A Town Called Snowflake
by
Rusty Fischer
An Imprint of
Musa Publishing
A Town Called Snowflake
By Rusty Fischer
Copyright © Rusty Fischer, 2011
Smashwords edition
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All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Musa Publishing
633 Edgewood
Ave
Lancaster, OH 43130
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Published by Musa Publishing, December 2011
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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-61937-912-1
Published in the United States of America
Editor: Tamara Taylor
Cover Design: Kelly Shorten
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Prologue
December 24, 1995
Nate Night sat at his portable electronic keyboard, anxiously tickling out the strains of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” and trying not to focus on the fact that his high school sweetheart, Molly Swift, was over two hours late for their Christmas Eve “date.”
The lights on the cheap plastic tree blinked off and on in the corner, with one small present nestled underneath. When he’d plugged in the tree earlier that evening it had been light out; now the sky was dark and the lights filled the otherwise empty apartment with a sad, almost baleful glow.
The doorbell rang but Nate barely flinched; without prompting, it opened and in breezed his realtor, Carol Chalmers, followed by a mousy older man with thin bifocals and graying hair to match.
“Is she here yet?” Carol’s voice boomed excitedly through the tiled foyer, thick heels clattering and sending Nate’s keyboard immediately off key.
Nate gestured to the empty living room in reply, but Carol only noticed the semi-lavish decorations he’d thrown up since she gave him the keys to the condo just that morning.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” she said wryly, noting not just the blinking tree but the flickering cinnamon spice candles lining the clean white mantle and the lighted garland wound around the oceanfront balcony. Nate had to admit, looking at the scene objectively, it was just about the perfect setting for a surprise Christmas Eve proposal, if he did so say himself!
The older man behind Carol cleared his throat and she said, almost reluctantly, “Goodness gracious, where are my manners? Nate Night, meet Phil Croft, my trustiest, traveling notary-for-hire.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Croft,” Nate said, standing from behind the portable keyboard he often used for outdoor gigs around town. “Thanks for taking time away from your family tonight to help me seal this deal.”
The notary nodded and opened his mouth, perhaps to wish Nate “Happy Holidays”—or even good luck—but Carol butted in and blurted, “Of course, Nate, Phil will have to bill double time for working so late on Christmas Eve.”
Carol’s hair was blonde and stiff, her eyes blue and shrewd, her expression knowing and her tone unforgiving; Nate liked her anyway. Perhaps that was because she was never too busy to show Nate and Molly around the condo, or too distrustful to let them borrow the keys when they wanted to see it for themselves.
Nate grinned and said, to them both, “I’d expect nothing less.”
The fact was, he’d pay both Carol and Phil and anybody else who wandered through the front door right now triple-billion-quadruple time just to ensure that he and Molly were able to share their lives in the pristine condo by the sea.
Carol opened her briefcase on the kitchen counter, using the flickering flame of a cinnamon jar candle to examine the condo docs. Every so often she would stick little yellow tabs where both Nate and Molly would need to sign in order to take possession of the seventh floor oceanfront condo they’d long since dreamed of buying together.
They’d been house hunting for months, if only for something different to do on their infrequent days off together. They’d seen hundreds of apartments, condos, duplexes, homes and split-levels in tiny Snowflake, South Carolina, but always kept coming back to the same oceanfront condo.
That’s what they called it, Nate and Molly—the condo.
Over the past few months, it had taken on an almost mythical status in their lives.
She’d say, “You know what would make this dinner even more perfect? If we were eating it in the condo.”
He’d say, “If we lived in the condo, we’d already be home by now!”
Just last week she’d seen a wreath decorated with shells and had pointed it out, saying, “Wouldn’t that look great in the condo this Christmas?”
He looked at it over the fireplace and nodded; it sure did.
For now, they lived separately. Molly lived with her Dad, and Nate had a small apartment over a garage downtown. They’d never once broached the topic of moving in together, and yet it seemed perfectly natural to house hunt every weekend and speak of the mythical “condo” as if they already owned it. Now, if everything went as planned tonight, they would own it, together, as man and wife!
It was a big step, Nate surprising Molly like this—on Christmas Eve no less—but he’d recently gotten a job as the full-time pianist at a local jazz club and with Molly singing at weddings every weekend and several local clubs during the week, he’d finally felt confident enough that they could swing the down payment and monthly mortgage. Okay, so it might mean eating lots of ramen noodles and saltines in the near future, but that was a small price to pay for waking up next to Molly every morning in such beautiful digs.
Of course, asking Molly to meet him at “the condo”—otherwise known as Unit # 707 in the Snowflake Shores building—on Christmas Eve was giving a bit of the surprise away, but if getting their dream condo was the cake, then the modest but classic engagement ring sitting under the blinking Christmas tree was the icing. Or was it the cake and the condo was the icing? Nate would never know if Molly never showed.
Carol paced nervously, tapping the file folder full of condo docs with long, lacquered fingernails and glaring at her jewel-encrusted watch as she rolled her eyes knowingly at a bemused Mr. Croft.
