Open Road Summer(12)

That’s it. I’m done. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me, lady.”

Lissa looks miffed that I’ve interrupted her prepared soliloquy, but she presses on. “We agree that the best course of action is to give the media another story—a positive story that will garner as much, if not more, public interest.”

Dee’s eyebrows furrow, skeptical. “Like what?”

“Like a budding relationship with another entertainer.”

“I’m not in a relationship.” Dee’s annoyance seeps into her voice. Even if Dee were in a relationship, Lissa would have coached her not to talk about it. “And definitely not with another entertainer.”

“You won’t have to be. The idea is to bring on a tour opener—someone about your age who is seen by the public as grounded, likable, good-looking. Preferably someone who is already on the label, so we’ll avoid paperwork and still provide an opener you’re already comfortable with.”

Dee narrows her eyes. “You’re thinking of Matt Finch.”

Lissa gives a nod, and Dee stares off into nowhere, rocking herself a bit as she considers the idea.

Matt Finch is a former member of the Finch Four, a wholesome teen band that included his sister and two brothers. When we were in middle school, the band was a phenomenon. All three boys were sweet-faced, and they had hordes of screaming preteen fans. All the girls I knew wanted to be Carrie Finch, and they all wanted to marry Matt, the youngest and closest to our age. The group disbanded when the oldest Finch got married, and I’ve hardly heard of them since. At least, not until Dee befriended Matt Finch at a record-label party last year. Like Dee, he’s known for being well-adjusted and well-behaved. I have to hand it to Lissa; if Dee was ever going to consider this idea, Matt Finch would be the only person worth bringing up.

“No,” Dee says, finally. “No, I would never ask Matt to lie for me.”

“Again, there would be no lying. He’ll simply be joining the tour, and the media will draw their own inferences.” Lissa says this like she’s trying to communicate with someone who has only recently learned basic English.

“No,” Dee repeats. “I won’t even put him in that position by asking.”

“Well, the record label has already contacted Mr. Finch, and he’s agreed to come aboard as the opener for your tour.”

My jaw drops, and I can’t quite get my lips to form the words that Lissa deserves to hear. Fortunately, Dee doesn’t seem to need my help.

“You contacted Matt on my behalf without asking me?” she shrills. She jumps to her feet, running her fingers through her hair as if she’s tempted to pull it all out. “This is just . . . humiliating. He’s my friend, and he gets contacted by my publicist?”

Peach is noticeably quiet, staring at the carpet. She’s supposed to be the grown-up, but even she has no idea what to do. It’s not reassuring.

“This is a business arrangement facilitated by the label, which you share with Mr. Finch.” Lissa’s calmness isn’t soothing or mature. It’s robotic. “The label had hoped to find a suitable opener for the entire tour, instead of the local acts we currently have booked for each show, but we couldn’t work out the logistics. Now we can. So we did.”

Dee’s mouth hangs open, but no words of protest come out. My turn, I guess. “He doesn’t even play country music, does he? Besides, when’s the last anyone’s heard of him?”

With unveiled annoyance, Lissa directs a look at me. “His acoustic style is in keeping with the kind of pop music audience we’d like to attract for the Lilah Montgomery brand. He’ll be playing primarily from the solo album he released. Mr. Finch also writes his own music, which we believe is a fit parallel for the appeal of the Middle of Nowhere album.”

I guess I do remember a solo album—from at least a year ago, maybe more. It never took off. How convenient. Scandal ignites out of nowhere, paving the way for a fake relationship that puts two Muddy Water Records performers in the spotlight. I glower at Lissa, suddenly suspicious that she planted the photo herself.

Peach finally chimes in, her voice meek. “How would this even work, logistically?”

“Mr. Finch is set to arrive in Richmond by this evening, where we are sending an additional tour bus to meet up with your current caravan. The backup band will learn any songs he needs them for, and he’ll begin opening for the tour as soon as Little Rock.”

My eyes flick over to Dee. It’s supposed to be our summer—the two of us, not some tagalong who’s hitching a ride on her rising star.

“Dee?” Peach asks quietly. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that I’m pissed at Lissa,” Dee snaps. She glances back up at Lissa, who doesn’t even react. “I need to speak with him myself.”

“Very well,” Lissa says stiffly. “I’ll be in the hotel business center if you need anything before you leave. Mack will be up shortly to get you down to the bus, at which point I’ll be returning to Nashville.”

“We’ll miss you,” I sneer, and Peach instantly gives me a reprimanding look. Lissa doesn’t even blink. I could be invisible, or naked, and she probably wouldn’t notice unless it somehow made the record label money. She collects her briefcase and walks toward the door in that straight-backed, snotty way that makes me want to kick her. Dee doesn’t say good-bye, which is uncharacteristically impolite of her.