Timothy Jerome Carmichael had been called “T. J.” for his entire life, and somehow it still suited him as a grown man of thirty-nine. His office at 21 Music Square West overlooked the RCA Building in downtown Nashville. Richly paneled and tastefully decorated, the suite reflected T. J.’s status as one of the most successful artists’ representatives in the music business, who traveled frequently to scout new talent around the country and make deals in New York and L.A.
T. J. held the phone away from his ear, drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk.
“Thank your for holding Mr. Carmichael. Mr. Douglas will be right with you.”
As T. J. continued to hold, an advertising brochure on his desk caught his eye. Bright-red letters spelled “Christmas Past,” the title accented with boughs of holly. The cover featured a picture of a beautifully restored antebellum house, its great, white Corinthian columns laden with greenery and a Christmas wreath hanging from the front door.
“T. J.!” An effusively friendly voice boomed through the receiver and broke into T. J.’s rare daydreaming. “Thanks for waiting. How are things going? Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”
T. J. cast the brochure aside. “Very nice. Ate too much.”
“That’s what Thanksgiving is all about, isn’t it? That and football?”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure it’s more than that. So, have you made a decision about Corey Doolin?”
“I’m told you have an offer on the table from ABC. Is that true, or is this just your way of giving me a little poke?”
“Listen, I’d poke you with a cattle prod if I thought it would help. You’re not surprised that ABC has made an offer, are you? Corey is the hottest property in the country right now. So, where does HeartNet stand?”
“You might say that we are engaged in serious discussion at the moment.”
“Okay, let me give you a little something to discuss. Corey’s ‘Christmas Past’ is number three, ‘Waiting for You’ is number five, and ‘Ruby Lips,’ which has been on the charts for forty-two weeks, is still in the top ten, at number seven.”
“But you’re talking country,” said Evan.
“Is there any other music chart?” T. J. asked, chuckling.
“Look, Heartland Network emanates from Nashville. And when you say Nashville, the first thing people think about is country music.”
“What’s wrong with that? Seems to me that would make a Corey Doolin special a natural.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, T. J. But there are a few people here at the network who are afraid that a country music special would just reiterate our Nashville connection.”
“And why would that be a bad thing? Are you ashamed to be based in Nashville?”
“Come on, T. J., you know better than that. We aren’t turning our back on country music, but we want people to know that HeartNet is more than that. We know we have the pickup truck and feed-store-hat crowd, but we also want to reach the ones who drive BMWs and wear Gucci.”
“You sound like my wife.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Madison is one of our brightest stars, and we’re lucky to have her,” Evan said. “Come to think of it, so are you.”
“So I’m told.” T. J. looked at his watch.
“Listen, T. J., give me just a little more time to bring the others around. It’s getting very close to Christmas, and you’ve been in the business long enough to know that not much gets done during the Christmas season.”
“That’s true, but remember that offer from ABC.”
“What is the offer?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. It’s generous, but I wouldn’t call it preemptive. If you want to be in the game—”
“If I can get everyone on board, and I think I can, we’ll top ABC’s offer. I promise you that. Is that worth keeping them at bay for a few more days?”
“I can hold them off until after Christmas,” T. J. agreed.
“Are you staying in town for the holidays? Just in case I need to get ahold of you?”
T. J. picked up the brochure that had somehow appeared on his desk and looked at it for a moment before he answered. “I’m not sure where I’ll be for Christmas. But you can always reach me on my cell.”
“Good, then I’ll stay in touch,” Evan promised.
“If I don’t talk to you again, Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas to you.”
T. J. hung up the phone, then opened the advertising piece to read the copy inside.
Experience the joy of our Savior’s birth
without the distractions of modern life.
Come join us for a peaceful, Victorian-era Christmas Past
at Gracehall. We are located twelve miles from
Possum Hollow on County Road 4,
in the Great Smoky Mountains.
As a child, T. J. Carmichael had accepted Jesus as his Savior. He and Madison were married in a Christian church, and the kids were enrolled in a Christian school. But T. J. couldn’t remember the last time he had been to Sunday service.
The phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“Corey Doolin on line one,” said his secretary.
“Thanks, Linda.” T. J. punched the glowing button. “Corey, how’s the voice?”
“How’s my voice? I could have two broken arms and two broken legs, and you wouldn’t even notice.”
“Do you?”
“What if I did?”
“I’d still ask how’s the voice.”
Corey laughed. “All right, all right—at least I know where I stand. So, what’s the latest?”
“How does ‘An Evening with Corey Doolin’ sound? You’ll sing a half dozen songs, introduce a few guest artists—who, incidentally, will owe you big-time for the exposure—and do it all in a one-hour, prime-time television special.”
“Have we got the deal?” Corey asked excitedly.
“We’ve got an offer from ABC,” T. J. said. “But I’m also talking to the Heartland Network. I think we can do even better with them, so I don’t want to commit to ABC just yet.”
“You’re the man. I leave all that stuff to you.”
“Good. You keep that attitude, and you’ll go far in this business. What are you doing for Christmas?”
“I’m going to the Bahamas. What about you?”
“I don’t know yet. Wait.” T. J. picked up the brochure. “Did you send me this flyer about a Christmas Past?”
“A flyer on ‘Christmas Past’?”
“No, no, this has nothing to do with your song.”
“Then what is it?”
“It appears to be a kind of bed-and-breakfast called Gracehall, where they celebrate a Victorian-style Christmas. I just wondered if you sent it, because of the name.”
“Never heard of it. You think we ought to sue them or something?”
“Why would we do that?”