“You know, Nate,” she sighed as prime time fast approached, “We can just do this after the holidays, you know. My office is closed tomorrow but I’ll be happy to open early on the twenty-sixth if you two want to just swing by and—”
“No,” he blurted, his nearly panicked voice echoing off the condo’s vaulted ceilings. “I mean, that’s kind of you to offer but I kind of had my heart set on making this Christmas special for Molly.”
“Be that as it may, Nate,” Carol said a little icily, “you can’t make it ‘special’ if the girl doesn’t even show.”
“She’s only an hour late,” he lied nervously, looking to Phil Croft for a little moral support. “Well, okay, technically it’s two hours but…”
Phil chimed in before Carol could rain on Nate’s parade, “My wife Bea’s always late, Carol; doesn’t mean she’s not the nicest gal alive! Besides, maybe traffic’s got her held up.”
“Look at you two romantics,” Carol scoffed with a good-natured chuckle, examining the new laminate on the kitchen cabinets.
“Listen,” she said twenty minutes later, eyeing the small color television the previous owner had had mounted in the kitchen. “Can we at least watch a little TV while we wait for Miss Molly? Local cable’s running White Christmas all day long and I haven’t seen it this year.”
“Sure,” Nate said. “But, when Molly comes, will you turn it off? It’s just, well, I don’t want Bing upstaging me, if you know what I mean.”
“If Molly comes,” Carol chuckled. “Sure thing, kid.”
Nate turned back to his keyboard and fiddled with a jazzy rendition of “Feliz Navidad” he’d been experimenting with at the nightclub all week, if only to drown out the familiar strains of Bing Crosby crooning on the small television.
He tried to picture Molly’s reaction when she walked through the door, a realtor and a notary playing hide and seek in the kitchen, Nate playing a Christmas song to welcome her to their new home, hopefully, their new wedded home.
He’d called her earlier that afternoon to make sure she’d be there and, though harried with last-minute shopping, she’d chuckled and said, “I don’t know why you want to keep teasing yourself with visiting that beautiful condo when you know we can’t afford it, but when it comes to you Nate, I just can’t say ‘no.’”
Since then, he’d tried her cell phone several more times to no avail.
Suddenly, there was a kerfuffle in the kitchen and Nate looked away from his electronic keyboard to see Carol and Phil pointing at the television.
“Nate, honey,” Carol said, face ghostly white and voice uncharacteristically gentle. “I don’t think Molly’s gonna make it tonight, you poor thing.”
“Poor thing?” He chuckled good-naturedly, figuring the feisty realtor was just pulling his leg, maybe even in cahoots with Molly to prolong the torture before she burst through door, surprising him! “What do you mean?”
“Sorry, Nate,” Phil Croft sighed as he moved aside to let Nate into the cramped kitchen. There, on the tiny screen, Molly Swift was wearing a short-cut glittery red gown and crooning “Silent Night” to a packed studio audience on the local cable channel’s annual Holiday Spectacular.
“At least she sounds good,” Carol said as the room fell away and Nate watched Molly sing passionately to the studio audience. “Did you know anything about this, dear?”
“No,” Nate said absently, feeling a cold, hard rock grow in the pit of his stomach. “Well, I mean, I know she’d auditioned for the local Holiday Special but she said they’d gone in ‘another direction.’ She was really hurt about it, actually. That’s why I thought I’d cheer her up by surprising her tonight.”
Nate’s voice trailed off and Carol blurted, “Well, looks like you’re both surprised.”
Phil shushed her but Carol ignored him and said, “Listen, Nate, you know I love you and want this for both of you, but both of you need to sign these condo docs for me to put the sale through and with only one of you here…”
“I’m sorry you guys,” Nate said absently as they prepared to leave. “I really thought this would be the perfect evening.”
Carol waited anxiously at the door, a house full of well-heeled socialites no doubt awaiting her imminent return back home. Phil put a gentle, soothing hand on Nate’s shoulder and said, just as gently, “Maybe this is a surprise that’ll work better on New Year’s, Nate. Like they say, timing is everything.”
Nate nodded and watched them both leave. He was walking back to his keyboard when Carol poked her head back in and said, “Oh, and Nate, do you mind keeping up the tree until then? And maybe that garland out on the terrace? And, well, I do love that seashell wreath you hung over the fireplace. It’s just that, well, if you’re backing out I may have to show the place over the holidays and it really does add to the ambience.”
Nate grinned, though it didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. He packed up his keyboard and slung the padded case over his shoulder, blowing out the candles and unplugging the tree to avoid setting “the condo” on fire.
Although, on second thought, it wouldn’t be a bad idea now that his dreams of spending the rest of his life with Molly there had suddenly “crashed and burned”—and all on national television Well, okay, local cable access television but still…
He put the ring box in his pocket and stood on the balcony, watching the waves crash violently on the shore below.
He’d always pictured standing there with Molly, their lives entwined much like the moon and the sea drove each other, needed each other. Now he knew where Molly’s heart really lay, and the thought of proposing to her suddenly left him feeling cold and alone.
