Meghann laughed at that. She had to admit how weird it was. “I sound like a psycho.”
“Yes. Okay, Meghann. Here’s what we’re going to do. And I mean it. You and I are going to drive up to the Salish Lodge tomorrow, where I’ve scheduled some spa treatments for us. We will talk and drink and laugh and plan a strategy. Before you complain, let me tell you that I’ve already called Julie and told her you’d be out of the office. When I leave, you’re going to drop me off at the airport and then head north. You will not stop until you reach Joe’s front door. Am I understood?”
“I don’t know if I have the guts.”
“Do you want me to come with you? So help me, I will.”
“This is why they call you women steel magnolias.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Honey, you better believe it. You don’t evah want to tell a Southern girl that you won’t go after a good-looking man.”
“I love you, you know.”
Elizabeth reached for the pizza. “You just remember that phrase, Meg. Sooner or later, it’s going to come in handy again. Now, tell me about Claire’s wedding. I can’t believe she let you plan it.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
“This is the club where Garth Brooks was discovered.”
Claire smiled at Kent Ames, the grand Pooh-Bah of Down Home Records in Nashville, and his assistant, Ryan Turner. Each one of them had imparted this pearl of information to her three times in the past hour. She wasn’t sure if they had the memory of gnats or if they thought she was too stupid to understand their words the first time.
She and Bobby had been in Nashville for two days now. It ought to have been perfect. Their room at the Loews Hotel was breathtakingly beautiful. They’d splurged on romantic dinners in the restaurant and eaten breakfast in bed. They’d toured Opryland and seen the Country Music Hall of Fame. Most important, Bobby had aced his auditions. All four of them. His first had been in a dank, windowless office, with a low-level executive listening. Bobby had come home depressed, complaining that his big shot had been heard by a kid with acne and a poor sense of style. That night, they’d drunk champagne and tried to pretend it didn’t matter. Claire had held him close and told him how much she loved him.
The callback had come at 8:45 the next morning, and it had been a Ferris wheel of opportunity since then. He’d sung his songs for one executive after another until he’d finally found himself in the big corner office that overlooked the street of Country and Western dreams: Music Row. Each new executive had introduced “his” discovery to the man above him.
Their lives had changed in the last twenty-four hours. Bobby was “someone.” A guy who was “going places.”
Now, they sat at a front table in a small, unassuming nightclub, she and the executives and her husband. In less than an hour, Bobby was scheduled to take the stage. It was a chance to “show his concert stuff” to the executives.
Bobby had no trouble talking to the men. Among them, there was rarely a pause. They talked about people and things Claire knew nothing about—demo records and studio time and royalty rates and contract provisions.
She wanted to keep it all straight. In her fantasies, she was Bobby’s partner as well as his wife, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate. The endless flight from Kauai to Oahu to Seattle to Memphis to Nashville had left its mark in a dull headache that wouldn’t go away. And she kept remembering how disappointed Ali had been that Mommy wasn’t coming home on time.
The smoke in the club didn’t help. Neither did the thudding music or the shouting conversation. She clung to Bobby’s hand, nodding when one of the executives spoke to her, hoping her smile wasn’t as fragile as it felt.
Kent Ames smiled at her. “Bobby goes on in forty-five minutes. Usually it takes years to get a spot on this stage.”
She nodded, widening her smile.
“This is where Garth Brooks was discovered, you know. Not by me, damn it.”
Claire felt an odd tingling sensation in her right hand. It took her two tries to reach out for her margarita. When she took hold, she drank the whole thing, hoping it would ease her headache.
It didn’t. Instead, it made her sick to her stomach. She slid off the bar stool and stood there, surprised to find that she was unsteady on her feet. She must have had one too many drinks.
“I’m sorry,” she realized that she had interrupted a conversation when the men looked up at her.
“Claire?” Bobby got to his feet.
She pulled up a smile. It felt a little weak, one sided. “I’m sorry, Bobby. My headache is worse. I think I need to lie down.” She kissed his cheek, whispered, “Knock ’em dead, baby.”
He put his arm around her, held her close. “I’ll walk her back to the hotel.”
Ryan frowned. “But your set—”
“I had to call in a favor to get you this opportunity,” Kent said stonily.