Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-nine
CASSIDY
We’re on the road for three weeks before the next chance to rest. If Isaiah can call the awards show a rest. Although he’s only performing one song, it sounds like as much of a production as an entire concert.
Our bus departs Wichita to avoid traffic while the rest of the crew stays behind to wrap up loose ends. We’ll meet up with the band and the crew at the next venue. Ten hours after Isaiah’s last curtain call, we arrive in Austin. He’s sleeping in his bunk with the drape closed. The baby slept with me and hasn’t stirred. However, I can’t sit still. I’m used to the lull of the bus moving overnight. The sound of Dillon setting the air brake is like a rooster’s crow for me.
But my bigger concern is how to keep my sanity. This event is my first time in front of a crowd. I can’t pull my shirt collar up and a ball cap over my eyes and avoid the cameras. Reporters will want interviews with Isaiah while I’m on his arm. What if I have lipstick on my teeth while the press films a sound bite from him? I’m spinning on every detail from ripping a seam in my gown to that Taylor Swift incident when she had to muster all the dignity and grace she had at nineteen. Like what if a friend of Kylie’s, or even a foe of Isaiah’s, makes a negative remark to stir up publicity and embarrass him? He’s already overcome enough of her drama that other people aren’t aware of. Regrettably, the world can be an ugly place when someone wants your head on the chopping block and it’s my job to stand behind Isaiah with all the poise I can muster.
Bellamy will be there. She’s done this a thousand times and has tried to reassure me it’s not a big deal. Smile and wave. Smile and find your seat. Smile and drink champagne. It will be over before I know it. Just remember to smile.
I hope my smile doesn’t falter if my heel catches on the hem of my skirt and I trip.
I slip out of bed to start a pot of coffee.
In the kitchen area, Monty is cross-legged by the computer station, reading a newspaper. Vespa lies on the banquette where we eat our meals. With her arms folded across her chest, she resembles the crypt keeper.
She pops one eye open, looks at me, and groans.
Yeah, not like I want to see her face the first thing in the morning either.
“I thought you were flying?” I scoop grounds into the filter.
“Connections,” she mutters, as if it is a whole explanation.
“Do you want coffee?” I ask to be polite.
“Yes. They have a Starbucks in the hotel. You don’t have to make it.” Vespa kicks a blanket off her legs. She finger-combs her sleek hair and checks her reflection in the window. Then she stands at the counter, tap, tap, tapping her fingernails until the pot has finished perking. So much for Starbucks. “Are you cooking breakfast?”
Isaiah’s curtain moves. “No, she’s not. Cass gets a break. Y’all got one whiff of those muffins and she’s been a short-order cook ever since.” He stands and stretches, lumbering over to kiss the crown of my head. “Order room service.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, inhaling his sleep scent.
I loved baking in his massive kitchen in Nashville. I also loved how Isaiah turned up the heat that afternoon. Like I mentioned, I daydream about him and baking. Except now I have a fond memory combining Isaiah and baking into the same daydream. After hearing his fantasy about me, the idea of christening a new kitchen when the house sells holds a certain appeal.
“Check us in,” Isaiah instructs his assistant, who is scrolling messages on her phone. He pulls my fuckoffee mug, another for him, and a to-go cup with a lid from the cabinet.
She taps a button. “Done. The concierge is sending a bellhop with a trolly.”
“You always have everything under control.” He pours coffee in the three cups, handing her the disposable.
“How long do I have before I have to be at rehearsal?”
“According to the event organizers, less than three hours.”
“That means I’ll be back for lunch,” he tells me. “The suite has a private pool and I need some vitamin D. I want to soak up the sunshine, relax, and swim with the baby prior to the show. Can we get a buffet going, Vespa?”
“Headcount?”
“Everyone we’re traveling with, plus Gatlin and Bellamy, if they’re in town early.”
“What about—” I pipe up. I need all the moral support I can get.
“Yeah, make sure Rhiannon Cavanaugh gets an invite, too.”
“On it.” Isaiah’s assistant reaches for the door handle.