It was a simple thing, he knew; he’d been stood up. Big deal, happens to guys all the time—but not to Nate, not from Molly. The condo was sacred, and if he’d been desperate enough to ask her to promise to meet him there that night, she knew there was a bigger reason behind it than some Christmas Eve shenanigans. Instead, she’d chosen her career over Nate, for the very first time.
Well, he decided, what was good for the goose…
He turned, and headed for the door. There was a blues club one town over. The drive was short, the night was young and, heck, he already had his keyboard with him. He knew the owner would be happy for another pianist to jam the night away. Free entertainment for a rowdy holiday crowd? It was just the thing Nate needed to drown his sorrows and forget the pain, the heartache of Christmas Eve.
The best part was, Molly didn’t know about the club so she wouldn’t show up apologizing after her gig was over in a few hours.
Chapter 1
November 12, 2001
Molly Swift sat across from her manager, Willy “Slim” Wrangler in his oak-paneled office, squirming in her seat. It wasn’t because she didn’t love Slim; after all, he was the reason she’d moved to Nashville in the first place. He’d been nothing but gracious and kind to her ever since, producing her first album, getting her paying gigs at local clubs and cutting her generous royalty checks every month.
Okay, not so generous lately but, still, a paycheck was a paycheck. And if it weren’t for Slim, she’d be flat broke by now. Not that she was all that far from it. Truth be known, Molly hadn’t had a real job since high school. Singing, singing and more singing was all Molly knew, be it here in Nashville or back in her tiny hometown of Snowflake, South Carolina.
No, she was squirming because of the caterwauling coming out of the sleek, white Bose speakers on top of Slim’s cluttered desk.
“Hear that?” he said in his put upon country twang. Slim was originally from New Jersey. “That’s the future, Molly.”
“That’s insane, Slim,” Molly fumed, noting the tart little blonde on the album cover Slim had just handed her. Her anger had only grown after he had slipped his new discovery’s CD in the player and pushed play. “Not to mention an obvious child labor violation! Why, this girl can’t be over fifteen.”
Molly checked out the name on the album cover—Nadine Nightingale. She blew air through her lips, making a mini-raspberry sound. A stage name if she’d ever heard one! At least Molly had the class to keep her given name, bland as it was.
“Like I said, darlin’,” Slim ignored her, “the future.”
Slim sat back in his pleather chair, cowboy hat resting atop his thinning black hair. He was tall and bony, with a kind face and a sharp nose.
“Does it matter that she can’t sing a lick?” Molly asked hopefully.
“Not a bit,” Slim said confidently. “I’ve got her booked solid through the holidays, and that album’s gonna release first of the year. We’re already leaking the first single on Thanksgiving, and she’s in the studio working on a Christmas song as we speak.”
“A C-Christmas song?” Molly stammered, suddenly hurt. “But you told me there wasn’t time to record a song this year.”
Slim looked chagrined, as if he’d spoken too soon. “Well, darlin’, where there’s a will, there’s a way…”
His voice trailed off, as did his eyes. Molly suddenly found herself looking at the brim of Slim’s hat.
She slid the CD cover back on Slim’s desk and asked what she’d wanted to ever since he called her into his office for the meeting, “So, uh, Slim. What does this have to do with me?”
He finally lifted his limp green eyes to look back at her, a knot of dread tying itself in her stomach. “I’m sorry, Molly,” he said quietly, looking down as he shuffled contracts and royalty ledgers on his giant desk. “I love your voice, you know I do, but I just can’t find a place for it on the contemporary country music scene these days.”
“But what about that jazz demo I cut for you last week, Slim?” she asked, trying—and failing—to keep the note of desperation from creeping into her suddenly panicked voice. “If I can’t compete with fifteen-year-old tarts, let me at least go after an older demographic.”
“I’d love to help you, Molly,” Slim said. “I’ve played your jazz record all around town and everyone has the same reaction: great voice, loved her first single, but time’s moved on now. And as you know, Nashville ain’t exactly jazz country, Molly.”
Molly had been so proud of her new, jazzier single. It was still country, just more upscale, with a talented trio behind her and less of the telltale twang that had made Molly’s first—and only—album, “Her Cheatin’ Heart,” a bronze seller on the competitive country charts.
“So, where does that leave us, Slim?” Molly asked, already guessing the answer as the dread that had taken up residence in her stomach now moved to other parts of her anatomy.
Slim tore a check out of his old-fashioned bank ledger and handed it over with a dramatic flair of finality. “Settling up,” he said soberly. “That there’s your last royalty check for the quarter. We’ll call it even and part ways friends, right Molly?”
“Part ways?” she asked, sliding the check quickly into her purse without even looking at it. “That’s it? We’re through? After all we’ve been through together?”
“Like I said, darlin’, the future’s calling and I’m not getting any younger. I’ve got to put my focus on selling acts, and this little Nadine Nightingale girl’s selling like hotcakes. I wouldn’t be any good to you now, anyway, Molly. You know I’ve never been one for jazz.”
“But it’s not jazz, Slim,” she begged, futilely. “It’s jazzy; there’s a difference.”
