Chapter 3
As her silver BMW cut through the night, Naomi replayed the evening in her mind. Seven years she’d been waiting for an apology from Chance Colburn, and when he finally delivered, he had the nerve to act like him breaking her heart had been some kind of favor. The morning she’d found him with another woman, tangled in the sheets Naomi had bought him, her supposed boyfriend hadn’t even bothered to spout the old standards.
“It isn’t what you think.”
“Baby, I can explain.”
Nope. He’d gone with the lesser-known but even more insulting “What are you doing here?”
What was she doing there? What the hell was he doing with Martha “the boss from hell, twenty years his senior” Reynolds? The woman who had fired Naomi less than twenty-four hours earlier in reaction to receiving her only employee’s two-week notice. Notice Naomi had given because Martha had forbidden her to fraternize with a client, resulting in six months of sneaking around like a rebellious teenager until she could find a new position—which involved taking a pay cut, no less—all in the name of love.
In hindsight, she should have known better. Chance took the strong-and-silent stereotype to ninja levels. He never talked about his past. In six months of dating, the only thing Naomi had learned about him, other than his skills both on stage and in the bedroom, was that he’d been in the military. And like most who’d seen action in the Middle East, he’d lost someone close to him.
Downtown Nashville glowed in the distance as she crossed over 440. To this day, she still knew little about Chance’s life before he took up music. The media had speculated a time or two, but Chance never confirmed or denied anything. He must have had a crappy family life to keep it such a secret for so long.
As if the specter of family had conjured hers, the cell on her passenger seat began to vibrate. Upon seeing her mother’s face on the screen, she answered with all the hostility she longed to hurl Chance’s way.
“Where have you been?” she snapped.
“Naomi Marie Mallard, you fix your tone right now, young lady. I will not be yelled at by you or anyone else.”
Her hazel eyes rolled hard, but Naomi softened her tone.
“I’m sorry, but you left me a million messages; then no one would answer their phone. I’ve been worried sick.”
The concern appeased the Mallard matriarch. “We were all going to a movie and thought you might want to join us. The show started at eight thirty, so we needed you to call right away or you were going to miss it.”
“You scared me half to death for a movie?” This was the reason she’d found two gray hairs in the last month. Thirty was too dang young to be going gray.
“I told you earlier in the week we were considering doing a movie night soon. Where were you, anyway? Gladys and Steven from next door joined us with their son, Neal. He just moved back to town. He’s even more handsome now. And single.”
A slew of expletives danced on the tip of Naomi’s tongue. “Mother, you know I’m seeing Michael. You promised to stop fixing me up.”
“But that man is so much older than you are.” She’d heard this argument several times before.
“He’s thirty-nine, Mom, not sixty.”
“That’s still nearly a decade older. I want you to find someone your own age.”
Heaven forbid Dawn Mallard consider what her daughter wanted. This was her sister’s fault. Mary Beth had married the first man their mother put in front of her and thus ruined any chance Naomi had of choosing her own husband.
Suddenly exhausted, she sighed as she took the right onto Gale Lane. “I’m too tired to argue about this tonight. I like Michael. Michael likes me.” Or seemed to so far. They’d only been on five dates in six weeks, but each had ended friendly enough. Nothing too intense, but nice. “Can we please talk about this tomorrow?”
“Maybe if you’d let us meet him, I wouldn’t have to make assumptions based on the few vague facts I know about him.”
That was not going to happen. At least not yet. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
“You could at least show me a picture.”
Pulling into her apartment complex, Naomi parked in her regular space.
“Goodnight, Mother.” She ended the call and tossed the phone back to the passenger seat. Eyes closed, she set her forehead against the steering wheel, resisting the urge to slam it repeatedly.
Times like these, she envied her best friend. April Pitz’s father had passed away three years ago—which was not the enviable part. Her mother, Priscilla, had applied for a passport within a month of burying her husband and set out to see the world. April received a postcard about once a month.
Oh, to be so lucky.
Every time Chance attended one of these meetings, the same phrase played in his mind.
I may be an alcoholic but I’m no quitter.
He’d read the words on a meme somewhere and appreciated the humor. He doubted others in the room would feel the same. Except for Harmon. But then, Harmon Chesterfield was a sick son of a bitch.
Speaking of his sponsor, the disbarred lawyer sauntered across the room in Chance’s direction.
