Four
FOUR
Bea
I waved the plastic card over the lock for the sixth time, murmuring, “Come on, work, you piece of junk.”
The lock flashed red.
So many things weighed down my body—Glory Dos over my shoulder, my purse, a rolling suitcase, and a matching carry on. A file with contract details was nestled right into my armpit. I gave everything a final heave and sideways shift, trying the lock one more time.
Seventh time’s a charm, apparently.
The door gave way to my tangle of bags, and I almost wept at the sight of the big, white hotel bed with four puffy pillows. The chill of the air conditioning made me shiver, but I relished in the way it cooled the back of my neck as I flopped all my belongings onto the bed and freed myself from Glory’s strap. My guitar didn't seem heavy until I had to drag her out of an airport, into an Uber, up three floors, and down the world’s longest hallway. My shoulders ached.
I sank onto the edge of the mattress, acknowledging the bone-deep exhaustion in my body. Or maybe my spirit. It had been a long eight weeks.
My phone rang. I fished it out of my purse.
Dad on FaceTime. How did he know I needed him?
I answered. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Beatles.” The camera hit his face at an odd angle, providing a zoomed in shot of his sideways smile and stubbled chin. His tone was always guarded, a little protective. “You in your hotel for the night?”
“Yeah, I just walked in.”
“How’d the meeting go?”
“It was—” I drew a deep breath looking for words. “It was—” Emotions gripped my throat.
“Oh no. Was it bad?”
“No, it wasn’t bad.” I lifted a shoulder. “I just…feel cornered.”
He nodded, saying nothing.
“And I’m really tired, so I know I’m being dramatic.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, honey. Anyone would be exhausted and a little dramatic in your position. Tell me what happened.”
“Well, the agent, Jerry Trace, offered me a contract.” I held up the file so he could see. Dad’s eyes widened—impressed. “On the spot, he said the label wanted to give me a record deal, which is exciting and validating on the one hand.” I sighed. “But Jerry said the contract covers some changes regarding my brand. He said I’m a—and I quote—little girl’s artist.”
Dad scoffed, his phone wobbling. “What?!”
“Yeah, I disagree, too, but part of me signing on would be allowing the label to change my persona and how I represent music to my fans. And I wouldn’t be singing my own music.” I shrugged. “That’s been a perk for me in getting a deal—to finally have someone write music for me—but I think I would be a very different artist, and I don’t know how I feel about that.”
He grunted in disgust.
“What?”
“I want to know what he meant by ‘little girl’s artist.’”
“It was a roundabout way of saying my music isn’t about sex or parties or drinking or getting high or anything like that.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, they’re thinking about sales. And I get it. My songs aren’t selling anymore, which is the whole reason I even agreed to meet with him.” I dreaded telling him the next part. “And the worst part is…if I signed the contract, I’d probably have to move to Nashville where they are headquartered, or I’d at least have to travel there a lot. It would be worth it to have a second apartment there. I’d make enough to afford it.”
Of course, he didn’t let his personal feelings play into his response. “How do you feel about being away?”
“I hate the idea. I don’t want to live that far from you all. Starting a life somewhere all alone sounds so hard.”
Dad shifted the phone upward so I could see the concern in his blue eyes. “So, basically, accepting the deal would mean making some compromises, big and small.”
I let out a slow exhale. “Yeah, definitely.”
“I was hoping this agent would see everything that you are and take your music further, not change you and make you leave home.”
I fluffed a few pillows on the bed and leaned against them. “Maybe being changed is what I need though. Clearly what I’m doing now isn’t working.”
The eight week tour with Adrienne Bell, my friend in the music industry, should’ve caused my numbers to soar. It didn’t. My fans were more disengaged than ever. I visited twenty cities, sang until my voice ached and played until my fingers felt broken. And we barely sold enough tickets to cover the cost of the tour. Profit was nonexistent.
The expression starving artist was hitting hard.
As my sales, download statistics, and follower count dwindled…I felt my dreams spinning down the drain. And I wanted to walk away from everything I’d worked for. I pinched the bridge of my nose as everything I’d held back stormed my face.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
The words eked out of my throat. “Should—I just quit?”