“Not to the record labels, Molly,” Slim cautioned, the reedy tone in his voice signaling his patience—and this meeting—were nearly at an end. “And not to the club owners in these here parts. I say ‘jazzy’ and they hear ‘jazz.’ Either way, what they don’t hear is country; and they don’t hire you. So where does that leave me?”
Molly opened her mouth to protest, to threaten, to bargain, to beg, to reason; then she closed it. She was tired of singing her old hits, and sales hadn’t been big enough on the first album to warrant a second, so there were no “new hits” for her to sing. At thirty-two, she was already washed up, a one-hit wonder who, really, never had a “hit” to begin with.
She stood quietly, stuck out her hand and said, choking back tears, “Thanks, Slim, for everything.”
Slim stood and picked up one of his patented black and gold business cards from his desk. He flipped it over before handing it to her. “Listen, Molly, I don’t want you to leave empty handed. I’ve called in some markers to three of my favorite club owners in town. You go by these guys next week, see if they can’t put you on the stage three or four nights a week until you can find yourself a new manager, okay honey?”
Honey? Molly thought as she slid the business card in next to the royalty check that would be her only income for the rest of the year. “Honey” is what Slim called strangers, or waitresses, or new, farm-fed, fresh-faced girls he hadn’t signed yet—and probably never would.
“Thanks, Slim,” she said, turning from the door. But Slim just gave her a wave, already working the phones and no doubt turning down booking dates for his newest star, Nadine Nightingale.
“Oh well,” Molly sighed, slinking into the front seat of her eight-year-old pickup in Slim’s parking lot and sliding the check out of her purse. “At least I’ve got—”
She did a double take, looking at the figure on her latest royalty check: “$179.62!”
Her heart sank as she bypassed the grocery store, where she’d been meaning to stop, en route to her single apartment. It was barely the second week in November, and she only had one hundred and eighty dollars to last her through to New Year.
She fingered Slim’s business card in her suddenly trembling hand and hoped the club owners listed on the back owed Slim—big time!
Chapter 2
Nate saw the giant Christmas tree blinking from three blocks away and wondered who was so eager to rush the season that they’d stoop to lashing a twelve foot blinking Christmas tree to the top of their roof midway through November!
He pedaled his trusty mountain bike slowly, breathing in the cool night air as downtown Snowflake, South Carolina shimmered into view. It was a greeting card type of town, with clean sidewalks and quaint, charming storefronts, empty trash cans and streetlights that always worked.
Despite its obvious charm, he’d never understood why the town was called Snowflake. After all, Nate had lived there all his life and had only seen a few frosty mornings, let alone an actual snowflake.
Still, he never minded the goofy name around this time of year. He’d always loved Christmas in general, and Christmas music in particular. Already he’d been slipping a Christmas carol or two into his nightly act at Jolene’s Jazz Joint, the only jazz club in town—and the site of his full-time job for the last six years.
He liked to think his jazzy renditions of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” “Oh Tannenbaum” and even “Feliz Navidad” sounded little like their up-tempo carol cousins and, so far, none of his standing room only audiences had complained.
Who knows? Nate wondered as he pedaled his sturdy mountain bike closer to work. Maybe they dug living in Snowflake this time of year as well.
The huge tree blinked green and red as he got closer and closer to Jolene’s, and darn if it wasn’t on one of the roofs near his place of employment. Which seemed odd, since the only two places open downtown at this hour were a greasy spoon diner across the street that could hardly afford a dishwasher, let alone a blinking tree you could see for miles. Then there was the gas station around the corner, but why would they put up a tree that big, so soon and—hold on; hold up! The ridiculous tree wasn’t on top of one of the competing businesses—it was on the roof of Jolene’s Jazz Joint.
“What’s with the blinking, twinkling nightmare?” Nate asked Jumbo, the burly dishwasher taking up residence on the back dock and grabbing a quick smoke in between the dinner and dessert rush.
“Didn’t you hear?” Jumbo growled, grounding out his cigarette under his thick, black work boot. “Jolene’s been bought out.”
“Bought out?” Nate asked with a flutter in his throat, clicking the bike lock in place and taking the steps out back two at a time. “By whom, Kris Kringle himself?”
Jumbo gave Nate a surprised look and said, “How’d you know?”
Nate ignored the smart aleck remark and rushed through the kitchen to find its proprietor, Jolene, holding an impromptu staff meeting next to the cigarette machine in the employee break room.
“…may have already heard,” Jolene was saying, withered fingers clutching the tarnished broach that clung to her old-fashioned collar, “I’ve sold the Jazz Joint and will be turning over ownership of the club throughout the week. You may have already noticed a few changes around here, notably a fully-lit, fourteen-foot noble fir on the roof but…I’ll let Mr. K tell you about those himself.”
“Mr. K?” asked Scout, the anorexic busboy-slash-wannabe rapper-slash-after-hours DJ sitting in the front row. “Is that, like, his stage name or something?”
Jolene touched Scout’s shoulder gently and paused, as if to answer, then turned and sped abruptly from the room, bustling right by Nate as she scurried back to her office. Nate thought momentarily about following her but the look on her face suggested tears and he didn’t want to make what was already an obviously upsetting night even worse.