“You going to share your milestone?” He asked the question while pouring coffee that could double as motor oil into a paper cup.
Chance assessed the small crowd and found two new faces. Though taking part in the meeting required an oath of confidentiality, there was always the chance someone would slip. Especially when they realized who he was.
“Not today.”
Harmon shifted narrowed eyes his way. “Being sober a year is a big deal. Could serve as encouragement for someone who doesn’t think they’ll ever get there.”
Chance’s only obligation was to attend. He echoed the greetings, muttered the serenity prayer, and even did the hand-holding thing at the end. If Harmon expected him to ever be some kind of role model, he was in for a rude awakening.
“You’re up to what? Nine years? That sounds more encouraging than my story.”
A lifetime of arguing his point meant Harmon never backed down from a debate. “Nine years, four months, and nineteen days. But who’s counting. If you’re only here to keep your ass out of jail, you’re wasting everybody’s time. Most of all your own.”
“That’s what I like about you, Harmon. Your unwavering support.”
In truth, his sponsor had saved Chance from himself half a dozen times in the last couple of months. He knew the battle well and never failed to pick up his phone, day or night. At first, Chance had been too proud to rely on anyone, but after staring down a bottle of Jack for five hours, he’d admitted defeat and phoned a friend. Harmon had picked up on the second ring. It was five fifteen in the morning.
The older man took the sarcasm in stride. “Contrary to what you believe, opening up won’t kill you, Colburn. In fact, it just might save you in the end.” With a slap on Chance’s back, he added, “Think about it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Chance was still thinking. Thinking he should have taken Shelly up on the lunch invite.
One of the new attendees had been staring at him since they’d taken their seats. He either couldn’t figure out why Chance looked familiar, or knew exactly who he was and couldn’t get past the shock of finding him at an AA meeting. Either way, the attention set Chance’s teeth on edge. This was the one place he was supposed to blend in.
Thompson, who often led the meetings, rattled off the preamble before inviting new attendees to introduce themselves. The kid eying Chance rose from his chair.
“Hi, my name is Freddy and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Freddy,” the gathering said in unison.
The boy’s lanky frame swayed like a willow in the wind as he removed his ball cap and worked it in his hands. His eyes continued to dart Chance’s way.
“I’ve been sober for fifty-nine days.”
“Good job, Freddy.” When the boy continued to stand, Thompson said, “You can have a seat now, and if you want to share more of your story, you’re welcome to do so when we get to that part of the meeting.”
With a nod, the boy dropped back into his chair and stared at his shoes. The other new visitor introduced himself and the meeting continued. When the time came, Thompson invited sharing, and Freddy sprang up once again.
Chance had never seen someone so enthusiastic about sharing their failings.
“I’m sorry. Should I have raised my hand?” he asked Thompson.
The leader offered an encouraging smile. “That’s all right. Go ahead and talk.”
As if suddenly aware of his audience, Freddy cleared his throat and shoved the hat into his back pocket. “I started drinking when I was thirteen. Both my parents drank, so alcohol was always around and they never paid me much mind.”
Several in the circle nodded with understanding. Chance admired the kid’s honesty.
“By the time I was sixteen, I’d dropped out of school and started stealing stuff to buy liquor. Then my buddy Chuck said we oughta hit the local pawn shop, and for some reason, the only thing I took was an old guitar.”
Blue eyes cut to Chance before dropping to the floor. “There was this new artist playing on the radio back then, and I felt like he was talking right to me, you know? Like he knew me and my life.” Taking a deep breath, Freddy went on. “Anyway, it took me a year, but I taught myself how to play that guitar. The old man said I’d never make anything of it, but I moved here anyway. I still fall off the wagon now and then, so that’s why I’m here. To keep myself on the straight and narrow.”
Freddy ripped the hat from his pocket and dropped back to his chair as if a rope had yanked him down. Thompson thanked him for sharing and asked if anyone else wanted to talk.
Chance didn’t need a neon sign over his head to know which artist Freddy meant. In truth, he might not know the boy, but he sure as hell knew his life. And though Chance never shared personal details with the press, events from his past had found their way into many of his songs.
By the time Thompson finished his question, Harmon leaned close to whisper, “Do it for the boy.”
Unfolding from the metal chair, Chance rose to his feet and turned to his sponsor. “I was planning on it.” Addressing the room, he said, “Hi. I’m Chance and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Chance” rang back.
