“Wait. You lost me. Alan Jackson is an alcoholic?”
“No. Sorry,” he said, waving away the idea with his free hand not carrying the guitar case. “I’m talking about my dad. I wear my heart on my sleeve, remember?” He said this pleasantly as ever, but he plodded up the hill a little more quickly after that.
I wanted to change the subject as much as he did. So I teased him, “Speaking of which. Did I hear your voice break a little at the beginning of that song, when you reached the lyrics about making love to your girlfriend, how you were each other’s first?”
I’d meant the question as a flirtatious ribbing. I never meant for him to look over at me with his dark eyes wide with horror. He muttered, “I don’t think so,” quickly checked both ways for traffic, and stepped into the street.
I trailed him on my high heels, wondering what can of worms I’d opened. My first thought was that he was horrified at my flirting—and the very suggestion that he would make love to me. But that didn’t seem right. He was shocked because he’d thought I was bringing up something I knew, something that had happened to him. And it stood to reason that he’d lost his virginity with one girlfriend or other, seeing as how he’d had twenty-six of them.
“Sam,” I called.
“What,” he answered without turning around.
“My car’s back down there, and so’s your truck.”
“I am so sorry!” he exclaimed, turning around. “I forgot you’re dressed like L.A. in your . . .” His voice trailed off as he eyed my high heels, then let his gaze travel up my legs. Forcing his eyes to my face again, he said, “I just need to go right up here to deliver something, but you don’t have to come with me.”
“I’ll come with you.” When I caught up with him and we turned to resume our trek, I asked, “If you want to make it in this business, why don’t you try out for one of those singing reality shows? You’d win.”
“Those contracts are too restrictive,” he said immediately. He’d thought about this a lot, and probably got asked this a lot, too. “You’re only successful if they decide you’re going to be. Kelly Clarkson was the first. She wrote a lot of her own songs, so she had a leg up. But when she decided to do something different for her third album, the record company dropped their support. She had to struggle back. If you go on those shows, you have to agree ahead of time to whatever contract they offer you. You have no control over the exposure you get or the songs you sing, at least at first, so you really wouldn’t have any control over your own career. If you’re going to get no support from the company, you might as well not sign a contract. You go from your name meaning nothing to your name being a joke. I’ll bet we can’t even recall today who most of those winners have been.”
In protest, I named the winner who’d become a household name in country music: “Carrie Underwood.”
“Exactly,” he said, pointing at me, “and what song did she get?” He gestured to the church we’d reached on our hike up the hill. “ ‘Jesus, Take the Wheel.’ That is a great song. It has a good melody and a good story hook, plus Jesus. Country music fans love their Jesus. If all she’d had was ‘Some Hearts’ or ‘Good Girl,’ I don’t know that she’d be as big today, but the record company saw fit to give her Jesus.” He turned and walked up the sidewalk toward the church’s front door.
“So you might not get the Jesus tune with the great hook,” I acknowledged, following him, “but somebody would be feeding you songs. At least you’d have a chance. You’re so talented, Sam.” Out of the blue, I was pleading with the back of his T-shirt, wanting him to be successful, wanting him to pursue that without threatening my college career as collateral damage. “You could make it big with your band, or more likely as a solo artist. I honestly don’t see what you have the band for.”
“Help me out here.” He shoved his hand in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out his handkerchief, which he gave to me. “The thing is, I don’t want to be this big head.” He curved his hands around either side of a wide imaginary circle to show the potential for his big head, possibly on an album cover. Then he pulled an empty plastic bag out of his pocket and put that in my outstretched hand, too. “I want to jam, like last night. I want to look behind me to see if Charlotte’s ready, and look over at Ace to see what he’s going to do, and point to you for a solo, and listen while you take off.”
I understood. I’d always thought of bluegrass musicians as interchangeable, like the tribute bands at the mall, but that’s not what he wanted. I said, “You want the band to be like a family.”
“The one I have at home definitely isn’t working, so, maybe.” After a glance around the sidewalk to make sure no scary men were lurking, he pulled wads of cash, his take from busking, out of his other pocket. He dropped them in the plastic bag I was holding out for him.
“The problem with feeling like your band is a family,” I said, “is that when you have another kind of relationship within the band and that relationship goes south, the whole band suffers. Ace and I were talking about you and Charlotte.”
“That’s . . .” Sam was tactful, and I could tell he was searching for a polite way to explain as he shoved his hand deep into his pocket to make sure he hadn’t missed any bills. “That’s on Charlotte’s end.”
“No matter whose fault it is, it’s there. And for that reason, if you and I are going to play together, I don’t think we should pursue another sort of relationship.” It pained me to say it, but better to cut us off now than later, when he’d broken my heart.
I expected him to gape at me and then protest there on the church steps, but he only gave me a baleful glance and murmured, “Thank you,” as he took the bag from me. Sealing it, he said, “Luckily, you have repeatedly stated that you’re not going to be in my band. We can pursue any kind of relationship we want.” He turned and stuffed the bag through the mail slot in the church’s massive front door.
Now I gaped at him, then shoved the door, then jerked the large iron ring that served as a handle. The door was locked. “Sam! How much money did you just give to that church?”
He blinked at me, then lifted the mail flap and peeked through the slot. “I didn’t count it. Why?”