Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LOU
P atty and I can’t go back to the hotel until we’re good and tired—we kissed, and there’s only one bed. As much as I appreciate him acknowledging that kissin’ is the only thing happening tonight, what is there to do in a hotel room with only one bed?
Watch the Weather Channel and cuddle?
That actually sounds nice.
But instead, we’ve decided to walk the streets of Branson, and when we hear live music piping out of Silver Spur Music Hall, we turn toward it—only to be immediately met with people who look like, well, other people.
That’s right.
We’ve walked into a cover band bar.
I look around, laughing, as an entire group of women dressed as Winona Williams strolls by. One of them looks me over and then snorts.
“Your makeup is trash,” she says. “Winona’s eyeliner is always denim blue, not black.”
Patty wraps his arms around me, and I laugh against him. When I push back, I see a bit of lipstick has rubbed off on his white T-shirt. I pretend to wipe it off, but let’s be honest—lipstick doesn’t wipe off.
It’s an excuse to feel his chest, and I ain’t as ashamed of it as I should be.
Or at all.
The bar is well-worn honky-tonk. String lights dangle from the ceiling, directing attention toward the small stage, where a tribute band is performing Islands in the Stream .
We order burgers and onion rings and eat while we watch the house band, me singing along while Patty shakes his head, but laughs.
Then, the emcee takes the mic. “All right, y’all. You know what time it is! Open mic!”
I gasp.
A chance to perform anonymously?
I dart through the crowd and make it to the stage before anyone can beat me … or Patty can stop me. I stand on the stage and revel in the feeling of hiding in plain sight again.
I’ve never consciously imitated my momma. In fact, I’ve spent a great deal of effort trying to differentiate myself from her—even before anyone knew who I was.
But tonight?
I’m all Winona.
“Well, how y’all doin’ tonight?” I call into the microphone, flattening my vowels and laying on the charm that made Momma an overnight CMT darling. “I’m Winetta Williams. What do y’all say to a little Heartbreak Hustle ?” The emcee hands me a guitar as the crowd goes wild. I glance out from the stage into the darkness of the bar. “I just need my lead guitarist to come slap some sugar on these here strings. Baby, where you at?”
Patty doesn’t get up immediately.
But another, very drunk man whoops and starts making his way toward the stage.
“I’ll be your baby anytime,” he slurs.
I widen my eyes, and the crowd laughs, but a nervous chill washes over me.
Is Patty seriously going to leave me hanging?
Before the drunk guy can make it up to me, Patty comes into view and places a firm hand on the man’s shoulder.
“The lady was talking to me,” he says.
I can’t help but smile at the protective set of his jaw or the inferno in his eyes as he sits the man down and storms onto the stage.
Wow.
I did not know I had a thing for grumps until this moment.
But Patty going full tall, dark, and brooding in his well-fitted jeans and white T-shirt with my lipstick branding it?
That’s four-alarm fire hot.
He gets up on stage, takes my elbow like we’ve done this a hundred times, and leans in.
His lips skim my ear, making my eyes flutter closed.
“Are we really playing Heartbreak Hustle when we could play Whiskey and White Lies or He Ain’t Cryin’ (But I Am) instead?” he asks.
“It’s a fan favorite for a reason,” I reply, making sure to let my own lips drift against his cheek.
His hand on my elbow tightens, and when I hear his breath catch, I start regretting not staying in to watch the Weather Channel.
“The real question is if you can hang with my dad’s guitar solo.”
With one final squeeze, he backs up and gives me a flat gaze, and I know exactly what that means.
Challenge accepted.
Playing with Patty is even more fun than it was the first time.
It’s like he’s a different person when he’s playing music.
No, not a different person—a more complete person.
He needs to be immersed in music to feel fully.
I get it now. I see it.
His smile when he plays is stunning. Happiness almost shines off him. But whenever he starts grinning, he drops his head—like he’s trying to shake his hair in front of his face, except it’s not long enough.
It reminds me of all the times I did that while performing songs to upload to socials, back when no one ever saw my face.
I wonder if he even knows he does it.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to convince him to stop. Stop hiding. Stop keeping people from seeing that he was made for this.
We perform three songs—including the two Patty wanted, because they’re two of Momma’s best—before the emcee boots us offstage to allow other patrons to perform.
We join the crowd for a few more acts, and while I dance, my boots pounding on the wood floor, Patty stands behind me—arms folded, watching me with a stern face but indulgent eyes.
When a slow song hits, I lean back, and Patty drapes his arms around me, kissing my cheek.
I sigh contentedly. Blissfully.
For most of my life, I’ve heard the message: “You can have it all, but not all at once.”
I’ve taken that as a cautionary tale. A warning.
But right here, right now, it feels less like an eternal truth and more like a lie my mom has told herself.
She did have it all.
She had music. And love. And a family.
And she gave part of it away.
Does that mean I have to?
The emcee announces the next artist, a Shania impersonator, and the woman calls out a welcome to the crowd.
Behind me, Patty stills.
