Ruthanna ran her hand through her hair and didn’t answer right away. Though she didn’t perform anymore, she still had plenty of business dealings, and Jack was her most trusted counsel. But something about the tone of his voice made her wonder if he was asking for a different reason.
“Jack,” she said. But then she stopped there.
“You’re busy pruning roses—I get it,” he said quickly. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
When he hung up, she put the phone up to her chin thoughtfully. Whatever did he want? In all the years they’d known each other, had they ever spent an afternoon together and not talked business?
Maybe not, she thought. But they hadn’t both been single, either.
AnnieLee walked over, now wrapped in a robe and eating a slice of brioche she’d grabbed from the kitchen. “You get me a record deal yet?” she teased as she sat down on the chair opposite Ruthanna.
“Hardly.” Ruthanna eyed the bread, which was dripping with honey butter. “Darling, you’re still just…rising.”
“What?”
“You need more time. Like dough. If someone puts you in the oven too early, you’re not going to come out right.”
AnnieLee pushed the rest of the bread into her mouth and chewed, gazing out at the pool and the beautiful gardens surrounding it. “You’re just thinking about carbs.”
“That may be true,” Ruthanna allowed, “but regardless, the analogy works. You’re too raw. Now let me see that new song you’re working on.”
AnnieLee handed her a scrap of paper and Ruthanna squinted to make out the scrawl. She’d left her readers inside, but she didn’t like to admit that she needed them.
They knew in their hearts
They could not live apart
So they started making their plans
Ruthanna looked up from the page. “So wait—did the guy propose to her? Or did he just trip and fall? Is she going to say yes?”
“I don’t know yet. I just started it. It might be tragic.”
“‘Blue bonnet breeze’ is nice. But you’ve got to nail down your story, AnnieLee. That’s what a good country song is: a story about real things and real people and real emotions, set to a really good tune.”
AnnieLee licked her fingertips to get the last of the honey off. “Is ‘real’ the same as ‘true’？” she asked. “Because all my true stories are bummers.”
“No, they’re not the same thing.” Ruthanna twisted one of the many rings on her fingers. “But a made-up song should still contain real emotion. And the point is, AnnieLee, you need to keep developing your own sound and tone and vision. Your own unique voice.”
“I don’t sing like anyone else and you know it,” AnnieLee said defensively.
“But if a label gets their hands on you now, you will,” Ruthanna said. How could she possibly explain the kind of armor it took to stay true to yourself? “They’ll mold you into whatever they think the market wants and turn you into someone you don’t want to be. And you’ll be so seduced by their promises that you’ll let them. You wouldn’t know a good deal if it bit you on your scrawny butt. You’d sell that song you were working on earlier this morning for five hundred dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money,” AnnieLee said.
“It is not!” Ruthanna sat up and pointed her finger at AnnieLee. “You listen to me, missy: don’t make any deals without me.”
AnnieLee’s eyes were the same color as the pool, but they were hardly placid. Instead, they were bright and wary. “I’m not making any deals yet, don’t worry,” AnnieLee said. “But this promoter’s been calling.”
“Who? What’s his name?”
“Mikey Shumer.”
Ruthanna gripped the arm of her chair. “How’d he get your number?”
“Billy gave it to him, I guess.”
“You stay a million miles away from that man,” she said.
AnnieLee appeared startled by her tone. “You know him?”
“I wish I didn’t. He’s dirty, AnnieLee. You can’t trust Mikey Shumer any farther than you can drop-kick him.”
AnnieLee frowned. “But I can trust you,” she said slowly.
“Yes.”
“So what’s in it for you? There’s got to be something, right?”
Ruthanna sighed. “Honestly, I don’t even know,” she said. “Maybe I’m just trying to be nice.”