“No, no, Bea. You should not quit. Everything worth having is worth fighting for. This is going to be a blip on the radar eventually, you’ll see.”
“But I can’t do more than I’m already doing. ”
“Maybe your upcoming album will change things.”
I averted my gaze from the phone.
“What?”
“I’m rash and stupid sometimes.”
He slightly laughed then backpedaled. “I know you’re rash, but you’ve never been stupid.”
“Then I did something stupid. Do you remember that kind of cush, high-end studio I told you about in the downtown Denver area?”
“Yeah, I remember you mentioned that. You said it gets a lot of coverage and social media action.”
I couldn’t help the tiny smile that lifted my lips. My dad was a perfect listener.
“Yes. Recording there is great exposure. The problem is I paid in advance to reserve a time slot there. I'm supposed to show up and record in September.” I counted weeks in my head. “In seven-ish weeks. And—I don’t have any songs ready.”
“None?”
“None. Every time I sit down to write, I come up with nothing.”
He hummed in thought. “How much did it cost you?”
I covered my face with my free hand and spoke through my fingers. “Five hundred dollars for two hours.”
“Yikes.”
“I booked it months ago. I thought I’d be ready by now. And now that’s money down the drain if I don’t show up and record.”
I swiped beneath my eyes, not caring that my mascara was probably running. Honestly, once I washed the last round of tour make-up from my face, I was never wearing any ever again. Looking put together constantly was almost as exhausting as singing a concert every night. How I longed for a threadbare t-shirt, baggy sweats, and privacy.
I pleaded, “Tell me what to do.”
“You want my advice?”
“Desperately.”
“Take a break. A nice, long break.” He gave me a tender smile. “People can only run on empty for so long. It’s no wonder you’re starting to hate music and are thinking about quitting. You go nonstop.”
“ You go nonstop, too.” I pointed out.
“That’s different, sweetheart. I have a family to care for.”
Cal Thompson was the hardest working, kindest man. I’d pay another five hundred dollars to sit on the porch with him while he enjoyed a cigar. We used to have the best conversations late at night. Ever since I moved into an apartment with my younger sister four years ago, I’d missed those quiet moments with him.
He continued, “And I work for someone else. You work for you. And that comes with a whole other set of pressures. All I got to do is get behind a steering wheel.”
His encouragement lifted my spirits a little. I asked, “Where are you?”
“Arkansas.”
I scrunched my nose. “What’s Arkansas like?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Only thing I focus on is staying between the lines.” He moved the camera around the living quarters of his semi. “This is about all I care to see in Arkansas. How’s Nashville?”
I smiled. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
He nodded in understanding. “The travel’s hard, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
The momentum of our conversation lagged. After a moment, Dad spoke again. “Think about the rest thing, Bea. I’m serious. Don’t make any decisions about your career immediately.” Using my words, he added, “Don’t be rash . Making long term decisions when you’re worn out is a bad idea.”
“I hear you, but Jerry wants an answer within the week and Adrienne and I have a couple events, some signings, a brainstorm session, and a whole bunch of other stuff.”
“Cancel all of it. Tell Jerry he can wait.”
“But—”
“Jerry can’t make money without artists. That’s why they want to rush you. If you ask for time, they’ll give it to you. As for all the events, you need to ask what you’ll honestly lose if you prioritize yourself instead of the music this time.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I guess you have a point.”
“Think long game, Bee Gees. If you settle for the rat race and running yourself into the ground…that’s sprinting. This is a marathon. Take your time. Slow down.” I’d come to love his spiels, even if they were a kick in the butt. “I know you’re eager to come home, but there’s nothing wrong with staying away for a few extra days. You can sleep, eat take-out, play Glory if you want, watch TV, take some walks, clear your head.” He chuckled. “As excited as everyone is to see you, they’ll smother you as soon as your plane lands.”
“True.” Taking a few days to recoup wasn’t a bad idea, actually. “Maybe I could go up to the cabin?” Our Aunt Judith’s cabin in the Colorado mountains was so quiet and restful.
