Chapter 29
WILLOW
Iscrub at the bar so hard the wax sealant is in jeopardy. But I can’t stop. I have to get everything spotless, spic and span, and cleaned to within an inch of its life. It’s a coping mechanism, I know it is, but that doesn’t change the urge to do it.
“Put that towel down, girl. The bar’s as clean as it's gonna get,” Unc snaps from his perch by Richard and Doc Jones. They’re drinking and talking as they watch the game on the television above the bar.
Sighing, I follow orders and drop the towel into the bin of dirties. Not able to truly stop, I pick up the whole bin and scoot my way to the back to start a quick wash load.
Behind the bar again, I fidget with my hands for all of two seconds before giving in and pulling out a bag of lemons to cut.
I feel a dark presence next to me and then a wrinkled hand covers the knife, forcing me to freeze or chop my own finger.
It’s a harder decision than you’d think.
“Willow, sit down and be still. You’re making me dizzy with all your scurrying around like a squirrel.
Here, there, everywhere at once.” Unc wiggles the fingers of his free hand around, mimicking the routes I’ve been taking all day.
He’s being silly, but he’s right.
“Tell me what’s got you all aflutter.” He leans his butt against the counter beside me, crossing his arms and his ankles as if he’s got all the time in the world. But we don’t.
I sigh, studying the lemon in front of me as if I’ve never seen one before. Each string, seed, and drop of juice is suddenly immensely interesting. “You sure you can do this without me for a bit?” I hoarsely voice the concern that’s been keeping me up nights.
His bushy white brow lifts as he side-eyes me, showing his displeasure at even being asked such an insulting question. “Girl, I’ve been doing this alone longer than you’ve been alive. I’ll be fine for a few weeks. Don’tcha worry about me a bit.”
I’ve learned a thing or two during my time at his side, and I mimic him, lifting one brow but adding a strong dose of glare to my look.
“One, reminding me how old you are isn’t helping matters.
Two, it’s going to be a lot longer than a few weeks.
More like three months, at least.” The reality of that hits me squarely in my gut and I shrink.
“Maybe I’ll just stay. That’ll be better, anyway. Yeah, I’ll stay here and help.”
Those brows drop down low over his blue eyes now, turning his wrinkles into deep grooves. “You will do nothing of the sort. I’ll kick your hiney out before I let you do that. You’re getting on that bus and getting outta dodge, and that’s final.”
If only it were that easy.
I’m supposed to get on the tour bus with Bobby for his first tour in three days, but ever since we decided to do that, my belly will not stop churning. I’m not nervous about being with Bobby. I’m excited about that part, but leaving Unc terrifies me. What if something happens while I’m gone?
I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly and likely getting lemon juice all over his shirt.
“Whoa—” He startles but then hugs me back just as tightly. Patting my back, he soothes my fears, whispering in my ear so that no one else hears, “I’m okay, Willow-girl. You heard the doc. I’m officially in remission, all better.”
I lean back from him, whispering too. “But what if it comes back and I’m who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what? You’re no spring chicken, Unc, and anything could happen.”
His reassuring smile turns upside down, the scowl an admonishment.
“Don’t need you calling me old. These bones have a few more miles in them, so don’t you go cutting them short.
I’m more worried about you out there.” He lifts his chin toward the door like there are monsters lurking right outside, lying in wait for me.
“I’ll be fine. You know Bobby won’t let anything happen to me.
” That’s an understatement. Bobby has gone above and beyond to make sure this tour will suit the both of us, hitting major markets to do concerts and radio interviews while giving me interesting and beautiful things to photograph for my Day in the Life of a Tree blog.
The biggest factor we’ve discussed is that I need complete and total anonymity.
An odd request, it seemed, but Mr. Wheatley had readily agreed.
I think he would’ve agreed to get Bobby a rainbow unicorn if it got him on the road to support this album, but luckily, my request hadn’t been quite that difficult to grant.
Staying anonymous is key for my blog’s success and something I’ve worked hard to maintain, and I don’t want my connection to Bobby to affect that.
I won’t use him that way or risk my own career.
Especially when it’s going so well, my number of followers continuing to climb steadily, my hearts and comments growing exponentially, and my kickback profits increasing.