Nate greeted several of the servers as they filed past, but no one seemed to be in the talking mood. Scout stayed behind, fingering a fresh pack of smokes from the machine and perking up when Nate walked into the room wearing his trademark black slacks and crisp white shirt with the thin black tie.
“What’s up, piano man?” Scout asked, giving Nate one of his patented six-move, herky-jerky handshakes that Nate never felt he’d done right, though Scout never complained.
“Not much,” Nate grinned even as Scout looked past him to the kitchen just beyond the break room. Nate purposefully stood in Scout’s line of vision, just to watch the peeved expression on Scout’s face.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nate joked. “Are you waiting for someone?”
Scout’s smooth white face flushed as he looked at Nate and smiled.
“Naw,” he lied, blush creeping from his long, white throat to his hollow, apple cheeks. “Just seeing if our new owner’s on the premises.”
“Yeah?” Nate asked. “You’ve seen him?”
“He was here earlier when I clocked in,” Scout said conspiratorially, as if this might be top secret information or something.
“What’s he like?”
Scout shrugged, wiping a lock of ridiculously dyed blond hair out of his clear blue eyes and said, “Just an older dude with a long, white beard and a big, fat belly and a red ski cap.”
“What?” Nate scoffed, wondering if he’d just stepped into a holiday episode of the Twilight Zone. “Seriously?”
Just then, the scent of cheap perfume wafted into the break room and Scout stood erect, as if suddenly transformed into one of Pavlov’s dogs. “Gotta bolt, my man,” he said breezily, not even bothering to give Nate one of his ultimately confusing handshakes.
Nate turned to see Hazel Crisp, the Jazz Joint’s stunning young hostess, saunter past Scout as if she didn’t even know he existed. He also kind of figured that was the point. Scout looked wounded, and Nate vowed to have a chat with the tempting little hostess about giving Scout a little more respect.
Scout caught Nate looking and, despite the sudden blush that crept from his stiff white collar, the gangly young busboy gave him an “It’s cool” shrug and grabbed a fresh onion ring from the rack by the fryer, as if maybe that had been his destination all along.
Nate ignored the greasy, starchy shift meal behind the cook’s line and headed through the swinging kitchen doors onto the club floor, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness that permeated the dimly lit room before slinking over to the bar and pouring himself his nightly shift drink, a small, smooth scotch in a fat rocks glass.
It was decadent, no doubt, but he had a long five hours ahead of him and he’d make it stretch through at least half of that. After that, he could decide whether he had enough in his tip jar to spring for a second.
The piano sat black and lacquered and familiar in the corner as he took his seat, noting the full house and expectant eyes upon his hands as they fiddled with a few sheets of music. Smooth jazz pumped quietly overhead through the live music feed, but once Nate gave Scout the signal the dutiful busboy would flip the switch and it would be all Nate, all night.
For now, Nate warmed up his long, pale fingers with the opening strains of “Route 66” until he was happy the piano sounded smooth enough, then caught Scout’s eye from across the crowded club. In seconds, the room had grown quiet and still, even the sound of knives and forks against clean white plates dimming as Nate’s fingers struck the keys with a familiarity that, at last, made him smile.
If only Molly could be there, sitting in the audience, watching him play as she had all those years ago.
“Oh well,” he thought, picking up the tempo as the spirit moved him, “maybe one day…”
Chapter 3
Molly tightened her grip on the straps of her backpack purse and gritted her teeth. “But Slim said you might have a spot for me opening up this week,” she reiterated to the harried club manager in front of her, who was busy marking off boxes on his latest liquor order.
He’d barely looked up from the stacks of boxes since she’d walked into the deserted nightclub five minutes earlier.
“Slim who, darlin’?” he finally asked, looking up red-eyed and bleary from his clipboard and sounding less than patient.
“Slim Wrangler,” she said for the third time, careful to keep her tone polite although after the week she’d had she was tempted to scream it to the rooftops. “My name’s Molly Swift, I had that hit song a few years ago. ‘Her Cheatin’ Heart’?”
He smiled weakly and said, “Oh yeah. My wife liked that song.”
Molly’s heart fluttered hopefully at the thought of not having to dine on potted meat and Ramen noodles for Thanksgiving dinner, then fell to the floor again when he jabbed the pencil he’d been using behind his ear.
Then he shot her a glare and added, “My ex-wife, that is.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Ouch, well sorry about that.”
He looked her up and down before saying, definitively, “Slim did call and I told him, last week, that I don’t have any openings. I’m sorry, Mary, I just—”
“Molly,” she corrected, finally careening straight past Polite Street now and entering the city limits of Desperate Town. “Are you sure there isn’t anything? I mean, it doesn’t have to be onstage. I waited tables all through high school and hostessed every summer, maybe there’s an opening on the schedule for just a few nights a week or…”
Her voice trailed off, sounding strange and pitiful even as she continued to blather on about her pathetic waitressing skills, now at least a good dozen or more years old. The old Molly would have left six minutes ago, but the new Molly was desperate—and hungry.