“As of yesterday, I’ve been sober for exactly one year.” Meeting Freddy’s wide blue eyes, he added, “It hasn’t been easy and wasn’t my choice at first, but I’m better off for it.”
With little fanfare, he returned to his seat, only to have Harmon lean in again.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Chance ignored his sponsor as he exchanged a smile with the young man in the ball cap.
“Why are you freaking the hell out?” April asked as Naomi discarded yet another dress onto the bed. “It’s not like this is your first date with the guy. Who better freaking come to your door this time. Wait in the car, my ass,” she mumbled.
Friends since the day Naomi had moved into this apartment, the pair couldn’t be more different. Where Naomi operated on the help-your-fellow-man philosophy, April subscribed to the get-it-your-damn-self tenet. Naomi’s jet-black hair looked raven blue next to April’s platinum blonde locks, which were courtesy of the kinds of chemicals only a hairdresser would have readily available. And even at five foot eight, Naomi looked like a dwarf next to the six-foot Amazon.
Not only was April fortunate enough to be spared a meddling family, she’d also found her calling the first day of cosmetology school. Not that Naomi didn’t enjoy her job, but landing in her chosen field had only happened after changing her major three times. From accounting (too many numbers), to archaeology (too many bones), to marketing with a focus on public relations. A circuitous and expensive route, but at least she’d eventually arrived at the proper destination.
“It’s three flights of stairs,” Naomi said, defending her date. “I don’t blame him for having me come down on my own.”
“You see?” Her best friend plopped onto the garment-covered bed and crossed her ankles, showing off bright pink Converse high-tops. “This is why you shouldn’t be allowed to pick your own dates. Because that is not acceptable boyfriend behavior, my little doormat.”
Naomi hated that word. Doormat. Being kind and generous and not requiring a man to perform unnecessary exercise to fulfill some ancient notion of chivalry did not make her a doormat. Dammit.
“Can we get past the stairs thing?” Naomi snagged another dress from the closet. This one was hunter green with buttons down the front. “You’re supposed to be helping me pick an outfit. What do you think of this one?”
April tossed a grape into her mouth. “Where are you going again?”
“The Songbird Cafe. Michael is performing, and this is the first time I’ll be the girl with the guy in the spotlight.” Hugging the dress to her frame, she assessed herself in the mirror. “I don’t want to embarrass him.”
“You could never embarrass anyone. You’re gorgeous, brilliant, and a power player in this town. He should be nervous about embarrassing you.”
Not that her best friend was biased at all. Naomi rolled her eyes at the compliments, none of which were true. She was passably attractive. Nothing like the opulent creatures who inhabited her musical world. Nor was she brilliant, at least not in the Mensa way. Power player was simply laughable. Naomi knew powerful people, and in this town, that was a definite plus for doing her job, but she didn’t wield the power herself. Not yet.
“I don’t like this one, either.” Tossing the denim sheath onto the pile, she dove deeper into the closet.
“You’re being ridiculous,” April said. “Just wear jeans and a nice top. It’s the Songbird, not the Grammy awards.” Voice heavy with skepticism, she added, “Not that this guy would ever be invited to the Grammys.”
Naomi stuck her head out of the closet. “He’s been nominated twice, thank you very much. And I am not wearing jeans.” Sweeping into the bedroom, she brought out the big guns. “How about this?”
April’s jaw dropped. “That’s your get-laid dress. Are you sure you want to do that?”
The red halter, deceptively comfortable due to the knit fabric, had moved things along before, but Naomi had never deployed it with intention. Well, maybe not the first time.
“Five dates in six weeks and we’ve barely made out. I think it’s time, don’t you?”
The time had come before now, only Michael seemed to be holding back, as if waiting for her to make the first move. Naomi had never been good at instigating intimate moments. Maybe this dress would give her a dose of courage to change that. Or supply Michael the encouragement he needed without her having to say much at all.
“If you’re playing by the numbers, then yeah. But I haven’t met the guy, so I can’t tell you for sure. Do you like him enough for that?”
Before they’d met at the ASCAP function at which he’d asked her out, Naomi had heard the rumors about Michael Swanson. Friendly with the ladies. Maybe a little too friendly. But he’d been nothing but a gentleman with her. Attentive and gallant. Sweet and considerate.
Taking the dress off the hanger, she swung the halter over her head and pulled the dress tight over her hips. “I do.”
“All right then.” April rose off the bed. “Red bombshell it is.”