Hitting the brakes just a little too hard, the bus driver’s abrupt motion jarred Maggie from her reverie.
“Sorry ‘bout that gang,” the bus driver said. “Blown semi tire in the road. Came outta nowhere.”
From the back, items could be heard falling from various bunk beds to the floor, followed by several profanities from surprised passengers. It was then Maggie realized a young woman was sitting opposite her trying to get her attention.
“Hellooooo?” the girl said, slowly waving her hands in front of Maggie’s face. “Where in the world is Maggie West?”
The question brought Maggie back to the present as she turned her focus to the numbers of people filling up the front lounge of the tour bus. Maggie couldn’t help but smile at the young girl’s histrionics.
“I’m sorry, Chrissy. Guess I was just deep in thought.”
Chrissy Boyd was unfazed as she continued her probe. “Soooo,” she cooed, resting her chin on her knuckles…were you thinking about him?”
Maggie pulled a brush from her tote and began to smooth out her tangled mane. She stopped brushing just long enough to arch an eyebrow. “Him…him, who?”
“The way you were smiling to yourself, I figured you were thinkin’ ‘bout your man,” Chrissy replied, in a slightly coaxing tone. Pint-sized and brunette, all energy and idealism, her twenty-three years sat very close to the surface.
Still in the blush of her honeymoon, Chrissy wanted to see the whole world in love.
“My man,” Maggie sighed, putting slight emphasis on both words. “Nope, I wasn’t thinking about him.”
“Is he coming to pick you up when we get back?”
“Nah, I’m gonna hitch a ride with Darla.”
“You didn’t ask Darla,” came a sultry voice from behind a newspaper.
“Beg pardon, your majesty. Might I trouble you for a ride home?” Maggie chided in a mock British accent.
“Yes my child, you may,” said the voice, its owner still concealed by the paper.
“Thank you ever so much.”
Diametrically opposed to Chrissy’s youthful exuberance was the stunning Darla Dayton. Blonde, cool and aloof; she was an industry veteran who managed to mix down home sweetness and Hollywood glamour: a true country music golden girl. Her taut skin and naturally honeyed tresses gave no clue as to her exact age: Her birth certificate was under tighter security than the Hope Diamond.
“So Maggie,” Chrissy interrupted, “What’s up with you and Mr. GQ these days? You guys any closer to getting married?”
“Not everyone needs to be married, dumplin’,” Darla said, still staring at the paper.
“Not everyone needs to be the subject of a Joe Nichols song either.”
Chrissy’s quick return seemed to get everyone’s attention. The prospect of a cat fight seemed imminent.
Darla finally turned down a corner of her USA Today. Peering over rarely-seen reading glasses, she snapped, “He said that wasn’t about me.”
“Well, you do like your tequila, girlfriend,” said Chrissy with faux innocence while nonchalantly buffing her nails. Whistles, whoops and laughter filled the bus as Darla threw down the paper and pretended to go for Chrissy’s throat. “Oh, I’m gonna get you for that you little…”
“Ladies, ladies…” Maggie interrupted. “You realize you’re feeding the imaginations of the men on this bus. They’re just hoping you get oiled up and duke it out.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Maggie,” commented a man at the front of the lounge as he casually practiced notes on his guitar.
“Yeah,” Darla agreed.
Maggie rolled her eyes. Pointing first at the guitar player, she scolded, “Roger, just pay attention to whatever it is you’re doing.” Turning to Darla she said, “Girl…sit down and read your paper. Please.”
Picking it up, Darla pouted, “You’re no fun today, lady.”
Maggie laughed, “Well, somebody’s gotta be the designated grown-up on this thing.”
Such were the ways that time was passed on this particular bus. For the past three and a half weeks, this caravan of players, singers, guitar, sound and lighting techs had logged some serious miles across the country…all in the name of their leader - country music’s diva du jour, Deana Timmons.
A staple in the Nashville scene for over a decade, Deana was on the verge of realizing mainstream success on the pop charts. And for the lion’s share of those years, Maggie was there, helping to write the songs, arrange the harmonies and perfect the sound that would elevate Deana to royalty among her fans as well as her peers and critics.
As an African American in Country music, Maggie wasn’t exactly an anomaly; the genre was changing earnestly enough. But Maggie would be the first to admit that she didn’t choose this world…it chose her.
Entering without ceremony to the back of a crowded west Nashville club was Deana’s husband and road manager, Charles. He made a point to stop by the annual university showcase that featured roughly a half dozen seniors from the local college performing 20 minute sets in the hopes of instant discovery.
That night, it would be Maggie’s turn.
By the time she took the stage, Charles was ready to leave, having endured several less than remarkable performers. As his hand reached the frame of the door, he heard that voice. Smooth. Deep. Arresting and soulful. Charles was impressed.
An invitation to the Timmons home was extended, and Maggie was offered a job as a background singer two weeks before her college graduation. It wasn’t a record deal, but it was a steady gig - and she was always game for a learning experience.
And a career in music was born.
From the time she came to the city as an eager undergraduate, Maggie had spent much of her time even before entering Deana’s world as one of the more sought-after session singers in town. A local favorite in her own right, she sang solo in various clubs around town. Her performances were hailed by the local trades as never to be missed.
