Twang

SECOND VERSE:

THE BREAKING POINT





5





At five o’clock on an overcast February afternoon in 2009 just outside Nashville, members of my entourage traipsed in and out, rocking the floor so it felt more like a boat bobbing around in the ocean than yet another trailer. I felt exhausted from pasting on smiles all day. My new hairdresser stood behind me with one pink cowboy boot up on the rung of my chair, painfully pulling out a set of hair extensions she’d put in for a photo shoot earlier.

“You’re ruining your makeup, hon. The way you’re sniveling and carrying on.” Tonilynn’s eyes met mine in the mirror.

“Who cares? I don’t care,” I said, shrugging at my image in the huge, brightly lit mirror, at black trails of mascara running down my cheeks.

She pursed her lips, raised her flawlessly applied eyebrows. “Well, I’m with you, hon, I never thought it was fair the way us women have to suffer so much for beauty. Men have it E-Z, while us gals are continually waxing, plucking, polishing, smoothing, firming, uplifting, dyeing, and enhancing. But,” she paused with a dramatic sigh, “I reckon I ought not to complain about beauty, since it is how I make my living.” She smiled as she yanked another strand of my hair.

I flinched and more tears came.

“Reckon you’re just tender-headed,” Tonilynn said around a bobby pin between her teeth.

I tried to ignore her, but I was offended at her insinuation that I was weak. “I’m not tender-headed!”

“What you crying about, then?” She fluttered around to the other side of me, leaving a trail of perfume that smelled like honeysuckle.

I focused on making my expression neutral. The words out of this woman’s mouth were fire, and I was wood. A mental bucket of water I’d filled all those years ago and left near my vulnerable places stood by ready to douse any flames.

When the quietness between us grew too loud for Tonilynn, she used her free hand to squeeze my shoulder, then leaned down close to my ear to whisper, “If it’s on account of all that ugly stuff they keep printing about you and Holt Cantrell bustin’ up, I wouldn’t give a fig. I’d say to myself, ‘Sticks and stones will break my bones, but . . .’ ”

I ground my teeth together hard and totally disengaged from this meddling woman. Why did love have to be so difficult? And how dare she refer to personal things! Well, things the trashy tabloids printed were still personal. Whenever I happened on headlines or articles about Holt Cantrell and his accusations, it felt like someone was stabbing me in the chest with a sharp knife. All I wanted was for this day to be over. I longed with every cell in my body to hop back in the Lexus and drive home as fast as I could, get into my real clothes, and put on some Dolly Parton or Johnny Cash to drown out everything else, away from the people and the thoughts I’d dealt with all day long.

I had a quick little fantasy about firing this nosy beautician on the spot, but Mike said she was extremely good at what she did, and best of all, dependable, and I hated the idea of going through the hassle of hiring and breaking in yet another employee.

“Hey, hey, what’s all this?” Tonilynn walked around and crouched down in front of me, examining the face I could feel crumpling. She took my hands and held them in hers, rubbing circles on my knuckles with her soft thumbs. “What’s wrong, darlin’? You can tell Tonilynn, you know. Talk to Tonilynn. Some of my clients have told me I’m even better than their shrink.”

Her regional twang made I sound like ah, but it was soothing, and her eyes were compassionate. It didn’t bug me in the least the way she referred to herself in the third person. I did that, too, and I’d often wondered if it was something I ought to talk to a psychiatrist about—the way I thought of Jenny Cloud the country music star as if she were an entirely different person from Jennifer Anne Clodfelter of Blue Ridge, Georgia. A couple of times, I’d decided I would, but then Jenny Cloud talked Jennifer Clodfelter out of it.

“You’re just one of them poor little rich girls, ain’t you?” Tonilynn continued, her words so smooth they slid into one of the cracks in my soul. She couldn’t know how right-on she was. I had a successful career where I made tons of money, beauty (according to all the articles I’d read about me), and enough fame that I had become a household name. I should’ve been the happiest woman in the world. But I was miserable.

I nodded, pulling out the favors and balloons for a fullblown pity party as more hot tears poured out of my eyes and snot began to trickle from my nostrils. Tonilynn made a noise like a dove’s coo, bent forward, and wrapped her arms around me. Without thinking I snuggled my wet face into her shoulder, feeling her large bosoms so solid and comforting, inhaling her scent of hair chemicals mixed with honeysuckle.