“I’m sorry, Molly,” he said with a little heat to her name this time, as if he was anything but. “Nothing through the end of the year, sorry. You can try back in January, but I can’t make any promises.”
Molly thanked the club manager as politely as possible and walked briskly outside. Once she was out of his sight, she crumbled into the nearest empty chair, which just so happened to be in front of the tiny café next door. To her surprise, and great consternation, the front window featured a poster announcing none other than Nadine Nightingale’s newest holiday single, “Jingle Bell Shop.”
Molly hung her head and groaned. It was as if the fates were smiling down, laughing at her, punishing her for all her past holiday sins. She heard a throat clear and looked up to see a waitress, short but slender in comfortable shoes and a tight white blouse featuring a fresh jelly stain on the collar.
Molly ordered a small coffee from the waitress. The woman was older, wiser, and brought back a hard roll with the coffee. “On the house, sweetie,” she said when Molly looked up to protest the added expense on her bill.
The gesture was so kind, so unexpected, Molly felt close to tears. If only it was a new emotion. She’d been on edge ever since leaving Slim’s office last week, and the weekend spent cooped up and staring at her own four walls hadn’t helped matters any.
Now she seemed downright fragile, a far sight from the headstrong, ambitious heartbreaker who’d stormed Nashville six years earlier. Suddenly the kind—and much appreciated—gesture from a well-meaning stranger could prove to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Instead of melting into a puddle of tears, Molly somehow focused her trembling hands to fill the coffee with cream and sugar and stared out at the empty street beyond the sidewalk café’s front entrance, the cool November air chilling her hands as she gripped the coffee cup and brought it to her lips.
It tasted good and sweet, hot and smooth all at the same time and she sipped it faster now, realizing she’d skipped breakfast, again. It had been a long week since Slim let her go, and Molly realized that without an agent, Nashville wasn’t as kind to her as it had always been.
All those dates she’d played, all those long club nights, all the free encores and extra hours and blood, sweat and tears she’d poured into building a name for herself mattered little when there were so many acts out there on the strip, all younger, hotter and more radio-friendly than Molly Swift.
The country music industry was like any other, Molly had suddenly realized. It didn’t just want young; it wanted fresh, new and hot. Once upon a time, she supposed, it had been Molly that fit that bill. Why else would a guy like Slim be trolling public cable channels in South Carolina “for the next big thing,” and call her out of the blue like that? And on Christmas Eve, no less?
In the whirlwind days after her Holiday Spectacular, Molly had never once imagined that Slim would have to let one of his older, more established artists go to devote his entire schedule to her.
She supposed Nadine Nightingale was the new Molly Swift and, while it hurt, badly, she certainly couldn’t blame some innocent young girl for wanting her own shot at the brass ring of fame and stardom. Soon enough it would be Nadine’s turn to hit the bricks, and Molly could only hope that the young rising star would do a better job of saving for a rainy day than she had!
Meanwhile, Molly was on her own for the first time in six, long years. She’d quickly run through Slim’s list of three “old, trusted friends” to find that one of them didn’t even know who Slim was, one hated his guts and, just now, one had already told Slim straight up that he didn’t have any room for another act.
So Molly had spent the last three days on a wild goose chase, saving her pennies crossing her fingers and hoping something would pan out; nothing did. What’s more, it didn’t look like anything would, at least, not in time to save her holidays. All her markers had been called in, all her contacts had dried up and all her so-called “friends” weren’t returning her calls.
She felt alone, abandoned, a failure, a young failure, but a failure just the same. She sipped her coffee slowly, nibbled carefully on her hard roll and wondered how it had all gone so horribly wrong.
She wondered if she’d been jinxed from the very beginning. After all, her “big” break came at the expense of her one, true love. It was all her fault, and by her choice. She’d chosen to star in the local cable channel’s annual holiday special instead of sharing the romantic Christmas Eve dinner Nate had planned for them in their “dream condo” back in South Carolina.
And when Slim had spotted her in her sexy red cocktail dress crooning “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” that night, he’d flown her out to Nashville the very next day and signed her to a record contract; she’d never looked back.
She’d never gone back to Snowflake, either. Not for the next Christmas, or the Christmas after that, or any other holiday for that matter. Aside from Nate, why would she? Her mother had abandoned her years ago, and her father was following slowly in her footsteps, drinking his breakfast, lunch and dinner in the living room of the tiny house she’d grown up in.
In all the years she’d been in Nashville, never once did he return her calls, send a “thank you” card for the sporadic money orders she sent him during the good times, or even responded when she’d sent him her new CD—special delivery—the very day it hit the store shelves.
Of course, that didn’t excuse her behavior where Nate was concerned.
She’d tried to reach him by phone, to explain her circumstances, how she couldn’t turn down the opportunity of a lifetime, how she’d just had to fly out to Nashville on a moment’s notice, how she was sure that he, of all people, a fellow musician, understood that you don’t turn down a recording contract, but he’d changed his number just after Christmas—and she’d always been pretty good at taking a hint.
