Run Rose Run(22)

“Unfortunately, I do,” Jody said. “Let me say that all of us at BMH Music look forward to the day she changes her brilliant and infuriating mind.”

“She does have something for you, though,” Maya said. “A new singer.”

Ruthanna could practically hear Jody’s eyes roll. “I don’t go out anymore. I can send one of my underlings—as a favor to Ruthanna, of course. She around?”

Ruthanna waved her hands. Noooooo, I am not here.

“Not at the moment,” Maya said smoothly. “All right, so you’re going to sit home and binge-watch British baking shows while you let some kid discover her? Sign her to a publishing deal and take all the credit?”

Jody gave another theatrical sigh. “What’s her name?”

Maya looked over at Ruthanna, and Ruthanna quickly wrote the name on a piece of paper and held it up.

“AnnieLee Keyes,” Maya read.

“Yeah, I don’t love that,” said Jody.

“Why?”

“AnnieLee? Keyes? It sounds like she should be stick-thin and toothless, playing spoons on some Appalachian porch with a bunch of flea-bitten hounds steaming around her bare feet.”

“Hell, tell us what you really think,” Maya said.

“Okay, it’s not that bad,” Jody said. “But it’s not good, either.”

“Well, change it, then. That’s what they did with Ruthanna Ryder.”

“I wasn’t responsible for that, as you know, but whoever was had a fine idea. Pollyanna Poole? That’s a name for a baby doll—you know, the kind that opens its eyes and pees in its diaper.”

Ruthanna couldn’t keep her mouth shut any longer. “You’re pretty opinionated today, Jody Decker,” she said. “But if I was singing those songs, you know people would’ve listened, even if my name was Toot-a-lee McDoo-Doo.”

Maya giggled while Jody somewhat awkwardly cleared her throat. “I didn’t know you were on the line, Ruthanna,” she said. “Is this girl we’re talking about a friend of yours?”

“I barely know her, to tell you the truth. But I’ve seen her, and she’s something else.”

There was a pause. “Is she pretty?”

Ruthanna wasn’t at all surprised by the question—everybody liked a good-looking package to promote—but it still bothered her. She sat back and crossed her arms.

“You’ll have to go see her to find out,” she said.





Chapter

21



AnnieLee strode into a bar called the Lucky Horseshoe a few minutes before four o’clock happy hour. She was clean, well rested, and only moderately starving, a state of being far better than usual these days. The guitar bumping against her thigh gave her an extra boost of confidence. She’d written another song on the eight-mile walk back to the city proper, and she was excited to see how it played. She had an instrument now; she only needed a stage.

As her eyes adjusted to the bar’s dimness, she looked around for someone to appeal to. A neon Budweiser sign flickered; a couple watched a golf game on the big TV; four fan-tailed, multicolored fish swam lazily in a small tank near the lowest row of liquor bottles.

She was about to try her luck elsewhere when a tall, ruddy-cheeked woman came out of the back, a bar towel slung over her tanned, tattooed shoulder. She wore her long blond hair in two fat braids, but her brows were thin and painted almost black. She slid in behind the bar, washed her hands, and then began polishing pint glasses. She didn’t look up at AnnieLee.

“Hi there,” AnnieLee chirped.

The woman’s eyes shifted from her glass to AnnieLee, and then down to the guitar she was carrying. “Hello,” she said warily.

“I was wondering if you’d like to hear some live music tonight,” AnnieLee said. “Performed by me and my new guitar.” She patted the case protectively. When the woman didn’t say anything, AnnieLee added, “I’ve played at the Cat’s Paw a lot. They love me there.”

The woman lifted one of her overplucked eyebrows. “Do they, now?” she said.

“I’d say so,” AnnieLee said. She wondered if she should mention Ruthanna Ryder—how they were practically friends now, even though AnnieLee had snuck out of her house just after the sun came up. But she was pretty sure the woman wouldn’t believe her, for one thing. And for another, she didn’t think Ruthanna would appreciate being name-checked like that. She’d told AnnieLee to go find a real job, after all, not traipse around Nashville looking for a place to perform and using her name as grease for the wheels.

“So why aren’t you singing at the Cat’s Paw tonight?” the woman asked. She wasn’t unfriendly, but she looked like she could snap AnnieLee in half.

“I’m branching out,” AnnieLee said. “Trying new things.” She glanced around her. “I thought this looked like a good place to play. I, um, like your fish.”

The woman looked over at the tank and her expression softened. “They’re pretty, aren’t they? Like a painting that moves.” Then she turned back to AnnieLee. “We have live music Friday and Saturday nights. The rest of the time, we use that.” She gestured toward a giant, old-fashioned jukebox.

AnnieLee walked over to it and peered through the smudged glass. Hank Williams. George Jones. Kitty Wells. “How come the newest song you got in here is at least twenty years older than I am?”