AnnieLee gripped the lever of the manual window, nervously rolling it down. “We’re early,” she said.
“Well, you’re the one who made me pick you up at eight a.m.,” Ethan reminded her. “Did you think it was going to take us an hour to get here?”
“Not exactly,” she admitted. But as her mother always said, Don’t ever be late. It’s like proclaiming that your time is more important than someone else’s.
Anyway, sitting in Ethan’s Ford was better than pacing the perimeter of her Pepto-Bismol room, which she’d been doing since 5 a.m. And that was because last week, Ruthanna had made a call and worked her magic, and now AnnieLee was moments away from walking into Nashville’s number one country station and pitching the single she’d recorded in Ruthanna’s studio to the program director.
She pulled down the visor mirror and looked at herself for the fiftieth time that morning. She was wearing a low-cut black thrift store blouse, cropped jeans, and her new-old Fryes. A single pearl on a delicate gold chain floated in the hollow of her collarbone. “I bought this after my first album came out,” Ruthanna had said when she gave it to AnnieLee. “I like to think it’s good luck.”
“Does my hair look okay?” AnnieLee asked, turning to Ethan.
“Terrible,” he said. He reached out and playfully flicked a long, dark wave over her shoulder. “But now it’s perfect.”
She grew suddenly serious. “What if they don’t like my song? What if they don’t want to play it?”
“They’re going to love it. They’re going to love you.” He tapped out a swinging little beat on the steering wheel. “There’s no way I could do what you’re trying to do, AnnieLee. But I’ve got faith in you.”
This didn’t make any sense to her, because she’d seen him sing and play at the Cat’s Paw, and it seemed as though he could do anything. “What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t say to myself, ‘I’m going to be a star, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.’”
Is that what he thought she said to herself every morning? Not hardly—she was still worried about survival. But Ethan was right that she wanted more—much more. And if she had to sell herself to a radio bigwig to help her build her career and her reputation, she’d do it just as well as she could.
“Ruthanna says you’re one of the best musicians she knows,” AnnieLee said. “Although she made me promise not to tell you that.”
“Well, I’ll keep the secret,” Ethan said, smiling. But then his smile faded. “Maybe I’m jaded, but it seems like too many people around here just want to be famous. They don’t even care if they’re talented or not—they just want the attention, and as much of it as they can possibly get.”
“But what does that have to do with you?” AnnieLee asked. “You’re great. How come you don’t want everyone else to understand that?”
Ethan’s eyes smoldered at her. “You really want to know?”
“I do,” she said. She wanted to know all kinds of things about him—she couldn’t help it.
“When I got out of the army, I was in a rough spot,” Ethan said. “I’d…well, I’d had some problems, I’ll leave it at that. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself. But I did one thing every single day. I’d wake up, grab my guitar, and put on a country record. Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Chet Atkins, Lester Flatt. Merle Travis, for the Travis picking style. The Carter Family, for Maybelle’s Carter scratch. I taught myself to play that way—by listening.” He stared out the windshield, quiet for a moment. Then he turned back to AnnieLee. “I studied the greats more than a preacher studies the Bible,” he said. “I played the gospel of country music.”
“And you got really good,” AnnieLee said. “So—again—why don’t you want to try to really make it?”
“‘Making it’ has different meanings for different people, AnnieLee,” Ethan said. “Honestly, I like being a studio musician. I want to write songs, and every once in a while, I want to perform them. I get to do that now, so isn’t that ‘making it’？ I don’t know, but I’m happy with the way things are.”
“But you don’t always seem that happy,” AnnieLee blurted. Then she flushed. What had made her say such a thing? They’d known each other for only a matter of weeks. But she saw a kind of sorrow in him—she was sure of it: some guarded, secret hurt lurking beneath his good humor and good looks.