“Hello, Branson! I’ve played in a lot of places over the years, but it never quite feels like home anymore," she says into the mic in a gorgeous, gravelly voice. Patty’s arms tense around me at the same time he takes a sharp breath. "This next one’s an old favorite— Home Ain’t Where His Heart Is (Anymore) .”
Patty goes so rigid, I turn to him, suddenly alarmed.
“You okay?” I ask as the woman starts playing.
Patty shakes his head, like it’s nothing. “It’s gettin’ late. You have interviews in Springfield tomorrow. We should head back.”
“Okay,” I say, pausing.
Is this the whole story?
Did he really just tense up because of … the time?
He slides his hand down my arm, then takes my hand, but I don’t go with him immediately.
When he gives me a tug, I tug back.
“What aren’t you telling me? You reacted to someone.”
He looks over my head, and in his eyes is an expression I’ve never seen before.
Hurt.
“Yeah. I did. I don’t want to be here for the next act,” he says.
He sighs against my cheek.
“It’s my … mother.”
I hold back my gasp, forcibly tamping down my shock, outrage, and—I’m ashamed to admit it—curiosity.
I’m dying to see her. Dying to hear her.
I could stay.
I could let him walk back to the hotel or step outside and wait for me.
I could march up to that stage and give her a piece of my mind.
But Patty is more important than my curiosity or my ire.
Some things are worth more than knowing.
“Let’s go,” I say.
I grab his hand, and we weave through the crowd toward the door.
Just as we’re about to leave, a man’s voice cuts through the noise:
“Hey, don’t I know you?”
Anxiety prickles at my skin as the reality sinks in: I’m exposed.
Patty’s an effective bodyguard. But he’s just one bodyguard in a sea of people. He shifts to separate me from the inquiring man, and I think we’re in the clear. Until the guy presses.
“I do,” he says, stepping in front of Patty. “I know you. You were in … what was that band?”
“No band,” Patty says flatly, his voice clipped. “You don’t know me, man.”
And suddenly, my senses go on high alert.
This guy isn’t talking to me.
He’s talking to Patty.
He recognized Patty … from his college band?
Patty pushes past the guy, and we slip out the door.
I’m hit with a blast of cold air, and I immediately shiver.
Patty puts his arm around me, and we walk the half-mile back to our hotel in silence.
My brain is screaming the entire time:
What just happened?
“I guess this is where we put up a pillow wall to keep us chaste,” I say once we’re back in the hotel and have both used the bathroom.
“You don’t need a pillow wall to keep you safe from me,” Patty says, pulling the sheets back on the bed.
Full disclosure: I assumed Patty sleeps in his boxers with no shirt.
He does not.
He sleeps in joggers with no shirt.
And that means I have a full view of his tattoo.
His torso.
And let me tell you—it’s a mighty fine view.
Patty isn’t chiseled like a professional athlete, but he’s broad, with the kind of definition that comes from muscles getting practical, constant use.
He does so much cooking and baking that his forearms could rival Popeye’s.
And from the muscles in his back, I have to assume he goes out into a barn and hits a punching bag every day on his lunch hour.
“What if the pillow wall is to keep you safe from me?” I tease.
His eyes rove down for just a moment before he snaps them back up.
I’m wearing shorts and an oversized sweatshirt with fluffy socks—full-on PJs—but the way he forces himself not to look at me makes it seem like he was ogling me in a bikini.
“I’m willin’ to take my chances,” he says. “But if you can’t control yourself, you should know I prefer to be the little spoon.”
I burst out laughing, looking at him from the other side of the bed.
And the laughter dies on my lips.
Because I’m standing across a bed from the only man who’s ever set my insides on fire.
The only man who’s ever made me want to break my rules.
No distractions.
Is that what he is?
NO.
The thought rips through my head like a scream.
He is so much more than a distraction.
He’s a lifeline.
An anchor.
He gives my notes structure—the steady drumbeat keeping me on pace, the harmony that makes the melody whole.
Patty seems to know that something is going on in my head, as he always does.
The man can read me like sheet music.
Is that what a distraction feels like?
Like feeling seen? Like being more me than I’ve ever been?
“Well,” he says, cutting off the light on his side of the bed and sliding into the sheets, “I’m going to bed. Night, Lou.”
After a pause, I cut the switch on my side and slide in, too.
I lie down on the farthest edge of the bed, unwilling to get closer—because of how badly I want to. I want him to hold out his arm so I can curl against him, fitting like a note into a chord. But I don’t want to sleep; I want to talk. I want to understand him the way he understands me; I want to share secrets, hopes, and fears. I want all of the hidden parts of him.
Because I’ve fallen for him, and something tells me I’m only going to keep falling.
And that terrifies me.
“What’s goin’ through that brain of yours?” Patty asks after several minutes of silence.
“Shh. I’m sleeping,” I say, staring up at the dark ceiling.
“No, you’re not. Your breathing is too erratic.”
“I’m having a terrible dream. Now hush so I can go back to it.”
And then, the most wonderful thing happens: he holds out his arm and pats the bed near him. “Don’t go back to the bad dream,” he says. “Come here and tell me about it.”
I smile. “No.”