“And, Vespa, book yourself a massage on my tab. That banquette can’t be a comfortable place to sleep,” he tells her while doctoring my coffee.
“Already did.” She smirks on her way out the door.
“Damn. That’s the closest expression to happiness I’ve ever seen cross Vespa’s face,” Monty jokes. “I’ll wait outside for the bellhop.”
Alone, Isaiah and I clink mugs and take slow sips.
“Sleep good?” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
I grip his shirt front, acting like I hadn’t tossed and turned as soon as the sun rose and my brain came online. “Thought you were coming to bed?”
“I would’ve, but you were out like a light, curled around Aria. It was so sweet. I didn’t want to wake either of you.”
“You could’ve joined us.”
He shrugs. “Vespa had some details to go over with me from the realtor.”
“You’re really selling it?”
“I want us to start fresh somewhere new.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you want,” he replies.
“That’s not a lot of pressure,” I reply sarcastically. “Tennessee or Texas.”
“Choose both. I don’t care.” He sets his mug on the table and wraps his arms around me. “I have enough money for two houses, though I think you know what you want better than anyone I’ve met, and put pressure on yourself because you don’t want to disappoint yourself or anyone else.”
“Is that a criticism or a vote of confidence? I can’t tell.”
“Cass, how did you feel when the roadies went wild for your signature muffins?”
Isaiah knows how good it felt. I wasn’t the girlfriend tagging along for the ride who happened to know her way around the kitchen. I proved I was a legitimate chef.
Ever since, my grocery delivery orders are through the roof. I’ve been baking up a small-batch storm. The talent manager at one arena got me access to their specialty catering area and commercial kitchen. It was like working at the banquet hall. I had everything I needed to cook brunch for seventy people. Monty and Steve donned pot holders alongside the drivers and electricians who served. Vespa enforced the seating arrangements because, of course she did. Isaiah sat in a corner and let Aria bounce on his lap, teaching her to blow me kisses.
“We’re in this together, chou. I’ll support whatever you want to do on one condition; I’m not touring without my personal chef ever again.”
“So, I’m free as a bird until your stomach gets the better of you?”
“Something like that. But we’ve got everything we need to make going on the road easy, like a family vacation. And I won’t leave you home next time with the kids.”
“Kids? We have one kid, remember?”
“I’m marrying you and we’re making more… Remember?” He winks.
Since Nashville, Isaiah daydreams a lot. He gets ahead of himself, talking about new houses and how many bedrooms we’ll need. He has an overkill swing set saved on his cell. That’s not all. Visiting at Gatlin’s, he saw the custom play fort Cadence built for Chesney. Apparently, Aria needs one, too.
Meanwhile, I’m focused on Aria’s first birthday next week. We still have the outdoor summer concerts and the last leg of the tour to finish. For as much as the idea of marrying him excites me, he hasn’t asked. So, I keep my feet rooted in reality, my thoughts in the present, and enjoy what we have.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Vespa is a magician, coordinating the buffet lunch Isaiah requested without reappearing. When he returns from the theater, Aria and I are outside in our swimsuits, entertaining Gatlin, Bellamy, and Rhiannon, who tagged along as my uncle’s plus one.
Jake declined his invitation to the CMN awards show and, as a music industry wife, my Aunt Daveigh has a limit to the hob-nobbing that she can take. Oftentimes, she’s sent her sons in her stead, or Gatlin, when he was a young boy.
Uncle Cris gives me a big hug from my mama and daddy when he stops in to eat. He has a meeting scheduled this afternoon with a producer.
We indulge in a selection of vegan and steak burgers along with spicy barbecued pulled pork sandwiches topped with juicy dill pickles and Palmetto cheese. The sides include fresh fruit, shoe-string fries, and coleslaw—which Steve and Monty assure me doesn’t hold a candle to mine. Glad for the vote of confidence on today of all days, I accept the compliment and file their fondness for it in my mental recipe box.
“C’mere.” Standing in hip-deep water, holding Aria, Isaiah beckons me.
I sit on the coping and dip my legs in the four-foot deep, glass-encased pool. It’s surrounded by potted palms and overlooks the skyline.
