Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Five Months Later
Nashville, Tennessee
Mary would be lying if she didn’t admit that even she was surprised by how quickly and well she had taken to the city of Nashville.
She’d heard plenty about the’Music City’ in the past, about the famous sights, the legendary music venues, the museums, the art scene, the fantastic nightlife, all of it, but she wasn’t expecting the city, especially one right at the heart of the ‘Bible Belt’, to be so laidback and welcoming – but maybe that was because Mary had played a very smart card when it came to choosing her neighborhood.
On her first trip to Nashville, Mary visited three out of the seven most exclusive neighborhoods – Forrest Hills, West Mead and Sylvan Park.
They were certainly luxurious, with the average monthly rent starting at around two thousand dollars for a one-bedroom apartment, but Mary was also intelligent enough to know that flashing money around was a quick-fire way to get noticed, especially for a woman on her own, and that had been Mary’s smart card.
Nashville was undoubtedly a very artistic city – and just like every artistic city on the planet, it had what was commonly known as ‘the arts district’ – a section of the city where many of its artists lived and hung out – usually the struggling ones – and for that reason, rent tended to be a lot more affordable.
But that hadn’t been why Mary had chosen to move into Nashville’s art district.
Her reasoning was that art districts, all around the world, also tended to attract a very diverse group of people.
Artists from other cities, other states, other countries even, flocked to well-known ‘artistic hubs’ to try their luck – actors and actresses flocked to Los Angeles, dancers flocked to New York, jazz and blues musicians flocked to New Orleans, and country artists flocked to Nashville – it was a fact – and artists, of any kind, were well known all over the world for being laidback.
In Mary’s case, that was advantage number one.
Advantage number two was that many of the artists living in Nashville didn’t come from within the ‘Bible Belt’, and what that meant was that the ‘belt grip’, at least in and around the arts district, was pretty damn loose – nobody stuck their noses into anybody else’s business.
People didn’t even care if you were religious or not.
After reading several articles about Nashville’s arts district, Mary picked a small but very comfortable one-bedroom apartment in Hillsborough Village – a very popular area amongst young artists and students alike.
The village was sandwiched between Vanderbilt University and Belmont University, with plenty of shops, coffee houses, saloons and live music venues to keep anyone busy every day and night of the week.
But that evening, Mary was about three miles away from H Village, just leisurely strolling down the famous Broadway by the Cumberland River, when she was approached by a young-looking man.
‘Good evening, ma’am,’ the man said, his tone pleasant, excited, even. ‘How’re you doing today?’ He offered her a bright, but somewhat timid smile, holding out a homemade flyer in her direction. ‘How about a really good acoustic gig tonight?’
Mary didn’t take the flyer. ‘No, thanks,’ she replied without even making eye contact with the man. ‘I’m good.’
The Broadway was famous for its numerous bars and live music venues.
Young musicians and venue employees were always around in the evenings, flyers in hand, doing their best to attract passers-by into their bars.
Right then, they were standing just outside The Whiskey Bent Saloon – a small live music venue that was considered a hidden gem by most country music lovers.
‘It’s only five bucks to get in, ma’am,’ the man tried again, doing his best to catch Mary’s dark brown eyes.
His southern accent wasn’t exactly pronounced, but Mary couldn’t miss it either.
‘Drinks are cheap, the music is great, and your five bucks will go to a very good cause. Have you been to The Whiskey Bent Saloon before?’ He threw his right thumb over his shoulder to indicate the venue just behind him.
Something in the man’s enthusiastic tone of voice made Mary pause and look up at the spinning neon sign just above the entry door.
She’d walked past that bar tens of times in the past five months, but she’d never set foot inside it.
Her gaze finally came down and rested on the man standing before her.
He was still holding out his homemade flyer.
Mary blinked once.
The man looked to be in his early to mid-twenties, tall and well built, with a strong jawline that was nicely accentuated by a dark five o’clock shadow.
His long black hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, which added an extra degree of charm to his already attractive diamond-shaped face.
He was wearing blue jeans – ripped at both knees – white sneakers, and a tight, dark-blue t-shirt that hinted at his toned body and exposed his fully tattooed arms – flowers and skulls mostly.
The smile on his lips seemed genuine, and there was a certain intensity inside his hazel eyes that intrigued Mary somewhat.
‘No, I’ve never been in there,’ she replied. Her eyes stayed on the man. ‘I’ve walked past it many times, but I’ve never walked in.’
The man’s eyebrows arched ever so slightly. ‘Ma’am, then you have to. This place is a must if you’re visiting Nashville. It’s small and cozy, almost like a private bar, but it has the vibe of an arena. All the greats have been on that stage. You like country music, right?’
‘What makes you so sure that I’m visiting?’
The man hesitated for a second, unsure. ‘Ma’am?’