“Well, they’re using the same title.”
“If we did that, Corey, we’d have to claim proprietary rights on the last two thousand years! We don’t own all the past Christmases, you know.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Listen, stay in touch with me over the holidays, will you? This deal is hanging in the balance, and I want to be able to reach you if I need to.”
“I’ll keep my ears on,” Corey assured him. “Merry Christmas to you and your family.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too.”
T. J. had no sooner hung up than the intercom buzzed.
“Mr. Robison is on line two,” Linda said.
“Did he say what he wants?”
“Just that he wants to talk to you.”
“Okay, thanks.” T. J. changed lines. “Hi, Bob. What’s up?”
Bob Robison was the senior-most producer for Peacock Recording, which produced not only Corey’s music, but that of several of T. J.’s other clients as well.
“T. J., I need you to do me a favor. There’s a young man in Hopkinsville I want you to hear.”
“When?”
“Tonight, if you can.”
“Tonight? Oh, I don’t know—that’s pretty short notice.” Wasn’t there something going on tonight? He couldn’t remember.
“It is, and I apologize for that. It’s just that several of my people have recommended him. They say he’s another Travis Tritt, and they’re after me to sign him. Before I jump into anything, I want an outside opinion.”
“Is he represented? I don’t want to step on another agent’s toes.”
“No, he’s not. If you like what you hear, you might want to take him on.”
“What’s his name?”
“Conroy Conrad.”
T. J. laughed. “Is that for real, or something he made up?”
“It’s the only name I’ve heard. He’s performing a set at the Paradise Lounge at seven. Can you do it?”
T. J. pursed his lips and blew out a breath of air. He checked his calendar but saw nothing. “Bob, wait just a minute.” He paged his secretary.
“Yes, sir?”
“Linda, do I have anything scheduled for tonight?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of.”
“Okay, thanks.” He pushed the button to get back to Bob. “You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“All right, I’ll do it.” He scratched a note on his pad as he spoke. “Paradise Lounge, seven o’clock. Conroy Conrad.” He couldn’t repress a smile. “I love the name. If he can’t sing, it would almost be worth dubbing his voice just so we can use it.”
“Thanks, T. J. By the way, how are the negotiations going with our boy Corey?”
“It’s looking good. ABC has made an offer, and Heartland is considering topping them.”
“Well, here’s something you can throw into the mix,” Bob said. “We just got the early reports. ‘Christmas Past’ will be number one on all the major charts tomorrow and, no doubt, through Christmas.”
“All right!” T. J. pounded his fist on the desk. “With all the airtime he’s been getting, I knew it would go to the top. Thanks for the good news.”
For a moment T. J. was both confused and exhilarated, mixing the memories brought on by the strange advertisement for “Christmas Past” with the success and professional achievement of Corey Doolin’s newest mega-hit. What was the connection? Or was there any? It was probably just an odd coincidence.
“Yes, well, thank you for bringing him to us.”
Linda walked into the office just as he hung up the phone. Middle-aged and rather frumpy looking, she was T. J.’s secret weapon. She had a computerlike mind as far as names and numbers were concerned, and often came to his aid by supplying needed information at just the critical moment in a negotiation.
“Bob just told me that ‘Christmas Past’ will be number one on the charts tomorrow,” T. J. said, smiling broadly.
“Oh, that’s wonderful news.” Linda set two small boxes on the desk.
“What are those?”
“It’s the promotional jewelry you ordered for Corey. I thought you might like to see what it looks like.”
T. J. opened the boxes and looked at the two pieces of jewelry. They were identical, except that the brooch was much larger than the lapel pin. Both were gold treble clefs, accented by a single ruby.
“These are pretty nice-looking, aren’t they?” he said. “Especially the brooch. And the ruby adds a nice touch, don’t you think? It doesn’t overstate the obvious, does it?”
“As in ‘Ruby Lips’? No, I don’t think it overstates at all,” Linda said with a grin.
“Wish we could have gotten them sooner. ‘Ruby Lips’ was number one when we ordered the jewelry.”
“Well, it’s still on the charts,” Linda said. “It’s beginning to look as though ‘Ruby Lips’ might be Corey’s signature song. Like Bing’s ‘White Christmas’ and Kenny Rogers’ ‘Lucille.’”
“If so, it’s not a bad one to have.”
He examined the brooch carefully. “By the way, what would one of these cost if somebody went out to buy it in a store?”
“That piece would be about fifty dollars, the lapel pin about thirty-five or so.”
T. J. looked up in surprise. He usually watched every penny that went out of the office, but he had left this one up to Linda. “Oh, wow, I hope we didn’t pay that much.”
“No, we got them for less than half that. Besides which, Peacock picked up half the cost.”
As Linda turned to leave, T. J. picked up the flyer again. “Linda, do you know where this brochure came from?”
She examined it. “No idea.”
“Huh, that’s funny. If you didn’t put it here, how did it wind up on my desk?”
“I’ll see if I can find out.”
T. J. studied the advertisement for a moment longer. “No,” he finally said. “No need to launch a full-scale investigation. I was just curious.”
As Linda left the office, T. J. picked up the phone and called the number listed on the back of the brochure.
“You have reached the line to Christmas Past,” an answering-machine voice said. “If you are interested in our service, leave your name, and a place will be reserved for you.”
The message was followed by a beep.
“Uh, I don’t necessarily want a place reserved, but I would like a little more information. If you could call me back at—”
Before he could give his number, the call was disconnected. T. J. hung up. “You must not want business all that bad,” he mumbled to the phone.