She knew when the time was right there would plenty opportunity to show the world what she could do. If it weren’t for that nagging sense of time running through the hourglass so quickly…
Standing at the waning edge of her 30’s, Maggie’s chances for landing that elusive recording contract were, if her boyfriend Richard was to be believed, dwindling by the second. The music industry wasn’t exactly clamoring for 30-something women looking to start a career in music.
And then, there was the issue of image. Maggie was a woman of ample figure with curves to spare. There were occasional remarks from industry insiders and well meaning acquaintances that she’d be much more successful in the business if she dropped fifty pounds.
One label representative told her, somewhat bluntly, that he wouldn’t sign her because her body wouldn’t look good in print or video. “Great voice, kid,” he said. “But this business is what it is.”
Maggie’s personal fears and insecurities relegated her to the dark club stages and the shadows of more aesthetically palatable, albeit far less talented women in the business that was what it was.
Over time in the Timmons camp, however, she went from merely being a hired gun to a part of the familial surroundings Charles and Deana worked tirelessly to cultivate among their staff. With no children of their own, they came to view their team as offspring, with the words “Family First” emblazoned on the back of their tour bus.
Family First was also the title of Deana’s breakthrough album and the song for which she’d best become known. She ended all her shows with it, and many a banner would rise from the sold out audiences with the words etched across anything from old bed sheets to poster board. Eight of the ten songs on that project were either written or co-written by Maggie. She had become Deana’s creative right arm.
And on this particular morning, on this particular tour bus, that right arm was tired and ready for a break.
One more show…but not just any show. The Queen was returning to her throne. They were headed home - to Nashville. Then, a much deserved rest.
Back road became highway, which slowly began to reveal to the city’s impressive skyline. Maggie smiled. Despite its rich tradition, the cadre of respected musicians and songwriters the city was known for producing, and the burgeoning diversity of styles, the mainstream music industry wonks in LA and New York dismissed Nashville as a poor relation, a b-list community. For Maggie, however, this town would always be her first love. It was the city that cradled her ambitions and nurtured her talents. In her mind, there was no better place to be.
Maggie fished around in her purse to retrieve her cell phone. She vacillated between her desire to call Grace and her obligation to phone Richard. Her relationship with Richard Davidson, a handsome, prominent entertainment lawyer, served more as an appeasement to her father, rather than any real romantic connection. While Dexter felt a certain degree of pride over his daughter’s accomplishments, her choice of music over law was an obvious disappointment.
Maggie figured the next best thing to being a lawyer might be to marry one. Not that marriage was something that was on either of their minds.
Maggie decided she’d phone her best friend to let her know that she’d be home in a few hours. Speed dialing the Buchanan residence, the voice mail eventually kicked in.
“Hello, you have reached the Buchanan’s.”
It was a voice that thrilled Maggie’s heart to the core: her goddaughter and namesake, eight year old Mary Margaret, more affectionately known as M&M. The child’s endearingly businesslike message continued.
“Momma, Daddy, Gwen, Matty and me can’t come to the phone right now - but leave your name and number and we’ll call you back. Oh you gotta do it after the beep. Bye!”
“Hey gang, it’s Mag. We’re just hitting I-65 and we’ll be in town right around 5. I’ll call you when I get back to the house, but I was hoping to catch you now…because I wanted to let you know I not only have great seats for the show, but I’ve got those badges to get you backstage…so tell little Gwennie, she’s finally gonna get to meet her hero, Deana Timmons! I believe that this officially makes me cool and you two officially lame! Ha ha. Love you guys, can’t wait to see you.”
Maggie was sure Richard wasn’t waiting by the phone to hear from her. There would be plenty of time to contact him later. Her heart was already at the Buchanan’s dinner table - the place she felt most at home. Besides, if her suspicions are correct, he’d found his own way of passing the time.
The bus pulled into the parking lot of a local shopping mall, where the band members had left their cars. Departures were swift and jovial, with Maggie and Darla packed up and on their way in a matter of minutes. “That’s the beauty of being a singer,” Darla quipped. “You always have your equipment packed and ready to roll.”
Maggie lived in the quiet, suburban area of Franklin, a town about fifteen minutes south of downtown Nashville. She’d chosen this Rockwellian town for its similarity to her home in Urbana - the centers of both towns were practically identical.
As Darla pulled into the driveway of Maggie’s condo, two cars were already parked: One was Maggie’s, the other vehicle had an occupant inside, windows rolled shut and a steady bass throbbing from what was obviously music turned up loud. It was Grace.
“Wow,” said Darla. “She’s definitely trying to drown something out. What on earth is she listening to?”
Maggie closed her eyes in concentration. “Duran Duran.”
Darla winced. “Really?”
“Yeah. You can take the child out of the 80’s…”
“She does know that there has been other music written and recorded since then, right?”
“Not as far as she’s concerned.”
“Bless her heart,” Darla sighed, uttering the ubiquitous phrase of the South.
Maggie knew Darla spoke with more sympathy than sarcasm, and chuckled softly. “Yeah…I’m not sure what’s going on, but you’re right, something’s up.”
“Well, good luck, hon. See you tomorrow night. What time’s sound check?”
“I’m gonna get there a little early, but we’ll kick off at 4:30,” Maggie said as the two women embraced. “See you then.”