manager, her agent-but they were paid to. Nobody paid Kenny Kronek to worry about her. The very notion brought pressure to her throat and lowered an anvil to her chest.

"You mustn't worry about me, Kenny."

"You were crying."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were. Why won't you admit it?"

"All right, I was, but not for long. I put a tape on and just drove it out of my system."

"Drove what out of your system?"

"You," she admitted. At the other end of the line she heard only his breathing, and thought how pointless this was. "Is that what you wanted to hear, Kenny?"

No reply came, only the electronic hum of the phone, and finally, the sound of Kenny clearing his throat. "I'm shuffling around here looking out the back window at your mother's house and it seems like I should be able to walk over there and knock on the door and you'll answer."

"Kenny, that's never going to happen, not… not like it did this past month."

"I know," he said, so quiet and forlorn she could almost picture his chin on his chest.

"It was a fling at a wedding, nothing more. We agreed, remember?"

"Yeah…" He cleared his throat again. "Yeah, right. We agreed."

Yet another silence crawled by, filled with useless wishes.

"Well, listen… I'm bushed, and tomorrow's going to be rough, so I'd better say good night."

"Sure…" he said. "Well, take care. I miss you."

"I miss you, too. Tell Casey good night."

"I will."

"Are Momma's lights still on?"

"No. It's dark over there."

She smiled. And closed her eyes. And realized there were tears on her lashes. "I forgot to call her and tell her I got here okay."

"I'll tell her in the morning before I go to work."

"Thanks, Kenny." Dear Kenny, always concerned about Mary.

"Sure. Well… sleep tight, Tess."

"You, too."

When she'd hung up she remained on the bed, heart-heavy, the phone on her stomach, her ankles crossed, still wrapped in her white terry robe, aware of her nakedness inside it, and of how much she missed sex, wishing she'd allowed herself to have it with Kenny last Saturday night.

Two tears rolled down and stung the skin beside her nose. She swiped at them with the tail end of her terry-cloth belt, and sniffed once, then sat on, staring through a blur at the end of the belt while working it over with a thumbnail. She wondered if Faith had been at Kenny's house tonight. Had they eaten supper together like a regular little Cleaver family? Had he kissed her hello when she arrived? The thought made Tess angry and depressed by turns. She wondered if he'd call here often-she hadn't expected him to do so at all-and if he would continue his plaintive pursuit which could not, must not, lead anywhere. She wondered if, when Casey came to Nashville, he would bring her or if she'd drive down alone. (In that rickety pickup truck? No way.) So if he came, and if the opportunity presented itself, would they take this ill-fated affair to bed the way they wanted to?

She sighed, tipped her head back against the wrought-iron headboard and closed her eyes.

There were no answers, of course, only the enormity of her obligations, the silent luxury of her home, and the confusion in her heart.