Chapter 4 #2
And he realized just how much more complicated—maybe even richer—his life had become since the two singers arrived at his inn.
Was this how traitors felt?
Sitting in their suite with Aunt Dahlia, the songwriters, and their manager the next morning, Ariel tried to focus on brainstorming their new reimagined band.
She spent most of the meeting pondering her own career as a solo artist—when she wasn’t thinking about her aunt and Caleb’s uncle dancing and flirting last night.
Although thinking about her own career felt dangerously close to betrayal.
Not that she wanted to leave the band. And she’d never purposely hurt Aunt Dahlia. But if Ariel couldn’t find success on her own, would she have success at all? Or was she merely an average musician who couldn’t have made it without her aunt? A fraud the rest of the band had to prop up?
Now into the afternoon, she squirmed a little, seated between silver-haired, barrel-chested Earl Butler, who’d written Aunt Dahlia’s first big hit, and tawny-haired, smooth-faced newcomer-with-promise Seth Malone on a worn mauve sofa.
Fiona McCleary, all business as usual in her red midi-dress and heels and hard-living lines on her brow, sat on Seth’s other side, fifteen number one hits to her credit.
“I want to hear something fresh,” Aunt Dahlia said from her place at the mahogany grand piano in the corner of the living room the size of Caleb’s grandfather’s.
She’d teased her favorite platinum wig even bigger than usual, and glitter fell from her hot-pink pullover onto the piano bench, her jeans, and the hunter-green carpet.
“All y’all are great songwriters, and you’ve given us fantastic music through the years.
Now we need something new and unexpected. Something we’ve never done.”
The songwriters glanced around the room at each other. When the silence grew awkward, Earl Butler spoke up, tapping his mechanical pencil on the side table next to him. “Miss Dahlia, we could help you more if we knew exactly what you want. A new sound or a new image? Or something else?”
“I don’t know, Earl. I only know we need to move forward and explore new possibilities after our huge CMA success.” Aunt Dahlia paused and gazed out over her “audience,” making eye contact and giving them her big smile. “And that’s why I’m putting Ariel in charge of the change.”
“What?” Ariel bounded off the couch, where she felt a little squished anyway, her idea book and pen hitting the floor with a thump and a rattle. “No! I don’t know anything about—”
“Sure you do. You’re the best problem solver I know.” Her voice smoother than Jeff Davis pie, Aunt Dahlia smiled that stunning smile of hers, her voice silky, pouring on the charm. “All I need is a plan to advance our brand, grow bigger, and reach more people with our music.”
“Oh, is that all?” If her polite Southern mama and auntie hadn’t raised her better, Ariel would have rolled her eyes. “You do have a way of springing things on people, Auntie.”
Aunt Dahlia waved away Ariel’s concern. “You’ll be all right. This room is full of creative people. Just roll with it.”
Roll with it. She’d had plenty of experience with that onstage. She paced the room that looked like a time warp back to the eighties with its plaid couches and chairs, ruffled throw pillows in the same pattern, and framed florals.
Then she thought of Caleb. He knew even less about bringing this hotel into the modern day than Ariel did about changing a band’s image. Or sound, or whatever nebulous variation Aunt Dahlia wanted.
If Caleb could transform his inn, Ariel could do the same with her band. Apparently, she had to.
“Fine. I’ll need to take notes.” She moved to the table, happy to escape Seth’s fidgetiness and Earl’s cigarette smell.
She sat next to former Texas rancher Stu Patterson, who’d left behind his family’s thousand-acre spread for the love of turning out hit after hit, his cowboy hat on the floor next to him and pure grit backing him.
On the other side, Mark Radke, in gray flannel pants, a pressed white dress shirt, and polished black Cole Haan loafers, looked like the banker his family wanted him to be, but whose love-song compositions could bring a grown man to tears in the first verse.
Across from her sat Eli Charles, whom Aunt Dahlia had discovered nineteen years ago in Memphis.
She’d heard him singing original songs and accompanying himself on a beat-up budget guitar on the corner of Beale Street and B.B.
King Boulevard, near the Blues Hall Juke Joint, his overturned hat collecting ones and fives in tips.
Eli had proven himself with fourteen CMA Triple Play Awards.