“That’s not a bad idea, but I just talked to Judith last week and her family is up there until school starts. So, the cabin might not be ideal if you want to be alone.”
“Oh, okay.”
Again, our conversation lagged. We were both tired. He said, “Keep your chin up. Good sleep will probably make things look a lot better.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, sweetheart. I’m going to let you go because your eyes are closing.”
“Thank you.”
“Can’t wait to see you.”
“Same, Daddy. Love you.”
When he let me go, I took a hot shower and slipped between the sheets.
Dad’s words knocked around my head on repeat. Of course he was right. Why didn’t I see it before? I shouldn’t quit music…I was just burnt out. All I needed to do was fix the burn out then maybe I could write a few halfway decent songs and record my sixth album. Then maybe I could make some sales, and I wouldn’t need the label after all .
The pillows were cool against my clean cheeks and damp hair. For a brief moment, the covers were chilly on my skin, but in moments, they warmed, and sleep—blissful and deep—claimed me.
All a good night’s sleep did was provide more brain power for overthinking. I was so close to extending my stay in Nashville before checking out of the hotel this morning. Part of me did want a few days to just lay around and be by myself because the tour was nothing but go-go-go and constant interaction night and day. But I’d spent so many weeks in hotels, that spending another hour in an impersonal room with unfamiliar faces in the lobby seemed more of a chore than a mending, healing option.
So I checked out, piddled at a nearby shopping center, and now was waiting for my flight home to Denver. My carry-on bag and Glory crowded the floor next to my barstool at a dimly lit airport bar. It was almost four o’clock in the evening, and I was considering an alcoholic beverage.
The loose leaf contract was spread on the counter, and I poured over every line. Honestly, I would need an attorney to look it over before making a final decision.
After reading the contract through for the second time, I raked my fingers through my hair and propped my head in my hands, my elbows grinding into the tile countertop.
A chipper voice next to me cooed, “Hey, doll, you got mimosas?”
The bartender answered, “Sure do.”
“Wonderful. I’ll take one.”
I glanced up at the mimosa lady to see her looking at me. She motioned to the stool a few feet from mine. “This seat taken?”
I shook my head.
“Great. You look like you could use some company.”
Oh perfect. A chatty Cathy. On any normal day, I would love to chat. But today my emotional energy tank was bone dry.
The seat swiveled beneath her as she sat down. Plopping her Danielle Steele hardback and saggy purse down on the counter, she asked with a twang to rival Dolly Parton’s, “Going home or leaving home?”
I gave her a polite smile. “Going.”
“Where’s home for you?”
“Denver.”
“Ah. You look eager to get back.”
“I'm just eager to not be traveling.”
“Been away a while then?”
“About eight weeks on a work trip.”
She was in her mid-fifties, I thought. Her southern charm radiated off her in waves. Her big, blonde hair brushed the tops of her shoulders. “What do you do for a living?” She raised her hands to stop me. “No wait, let me guess.”
My cheeks warmed under her casual perusal. “You’re a news anchor.”
“No.”
“A vacation planner.”
I shook my head.
“Finance chick of some sort?”
I suppressed an amused giggle. “Nowhere close.”
Her voice raised in pitch as her nose wrinkled. “Bra fitter?”
“Thankfully, no.”
“Alright, tell me since my vibe meter’s broken today.”
“I’m an independent musician.”
She tilted her head to the side, impressed. Her gaze raked over me with a new perspective. “Alright, I can see it. Do you sing?”
“Yes, I’m a songwriter. And I play guitar.” I waved to the floor on the opposite side of my stool, indicating Glory’s case.
“I swear. My contacts prescription must be going bad—I didn’t even see that down there!” An eager look lifted her eyebrows, and she swatted at the air between us as if we were old pals. “Well, this is fun. I work with independents like you all the time. I’m a SEO guru. Started my home-based marketing company when SEO wasn’t even a thing and we were still using magazine ads.” She shook her head as a strange mix of awe and pity warred on her face. “Artists are some of the most passionate people I’ve ever met, but good gracious, the entire lot of you wouldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with your marketing goals.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “You’re not wrong. Most of us are pretty hopeless outside of our craft.” I grimaced on the inside as I said that because my craft was in serious need of help—an overhaul, according to Jerry Trace. “So SEO. That’s pretty cool.”