She held me, talking a mile a minute about how she’d worked for Holt Cantrell once. “It was way, way back, when he first got to Nashville, and let me tell you, hon, I learned I couldn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him. Some men are just snakes, believe me, and even if he is a star who makes millions of bucks for every hit song, he’s still a two-bit scumbag slid down into sharkskin boots.” She was shaking her head as she patted my back. “I can only imagine Holt’s ego now that he’s got to be so famous. But don’t you worry about a thing because you’re leaving him in your dust with the record sales. Right, darlin’? I believe I overheard Mike saying you’re breaking all sorts of records.”

I snuffled up a few tears through my nostrils. The title song of my latest album, I’ll Be Yours Until Forever, was the one currently zooming up the playlists. It had been an immediate radio hit and was daily gaining support and visibility. Ironically, it had been written about my feelings for Holt Cantrell.

I managed a nod, but it didn’t stop the tears. After a while Tonilynn pulled away and tugged a flattened tissue from the pocket of her blouse, patted my cheeks with it, cupped my chin in her soft hand, and looked directly into my eyes. “That ain’t all that’s bothering you, now, is it darling? You’re carrying a mighty heavy load.”

I gulped, blinked, nodded.

“Sometimes it helps to talk things out, you know. Tell your troubles to Tonilynn.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound would come out. She was still looking into me with her eyes like chocolate pools I wanted to drown myself in. “I . . . I can’t,” I said after several false starts.

“Yes you can.” Tonilynn threw out a lifeline. “If grass can grow in a sidewalk, you can tell Tonilynn your troubles. Trust me, everything’s going to be A-OK. You’re a strong woman. You’re a survivor. I say good riddance to that snake Holt Cantrell. Believe me, you’re better off without him. I could tell you some stories, only I don’t want to gossip on account of that’s a sin. But like I said, good riddance.

“And listen, don’t you worry ’bout the fallout from his ugly accusations affecting your career like the magazines are saying, ’cause you’ve got a voice that’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I mean, you’ve hardly been here in Nashville, what? four, five years at the most? And you’re already leaving lots of longtime stars in your dust.” She wove a strand of my long hair between her fingers. “You hear me, hon? To zoom up to the top like you have in such a short time? You keep that chin up.”

All of a sudden Tonilynn released my hair and stood straight as a two-by-four. She put her hands on her ample hips, snorted like a racehorse. “Hmphh! Makes me so mad I could spit! Those trashy rags have no right to run your name through the mud! All they’re trying to do is make a dime off your misfortune; couldn’t care less about the human part of a star!”

She searched my stunned face. “Don’t that make you mad?”

“I . . . um . . . well, I . . .” My heart started racing, my palms got clammy, and my tongue froze. I still didn’t know if I was to blame for what had happened with me and Holt or not.

Tonilynn laced her fingers together beneath her chin and tipped her head. “Oh, baby girl. You don’t always have this much trouble expressing yourself, do you?”

I shrugged and sat there like a lump. But my silence didn’t seem to faze Tonilynn. “Listen,” she said softly, “I’ve been knowing for a while you’re a woman who’s toting some serious baggage around with her. Even before you and Holt Cantrell hooked up, before Mike called me about working for you, I’d see you on the television, singing and whatnot, and I’d say to Aunt Gomer, ‘Now, there’s a woman who’s toting around a heavy load of something. I know in my heart somebody took, no, they stole her dignity, and she’s carrying around a load of shame so heavy there’s times she can’t hardly breathe. Somebody close to her wounded her.’ I actually said that aloud to Aunt Gomer.”

My skin drew up tight. “Who told you that?”

“Oh, let’s just call it a little voice inside my head.” Tonilynn reached over and got a container of hair clips from the counter, and began to rifle through them with her perfectly manicured fingers, finally closing the lid with a sharp snap.

Things were quiet for a while, then she said, “Now, I don’t want to—how do the young folks say it?—freak you out, but the best way to describe it is to say I have these gut feelings, or intuitions. May sound like a magical power, but it’s actually the spirit of revelation, one of the supernatural gifts of the Holy Ghost called the word of knowledge. Some folks call it the spirit of knowing. But either way, it’s the Lord letting me see beyond a person’s exterior. Many times smiling people are crying on the inside. Like I see your pretty stage smiles, but I know you’re actually sad, sad, sad on the inside.”