The money is nice, giving me a personal comfort level, but the comments from people who tell me they’ve started documenting their own lives and finding something special about the mundane day-to-day are what really satisfy me.
Unc took it a step further, well aware that quite a few people in Great Falls know about my online career.
He’d used the town grapevine to tell everybody in town that if they said a word about me or my blog, they’d no longer be welcome at Hank’s.
I’d laughed when he told me that, thinking it didn’t seem like a very serious threat, but I’d been filled in right quick that if Unc made someone unwelcome, the rest of town would follow suit.
So any blabber-mouth would no longer get Ilene’s chili, a beer anywhere in town, Darla’s doughnuts, a coffee, or gas from the single station in town.
I’d been shocked that they’d go that far for .
. . me. But Unc had simply shrugged and said ‘that’s what we do in Great Falls, look out for each other. ’
“Huh, well then it sounds like we’re both gonna be fine.” Unc’s decree is final, a sign to the universe that he won’t have it any other way. Surprisingly, it does settle the butterflies in my belly.
I look past Unc, down the bar to see Doc Jones and Richard.
They lift their beers my way, signaling that they’ve got Unc.
I know for a fact that Doc Jones will call me if he feels it’s warranted.
He’s done it before. And he’s got both Mom’s number and mine.
Plus, Mom is coming back for another visit next month.
Mom is making up for lost time with Unc, much the same way I have. Not by working the bar but by visiting and talking on the phone. I’m not sure about what—that’s between them—but whatever happened with Grandpa seems to be water under the bridge.
But I haven’t answered fast enough for Unc, and he bends down, getting in my face. “You’re getting on that bus, capiche? But you’ve still got one more shift scheduled so you’d best get to it. No lollygagging about. Don’t make me fire you on your last day.”
I roll my eyes at his exaggeration but can’t help pressing a quick kiss to his scruffy cheek. “On it, Unc.”
This time, when I start cutting the lemon, it’s with a clearer mind and heart. I’m doing this . . . going on the road with Bobby because Unc is okay. Well, he’s still a grumpy, stubborn old man, but he’s as healthy as a horse and that’s what counts.
Who would’ve thought this is how my life would turn out that day I drove into Great Falls, yelling at the mountain for judging me? Maybe I just hadn’t realized that it was welcoming me home.
“Hey, everyone. I’m Bobby Tannen.”
The no-big-deal greeting is almost comical at this point because everyone knows who Bobby is. Literally everyone.
He’s had two more number-one songs since he got that first big check, and one of his hits plays on country radio every hour of the day. His three-month concert tour is completely sold out, and there’s a whole new group of people clamoring to get a piece of him.
But he’s taking it all in stride as long as I’m by his side. That’s what’s important to us both.
He strums the strings of Betty, looking thoughtful. “For a long time, I fought doing this. I would play in the fields, and Brutal was the only one subjected to my shitty songs.”
The audience laughs, and Bobby smirks, holding them in the palm of his hand even as Brutal shouts from the reserved family table, “Off-key every time until I taught him how to carry a tune in a bucket.”
Ignoring the dig, Bobby continues. “Eventually, I found my balls, and Hank over there gave me a chance.”
“Cocky shithead wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Unc yells over the din, keeping Bobby grounded and not letting his head get too big.
“Not like you paid me for those first gigs, anyway,” Bobby retorts.
The crowd looks behind them, waiting for Unc’s comeback, but he throws a dismissive hand in the air, giving Bobby the win.
“So I started singing up here,” Bobby continues, “and it healed something broken in me. You helped me do that.” It’s a heavy confession, meaningfully exposing Bobby’s soft underbelly, something he rarely does, even to me.
“Now they want me to go around and sing for more folks. And I’m excited to do it, ain’t gonna lie about that.
But it won’t ever be the same as singing right here at home.
So, thank you . . . for listening, for singing with me, for making me well enough to do this for my family.
” He throws a meaningful look to the Tannens and Bennetts in the corner. “For myself.”
Unexpected silence settles over the crowd, and then applause bursts out.
“Give ’em hell, Bobby!”
“Sing your heart out!”
“Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”
That one turns into a chant, booted feet stomping to the beat. I think Bobby is getting his first real taste of what this concert tour might be like because his dark eyes go wide in surprise, and under the bright light, I can see a blush to his cheeks.