Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jamie Crawford Jr. is a man with a reputation that precedes him. But he’s out to prove he’s so much more than the rumors. In fact, he’s nothing like them at all.
Brinton had typed the same three sentences, in slightly different order, exactly six hundred times since plopping down to write at the guest house’s sprawling kitchen table two hours ago. Nothing was sticking. She was mired in a wicked case of writer’s block.
Fine, it wasn’t writer’s block. It was holy-crap-I-almost-kissed-Jamie-Crawford-Jr.-block.
Yesterday’s lapse in judgment at his father’s recording studio remained etched in her mind. Was it so wrong that she wanted to be both professional and desired? That she was slowly, against what she knew was convenient, starting to desire him too?
Being in Iris, she felt more open to not only expressing herself, but being herself.
Perhaps because Jamie was one hell of a muse.
In such close quarters, she got know him in ways that felt privileged.
Rare. That filled her cup more than it should have, yet she couldn’t stop herself from daydreaming about what could be.
Someone rapped three times on the front door. Brinton answered, revealing Sammi. She wore a mint green romper embellished with lace trim. Curved into a mischievous grin, her lips gleamed with a luscious apricot gloss.
“What’s up?” Brinton asked, gesturing for Sammi to come inside. “I didn’t see anything on the schedule for today. Did I miss something?”
Sammi perched like a songbird on the back of the enormous cloud of a couch. “Nope. I wanted to check in and see if you were free today?”
“Well, I’m writing,” Brinton replied. She slipped back into her chair at the table. “Though I could use some more time with Jamie, if you can set something up?”
Sammi let an exasperated sigh fly. “Jamie’s in the studio again.” Then, a little brighter, “But I have an alternative.”
Brinton lifted a brow. “You have to give me more than that.”
“It’s Friday night, and I’m taking you line dancing,” she squealed, clapping her hands in time. “There’s this great bar—”
Promptly, Brinton spun back to her laptop. “Ah, let me stop you there. I’m not a bar kind of person.”
She was always self-conscious about taking up physical space, a requisite of socializing in public. Then, the task of striking up dreaded small talk with someone, only to feel them recoil when something—or someone—better came along.
Brinton would sooner put her head inside a Vitamix.
“Bars are not my vibe.”
Sammi pulled up a dining chair across from her. This was now a negotiation.
“Well, you’re gonna like this one. It’s a locals-only kind of spot. More importantly, this counts as your cultural immersion program. You gotta cap off your first week right. You know, get out of this house and see the real Iris.”
Sammi leaned in and cocked a brow. Brinton caught a whiff of her sugary perfume. “It was Jamie’s idea. He thought you’d like it.”
“Really?” Brinton couldn’t beat back the smile bursting behind her lips.
Was this a date? No, that’d be crazy. This was work. So why was every single one of her senses firing at once?
Brinton shut her laptop screen. “So, he’s going to be there?”
Somehow, when stress turned her blood acidic, Jamie was a constant, affirming presence.
Sammi smiled, basking in her victory. “I figured y’all can also squeeze in an interview.”
“Yeah, okay then,” Brinton said passively. She had to at least pretend that butterflies weren’t currently throwing a rave in her belly.
Sammi rose and twirled on her heels. “Amazing. So, the last thing is getting you some boots.”
“I’m not a cowboy boot kind of girl. I prefer combat boots.” Brinton glanced down at said scuffed boots, stuck one out for effect. “They double as a weapon in a pinch.”
Sammi fluttered her dark, miles-long lashes. “My goodness, New York City has hardened you, huh?”
Brinton smirked at the thought. “Sadly, my per diem doesn’t cover cowboy boots.”
Like a sassy sorcerer, Sammi produced a black American Express between her pointer and middle fingers. “Lucky for you, I got the company credit card. Consider it a welcome gift from James Sawyer Crawford, Jr.”
Finally, Brinton let her simmering smile escape. “Should I text Michael to pick us up?”
“No need.” Sammi beamed. “Mama’s driving today.”
Brinton followed Sammi to the driveway, where a custom, sky blue Mercedes SUV awaited.
Walking backward, Brinton circled the body appreciatively. “I pegged you as a quiet luxury kind of woman.”
Sammi slid into the driver’s seat, then flashed her signature grin. “In this town, men are either trying to hold you back or feel you up. But when I roll up in Jolene, they know my balls are just as big.”
Twenty minutes later, Jolene rolled into an unassuming strip mall and parked beneath the chipping, hand-painted sign outside Ladybird’s Boot Co.
“This place is the best. Don’t let the chaos scare you,” Sammi assured. She held open the creaky glass door, and Brinton stepped inside.
A cramped, dimly lit space that smelled faintly of leather and mothballs, Ladybird’s was a time capsule of Iris’s storied past. From the yellowing linoleum, to the ’50s upholstered couches still in plastic, to the dusty shelves packed with tchotchkes, it was a charming relic to behold.
Brinton scanned the frame-covered walls of icons, including Elvis Presley, Dolly Parton, and a few U.S. presidents. They had all come to the same place to get “boots blessed by the best,” as a battered tin sign above the cash register read.
“Sammi Smith, you better come here and hug my neck,” someone chirped in a magnetic, Tennessean twang.
Brinton turned around to find a short, older woman embracing Sammi. She had the grip of a lumberjack.
“Birdie, this is my friend Brinton,” Sammi said, a little breathless.
“Don’t be shy, sweetheart,” Birdie beckoned, arms outstretched. Sammi nodded enthusiastically, and Brinton obliged. It was one of the shades of “new” she’d embraced, surely thanks to Jamie’s doing.