I looked at Tonilynn, at her flawless makeup, her perfectly coiffed hair, and suddenly a red flag flew up. Roy Durden appeared in my mind’s eye and he was saying, “She sounds like one of those religious wackos who speaks in tongues and watches the Ernest Angley Hour.” I cleared my throat, looked at my watch. “Gosh,” I said. “Look how late it is! Time for supper.”

Tonilynn reached over to pat my shoulder. “You don’t need to be scared, hon. I don’t know the particulars about your past.” She paused dramatically. “But the Lord does.”

I made a little sound in my nose, a snort, and said in my best cynical voice, “Is that so?”

There was a long silence. Tonilynn tilted her head to one side and pointed upward with an index finger. “Ain’t you a believer?”

I shrugged. “Um, maybe. Not exactly. Used to be, but now . . . it’s more like . . . more like I’m on to him. Like I realize God doesn’t give a fig about us down here.”

Tonilynn smoothed a rumpled towel. “Tell me why you gave up on the Lord.”

I leaned my head back to stare at the ceiling. “Okay. When I was fifteen, it was late on a Friday night, and my father had all these drunks over to the house, and I . . .” I yanked my head back down and shook it so hard I thought my brain was rattling. Was I losing my mind?! I pressed the pads of my index fingers to the corners of my eyes to dam tears.

Tonilynn reached over to cup my chin. “That’s all right. I’m sorry, hon. We don’t have to go there if you’re not ready. But let me tell you something you can take to the bank. You may’ve given up on the Lord, but he hasn’t given up on you. He does too care about you! Every single little thing that concerns you concerns him! He ain’t some distant creator who put you on this earth and then left you alone, saying, ‘Good-bye, good luck. Hope you make it all right.’ ”

I pulled away. I’d broken out in a sweat without realizing it, and the cool air of the trailer made me feel dizzy. After a spell, Tonilynn cleared her throat. “Jennifer?” she said in a voice soft as dandelion down, “I don’t want you to be scared of me. This sensitive ability I have, this super natural gift, which all that means is just ‘more natural,’ you know, super natural, is a divine impartation to perceive a person’s need so I can minister to her, or him. You know, help out.”

I could literally feel my eyes widening.

She laughed at my face. “Relax. I told you all that because I especially don’t want you to confuse my gift with those psychic predictions of earthquakes and murders and the like. Those are Satanic prophecies, inspired by the enemy.”

She was wacko, sure enough.

“Hey, speaking of the devil, there’s something else I reckon I better let you in on if we’re going to work together.” Tonilynn smiled. “I have this habit that might seem strange if you’re not used to it. I talk back, right out loud, to the devil. I’ll be walking along, or doing something like fixing a client’s hair, and I’ll say, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ and if I’m in earshot of anybody, they look at me like I’ve lost my mind!” She laughed and shook her head. “But I just remind myself it makes old slewfoot tremble. Gives him a colossal headache.”

I stared at her in the mirror, wondering, Is this real or am I dreaming?

“It ain’t no accident you and me got put together like this, you know,” she continued, with a one-shouldered shrug. “Ain’t no accident you’re sitting in what I call the Hair Chair. The Hair Chair’s a place where you can talk to Tonilynn. Let all the tears and the ugly stuff spill on out. Now, I’m not patting myself on the back. Believe me. This divine impartation I have is a gift, just like salvation.”

I remained silent.

“Yep,” she said, “Purely a gift, and I’m just trying to do the best I can with it.” Tonilynn pulled the black cape from my shoulders, shook it out and began to sweep the floor. All the while her lips were moving, then she was smiling, nodding at things I couldn’t hear. At last she cleared her throat, and in a trembly sort of voice asked, “Have you been born again? Are you saved, Jennifer?”

I didn’t even have patience for my own tears much less hers, and I wouldn’t answer. My nerves felt jangled and my stomach was starting to hurt. I realized I’d had nothing but quarts of black coffee since ten that morning. Please, I thought, please just drop this uncomfortable subject. Talk about hair conditioners or waterproof mascara or foundations for photoshoots.

Tonilynn had both her hands on the back of the Hair Chair now, and I could see her in the mirror as she leaned in toward me, her chin over my head. “Jennifer, hon, please answer me. Have you accepted Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?” I felt her words through my scalp when she rested her chin on my head to say, “Do you know where you’re going to spend eternity?”

