James Familiar Love Song

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-63192-751-5
Verlag: Bookbaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 202 Seiten

The breakup of a marriage is traumatic for all involved, and even twenty-five years later the ramifications can be huge, especially if secrets remain untold, issues unresolved and wounds unhealed. Both Wyatt and Maggs think they've moved on until they're brought together again by a battle of the bands contest, of all things. The attraction and feelings are still there. They're both older, wiser and Christians now. Yet, the failures, secrets and pains of the past follow them into the present. Maggs knows that her mistakes and secrets could well doom her second chance at love with only mans he's ever wanted, but she's driven to make right what she did wrong in the past. For Wyatt, Maggs is like that unforgettable old love song that he could never get out of his mind or heart, the one he just keeps hearing, singing and playing over and over again--until he discovers just how deep her betrayals have been. Faith has brought him from the brink of alcoholism and her from the edge of despair and madness, but can it produce the supernatural kind of forgiveness necessary to let love thrive? And will the disappointment waiting for them destroy all the progress they've made, alone and together?

Autoren/Hrsg.

James, Arlene

Leseproben

Chapter One

Wyatt Ogilvie. In the flesh. The silver hair shocked her more than the few extra pounds or the scruffy beard. Though no longer dark, his hair remained thick and full, the hairline receding just a bit. His features had thickened slightly, but she’d have known him anywhere. Actually, he looked good, better than she’d have expected after all these years.

Had it really been nearly a quarter of a century since she’d packed her car and driven away from him? Not only had that been another decade, it had been another life, even another state. She’d been stunned to see his name on the list of entrants here in Fayetteville, Arkansas, so she’d taken her time looking him up. Three days into the competition, he and his partner were still here, and she couldn’t resist the temptation to seek him out any longer.

Would he recognize her? For some time now, she’d been bleaching her light brown hair blond in order to hide the gray that had begun to infiltrate her long locks. She wasn’t ready for that, though the delicate lines around her dark eyes proclaimed the years even without the gray. Lightening up on the eye shadow had helped, but she didn’t kid herself. She hadn’t spotted sixty on the horizon yet, but fifty was looking smaller and smaller in her rearview mirror.

She calculated Wyatt’s age. Sixty? Sixty-one? Man, he looked good for the big six-oh. She shook her head. Wasn’t fair. Men aged so much better than women. He could still play that guitar, too.

Watching his fingers pick those guitar strings, she tried not to let his husky, raspy voice pluck her heartstrings. His voiced used to be mellow, velvet––she still remembered the sound of it in the dark––and slurred when he was drunk or thunderous when raised in anger. He sounded raspy now but still retained enough elasticity to cover nearly two full octaves, and he’d lost none of the expressiveness that had made him one of the finest lead singers she’d ever heard.

People still stopped to listen. His audience presently consisted mostly of other performers. They lined the canvas-covered hay bales stacked to create sound-containing walls in the sprawling labyrinth of corridors, alleys, dressing rooms and rehearsal areas behind five main stages erected in an octagonal shape across 100 acres of open field at the county fairgrounds. Topped with treated plywood, the enclosure became a watertight city of sorts, complete with electricity, wi-fi, and air units strategically placed.

The crowds of paying fans sat or stood on the bare ground in front of each stage, no matter the weather, but the performers and their equipment were protected. Fortunately, because most of the competition took place in the evenings, Arkansas summers boasted far cooler nights than days, and so far nary a rain cloud had darkened the horizon.

Wyatt finished the song, and a young stagehand hurried forward, clipboard in hand, to announce the lineup.

“In ten, Wranglers on Stage One, Unit Nine on Stage Two, Young Rockers on Three, Big Bass on Stage Four, Folk-a-Billy on Stage Five. Let’s move it, people.”

As the college-aged functionary called off the secondary lineup, Wyatt turned to put away his guitar. Maggs laid aside her own clipboard and made her way through the milling throng in the backstage alley at the Second Annual Battle of the Bands. She hitched her thumbs in the belt loops of her spangled jeans and came to a stop behind him.

Striving for a playful tone, she said, “I told you smoking would ruin your voice.”

He neither turned nor paused in what he was doing. “I stopped smoking eighteen years ago, Maggs,” he replied quietly.

So he had seen and recognized her. She wondered if he’d have sought her out on his own, if he’d have spoken at all if she hadn’t pressed the issue. Probably not. Struggling not to feel disappointed, she put on a smile.