“What’s up?” I ask, handing Aria another French fry to munch on.
This girl and her affinity for potatoes. I should make her a mashed potato smash cake for her first birthday instead of the one I’ve got planned.
“Write a cookbook. Put the coleslaw recipe in it.”
“What? No. That’s Benita’s recipe.” Using her ideas feels wrong.
“You can do this, chou. What’s more, you want to do it. You wouldn’t spend so much time fussing over those note cards if you didn’t have an idea for what to do with them when you’re done.”
I roll my lips. He’s right. I have ideas. A lot of them. But finding a direction to go in is daunting. I wasn’t talented enough, old enough, or experienced enough, to run the banquet hall. Having that goal taken away, when I was so close to making it a reality, holds me back. It’s not like I don’t eat the food I prepare. I have culinary skills. I want to believe in myself. But small is my default. Small ensures I’m not disappointed until I have faith in myself to take the next step and the discouragement of others won’t affect me the way it used to.
“Oops, the baby dropped a fry in the pool.” Dillon interrupts my thoughts. “The plate is empty. Let me get her a refill.”
“Thank you,” Isaiah and I say in unison.
Isaiah plucks the soggy shoestring out of the water and places it on the edge. Aria fusses, tracking Dillon at the long table where he’s scooping fries onto the plate. She settles as he meanders back beside me, bending at the knees and offering her more. She happily accepts the single one he offers, plunging it into her mouth and gnawing. It disappears, and she immediately holds her chubby hand out for another.
Dillon obliges.
As the three of us chuckle at her appetite, Aria rests her head on Isaiah’s chest, snuggling in. Isaiah and I want her tuckered out for when we leave, so she doesn’t give Monty any trouble.
It dawns on me I haven’t missed putting Aria to bed for the night since January. This is as much a milestone for Aria as it is a momentous occasion for me. When we give her the sibling Isaiah talks about, I’m assured the baby will be in capable hands. The sitter she’s most familiar with is a beefy bodyguard with a way with kids. It’s a wonder Monty doesn’t have a family of his own.
Isaiah kisses Aria’s soft blonde curls. “Glad you joined us, Dillon,” he keeps up the conversation.
“No place I’d rather be. I appreciate you including me for the meal. It’s not Miss Cavanaugh’s cooking, but it’ll do. I’ll get out of your hair soon and leave you to your company.”
He nods to my cousins, who are chatting on reclining loungers, finishing their food, and enjoying the view of the city.
“Stay as long as you want,” Isaiah offers.
“It’s a day off. I have things to see to.”
“I understand. Looking forward to my day off tomorrow. We’re taking the potato princess to the zoo.”
“I’m sure she’ll enjoy that.” Dillon rises and walks over to talk to Monty and Steve.
The water swirls and I part my legs, making room for Isaiah to step forward. “Where were we?” he asks, closing the space between us.
He places a soft kiss on my lips. Aria wriggles, detaching herself from his warm embrace and latching her arms around my neck.
“Mmumm umm. Mmumm umm.” The baby bats at Isaiah.
He tickles her, and she grips me like a monkey, cackling. Like her obstinance is her own little joke intended to make him jealous.
“Oh, that’s how it is? Mumum’s your favorite and not…” he stops himself. “She’s calling you momma, Cassidy,” he remarks wistfully.
I see the light in his eyes dim. He wants to hear Aria call him Daddy. I want that for him, too. I couldn’t stop anyone who spoke to Aria from referring to me as her mommy. But Isaiah and I thought she wouldn’t be with us much longer. We agreed that us using the words mommy or daddy for each other would confuse her. In a million years, I’d have never guessed her mmms would turn into “mommy”.
“You’re allowed.” I grab him by the forearm. We’ve discussed this before. “She can’t call you Isaiah forever.” The older Aria gets, the more questions will arise.
He shakes his head. Rubs his thumb over his chin. Leans back in the water to float away.
“ Sa! ” she squeals with the sound she uses to draw his attention, beckoning him to take her swimming.
And because there’s nothing Isaiah won’t do for Aria, he returns to the pool edge.