“Okay,” he says, and in the soft light coming in from the window, I see Patty move his arm back under his head.
I shift in the bed, grab his arm, and pull it back out. Then I slide across the sheets and cozy up against his side.
“No, huh?” he asks in a low, teasing voice.
“Consider this a protest snuggle.”
“A protest snuggle. Sure. What are you protesting?”
“Your use of your masculine wiles. You’re taking advantage of my lowered defenses.”
I put my arm across his chest, and he wraps his arms around me. Peace engulfs me. And along with that peace is an undercurrent of fear that makes my stomach clench.
My mom felt this way about my dad once. She probably felt like he was the guardian of her secrets and fears, the champion of her hopes and dreams.
But she still had to choose …
Patty kisses my forehead, and my fears take a back seat to his tenderness. “Okay. Then I promise to only listen under protest. In solidarity.”
I chuckle under my breath.
We lie like that for a few minutes—Patty with his eyes closed, me staring at the light peeking out from the top of the blinds. He could be asleep for all I know. And maybe it’s that possibility—of him being asleep—that emboldens me to whisper.
“I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of a fate like my mom’s.”
He breathes in and out, in and out. “What about her fate scares you?”
“She put everything into her career. She built her name from nothing, and at the very height of her success, she had to choose between her career and her family. And because she’s a sucker in love, she has to act happy about it.”
I stop myself just before vocalizing the next thought in my head. What if I want to be a sucker in love, too, and I just … can’t?
That terrifies me as much as losing myself does.
Patty’s hand squeezes my shoulder through my sweatshirt. “You talk like your mom’s some kind of tragic figure. What if it isn’t an act or a tradeoff but a choice? You say she gave up everything for your dad, but what if, instead, she got everything she wanted? What if she didn’t settle, and this was her dream all along?”
“What if she’s just … happy?”
His words stop me cold. So cold, I shiver, and Patty tucks me in tighter against him.
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is that Winona Williams was savvy enough to build a career most people only dream of, but I’ve never seen someone on stage who looked happier than she did watching you.”
Tears prick my eyes, and I try to blink them away before they can fall on Patty’s chest. The possibility that my mom is happy—that she meant what she said about only seeing what she gained … can it be real? Did she really choose what she wanted? Is she happy for me? Proud of me, even if my path is different from hers?
It seems too good to be true. “But how is that possible, Patty? How could someone who’s been on that stage ever be happy with anything else?”
Patty exhales in a huff that stirs the hair on my head, making it tickle my face. “You think fame is that great?”
“It’s not about the fame; it’s about the connection. I feel connected to the world in a way I never did before.”
“I think that says more about you than it does about your mom,” Patty says.
I push halfheartedly away from him. “I’m going back to my nightmare.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, pulling me back. I settle back against him quickly, glad he knew I wasn’t serious. But also, I’m kind of serious.
“I think for a long time, you’ve carefully controlled the level of connection you have with other people. For years, your fans have gotten exactly what you were willing to give them and nothing more. On stage now, you control how much you let them in. Your own family you keep at arm’s length, and I bet if you evaluate how you act with the Janes, you’ll find that you’ve kept at least a couple of secrets from them.”
A reminder of the longing I felt—the loneliness I felt—after my show in Sugar Maple stirs in my soul. My friends were all in the backstage tent, laughing with their husbands, fiancé, and boyfriend, respectively.
And I was standing alone on an empty stage, looking at an equally empty field where, only an hour earlier, half of Sugar Maple had watched me perform.
It was such a vulnerable, amazing feeling to be up there. But hearing my friends and their significant others made me feel other. Like the odd woman out. Like the one girl who no longer fits in.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I started pulling away the second Jane and Tripp got married. I’ve kept pulling away, hiding more and more of my emotions and feelings from them, keeping back bits of myself because I was afraid. I am afraid.
What am I so afraid of?
Is it that I’ll love someone enough to leave the world behind if they ask? Or is it that no one will ever love me enough?
In choosing my dad, did my mom not choose me?
I loved going on tour with her. It made me feel energized. Alive.
Special.
I loved when she brought me out on stage—not Nora or, later, June, but me because I was the only one who loved it—and I sang the final song before the encore with her. It was the happiest I ever saw her, and it was about the happiest I ever felt.
And then, one day, it was done. The rest of the tour was canceled. We were all headin’ home to Augusta, and Dad was checking into a “hospital.” And even though I loved performing with Momma more than anything, it was just … done .
I knew I would do anything to get back on that stage. Even if it meant holding people at arm’s length.
And look where I am.
I laugh in disbelief. “You’re exactly right.”
“Don’t act so surprised that I know you, Queenie.” He doesn’t sound smug so much as certain.
It makes my heart ache and swell at the same time. “How can you know me better than anyone?”
“Because our souls are made of the same stuff: chords and rests, verse and refrain, song and silence?—”
“Melody and harmony,” I whisper.
I feel his head nod against mine as my words hang like a final note in the air. The slow, steady beating of his heart answers the questioning drum of mine. Soon, our breathing falls into a matching pattern that makes me smile and close my eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone in the silence.