Holding a crystal glass of champagne, Jo settled back on the tapestried bench seat and gazed around the elegant restaurant to which the record people had brought her. The last time she’d had champagne had been in Atlanta when He-Who had seduced her before putting her out on the strip club stage. She didn’t like the taste of champagne any better now than she had then.
But she’d never been in a restaurant like this, and she was soaking up the ambiance. They’d even painted the ceiling. She bet Dot could paint something more original than fish swimming in seaweed.
She was perfectly aware that she was hiding behind denial, pretending she hadn’t reached a crossroad that would decide the rest of her life. Flint had done everything except kick her out the door to point her in the right direction. She was sure one of these days she would be mature enough to thank him for not making promises he couldn’t keep. That time wasn’t now, though. She wanted to throttle him for leaving her to sink or swim on her own.
This should be her Cinderella night at the ball. She should be dancing around the ballroom in joy at finally accomplishing her dreams. But damn it, she still needed her prince to make the magic work. Dancing alone sucked. This business nattering sure as hell couldn’t rev her engines like the seductive tango she’d performed with Flint.
Champagne and fancy restaurants weren’t as magical as a stormy night on a leather sofa making music with Flint.
She had the world at her feet, and she couldn’t enjoy it without a man who hadn’t said he loved her. Would she ever learn?
Martin, the guy the suits were kissing up to, interrupted her internal squabble. “It’s a shame RJ is indisposed this evening. He’s been looking forward to seeing you again, Joella. He could tell you all about our plans.”
Indisposed. Jo hid her smirk. She was so glad Flint had relieved her of the bastard’s presence on this, her evening of triumph.
“We can get you out in front of the public this weekend,” Martin continued. “You can go on with RJ so we can see if you’re as good as we’ve been told, and the Barn Boys might let you do a little backup with them. If you’ve got what it takes, we can start the rumor mill rolling so your name is on everyone’s tongue. RJ’s making a follow-up album. You can do a duet or two with him. By the time you have enough original material ready for your own CD, everyone will know who you are.”
Maybe she ought to start listening instead of gliding along on daydreams. Since when had they started talking about her singing in front of an audience? Jo glanced at Elise to see if she had any reaction.
Her lawyer was sipping champagne and watching everyone at the table with a noncommittal expression. Jo would give good money for Elise’s style. Even though the lawyer wore a navy designer suit with sequined trim and a black silk shell that displayed her bosom to good effect, she didn’t look out of place here as Jo did. Jo wanted to learn how to do that, but she figured it took money to be flashy and not trashy.
Martin was promising to make her dreams come true. Jo knew better than to trust promises—especially when they saved the promisee a nasty lawsuit. She remained silent, turning to Elise for corroboration.
“We haven’t agreed to the terms of the settlement yet, gentlemen,” Elise said in her pleasantly modulated lawyer voice. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“It won’t hurt to have her out there, just in case,” wheedled one of the suits. “If all goes well, we can put her on RJ’s tour bus, doing the shows. We can settle the last few terms over lunch when we’re back in Nashville.”
They weren’t waiting for her to speak, so Jo swirled the champagne and listened, her heart pounding erratically in anxiety and expectation. Flint seemed to think she had brains. Maybe she ought to apply them instead of panicking.
With the insight he’d taught her, she understood these city slickers were simply Randy in fancy suits. She might have stars in her eyes, but her family’s future as well as her own rode on making the right decision. To sue or not to sue…
She prayed she had the strength and wisdom Flint thought she had, because she sure felt dumber than a doorknob and more scared than a wide-eyed babe.
***
“No, Harry, the boom lights are for the stage!” Flint shouted in the maelstrom that was the mill barn an hour before the first act played.
The Buzzards were taking the warm-up spot, followed by the contest winner singing their song with Buzzards for backup. The band had practiced the songs from the finalists in the barn all week. At least he’d finally pried the drums out of his back room.
His cell rang, and Flint slid it open with his bad hand while carting one of the bass amps to the front of the stage with the other. Fist fighting with RJ hadn’t helped the pain much, but it was good to know he could still form a fist if he had to.
He was trying very hard not to think about what decision Jo had given the Nashville suits last night. He had no claim on her. She was free to fly where she willed.
“Yeah?” he shouted into the phone. “Hey, Travis. You climbed out of the grotto yet?” Diverted by his friend’s laughter and description of the decadent spa in Asheville’s finest resort, he grinned. The guys could afford it.
“Yeah, we have bus parking. Get your asses up here and enjoy the music. It’s nostalgia time. You won’t believe this place.” Flint set down the amp to sign a receipt for the drink concession and glanced over the huge mill interior. They’d rented every folding chair in the mountains, it looked like. And every one of them was sold out.
Johnnie ran up to show him shots he’d taken with his digital camera of the arts and crafts booths lining the field around the parking lot. After assuring Travis all was in place for their arrival, Flint stuck his cell phone back on its clip and admired the photos in the camera’s window.
“Man, how many of those pillows do they have?” he asked, studying the shot of Jo’s mother and her cronies standing in a tent stacked with colorful pillows and throws.