Molly pictured Nate as he’d been back then, the dark and handsome piano player, her musical muse, his hands expert on the keyboards—and at wringing pleasure from every inch of her young body. She’d never experienced love like she had shared with Nate, physically, emotionally or spiritually, and yet to picture his face these days left her feeling cold and empty.
She thought, being a fellow musician, he’d understand that opportunity only knocks once. Would he have passed up the opportunity to cut a hit record with a Nashville producer, she wondered, if the shoe had been on the other foot?
The fact that they’d never spoken since that fateful night had dogged Molly her entire career, but she’d always been able to put it behind her by recording another new demo, traveling to another new gig, trying out a new drummer or writing a new song.
Now she had no such distractions, and the pathetic image of Nate waiting for her in their “condo” that night so many years ago suddenly—and visibly—haunted her. How long had he stayed there, candles flickering, stomach growling, before he realized she wouldn’t show?
“Top you off?” asked the waitress, startling Molly out of her unpleasant holiday reverie.
Molly gave her a crinkle-eyed smile and said, “If you don’t mind…Corrine,” adding the kind woman’s name after reading it off her crooked employee name tag.
Corrine filled her empty coffee cup, leaving just enough room at the top for plenty of cream and sugar, which she refilled from a new container off her tray. Now that the tray was empty, she slid it under her arm and leaned against the roughhewn brick exterior of the tiny café.
“Rough mornin’, sugar?” Corrine drawled as she eased a stick of long, pink gum from a shiny sleeve and slid it into her carefully painted mouth.
It looked like a poor excuse for a cigarette, which is probably what Corrine would have preferred to stick in her mouth at that very moment.
“Rough week,” Molly sighed, self-consciously spooning extra sugar and cream into her cup and hoping her stomach wouldn’t growl in Corrine’s presence.
“Ouch,” said the waitress, crinkling her deep blue eyes in understanding and sympathy. “And it’s only Tuesday.”
“Seriously?” Molly asked, genuinely shocked to think she’d suffered so much disappointment in so few days. As a musician, she rarely kept track of what day it was, living her life by dates, venues and gigs instead.
There was no such thing as a weekend, only a two night gig, no such thing as a holiday, only double-time on the clock. “Feels like Thursday at least,” she gushed chattily, suddenly eager for a little mid-morning companionship, even if she had to pay for the privilege.
Corrine chuckled a throaty laugh, the kind born of a few hundred thousand cartons of unfiltered cigarettes and just as many shots of cheap bourbon to back them up. “Just be glad it’s not next Thursday, darlin’,” she said wearily around her wad of gum.
“Why?” asked Molly, suddenly worried the US government might have changed tax day without notifying her.
“Sheesh,” Corrine opined with a knowing crinkle in her faded brown eyes. “You really are out of it, girl. Next Thursday is Thanksgiving!”
Molly groaned and set her spoon aside. It toppled over onto the wrought iron tabletop with a clattering sound that gave her battered heart a quick little kick-start.
Corrine looked at her for a moment, swallowed and then leaned in to ask, conspiratorially, “Listen, you probably get this all the time but are you Molly Swift? As in, ‘Her Cheatin’ Heart’ Molly Swift?”
Molly blushed and nodded, surprised anyone still recognized her this long after her album came out. Corrine whistled and said, “Girl, let me tell you, that song got me through some mighty hard breakups, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Thanks,” Molly said, choking up again and trying hard not to let it show. “That means a lot.”
“So, when’s your new album coming out?”
Molly frowned and gave Corrine the condensed version.
Slim.
Nadine Nightingale.
“Jingle Bell Shop.”
The measly royalty check.
The black business card.
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
Corrine merely smiled knowingly and said, “Well, it may not help at the moment, darlin’, but your sad story sure sounds like the beginning of a new country song to me!”
Molly smiled and said, “Tell that to my ex-agent!”
Corrine sighed and looked around the café at her other tables before standing from where she’d been leaning against the wall. “Listen, honey, you know what I do when I go through a major life change? I know you don’t, so I’ll tell you anyway—I go home. I visit family and friends in Ohio and they always make me feel better. I sleep too long, eat too much, shower too little and watch too much TV. Then I come back here a week or two later and start all over again, know what I mean?”
Molly looked up to explain her family situation, but Corrine was already gone, the cowbell over the door ringing her entrance to a happy pair of crowded tables inside the restaurant.
Molly sipped her coffee slowly and reached for her cell phone, hoping her bill wasn’t so overdue that her provider had turned the dang thing off already. They hadn’t, fortunately, and she scrolled through her rarely used numbers until a once familiar South Carolina prefix showed up in her Caller ID window.
She swallowed, hard, and listened to the phone ring down the miles until a gravelly voice picked up and barked, “Yeah?”
“Dad?” Molly heard herself squeak into the phone, her voice too high and trembling though she secretly willed it not to. “It’s Molly, Dad, in Nashville? I was thinking about maybe, well, possibly coming home for Thanksgiving next week. Not for long but, you know, it’s been a while. Would that be…all right?”
Her father cleared his throat, paused before considering and said, almost reluctantly, “Sure, Molly; your old room’s just as you left it.”
