Run Rose Run(65)

“Honey, I blew out my eardrums long ago,” Jack said. “A hazard of the music business. I’m glad you’re happy—you should be. Anyway, kid, I have to run. We’ll do the details later.” And then he was gone.

Holding back another scream of delight, AnnieLee opened her eyes as a crow squawked from a branch above. She looked around her, and suddenly she realized where she was: right near that smooth patch of dirt underneath the big old elm tree, the spot where she’d spent her first cold and lonely nights in Nashville.

A few yards away was the little hollow where she’d hidden her backpack as she wandered the city, looking for a place to sing her songs and a place to wash her face.

I’m back where I started, she marveled. But now everything’s different.





Chapter

55


Turn the offer down,” Ruthanna said.

AnnieLee’s mouth fell open. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You’re not an opening act, AnnieLee. You’re a star,” Ruthanna said.

AnnieLee, who’d been idly pinching the flowering tops off the basil in Ruthanna’s kitchen garden, stood up and put her hands on her hips. “I appreciate your belief in me,” she said, “but I’m not a star yet. I don’t even have an album out. I’ve got to work my way up.”

“And you want to do that by playing second fiddle to a man?” Ruthanna challenged. “By warming up the crowd for a guy who can’t write a song half as good as yours?”

“But he’s huge,” AnnieLee said.

“He’s overrated,” Ruthanna replied.

AnnieLee had assumed Ruthanna would be thrilled for her, and now she hardly knew what to say. She knew Kip Hart was no Hank Williams. No Willie Nelson or Brad Paisley or Kenny Chesney, either. But he commanded a big audience, and he was willing to share it with her. She had the chance to play for a crowd of thousands! Shouldn’t she be jumping for joy?

“Sweetie,” Ruthanna said, “when you were little, just learning how to sing along with the radio, women musicians sang about a third of the songs played on country stations. Now they’re barely above ten percent. Things haven’t gotten better since Tomato-gate—they’re getting worse.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me and Kip Hart,” AnnieLee said.

“Kip Hart thinks he’s better than you,” Ruthanna said. “If he doesn’t talk down to you, he’ll try to get into your pants. Or maybe both.”

“I dare him to try,” AnnieLee said. “And I don’t have to think he’s a great guy, Ruthanna. I just need to sing some songs on that stage before he does.”

Ruthanna folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t like it,” she said.

“But ACD loves it,” AnnieLee said. “Aren’t they kind of my bosses now?”

Ruthanna took off her sunglasses so she could look AnnieLee in the eye. “Don’t ever let anyone else be your boss.”

“That’s a heck of a lot easier said than done,” AnnieLee said. “Especially when there’s lawyers and money involved.”

AnnieLee heard Maya calling from the kitchen, and Ruthanna turned to go inside. “I know it is,” she said. “Look, hon. I just want what’s best for you. Maybe this is it, but maybe it isn’t. There’s more than one way up the ladder. You go on home and think on it a little more, okay?”

AnnieLee said she would as she gathered up her keys and bag. But she knew the decision had already been made for her, by her management and label. Okay, it wasn’t perfect—but what ever was? It was her next big shot. Even if she could hold out for the ideal opportunity, she very well might be waiting forever. She wanted the opportunity that was in front of her right now.

Opening for Kip is a good thing, she thought as she drove home. A great thing. Ruthanna can’t tell me otherwise.

When AnnieLee got back to her little rental cottage, Ethan was sitting on her front steps. She felt her heart give a lurch. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and celebrate her news. Too bad she was still mad at him, and he was probably still furious with her.

She stopped a few feet away and looked at him warily. “Did Ruthanna send you? Because if you’re here to try to talk me out of opening for Kip Hart, it’s not going to work.”

“Why would I do that?” Ethan asked. “I came to say congratulations. It’s great, AnnieLee, and you deserve it.” He stood up and brushed off his jeans. “And I brought you something.”

He walked over to his truck, and when he came back he was carrying a guitar. It was small and dark, and its polished wood softly gleamed. Mother-of-pearl inlay circled the sound hole and decorated the fretboard. “For you,” he said, holding it out.

“Really?” She took it from him. It felt warm and smooth—almost alive. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Is this really for me? I’ve never seen one like it. Where’d you get it?”

“I made it.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“No one’s made me anything since my mom sewed me dresses in elementary school.” She ran her fingers along the inlay, marveling at its detail. “Not that I even appreciated those dang things. I wanted clothes from the store like everybody else. But this—this is incredible.”