“About ten million. And they’re asking buckets of money for them. Amy says the rich tourists won’t think they’re any good unless they pay a lot. The parking lot is filling up, and there’s people everywhere. Can we go up in the loft to take pictures?”
“Sure ’nuff. But stay out of their way up there. The booms are dangerous.”
“Aw, Dad.” Johnnie brushed off his warning with a teenager’s indifference. “Is Jo here? Mama Sanderson wanted to talk to her.” He took the camera back and flipped through the pictures again.
“I thought she was out there somewhere. If you see her, tell her I need to talk with her, too. Run tell Dave that the concessions are here, willya?” Flint waved Johnnie off as his phone rang again.
Hanging up on that call, he hastily punched the programmed number for Jo’s apartment. Surely she wasn’t sleeping through the big day? She hadn’t called him when she got in last night, so he figured the record company honchos had kept her out late. He was trying real hard not to fret while he waited to hear what she’d decided, but he itched under his collar something fierce.
He got her answering machine. Jo didn’t have any assignment except as gopher, but that was an important task with their limited budget. He didn’t understand her refusal to use her glorious voice up on stage today, but given what he knew about her past experience, he wouldn’t push her. She had to be here somewhere, or on her way. He hung up his cell. Setting aside the cowboy hat he usually wore on stage, he swung up the ladder to straighten out Harry and the lights.
He had exactly one hour before he had to step out in front of the audience and introduce the first act. He didn’t have time to think about how it would feel walking out there without his guitar.
He just knew he wouldn’t look half as bad as Randy would with a black eye and split lip. He smiled in satisfaction at the memory of Jo’s sucker punch. If he had to fall in love at a ripe old age, at least it was with a woman who could stand up for herself.
***
“You’re the man, Flint.” Dave smacked him on the back as Flint straightened his tie and arranged his low-crowned Stetson prior to making his stage entrance. “Make us a fortune out there.” He jumped down from the narrow piece of makeshift stage behind the curtain, leaving Flint alone with his Nashville cronies.
“Go get ’em, boy,” Travis said in his guttural growl. “Make ’em rowdy.”
Travis had showed up to check out the stage conditions—and probably to check out Flint’s chord hand. Flint didn’t begrudge his old friend the curiosity. He did begrudge him the company he’d brought along though.
“It’s only nine in the morning and the house is full,” RJ murmured in disgust. “Don’t these people ever sleep?”
He’d arrived backstage in full regalia: skin-tight leather pants, white silk shirt open to the navel, and ten-gallon hat. Someone had applied enough make-up on his black eye for a bus-load of church ladies, Flint noticed.
RJ had already thrown ten fits when he’d discovered his place on the line-up, so he damned well knew he wasn’t on until after all the big acts played. Flint didn’t want to know why the scoundrel had showed up early.
If he wasn’t so worried about Jo’s absence, he would have been delighted to anticipate her reaction to her ex’s appearance. If he was really lucky, she’d find a bucket of pig shit and christen the bastard.
Except for worrying about Jo, Flint was primed to run out in front of the audience, to hear the applause and feel the lights one last time. He’d never needed the glory. It had always been about the music. But a farewell appearance would ease the parting.
The band out front played the cue for Flint’s entrance.
The kind of scream that made a father’s blood curdle erupted behind him.
Instead of running on stage, Flint swung toward the backstage area to locate his boys. A creak followed by more screams froze him in his tracks, and he anxiously scanned the makeshift setting, catching the sway of the scaffolding for the backlights just before it collapsed in a cloud of dust and a crash of timber—with Johnnie and Adam in the middle.
Shoving his wireless microphone at Travis, Flint ran down the stage steps in a blur, not distinguishing anything except the crumpled figures of his sons beneath broken two-by-fours and fractured lamps. They’d had cameras. In a blinding flash of hindsight, he knew what they’d done. They’d climbed the scaffolding to catch his stage entrance. He didn’t have enough curses in him to cover his stupidity in not predicting this.
Panicked shouts and the press of people didn’t register as Flint bullied his way through the crowd to kneel beside Johnnie, whose leg was bent at an angle he knew wasn’t right. Adam lay unconscious yards away. Using all the prayers he thought he’d forgotten, he cradled his frightened youngest in his arms and shouted for an ambulance.
He was more terrified than Johnnie. Desperately, Flint wished Jo would get here now. He needed her to check on Adam. He couldn’t be in two places at once.
Sally rushed up to hold Adam’s head as he’d wanted Jo to do.
Flint thought his insides would crush with the pain of knowing Jo would never be there when they needed her. Sucking in a deep breath, he nodded curtly at Sally and waited for help to arrive.
Travis came down to lay a heavy hand on Flint’s shoulders. “Let the medics handle it, boy. You got a show out there and a lot of people counting on you.”
Flint glared at his good buddy. “They’re not counting on me. They’re counting on you. I’m damned well not leaving my boys.”
If he’d learned anything at all in his life, it was that the show would always go on without him.