Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Ben
N o one could small talk like Whit. She was, as my mama would say, a whizz.
She could get people talking and keep them talking like no one’s business. Almost as deftly as Major Reese Flint’s girlfriend Erin Kelly could, though Erin, also my friend, was less practiced and more artless. Whit displayed artistry when it came to the conversational acrobatics it took to avoid saying anything personal.
“Whit, tell us about your young man here,” an older gentleman, Mr. Walden, said as he gestured to me.
“Ben and I recently became acquainted, and I’m so glad he agreed to come with me as a good friend. We talked about how valuable early exposure to music is, especially in a school setting. What made you become involved with Music City Charter? ”
Or another time, when a middle-aged woman named Rita had the balls to ask her about Jamie Morris.
“I heard you and Jamie Morris had a rough breakup, but you’re still rumored to be willing to sing together if the song you two did for that movie gets nominated for the Oscars this year. Will you do it?”
Rita practically crawled over the table to hear the answer, one hand on her husband’s arm, leaning around him to see Whit’s face.
“Oh, thank you for asking. I loved working on the project, and I’ll be shocked if MacKean doesn’t get nominated. That scene where he’s lying in the field?”
At that, everyone started exclaiming about Jack MacKean’s brilliance in the scene—it really was astounding, and the spotlight shifted again.
She did that all night. It was amazing, and yet ultimately frustrating. She gave nothing away—certainly not about herself, not about why I was there with her instead of someone she actually knew and liked. Nothing.
When she excused herself to go get ready for the performance, the table’s talk turned to her.
“Gosh, she’s lovelier in person than on stage, even,” Rita remarked.
“True. She is. And very well-spoken,” another woman, Janelle, if I was keeping track correctly, added.
“Did you not expect her to be able to talk?” Janelle’s husband scoffed.
“Well, you never know what you’re going to get with these people! Just because they’re beautiful and talented doesn’t mean they know their way around a conversation. Plus no one knows her history—where’s she even from?” Janelle asked.
“I thought I’d heard Tennessee. She lives in Nashville,” Mr. Walden’s wife said, folding her napkin neatly in her lap.
Rita had a beat on this. She shook her head even before the other woman had finished talking.
“Nope. No, I heard she’s from Kentucky. But no one knows where. And it’s really strange she’s shrouded in all this mystery.” Her gaze jerked to me. “Where’s she from, do you know?”
I cleared my throat, buying myself time and likely revealing my lowborn manners to the table of wealthy Nashvillians. “Well, seeing as how we just met a few weeks ago, I’m not acquainted with her biography.”
I took a sip of water and watched them all smile, though Rita and Janelle were clearly unimpressed with my response.
“But do you?—”
Fortunately, the announcer cut Janelle off before she could grill me for details I didn’t have.
The performances were all impressive, especially considering most of them were from elementary-aged kids. The high school’s closing number could have been a professional orchestra and choral group. My heart beat a little faster knowing soon, Whit would take the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I know you’ve been eager for this, so here you have it, Music City Charter’s kindergarten class, and the lovely and talented, Whit Grantham.”
A guitar strummed, and fifteen five-year-olds scampered on stage. Then came Whit, heading up the line and taking her seat on a stool spotlighted to the left of the crowd of kids. She looked over at them, their attention pinned anxiously on her, and I could see her ask “Ready?” in a whisper, and then, all of the kids wagged their heads, signaling they were .
Her face lit up with a delighted smile, and a pulse of warning shot through me.
Danger .
Whit sang along periodically, but mostly, she accompanied the kids on her guitar. When the song ended, the whole crowd stood, including Whit, and clapped for the kindergarteners. She was beaming at them, and if I was reading her right, she’d genuinely enjoyed the interaction.
The kids filed off, and Whit pulled her guitar over her head and held it by the neck. As she turned to go, the emcee leaned his head toward hers, and they had a short conversation, then she turned and sat back on the stool and adjusted the guitar strap over her head once again.
“A special treat, everyone. Miss Whit Grantham.”
Applause and a few whistles filled the room, and Whit smiled easily.
“I wasn’t expecting to play by myself for ya’ll, so I’m hoping you’ll forgive me. Those kids are a tough act to follow.” A few chuckles and scattered claps filled the air. “How about we do something seasoned, huh?”
I thought I’d heard the chords to one of the songs from her first album, but then came the bouncing strum of old Country, and there they came, the lyrics about chasing big wheels all over Nashville while waiting for a big break to come.
After a rumble of unintelligible exclamations, a few laughs, and some quiet applause, Whit continued. And my heart downright thudded in my chest, like it beat in time to her guitar.
Her guitar, strumming the tunes of a song by my all-time favorite Country artist, the late great Waylon Jennings. The song? “Nashville Bum,” and it was all I could do not to whistle and clap and shout at her. It left me floored.
Who was this woman?
She had the attention of everyone in the room, a crowd so full of people who loved her and wanted to hear her sing, and she sang an old, obscure Waylon song?
Danger, indeed.
“…I’m a Nashville bum.”
She smiled with one last strum, and everyone cheered as she stood, nodded slightly as a bow, and turned to head off stage with only an inaudible thank you.
I sat down in my seat and reached for my glass of water, my hand shaking from the adrenaline racing through me.
She sang Waylon.
That might not seem like a big deal, but it was. To me, anyway. She could have sung anything— anything —and clearly, everyone had expected her to sing one of her own songs. It would have been appropriate and enjoyable.
Instead, she’d showed humor and wit and depth when she chose an old favorite, a song about the city, and though it was coincidence, my feeble little mind was taking it personally, a song by my favorite Country artist.
Next up came Colton Danes, and as soon as he stepped up to the mic, I pitied him. Following Whit, especially after she’d played with the kids, would be tough, but following her playing a song by one of the greats… Brutal. Danes didn’t look fazed, and in the end, his song turned out fine.
And by fine, I mean it embodied everything I hated about contemporary Country music.
Not everyone did it, but those who did drove me crazy. They sang songs about drinking, tractors, and always name-dropped old Country stars. Such a false effort, especially in stark contrast to Whit’s cover of Jennings’ song.
When Danes finished, the emcee announced the time had come for the silent auction, and after a half hour, they’d start the live auction. The lights came up in the ballroom, and the crowd began chatting loudly, bustling around.
I saw Whit at the corner of the room and moved to her, pacing myself so I wouldn’t seem as ruffled as I was. What is wrong with me?
“Why’d you play Waylon?” I asked as I came to stand in front of her. Couples pushed through the double doors that led out into the hallway. I searched her eyes and swallowed back the urge to touch her cheek. Her blue-green eyes stared back at me, too pretty.
One side of her mouth formed a smile, then she said, “I love Waylon. Why not?”