‘You said that this place is a must if you’re visiting Nashville. What makes you so sure that I’m visiting?’ Mary’s tone took a defensive edge that the man clearly noticed.
‘Umm… just a guess, ma’am. Didn’t mean nothing by it.’
‘A guess based on what?’ Mary pushed, her tone a touch softer than a moment ago, but still defensive.
The man gave Mary a sheepish, but sincere smile.
‘I was born and bred in Huntsville, Alabama, ma’am,’ he explained, before pausing and chewing on the side of his bottom lip for an instant.
‘When you grow up in a place like Huntsville – big city with a small-town feel – spotting people who were either born or grew up in the south is practically part of our DNA. We talk a certain way… we walk a certain way… we drink a certain way.’ He turned his neck to look back at The Whiskey Bent Saloon.
‘And we certainly play music a certain way.’ His chin dropped a fraction, his tone apologetic.
‘Nashville is a fantastic place, and we get people visiting from all over… every day of the year. I just meant to say that you don’t look to be from round here, ma’am.
That’s all. I meant to cause no offense. ’
Mary found the man’s embarrassment quite charming. ‘You didn’t.’ She finally smiled back at him. ‘And you’re right. I’m not from around here. But I’m not visiting either.’
‘You live here?’ The man’s surprise didn’t seem faked.
Mary nodded. ‘For now.’
‘Really?’ This time, the man smiled with his eyes. ‘Whereabouts?’
Mary’s head tilted slightly to the right and her eyebrows tightened as she gave the man a ‘you’re doing it again’ look.
The man read it like a flashing billboard. ‘So terribly sorry, ma’am. I guess this is something else that’s embedded in southern folks’ DNA.’
‘You mean – being nosy?’
‘I believe that’s the correct term, ma’am… yeah.’
Mary’s new smile was a relaxed one. ‘So… who’s playing tonight?’
The man’s face seemed to light up. He offered her a flyer once again.
This time, Mary took it. It was a simple piece of white paper, rectangular in shape, and printed in black and white.
The photo showed the artist standing with his back pressed against a brick wall, his right leg bent at the knee…
the sole of his right cowboy boot flat against that same wall.
He was holding an acoustic guitar across his body, as if he was just about to start playing.
His cowboy hat was tipped down at the front, but not enough to cover his face, while his long, straight black hair fell just past his shoulders.
Mary recognized him straight away. It was the same man who was standing right in front of her.
‘Luke Jenkins,’ Mary read the name across the top of the flyer, before her gaze returned to the man. ‘It’s got a good sound to it. Is that your real name?’
The man nodded. ‘Luke Jenkins. Baptized and dipped in a bucket of holy water, ma’am.’ He offered her his hand. ‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
Mary shook it. ‘Mary. Nice to meet you, Luke.’ Her chin jerked at the flyer. ‘Are you any good?’
‘I’m always trying to be better, ma’am,’ Luke replied. ‘But I can get a crowd going… the southern way.’
Mary looked back at The Whiskey Bent Saloon. ‘It doesn’t look too busy in there. Not much of a crowd to get going.’
‘Monday evenings are always slow,’ Luke explained.
‘That’s why most small venues, like The Whiskey, will book new, less-known acts on Monday nights.
Artists starting out, like myself. The management then checks you out to see how good you are.
If they like you, they might book you on a few more Mondays before giving you a shot at busier nights and bigger crowds. ’
‘I see.’ Mary nodded. ‘Is this your first Monday playing here?’
‘No, ma’am. This is my second time playing The Whiskey. I was here last Monday too.’
‘So, they liked you.’
Luke gave Mary a cowboy nod. ‘It appears so, ma’am.’
Their stares locked and Luke smiled again, but this time it wasn’t shy or timid. It was just a smile – as genuine as before, but brighter. ‘So, what do you say, ma’am? Give a new artist a chance?’
Mary looked down at the flyer again. ‘Five bucks?’
‘It’s for a good cause, ma’am.’
‘And that cause would be?’
Luke pressed his lips tight together. The embarrassment was back in his tone. ‘Umm… food and board, ma’am. Nashville ain’t as cheap as Huntsville.’
Mary found Luke’s honesty to be quite attractive.
‘But I’m sure that I can get you on some sort of guest list, if you like. I get a free “plus one” that I don’t use.’
‘No, it’s OK,’ Mary nodded. ‘I think I can afford five bucks tonight, but on one condition.’
Luke bit back on a pleased smile. ‘And what’s that, ma’am.’
‘You’ve got to stop calling me ma’am. You’re making me feel old. Call me Mary… OK?’
‘Mary it is,’ Luke said, giving her another cowboy nod and gesturing towards the door to The Whiskey Bent Saloon. ‘And thank you very much. You ain’t gonna regret it.’