“It is cool. Makes for boring conversation though.” The bartender brought her a tall mimosa. “Thank you. Get my friend here one too, will ya?” She slid the drink toward herself and took a sip off the top, her dark red lipstick leaving a smudge on the glass. “Hope you like champagne. If not, I’ll drink yours. What’s your name, cupcake?”
“Thanks. I love a good mimosa.” She mmmed in agreement as she tipped her glass. “My name’s Bea. Yours?”
“Paula Deese. Not Deen , mind you. Much to my momma’s disappointment, I can’t cook worth shit.”
I laughed again. “Are you going home, too?”
“No, sadly.” She shifted her knees toward the empty space between us. “I’m visiting my sister in Los Angeles. Mercy , I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would want to live in such a place.”
I chuckled. “It’s an interesting city.”
“Interesting! Ha! My husband would call that place a concrete jungle. I asked him to come with me, but he claimed he’d rather die.”
“Where are you from?”
“A tiny little farm town in Mississippi. My daddy’s a corn farmer, and I married a man in the beef business. So my entire life is cattle, crops, and computers. It’s a weird mesh, but I adore it. My Arnie bosses the cows and I boss him.” She pulled her phone out and tapped a couple times. “There he is.” She held the screen toward me. “We never had children, so it’s been the two of us for going on twenty-seven years. I love that man more than life itself.”
I leaned toward her to have a look. In the picture, Paula stood in front of a barn, wrapped in the arms of a cowboy. He stood several inches taller than her with a dark brown cowboy hat pushed down on his brow and a brown flannel shirt. She wore a professional pantsuit and had her mouth open like she was laughing. He kissed her forehead .
Something stirred deep within me. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
The couple stood in front of a red painted barn with white trim. Hayloft doors were propped open wide above their heads. Perfectly idyllic.
My heart thumped as memories of my old friend, Scribbs, flooded my brain—the letters we wrote, the friendship that grounded me, and the hayloft where I found him.
“Well,” Paula’s voice jerked me back to the present. “I knew we were a gorgeous pair, but?—”
To my horror, I realized I’d taken her phone from her hand and held it closer to my face, staring with a frown. How long was I looking? I startled, thrusting her phone back. “Paula, I’m sorry?—”
She laughed, taking it.
“I probably seem like a weirdo. I—” She waited as I stammered for words. “My childhood best friend was a cowboy and your—your picture brought back some memories.”
Does he ever think of me?
“How sweet.”
“Yeah, he was—great.”
She responded with a tragic tsk. “Was?”
“Sorry.” I felt flustered. “I meant I haven’t talked to him in years. He lives in Texas, or at least he used to. I met him in a hayloft, actually, and we wrote each other letters for four years. He helped me come up with song lyrics.” I gave a sad smile. “When we stopped writing each other, it…” My explanation tapered off, and I shrugged again.
It what?
Could I honestly say, after all this time, that the end of our friendship broke my heart?
When I glanced at her face, her jaw hung open. “Darling, that sounds like a love story.”
I huffed a laugh and waved her off. “Oh, no. No, it wasn’t like that.”
But even as I said it, my heart jumped to life in my chest. Scribbs and I shared something special. The distance of years couldn’t change that. As a teenager, I adored him. Here I was an adult, and I still adored Scribbs. Paper couldn’t capture everything about a person, I knew that, but the heart his letters revealed easily entangled mine.
All these years later, it amazed me how deep the two of us got. How our letters turned into so much more than penpals corresponding. We weren’t in love or anything—I was too young for romance—but whatever we were left its imprint on my heart. I still had a gigantic box of letters in the top of my closet.
He was one of the most cherished parts of my childhood. And I never even learned his real name.