Ariel blew out a frustrated breath. What did she know about changing images? Mixing up their style? Leading a mismatched team of writers who, except for Seth, had started writing hits before she was born.
She glanced back at her aunt, who had picked up her phone, her eyes soft and her lips parted in a half smile.
If Ariel were the snoopy sort, and if she sneaked a look over Aunt Dahlia’s shoulder, she’d surely see a romantic text from Mr. Augo Kennedy. The handsome great-uncle of the equally handsome Caleb Kennedy.
Apparently, Ariel was on her own. At least for now.
She turned to the page titled Island House Inn and inscribed The New Miss Dahlia and Ariel at the top of the fresh leaf.
“Let’s think back. Our last huge splash before our CMA haul this year came when we won two multi-platinum awards the year before.
That’s when we hired Andre Dublin to make our stage sets more contemporary, and we blended a little more rock into our country style. ”
Aunt Dahlia put down the phone and played a few random, slightly off-key treble notes on the piano keyboard. “I guess we could go heavier on the rock sound, but I hate to give up our country roots.”
“We need to stay authentic, not jump into a new genre.” Earl gave Ariel his furrowed-brow scowl of disapproval and spoke in a tone he’d never used with her, his voice holding more than its usual note of grumpiness. “We’re country, Ariel. Not rock stars.”
“Does everybody agree?” When the room turned silent, Ariel lifted her gaze from her book to discern the mood in the room. Earl’s grumpiness had always amused her in the past, when he aimed it at her aunt. It wasn’t so funny now.
After an hour’s discussion with no good solutions, Ariel closed her idea book and capped her pen. “Auntie, we’re not making progress. I think we need to let the problem simmer for a while before talking about it again. So, since you put me in charge of this meeting, I’m shutting it down.”
“I have a message from the band. Leroy, the bus driver, texted me five minutes ago and said their ferry just docked,” her aunt said, checking her phone. “We’ll see you all at the inn’s private dining room in two hours.”
The team of songwriters jumped up and headed for the door instead of hanging around as usual after a meeting, as if they felt the awkwardness of Ariel’s leadership as much as she did.
Aunt Dahlia shut the door behind the last one, then joined Ariel at the table. “That wasn’t so bad.”
Always the optimist.
“It was terrible.” Elbows on the table, Ariel covered her face with her hands for a moment. “You let me lead the meeting, and I blew it.”
Aunt Dahlia’s eyes widened. “How did you blow it?”
“Nobody had a single viable idea. Including me.”
“It’s not your fault they couldn’t come up with a brilliant plan on the spur of the moment. Remember, I sprang the idea on them just an hour ago.”
True. “But why did you want me to head up this meeting?”
“You do a great job of improvising and rolling with whatever happens onstage. Now you need to learn to play business meetings by ear too. Get all the experience you can while I’m still around.”
While she’s still around? Ariel’s chest tightened as the words sank in. She didn’t mean—
She grabbed Aunt Dahlia’s hand. “You’re—you’re okay, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.” Her aunt squeezed back.
“Then why now?”
“I want you to be ready to take over my legacy when the time comes. You never know. I might step away from music someday and start a clothing or home décor line. Maybe even open a chain of Southern-cooking restaurants, featuring my famous fried chicken and corn pudding.” She smiled that big smile that always made Ariel feel better.
“Or I might up and propose to some handsome man and get married.”
An image of Mr. Augo dancing with Aunt Dahlia flitted across Ariel’s mind. Yes, considering the number of marriage proposals her aunt received every week, she’d want to do the asking.
Aunt Dahlia released Ariel’s hand and fluffed her wig, as if that great big, beautiful tangle needed to get any poofier. “Did you expect to hear a dozen new ideas today?”
“Wasn’t I supposed to?”
“It doesn’t always work that way.”
So she’d learned. “What will Earl and the rest of them do now?”
“They’ll do what all writers do. They’ll go away, let the problem simmer while they eat a good meal and while they sleep tonight, and then they’ll let the ideas pop into their heads.
You can’t force business strategies any more than you can force lyrics.
” Her aunt stood and strolled toward her bedroom, unruffled as always. “They come to you when they’re ready.”
Although not a lyricist herself, Ariel knew from the songwriters—and her aunt—that she spoke truth. She also knew truth often brought clarity.
At this moment, she needed that clarity for both the band and her life more than ever.