Truthfully, it felt good to be physically close to someone after months of self-isolation.
“Ladybird was my mama,” Birdie offered, unclenching Brinton’s ribs. “We ran this store together since I could reach the counter. She passed away last year. God rest her soul.”
Sammi bounced on the yellow, paisley-print couch and patted the open seat beside her.
“This place is amazing,” Brinton said, sinking into the cushion. It was as malleable as a warm gummy bear. “It seems like everybody who’s anybody has been here. Did I see a picture of LeBron James on the wall?”
“Oh, yes. Did a custom pair for him. The man loves rhinestones. And feet as soft as a baby’s bottom, would you believe it?”
“Oddly, I can.” Brinton laughed.
“We’re here on serious business,” Sammi whispered in mock-secrecy. Her arm snaked around Brinton’s shoulders. “Our girl needs some boots—her first.”
Birdie grinned, making her deep smile dance across her sun-kissed skin.
“Oh, I know just the pair. Lemme measure you,” she said, her short, chestnut ponytail bobbing jollily. She slipped a tattered roll of measuring tape from her apron pocket, pulled up a small stool, and sat before Brinton.
Carefully pulling off Brinton’s boot from beneath her jeans, Birdie measured every conceivable angle, somehow committing each dimension to memory.
Brinton watched Birdie with rapt attention. “I’m usually a size nine. I know that’s huge, and you probably don’t—I could probably squeeze into an eight-and-a-half…”
She’d become so used to overcompensating so she wouldn’t be misperceived that she couldn’t turn it off. Disappointment tugged her smile into a taut line.
“Darlin’, ain’t nothing wrong with having a larger boot. Woman’s gotta have room to kick some tail, right?”
Birdie winked, and Brinton’s heart warmed from the familiarity. That she could, possibly, belong here too.
“These boots gotta be custom-measured. Not like those out-of-the-box types. Like you, they’re one of a kind.”
Affirmatively, Sammi grinned. “Birdie’s hands were touched by the divine. You’ll see.”
“How’s my boy?” Birdie asked, still working with surgical precision.
“He’s performing down at Yeehaw Fest next weekend,” Sammi said. “I’ll add you to the guest list.”
“You’re a peach,” Birdie chirped. She rose from her stool and ambled to the ancient cash register. “Brinton, let me show you something. Look at this picture. Recognize anyone?”
She pointed to a cracked red plastic frame above her head.
Brinton slipped on her own boot, then met Birdie where she stood. Squinting hard, it suddenly hit her.
“Is that—”
“Mm-hm. My mama fit Jamie for his first pair when he was four years old. His daddy got his first pair here too, before he made it big.”
In the photo, a young Jamie sat on that same yellow couch, legs splayed across his father’s lap.
He beamed up at Jamie Sr. like he was Superman and Captain America rolled into one.
Jamie’s mother sat next to his father, but her smile evoked shades of Jamie’s for-the-cameras facade. Like she was holding something back.
Birdie’s tone softened, and sadness clouded her amber eyes. “It’s tragic what happened to MaryBell. So young. She struggled a lot, but that little boy was her whole world. I was praying she would get better.”
“Birdie, we have a few more stops before we gotta get back,” Sammi said softly, more solemn than Brinton had ever heard her.
Birdie’s eyes fell to the scuffed linoleum. “Sure, sure, honey. Let me grab your boots from the back.”
A few minutes later, she returned with a plain brown box, which she carried as if filled with the world’s riches. In some ways, it was. When Brinton opened it, her mouth dropped.
The leather was buttery-soft, in a creamy eggshell shade with cognac stitching and matching block heels. Brinton slipped them on. They fit like a glove.
Her heart filled with something indescribable but surely close to hope. The simple gift of bespoke boots made her vibrate with happiness, and that happiness could dispel every shadow that seemed to follow her. She wanted to believe it.
“Birdie, these are incredible,” Brinton said.
“Aren’t they?”
“I didn’t think I could pull them off.”
Birdie came up behind her and placed calloused hands on her shoulders. “Well, you can’t limit yourself. My mama always said you gotta try new things while the breath’s still in your body.”
Like most people Brinton had met in Iris, Birdie’s kindness and warmth were like a safety net she never knew she needed.
She closed her eyes and smiled. “Thank you, Birdie.”
Back in the car, Brinton couldn’t stop thinking about Jamie’s mother. She turned to Sammi.
“I don’t want you to take this wrong, but I noticed you stopped Birdie when she brought up Jamie’s mom,” Brinton started. “When I asked him about her, he also shut down. Did…something happen to her?”
Sammi pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, as if she’d been dreading this moment.
“Publicly, there’s not much out there about Jamie’s mom,” she said.
“It’s out of respect. She was beloved—a good woman who got dealt a bad hand.
Understandably, Jamie is sensitive about her passing.
I don’t feel right getting into it, because it’s his story to share.
I can tell he’s taken a shine to you though, so try talking to him tonight. ”
She smiled sincerely, then added, “The boots might bring you some luck.”
They exchanged grateful smiles before Sammi pressed a button, igniting the engine’s subtle whir. “Let’s hit a few boutiques. I know you don’t want new clothes, but—”
“That sounds great,” Brinton cut in. “Honestly, I’ve been sweating my ass off since I got here.”
She tugged on the collar of her black pin-striped top, which clung uncomfortably to her torso in the Tennessee humidity. “A pair of shorts won’t kill me, and you’ve been trying to Pretty Woman–me all day. Congratulations, I concede.”
Sammi smiled like the cat who got the Chanel No. 5. In her best Julia Roberts impression, she playfully snapped, “Big mistake. Big. Huge!”