Something about his words mesmerized me. He had a knack for prose and beauty. Or just a way of explaining things that was more engaging than anything I’d ever read. Like he had an old soul in a young body. A voice far more mature and experienced than I was at that time.
Did he still write? For his sake, I hoped so. It was the way he poured out his soul. Scribbs felt the same way about a pen and a page that I did about Glory.
Those were the days, huh? When I was so full of music I was practically bursting with it.
Eventually, we were each sipping our second mimosa, chatting about indie artist life. The champagne had loosened my tongue, and I talked to Paula like an old friend. Her on-the-house business advice seemed pretty solid.
After I blabbed on about burn-out and the fact I had no songs to sing, she said, “I know exactly what you need.” Her glossy red nails tapped the counter. “You need inspiration . Creativity is a well, darling. One that can—and does quite often—run dry. What inspires you?”
She stumped me. “I’m not really sure. I’ve never had to seek out inspiration before.”
“Places, music, food, people, books, exercise, quiet, meditation. Those are all things some people find inspiring. Just take some time to think about it. Something might hit you between the eyes. I’d take your daddy’s advice—get rest and all that. But also look for ways to fill up your well. It takes an incredible amount of energy to work hard when you don’t see the reward yet. You’re tired, but you’re also empty . ”
Pretty advice, but how did someone realistically go about finding things that inspire them?
Suddenly, a loudspeaker overhead announced an LA flight boarding. “ Ohp ! That’s me!” She turned up her glass, getting the last bit of mimosa, and fished a fifty out of her purse for the bartender. Her clacky fingernails smacked a business card on the bar in front of me. “I like you, Bea. If you stay indie, I’d be delighted to have the opportunity to work with you one day. Call me sometime.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Bye.” She tossed the word over her shoulder then abruptly turned and walked backward. “Oh, and I hope you get to see your cowboy again.”
I laughed like it was impossible. But while she was still in eyeshot, I pulled out my phone and googled Meadowbrook Ranch. For the next thirty minutes, I combed the website and Facebook page. There was a reservation listing for the guest cabins at the ranch, but other than that, the pages were deserted. It still said Bob and Linda Taggart owned the ranch, and I knew for a fact Bob died years ago and Linda’s memory was fading when Scribbs was still a teenager—over a decade ago.
The plan had always been for Scribbs to take over the ranch when his Granny passed. Did that ever happen? I looked and looked for any other name on the website. Scribbs and I had given each other nicknames the first time we met. And that’s all we ever used. Even addressed envelopes with them. Now, I wished we’d made a better effort to know the real life versions of each other. It would make internet stalking him a lot easier, anyway.
I tried looking up his brother, Cooper, but I didn’t know Cooper’s last name. I tried searching for Cooper Taggart , but that led nowhere, too.
Giving up, I popped one of my AirPods into my ear and flipped through songs on my gargantuan oldies playlist, restlessly looking for a song to distract me from my overactive brain.
I froze.
The starting chords of American Pie blared at unhealthy decibels into my ear .
This song.
Scribbs had loved it.
I wanted to skip to the next song, but my thumb hesitated over the screen of my iPhone. I closed my eyes against the memories, but they came whether I wanted them to or not.
For the eight minute and forty-two second duration of American Pie , I was lost.
Lost in the old friendship.
Lost in simpler times.
Lost in the memories of how music used to be my heartbeat—the ebb and flow of frisson a type of fluid in my veins, as real and life-bringing as my pulse.
I remembered the confession I wrote on paper years ago as an impressionable little girl.
“I hear music in everything. When mom whips pancake batter. When the tires of our van hum on the road. When the dryer tosses clothes. And when the wind flaps the chain on the flagpole. And even in your letters. Your words sound like music to me. Sometimes I grab my guitar and just play along, singing them back.”
What could I do to feel that way again? That was the problem with my career. Music stopped making my heart beat. And my fans weren’t stupid. They could tell. Paula was right. I needed inspiration.
I wracked my brain. Inspiration. Where do I find that?
The song played through, and I played it again.
Then tapped repeat.