“You still play like a fiend.”

“I took up the banjo,” he told her. “That’ll teach you real picking.” He flipped the latches on his guitar case closed and turned.

“I guess so, yeah,” she said inanely, backing up a step. She’d forgotten how tall he was, at least an inch over six feet. In her bare feet, the top of her head would reach about the bridge of his nose. Of course, she didn’t stand in her bare feet. At just under five-feet-and-seven-inches in height, she’d always loved shoes with high heels. Wyatt had once loved that about her.

“As for my voice,” he went on. “It was smoke that got me, but not cigarettes.” His pale blue eyes still seemed to drill straight into her. “Carpenter’s shop erupted in flames when a container of flammable liquid turned over too close to an electric heater. Fellow came along and pulled me out just in time. Wasn’t sure I’d ever speak, let alone sing, again. Thank God I can still manage both.”

Thank God? Margaret caught her breath.

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t worse, Wyatt. At least you look fine. You look real fine.”

He smiled, showing teeth more even than she remembered and a crease in his wide forehead that hadn’t been there before. He’d added a bit of girth over the years, but he certainly didn’t look any softer. His pale gaze calmly swept her from head to toe, and he gave her that old lopsided smile.

“You’re looking good yourself, Maggs. Don’t seem to have changed much at all, except for the hair. Suits you.”

Margaret didn’t know she could still blush, but she felt her cheeks heat with color and fought the urge to reach a hand up to smooth her wavy locks. “Thank you. Uh, you live around here? Or did you just come for the competition?”

“I live in Centerton,” he told her. “You?”

“Pea Ridge.”

“That’s maybe fifteen, sixteen miles from me,” he said, clearly surprised, “thirty minutes in traffic.”

“Is it?” she replied weakly. “I can’t say I’ve actually been to Centerton. All these winding roads confuse me. I mainly just go back and forth between here and home.”

“How long you been in this area?” Wyatt asked.

“Not quite two years. You?”

“Oh…” He thought a moment. “Be a full decade this September. What brought you here?”

She spread her hands, regret clawing at her, but what was one more lie at this late date?

“This did. I was hired to organize the battle of the bands last year, and it proved such a success that I got the contract again this year. There’s quite a music scene in these hills, you know.”

“I know.”

“Is that what brought you here?”

“Uh, no. No. Was a friend. Sort of. Anyway, when I got here, construction was booming in northwest Arkansas, and I didn’t have nothing holding me in Texas. My folks were both gone, and my older brothers were caught up with their own families, so…”

“So,” she echoed, “here we both are.”

He nodded. “All this time, I thought you were down in Austin.”

“I was until… Have to go where the opportunities are, you know?”

“Mmm,” he said. “So you’re not just managing bands anymore?”

“Not really, no.”

“Producing now.”

“More or less.”

They stood in silence for several long moments while the alley emptied and people got where they needed to go. Wyatt’s partner, Drew Camstock, stuck his head out of the slit in the canvas drape that blocked off the dressing area assigned to them. Wyatt glanced over his shoulder, and Drew disappeared again. Maggs said nothing, but Wyatt smiled.

“Drew’s a strange bird,” he explained. “I can’t tell you much about him except he’s good people and he seems to know stuff instinctively.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hm. Don’t talk about himself much, but he’ll hold a perfect stranger’s hand and pray with him.”

Maggs tilted her head. “Are you a praying man now, Wyatt?”

“I am,” he said flatly. “Even I learn some things, albeit the hard way.”

“Better the hard way than not at all,” she said softly.

He chuckled. “True.”

The radio on her hip crackled and squawked. Margaret grabbed it and depressed the button on the side, speaking into it. “Marko here.”

They had a problem on Stage Four that needed an electrician.

“Tell him to go ahead. I’ll come right over and sign the order.”

The electrician, of course, wanted the order signed first.

“I’m on my way, but if he’s not busy when I get there, I’ll call someone else. We’ve got a show to put on and a schedule to keep.” She smiled an apology at Wyatt. “Sorry. Gotta run. It was good to see you.”

“You, too.” She started away, but he called her to a halt. “Maggs?”

“Yeah?”

“You married?”

There it was, the big question, the one she’d both hoped for and dreaded. “You mean, re-married, don’t you?”

He grimaced. “Yeah. Remarried. I noticed you’re using your maiden name.”

She shook her head. “No. I haven’t...