It seemed like time stopped. Tonilynn stood motionless, waiting, and I could not move a muscle, even to swallow. So much was buzzing around in my head. Evenings at all the summertime tent revivals of my childhood, where sweaty preachers warned of hellfire and the heart-booming fear of damnation had propelled me forward to accept Jesus on three different occasions. I remembered the pats of others in the audience after I left the altar each time, the gleam of the moon in their eyes as they said, “Welcome to the fold. You’re born again.” I remembered all that in a flash, and then, just as quickly, I remembered that in Blue Ridge I’d merely existed in a state of near death: fearful, isolated, and repressed. I didn’t feel new life surging through me until I took control of my destiny and left for Music City, until I found my occasional moments of joy onstage, shreds of peace at the Cumberland River.

I wanted to use my snide voice to say to Tonilynn, Yeah, I’ve been born again, and my second birth happened right here in Nashville. She’s my mother now. But as I gazed into her honest face, those tanning-parlor bronzed cheeks rouged with blush the color of pomegranates, a tuft of ash-blonde hair like cotton candy above doe-eyes ringed in black liner, my tongue just sort of shriveled. It felt like this woman really cared, like she had the kind of compassion that came from being knocked around by life a time or two.

And, even if she was one of those deluded, fanatical, over-the-top born-agains who needed religion as a crutch to lean on, even if she was only saying all this to make me feel better, it was still a kind thing to do. Had anyone else even bothered to ask me how I felt about Holt’s accusations? About the so-called dirty laundry flapping out there for everyone to see? Mike hadn’t. Seemed all he cared about was the money still flowing like a river, maybe even like a tidal wave since my big breakup. My mother hadn’t, but then she didn’t own a TV, read the paper, or take any magazines. She did have a telephone, however, but it had been six months since we’d even spoken, and I wouldn’t dream of calling her up to chat about the drama involving a life she’d warned me about.

Plus, I could sure use a friend. Even a crazy one. What made my pain over Holt’s ugly accusations even worse was that it was a Tuesday night, the day of the week I used to drop by the Best Western for supper with Roy. I still missed that man so much I could almost feel mad at him for dying of a massive heart attack the previous December, for leaving a huge gaping hole in my life. And so, in a moment of blind grief and exhaustion, when all my usual defenses were napping shamelessly, I decided to take the risk of opening up just a smidgen to Tonilynn. Even though this act of confession to a relative stranger made the rational me feel like I was sprinting out onto I-65 during rush hour.

“I . . . I didn’t actually steal anything from Holt,” I began, gently testing the waters. I saw Tonilynn nod as she bent to get a bottle of Windex from the cabinet underneath the sink. “But he’s making it sound like I’m some kind of kleptomaniac, saying I’ve been stealing from him awhile now. Over Christmas, and yes, maybe on New Year’s Eve, too, I admit it, I did pour some of his Jack Daniel’s down the sink. But it was because he was getting kind of . . . I don’t know how to call it, like he does sometimes, you know, nasty and all, and I . . . I was really scared. I didn’t know if he might . . .”

The smile left Tonilynn’s face as she spritzed the mirror, wiping it with a rag until it squeaked. She turned to look at me. “Was Holt drunk?”

“Yeah. Really drunk. I told him I was leaving him if he didn’t stop doing certain things, if he didn’t stop trying to make me do certain things he always does when he’s . . .” I couldn’t finish.

“He got furious. Right? Mean and violent?”

I nodded.

“Nobody refuses Holt Cantrell.” Tonilynn’s voice was filled with disgust. “And they’re making you sound like some kind of off-balanced thief!” She literally growled as she jammed combs down into a tall jar of disinfectant. “That worm! Playing all this up and telling the media you’re the evil one. He doesn’t say what you ‘stole’ or the reason you poured his whiskey out.”

“Yeah,” I said, finding her indignant anger comforting.

“Pardon my French, but basically Holt’s a slimy bas—uh, jerk. Sorry. Trying to stop cussing, but not having much luck with it, especially where men like Holt are concerned.” Tonilynn closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Then she blinked at me. “All I can say is he’ll get his comeuppance. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. Holt’s a liar with a capital L.”

I nodded, feeling like a hypocrite with a capital H because of my habit of putting pretty little ribbons and bows, which is a nice way to say “lies,” on the ugly inspirations for my songs. “Whatever,” I said quickly to change the subject. “I’m just glad to be rid of him.” Yet another half-truth!

