Lorelai offers me a bite and I wave her off. That’s just what I need, to share her fork and imagine her taste on the tines.
She finishes, licking her lips clean and wiping with a napkin before taking another long sip from her wineglass.
“I love your sister.”
I laugh. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”
“So … I got an email from Jen,” she starts, changing the subject. “While I was in Michigan.”
I don’t bother to hide my judgmental eye roll. Lorelai knows how I feel about her so-called agent. “And?”
“And she’s prepared this sort of ‘apology tour,’ hitting up all the key country radio stations and executives. She wants me to go in there ready to grovel and promise to never, ever think for myself ever again.”
“Did she phrase it like that?” I ask, amused despite my annoyance at the nerve of Jennifer Blake.
Lorelai sighs, pulling one knee to her chest and resting her heel on the chair. Her toes are painted a deep dusty pink, and while I’m not usually a foot guy, I could easily compose a song about Lorelai’s cute toes. I won’t, obviously. But I could.
“Just about,” she concedes wryly. “She seems intent on this course. Doesn’t see much chance of a career in country music without it.”
I don’t offer my opinion. This isn’t my choice and it’s not my career. It’s Lorelai’s, and I know how much country music means to her. She’s not ready to walk away and I respect that. “Is that the route you want to take?”
She shakes her head. “I thought about it. Talked with Mare. I haven’t responded to Jen yet, but no. It’s not really what I want. I don’t regret what I did. In fact, I’d do it again in a heartbeat, so how the hell am I supposed to grovel? The problem is, I don’t see another way.”
I nod, silently relieved. “I might have some thoughts. Maybe not an answer to the apology tour, but rather an alternative?” I offer. “If you aren’t afraid of being creative.”
She turns to me, tilting her head against her knee. “I’m listening.”
“How well do you know Clay Coolidge?”
“Enough to know that’s not his name anymore.”
I raise my glass in acknowledgment. “He’s my newest client. Met with him over the weekend. He’s looking to reinvent himself.”
“I thought he was already doing that with Annie Mathers?”
I shake my head. “He was … but he said he’s not interested in riding her star to make it happen. He wants to change things up a bit and do something different. Country, but more retrofit. Classic, minus the historically problematic penchant for sexism, classism, racism … And he wants to do it his own way, without the interference of the record labels. Whatever he’s cooking up, I definitely want in. I’ve already started writing with him in mind and I can’t wait to collaborate, but…”
I trail off, and take another sip, knowing I need to proceed with caution. I don’t want Lorelai to think I don’t believe in her. Or to think I’m trying to swoop in and save her. It’s not like that.
“But?” she leads, her hand doing a little elegant twirl in the balmy summer evening air.
“Well, okay.” I turn to her, placing both feet on the ground and my empty glass on the table between us. “Not so much a but … More like a possibility based around a caveat.”
“Caveat first, then. Lay it on me, Huckleberry.”
I can’t help my grin at how she always manages to say that name with a straight face. “The caveat is you know I think you’re fucking out of this world talented on your own.”
She presses her lips together and crosses her dark eyes comically. “Okay. Noted.”
“So I’ve started writing a duet for you and Coolidge. No pressure. But if there’s anyone who knows about reinven tion, it’s him, and I just got the feeling … you know … the tingles.” I point to my arms. “Like this could be magic.”
“He’s with Mathers.”
“Nothing romantic,” I clarify in a rush. “And nothing manufactured for the sake of attention. I’m thinking more along the lines of a statement. What’s better and more influential than one beloved star jilted by the industry powers that be?”
“Two,” she whispers as a smile spreads across her lips.
“Two,” I agree.
“In theory, it’s a great idea,” she says. “But I haven’t talked to Coolidge in years. Not since Drake threw his tantrum over Best New Artist. I imagine I’m the last person, next to Drake, he wants to work with.”
“Not at all. He knows that wasn’t anything to do with you, and he even told me he sought me out because I produced your most recent songs. You impress him. I think he’d be down.”
“But you haven’t brought it up yet?”
I’m already shaking my head. “No way. Not without asking you first. That’s not how this works,” I say, gesturing between us.
Now her smile is full-blown. “You realize you’re a rarity around these parts, Huck?”
“That ain’t hard to be,” I grunt easily. “I said I didn’t ask him yet, and I didn’t, but I happen to know he’s playing at Lulu Mays”—I glance at my watch—“in thirty minutes. If you want to go check him out and see what he sounds like these days.”
Lorelai’s face smooths out, and while she didn’t look particularly stressed before, I can see a marked difference now and I want to slump with relief because it’s clear she really doesn’t hate the idea.
“I think that sounds awesome. I haven’t been to Lulu Mays in forever.”
* * *
Lulu Mays is one of those institutions in Nashville that locals are born knowing about and tourists wait in line to experience. It’s history, pure and simple. All the legends have played in this tiny bar and café at one point or another. The dingy walls are soaked in decades of grease, black coffee fumes, and the sweetest melodies to ever come out of this town. I will sometimes come just to sit outside on the curb and listen, letting the music roll over me and feed my soul. The proximity is enough. When I was a kid and my sister first moved to Nashville for school, she would let me stay with her some weekends and take me out. We went to the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum and the Johnny Cash Museum and the Bluebird Cafe and all up and down Broadway. I knew from the very first moment this was exactly where I needed to be and what I wanted to do with my life. Eventually Melissa got married and moved out to the suburbs, but I’ve never left. Not really.
This is home.
The warm night means there are no doors or windows to be seen. Already, music pours out of Lulu Mays into the street, and it’s excellent.
Lorelai leads us to a small table right in the front that a couple had fortunately vacated as we were walking in. Coolidge looks up from his mic, recognition flitting in his eyes underneath the brim of his hat, and without breaking the song, he sends a nod in our direction. I turn to Lorelai, who’s nodding back, a reassuring smile in place. We order a couple of inexpensive glasses of house White Zin （Lulu Mays isn’t the kind of place to serve red） and settle in our chairs to listen.