Page 21 of She's My Kind Of Rain

I envision him back on stage. His green eyes emitting a warmth almost as bright as his smile. His strong muscular build was hard to ignore, as well as the gravitational pull he had on not only me, but everyone in the room.

His voice was so soothing and calm it’s no wonder I was captivated by him even just through the phone. And while he kept his responses rather short, something about him continuedto draw me in. I know my soul focus should have been signing him, but it took everything in me to dampen my desire and not ask for his number when he asked if there was anything else I needed.

Before my phone rang, I was sure that Mr. Southers either hadn’t gotten my card or hadn’t given it to him. Up until now, my mind has been locked into the moment he started to sing on stage and now I’m frazzled by both.

One important question still remains, of all the songs in the world, why that one?

It’s almost as if my Dad hand selected it for that very instant. A surefire way to grab my attention. A moment that no matter what happens will always be burned into my memory. I can’t help but wonder if fate put me in that bar because I needed a win or I just needed a sign that I am where I’m meant to be.

Either way, part of me longs to hear him play again. He sang with such soul. The kind of soul you just don’t see often, at least as long as I’ve known anything about the industry. And without a doubt, I know he’s the singer, Rhett—that smooth cowboy—wanted me to hear.

Oh God, what I told him to say hi to Rhett and he didn’t even know him? But no, I was, like, ninety nine percent sure this was the guy Rhett wanted me to see. I can feel it in my bones.

He has to be…right?

I look up from my palms and my mahogany desk, taking in the surroundings of my office. My walls now frame my past position at Wellington Music Group, my current position at Telluride, and a large photo of my family and me, the center of it all. Stacks of papers covered with clients from all over America lay across my desk, along with inquiries and demo CDs from people as young as fifteen and as old as sixty-five—all with a dream and the ability to sing well, but many without anything setting them too far apart from one another.

All dreams I have in my hands. All dreams I can make or break.

The pressure of this position is weighing on me today more than usual. At Wellington, I never saw stacks this big, I never saw this many dreams laid out across Gina’s desk. This many dreams that she could choose to grant or pass on. The sadness of that thought consumes me more than it should. But that is just how this industry works, and as much as I wish I could change it, I can’t.

I release another disappointed breath. My focus returns to Sawyer. Signing him would be huge, at least as far as I’m concerned. He has a spark that I intend to capture and set ablaze, if he allows me the chance.

14

SAWYER - JUNE 21, 2004

I flip my phone shut,take a seat on the bench near me, and let out the breath I feel I’ve been holding in since my phone call started, noting the weight in Ms. Holloway’s voice when she complimented the song I had sung.

What was it about this song that seemed to affect people so deeply? I chose it to be different, to stand out. Seems that goal was accomplished, but maybe not entirely how I meant for it to be.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rhett approach.

“Well, what did the rep say?” He sits down on the bench beside me.

“She said hi,” I answer bluntly, not meaning to sound pissed off, but slightly jealous that she mentioned him. Also, why had she mentioned him?

“She gave ol’ Benny Southers her card so she could fuckin’ say hi?” Disbelief and anger cover his face.

“Oh, no, she told me to tell you hi.” I decide I’m acting like an unjustly scorned woman, so I wipe my attitude away as fast as it came, and continue, “We have a meeting set up once Mr. Montgomery returns from a trip. She said I need a demo CD orto play another live set around the time of his return, otherwise I’ll just have to play for the two of them alone.”

“Sawyer, thats fucking fantastic!” Rhett’s tone and gaze hold a layer of confusion in them, though, as he asks, “But, why do ya look like someone kicked your dog?”

“I don’t know. See, the other night when I sang, that girl I told you about, she seemed like the song had broken her soul. Today, Ms. Holloway complimented the song, but it almost sounded like she was sad or something. And then once she’d said it, it’s like she wanted to get off the phone as soon as possible.” I think for a moment of her tone changing from happy to something that felt more like sorrow, something I can’t yet pinpoint, and sympathy for whatever it is washes over me. “The song is about love, but now two women seem affected in a bad way by it. I never really thought of the way a song can hit someone differently than intended. I don’t know why, but I think I sort of feel bad about it.”

“Ah, I see. Well, like ya said man, everyone can feel the words to a song differently. Shit, that feelin’ could change daily based on what they are goin’ through.” He sends out a sound of consideration. “Like, hell, I love a good ol’ love song, but if I’m in a bad mood, I’m like ‘fuck this sappy asshole, he doesn’t know what he’s even talkin’ about.’ Sometimes love songs ain’t even about lovin’ someone at all, sometimes they’re about a love they wish they had or had once. So, don’t feel bad for makin’ them feel somethin’. I’d be more concerned if ya hadn’t.”

“I think we’re wearing down that rough and tumble cowboy persona that you are always pretending to have, Rhett,” I jest. “So, how do you know Miss Holloway?”

“So, uh, funny story. That little errand I said I had to run the other day landed me in one of thoseright place right timemoments. I went into The Westmore, honestly lookin’ for Nancy. I realized I never done asked her if she knew who any of thelocal reps were, and if so, where they hung out.” He looks at his wrist watch, then back up to me. “Turns out when I walked near the bar some dipshit thought it would be nice to hit on Miss Daisy and her friend.” His tone changes for a split second at the mention of Daisy’s friend. “Listen, I’m all for gettin’ the attention of the ladies, but the guy was an ass and the dumbshit disrespected his cowboy hat almost as badly as he disrespected them.” Irritation now rings in his tone.

“Ah shit, Rhett, so I owe you an even bigger thank you for this, hey? You’re the only reason she was even at The Red Fern, aren’t you?” Just then, disappointment shows back up. “Wait, did she leave her card as a favor to you?”

His expression is much softer now than when he thought of the apparent asshole from the other bar. “Glad ya think I have that much pull, but no. I told her she’d like the music and people far better at The Red Fern. I never told her your slot, who I knew there, or nothin’. I’m the reason she made it to the bar, but your talent’s what got ya that card. Don’t you ever question that.” A grin forms on his face. “Her friend seemed to think I had an agenda, and they knew, without a doubt, that someone I cared about would perform at some point that night, but Miss Holloway made the notion that ya were my friend all on her own.”

I smile, satisfaction consuming me. Thankful that it was not a favor that landed me anything beyond the rep being at the right place to hear me.

I look into my friend’s eyes, amazed at how he always puts others before himself and what little he asks for in return. “Thanks, Rhett, really. For everything.”

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