“I see,” Tonilynn said, like she could see right through me.

For several minutes, I just sat there watching her as she dumped the filter and scrubbed the carafe from a Mr. Coffee in the kitchenette. It was 6:25 p.m., and the piece of sky I could see outside the window was black. The corners inside the trailer had grown dark. “I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time,” I said finally. “You probably want to get home to your family.”

Tonilynn laughed. “No, definitely not.”

I must have looked confused.

“Both Bobby Lee and Aunt Gomer were in the foulest moods when I left this morning.” Tonilynn sighed loud, and I could see distress on her face. “I’m starting to wonder if Aunt Gomer doesn’t have the old-timer’s disease setting in, on account of she’s been forgetful and real ornery, which they say are warning signs.

“But then, I remind myself she’s a bear to live with every February because it’s one of those wishy-washy times when it comes to gardening and she’s chompin’ at the bit for the weather to warm up so she can get outside and dig in her dirt.” Tonilynn shook her head. “But what’s sad is that this year she keeps forgetting it’s too cold to garden yet, and I’ll find her out there in twenty-degree weather, barefoot in her housedress, scratching around with the hoe. I’ll say to her, ‘Aunt Gomer, winter’s not done yet. Tim the weatherman says we won’t have the last killing frost until around April fifteenth. You absolutely cannot force something like gardening. Please come on back in the house.’ ” Tonilynn sighed. “I swan, Jennifer, sometimes it’s like having two ornery young’uns I’m in charge of. Except one’s eighty-six years old.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “I don’t know what’s ailing Bobby Lee. Guess he wants the spring to get here, too, so he can get to fishing.”

I detected a little bit of wistfulness in Tonilynn’s voice and I glanced at her ring finger. There was no wedding band. “You don’t mind driving in the dark? Mike told me you live pretty far away.”

“Hon, I am what you call an in-dee-pen-dent woman. Had to be ever since I was sixteen. In fact, I realized last week when I turned forty-eight that I’ve been taking care of myself twice as long as I’ve had somebody lookin’ out for me. Sixteen times three equals forty-eight, right?” She pushed up her sleeve to glance at her wristwatch and I could see several colorful tattoos peeking out—one that looked like a double bracelet of barbed-wire and the other the red, vulgar lips of the Rolling Stones logo.

“Anyway,” she said, “it’s only a couple hours drive from here to Cagle Mountain. You’ll have to come up to the homeplace sometime.”

Images of Blue Ridge, Georgia, came to me when she said the word mountain, and I broke out in an instant little sweat. I reached down for the floppy denim tote bag under my chair that held a spiral notebook of songs I was working on.

“Don’t go hurrying off on account of me, darlin’,” Tonilynn’s eyes caught mine in the mirror and held me in my seat. “I’m enjoying getting to know you. Won’t you please stay in my Hair Chair just a bit longer?” She gave my shoulder a squeeze.

I took a deep breath and settled back obediently.

“One story I just love hearing from all my famous clients is how they got started. You know, how their gift was cultivated by different folks along life’s pathway? Maybe Mama encouraged them to take piano lessons or to sing in the church choir? Or Uncle Bill gave them a guitar when they were ten. Maybe daddy signed ’em up for music lessons when they were teeny, after he noticed that the voice coming out of his child was not your ordinary one? Sometimes they tell me they were singing duets with Cousin Sue out on the back porch when they weren’t but five years old.” Tonilynn paused for a breath and a swallow of a Diet Coke.

“I just find it so fascinating to hear the stories of stars as they were growing up, and I keep telling myself that someday I’m going to write a book and call it, The Stars: Inspiration and Cultivation. What do you think, hon?”

My initial reflex was to shut down. But Tonilynn’s voice was soothing, in that way adults use with hurt children. Now her back was to me as she was rinsing out Diet Coke cans she’d gathered from all over the trailer, setting them upside down in the sink to drain. In addition to her hair being a big blonde work of art, she had what folks referred to as “a big back porch” encased in stretch denim. This was comforting to me in a way I couldn’t explain. “Um,” I ventured, “my family didn’t really encourage, cultivate, whatever you want to call it, my singing or my songwriting.”

Tonilynn turned to me, her mouth open. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well, I bet they’re proud of you now.”