Chapter 4
Although the Jazz Joint had long since closed for the night, Nate sat working through the midsection of “Silent Night” on his trusty black piano, trying to work out a more natural-sounding segue that would feel less obvious.
He kept it slow and smooth, over and over again with only slight variations on the theme, until he heard faint clapping from the back table and looked up to find none other than his soon-to-be-former boss, Jolene, nodding her appreciation. He smiled and did a little Liberace finish, running all four fingers from one end of his keyboard to the other before standing and bowing as if to her majesty.
“Bravo,” she said quietly as flickering candlelight embraced her petite, refined features and she nodded in appreciation. “I could listen to you play for hours. I tell you, Nate, your music is the one thing I’ll miss about selling this noisy old club.”
Nate walked quietly over to her table, sitting his long, lingering second glass of scotch down next to her white wine spritzer and taking her small, delicate hand in his own. “I was so sorry to hear the news, Jolene. I’ve been here so long, I feel like I’m losing part of my family.”
She shrugged, her hand papery and soft beneath his own. “Don’t be, Nate. I’ll still stop in from time to time, if only to hear your magic fingers on those trusty keys. Besides, between you and me piano man, I’ve been looking for a buyer for this place for years.”
“Really?” Nate asked, trying to hide the shock in his voice; it was news to him. Kind of like hearing your parents say they’re getting a divorce when they’d seemed happy for so long. “I can’t imagine anyone else running this place but you, Jolene. And not just because your name is on the front door! Don’t take this the wrong way but, for all these years, you’ve been like a mother to me.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, smiling and holding back a tear. “I hope all my employees felt that way.”
“What will this place be without you?” he asked, still reeling from the news.
She flashed him a cautionary glance and said, “Well, it won’t stay Jolene’s Jazz Joint for long, Nate. But don’t worry; the new owner loves your work and naturally wants to keep you on full time”
There was a warning note in her voice, but before he could question its source, her eyes flickered past Nate and over his shoulder. “Why, here he is now,” she said with a glimmer of recognition in her cool, green eyes and, Nate thought, a timber of warmth to her tone.
Nate stood up as a large, garrulous man with a white beard and bald head approached, burly hand extended. His eyes were, in fact, quite large and merry and he had about him an air of joviality and warmth. He embraced Jolene warmly, helped her gently back into her seat and then looked Nate dead in the eye and said, “It’s an honor to finally be working with you, Nate. You may not believe me but, I’ve been a fan for a long, long time.”
Something in the way the man said it sounded sincere. Then, too, there was a gentleness in his eyes, the soft, round roll of his mouth as he spoke, the warm timber in his voice, an all-around kindness in his entire demeanor.
He was, in a word, non-threatening. But more than that, he seemed downright joyful. As if he’d never had a down day or, if he did, wouldn’t allow himself to succumb to it. Nate wished he could borrow a little of the old man’s enthusiasm from time to time.
If Jolene really had wanted to sell the place for the last few years, it looked like she’d found the perfect candidate. It would take all the man’s enthusiasm to do half the job Jolene had done in building up the Jazz Joint’s clientele, let alone keeping them after she left. Nate sat down across from him and tried not to stare at the candy canes running up and down his straining blue suspenders, to say nothing of the cheery pink undershirt that strained over the man’s bulbous belly.
“Nate,” Jolene said, rubbing the big guy’s arm playfully. “Meet Kris, Kris, Nate Night, pianist extraordinaire.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” said Kris with exuberance, thick, pink fingers running through his rangy white beard. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you slipping in a few jazzy renditions of Christmas carols all this month. That’s just what we need here at the new Café Kringle!”
“Café Kringle?” Nate asked uncertainly, watching Jolene’s eyes carefully as she continued to gaze adoringly at Kris, her knight in shining candy cane suspenders.
Jolene looked back at Nate with an almost dreamy expression and said, “Isn’t it grand, Nate? Kris here is going to turn the Jazz Joint into a year-round Christmas restaurant.”
“Really?” Nate asked with an air of reserved skepticism, wondering if perhaps his former boss and longtime friend, Jolene, was playing a prank on him.
“You may have already noticed the giant, blinking Christmas tree on the roof,” Kris said proudly, without a trace of irony in his rich, thick voice—although Nate kept waiting for one of them to reveal the punch line. Or at least a hidden camera recording Nate’s reaction for posterity.
“Perhaps,” Nate joked.
“Well, that’s just the beginning, son,” Kris plunged ahead, talking excitedly with his hands and narrowly missing the blinking Christmas tree centerpiece in the middle of their table. “By this time next week, you won’t even recognize the place. It’s gonna get a total makeover, ‘from stem to stern’ as they used to say in the Navy. There will be Christmas trees in every corner, lights strung around every window, a whole new menu and, of course the house pianist tickling the ivories to the tune of Christmas carols.”
“Every night?” Nate asked cautiously, trying to keep the note of panic out of his voice.
“All night, every night,” Kris said enthusiastically in his bellowing, honey-dripped voice. “Isn’t that right, dear?”