You'd Be Mine(8)

She’s singing again, and I recognize the lyrics to “I’ll Fly Away” and swallow hard. It was my granddad’s favorite hymn. I shut my eyes, focusing on Annie’s smoky voice. She doesn’t sound seventeen. She sounds timeless. No showy vibrato, no American Idol–worthy runs. Her voice is pure. Unadulterated. Untainted.

It’s the sound of sweet salvation.

I don’t realize until she gasps for breath, I’d been holding mine along with her. I’d been mouthing the lyrics without even realizing I remembered them. When she finishes, she’s met with silence again, but as I open my eyes, I find it’s not because they don’t care for her. They’re overcome. There isn’t a dry eye in the place.

I startle as Fitz slides a soda in front of me. I nod to him, and he opens his mouth to say something, but the music starts up again.

“I’m gonna play just a few more tonight. If you’ll indulge me,” Patrick says with a humble grin. “Today’s this talented young lady’s eighteenth birthday.” Small cries of enthusiasm ring out, along with a loud hoot in the front row. From the mess of dark hair, I’d guess it’s Jason, the drummer, though I’ve only seen him on video.

Patrick blows into the mic, rubbing at the back of his neck. “There’s lots of things I wish for you, Annie, not in the least that Robbie and Cora could see you up here. They’d be so proud. We’re all so proud of how you’ve grown. But—” He drops his hand and looks at Annie. The light reflects a blue sheen in her eyes. “But your momma used to tell me the strongest roots grow through adversity. You’re a hell of a young woman, Annie Mathers.”

Everyone breaks into cheering and applause, and Annie throws her arms around Patrick’s neck, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek before returning to her stool.

“Thank you,” she says in her simple way. “Now, enough of that. I’ve got one more song for y’all before I pass this mic back to Patrick. I want to thank you for coming tonight. I see a lot of familiar faces, and I’m tickled y’all turned out. It’s no secret I’ve been in hiding these past five years or so. Truthfully, I never really was sure I’d make it back to Nashville, but … well…” Annie scrunches up her face and releases a slow breath into the mic. “Performing’s in my bones … so … here I am. I don’t usually like to sing my momma’s songs. In fact, I never sing my momma’s songs—but since I wouldn’t be here today if she hadn’t given birth to me, I suppose I could just this once.” At that she looks back to Pat and counts down from three.

I recognize this one, too. Of course I do. Cora Rosewood probably had a collection of Grammys to rival Prince’s. I prefer Annie’s version, though. It’s softer. More hopeful. She stands and cradles the mic stand between both of her hands. It almost looks as though she’s going to kiss it.

I shake my head and swallow the last of my soda. “I should get out of here before it’s over,” I say.

Fitz’s eyes widen, but I get the impression he approves. He leaves his drink, barely touched, on the table and leads the way out. When we get to the door, I look one last time right as Annie’s eyes open, and then I duck out.

I don’t know how to feel about what I’ve witnessed tonight. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and yet, I’m feeling sick over it. Annie is meant to do this. If ever there was a person on this planet meant to perform, it’s her. But at what cost? What are we asking of her? This city swallows so many. It’s already stolen her family.

I recognize that haunted look in her eyes. It’s the same one I wear every single day—the look of someone outrunning their demons.

When the label sent me to Michigan, I told myself I was doing us both a favor.

Now I’m not so sure.





4



Annie


may

nashville, tennessee

I’ve barely landed in Nashville, and I’m kicking myself already for the half decade I’ve spent tucked away in the north woods of Michigan. I’ve flat-out lost my immunity to Southern boys, and Clay Coolidge is fixing to kill me with his dangerous charisma. In my kitchen, Clay was arrogant and hungover, but now, just yards away onstage, he’s an enigma. He wears dark shades, broods always, and makes love to his mic. He’s cornered the market on females age thirteen to ninety.

Of course, he is so aware of it, which puts a slight damper on his appeal. For me anyway. I mean, objectively, my dad was plenty swoon-worthy in his time, if his hordes of admirers were any indication. He was also a raging pill junkie with control issues and a mean jealous streak.

We arrive early for sound check because I was too antsy to sit in my hotel room all day. I toyed with the idea of hanging out in a coffee shop until noon, but Jason has the manners of a toddler in public, and I’d rather not risk the extra attention. I have plenty of contacts in Nashville. My parents’ old friends—the few I’ve kept in contact with over the years—have offered everything from a place to crash to any greasing of palms I might need. I don’t know why I don’t take them up on it.

Well, maybe I do. I just feel plain stupid about it. The truth is, my parents ran in a pretty tight circle in their heyday. And by tight, I mean practically incestuous. After my parents’ deaths, I had multiple offers from “aunts and uncles” to take me in. To raise me up in Nashville. To carry on my parents’ legacy. But I can’t think of a single one who didn’t see me as anything other than their bankroll. Imagine the boon to their careers, taking me in as their own? I’d be dressed up in Cora’s clothes and taught Robbie’s swagger, and then, when I’d reached the ripe age of sixteen, I’d be pushed the label’s drugs and they’d own me. The tragic heiress in their silk-lined pockets.