I shifted my eyes to the mirror, startled at the contrast of our reflections. Tonilynn’s hair spun like golden cotton candy and mine long and stick-straight, so dark it was almost navy. Good versus evil flashed through my mind. Immediately my finger took a notion of its own and grabbed a strand of hair at the base of my skull to twirl. Around and around it spun until it hurt and calmed me a tiny bit so I was able to contemplate my response. “Nope,” I released the word finally, and the way it sounded made it seem like it was wearing boxing gloves, punching Tonilynn’s last comment in the gut.

Her eyebrows flew up. “You’re pulling my leg! Oh . . . wait a minute. I am so sorry, hon.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I bet your folks have passed away, haven’t they?”

“They’re alive.”

Tonilynn breathed a sigh of relief. “Whew, that’s good,” she said in a bright voice, popping the pull-tab on another can of Diet Coke with her frosted pink fingernail. “Care for one?” She held it toward me.

I shook my head and for a moment I had the oddest feeling of disappointment when I thought she wasn’t going to pursue the cultivation question. But after several sips, she looked over at me with a softness in her eyes. “So your family wasn’t supportive. But you managed to get yourself here somehow, now didn’t you?”

I shrugged.

“Talk to Tonilynn about the parent issue.”

Was I dreaming? “What?!”

“That’s what the Hair Chair’s for. Talking through issues with Tonilynn. And speaking of the Hair Chair, what’s said here, stays here. You have my word on it.” Tonilynn leaned her backside against the wall, crossed her ankles. “You say mama and daddy ain’t proud of their baby? Well, what do they say when you call up and say, ‘I’ve got me another hit song!’ ”

“We don’t have that kind of relationship,” I said, shocked at the words spilling out of my mouth.

“You don’t call your mama every time you get a new hit song?”

“Nope.”

“Well, why not?”

It took a few seconds, but I said, “I only opened up to my mother one time about wanting to come to Nashville.”

“Tell me, darlin’.”

“All right. It was the summer I turned twelve, and we were in the kitchen canning tomatoes. I said, ‘When I get bigger, I want to go to Nashville and be a country music star.’ ”

Tonilynn flexed one foot in its pink boot. “Did she say ‘No, you can’t go?’ ”

“She . . . didn’t say anything for a long time. Then finally she looked at me and said, ‘You do sing pretty. I could ’bout listen to you all day and all night.’ ”

“Oh! Now that was sweet!” Tonilynn chirped.

“Then she told me I was forbidden to mention my dream of being a country music star again, that I needed to accept who and where I was. She said, ‘Chasing big dreams like that only leads to misery.’ ”

“No!” breathed Tonilynn, leaning forward to touch my hand. “Oh, hon, that hurts my heart. I bet she was just scared, trying to protect you in her own way. She didn’t want her precious little girl to get hurt.”

I shook my head. “She was scared all right. She was absolutely, 100 percent terrified. But it wasn’t because she was trying to protect me.”

“What on earth was she so scared of?” Tonilynn had grabbed a broom and was sweeping in little meaningless circles on the floor all around the Hair Chair.

“My father . . .” I could barely get those words out of my throat.

Tonilynn nodded. “And why was your mother so scared of your father?”

My mouth went dry. My heartrate accelerated. I wasn’t ready for the mental land mines hiding beneath that question. “You . . . you really don’t want to know. He’s not a very nice man. He’s pretty . . .” I blinked. Sleazy was the word I’d started to say. But I tossed my hair behind my shoulder, stood and smiled brightly. “I better be getting on home. The cat’s probably starving.” I wondered if Tonilynn’s heavenly intuition could detect my lie.

She just smiled and said in the nicest way, “Sure don’t want kitty to expire. We’ll have lots of opportunities to get to know each other better. I’ll tell you one thing: I am just itching to hear about what finally got you here to Nashville. I bet that’s some story!” She plunged a cool flatiron into her wheeled suitcase bulging with cosmetics. “We’ll see you next Tuesday, and remember about the Holt Cantrell thing: this too shall pass.”

I knew I could never tell Tonilynn about that magical day with Mac at McNair Orchards without all the horrible, unmentionable stuff that led up to me working there. I also knew from looking at her face that she really believed what she said. Clearly the woman needed a dose of reality. Events do pass, yes, but they change a person before they do, and things you don’t want to remember can exert tremendous power. They can metabolize themselves in the lyrics of a song.