Page 68 of The River in Spring
“It’s been such a long week. Maybe I was a little distracted. But I got there. And as usual, you were perfect. It felt wonderful,” I lie, covering the next gap in conversation with a deep kiss.
Time is so unkind. It persists in passing, bringing me closer to leaving.
Then fate delivers a final blow. I see a vision. The woman that appeared by the river, while Nobel held the child, is standing behind him on the porch of this house. The trees and flowers tell a story too. It’s late in the day in early spring. Their backs are to me, looking out to the vista. I am nowhere to be seen.
“You understand, right?” Nobel says, looking for the Uber driver.
“Yeah, I do. This is bad enough.”
He won’t be coming to the airport and it was the right decision. He sets the suitcase and carry-on on the porch. I have dropped any pretense of normalcy. I’m over pretending I don’t know what is going to happen.
“Let’s sit out here and wait,” he says, taking a chair.
I pull one close and take my place. We automatically braid fingers. Maybe it’s for the final time. If I have to stay in Nashville and he decides to stay here. How could we go back to another kind of relationship? Apart when we have the ability to be together. I couldn’t do that.
“Remember to watch yourself,” he says as he always does when we are apart. “Hotels can be dangerous when you’re a single woman alone.”
“Okay, Dad.”
He catches himself and chuckles. “I do sound like that. Can’t help it.”
“So I’m going to call you every night. I’ll keep you posted as soon as I know what’s happening.”
The sound of an approaching car reaches our ears. We lock eyes.
“I’m wishing you every good thing that could possibly happen for you guys. Hitch your wagon to that star, Dove.”
He wants me to believe him and I do. I also believe it won’t change him. Both things are true.
The Uber driver pulls in front of the house. He gets out to put the luggage in. My stomach tightens.
“Morning.”
“Morning. Thank you.”
Nobel surrounds me with his embrace and holds me close. Here we are.
“I love you. You know that, right?” He says it like a goodbye. That’s what I hear.
“I love you too. Always.”
I separate, look deep in the still pool of his green eyes and stay silent. What else is there to say or do to make him understand what love requires?
I walk down the steps but turn back as I stand by the open door.
“Don’t forget us, Nobel.”
I slide into the back seat. “I’m going to the airport. United.”
My eyes stay looking ahead. There’s no looking back now.
Music Row is just southwest of downtown Memphis. “Musica”, the forty-foot bronze statue, is the centerpiece of the roundabout. It gives me a thrill as it comes into view. Nine disrobed male and female figures dance in a circle atop a base of limestone boulders.
Beautiful tree-lined streets. Homes with wrap around porches that have been turned into recording studios. The best and the brightest, the most famous have recorded here. It looks unassuming. It is anything but. One would never know Dolly Parton or Garth Brooks made some of their most famous recordings in these buildings. Even Elvis Presley. So cool.
I expected big buildings. Bet most people do. Glamour and glitz seemed a given in my fantasy of the place. Instead, it is an architecturally unimpressive spot with a few signs pointing out where musical history has been made. Some would be underwhelmed. Not me. After all, fancy or not, this was the birthplace of country music.
The limo and driver Arthur sent to bring us to Studio James pulls into the underground parking of a nondescript three story building. This is the well-respected studio? It’s currently recording albums for three top of the charts artists. We did our digging and found out it’s not only contract players that use the studio, but independent artists do as well. The reputation proceeds the engineers who mix the tracks and the studio musicians that play here. Not to mention the touted skills of the producer and his team. All working together at the top of their game. No surprise they would be in demand.
