Run Rose Run(15)

She laughed. “Oh, definitely.”

“I know you’re lying, but it doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “I don’t need your gratitude. I need your attendance at the Country Music Awards. Don’t say no! Just…think about it.”

A waiter appeared at her shoulder and before either he or Ruthanna could say anything, Jack said, “Bubbles, if you please. The lady would like bubbles. Preferably a grand cru.”

As he spoke, Ruthanna noticed that he had missed a spot shaving, and there was a tiny patch of salt-and-pepper beard—mostly salt—near the edge of his jaw. She touched her own cheek wistfully. Whatever time was doing to good old Jack, it was also doing to her. But at least she had dyes and paints to cover it up.

Quit deleting my texts flashed on her screen.

Ruthanna almost laughed aloud. How’d Ethan even know? She tucked her phone into her clutch.

The other table guests arrived right after her champagne, people from Jack’s office plus his well-coiffed niece and nephew. Ruthanna hadn’t wanted to invite anyone, so she smiled and nodded and picked at her dinner, a salad scattered with flower blossoms and a fillet of salmon balanced on a mound of buttery potatoes that she wasn’t supposed to eat.

She took the stage during the dessert course and gritted her teeth through the laudatory introduction, which went on at great length about her achievements: eight Grammys, a National Medal of Arts, “one of the most successful musicians in the history of humankind,” blah blah blah blah. Then she made her way to the podium, feeling her heart fluttering quickly in her chest.

She’d been in the spotlight so many times that she shouldn’t have been nervous. But it was different to speak than it was to sing; she felt like a bird forced to walk when its job was to fly.

But, she reminded herself, retirement had been her idea.

She gave her speech quickly, from memory, barely glancing at her notes. It was short, sweet, and simple.

“If time is money, my friends,” she said in conclusion, “just think of all I’ve saved you by not rambling on and on. So be generous tonight, please, and help us give books to kids who need them. Who crave them. And whose lives will be forever changed by them. Because books, my friends, are true magic bound between two covers. Thank you.”

The audience clapped wildly, and at every table she could see checkbooks pulled from purses and pockets. She was about to make a joke about the number of zeros she wanted to see people writing when a deep-throated yell came from the back of the room—a loud, insistent shout that sent a spike of fear up her spine.

She looked to the wings where Lucas stood waiting, and she wondered if she needed to call him out for protection.

And then she realized what the voice was saying. It wasn’t a threat. It was a plea.

“Sing! Sing! Sing!”

Within seconds, the entire room was chanting with him, stomping their feet and clapping.

Ruthanna stood there, stunned. Back when she used to perform, her audience would clap for a quarter of an hour to get her to come back out and sing one four-minute encore. And she’d loved it, she really had, even when she was exhausted, body and soul, from performing night after night to thousands of adoring strangers.

But now she straightened her shoulders and motioned to Lucas, who came onstage to offer her his arm and lead her away.

It wasn’t so much for them to ask her for a song.

At the same time, though, it was far more than she could give.





Chapter

14



Safely ensconced in the back seat of the limo, Ruthanna kicked off her masochistic heels and breathed a sigh of relief. She’d failed to say goodbye to Jack—or anyone else, for that matter—so she pulled her phone from her Swarovski clutch to text him that she was sorry for dashing off. Then she checked her notifications and saw four new texts, two missed calls, and a voicemail, all from Ethan Blake. Wincing a little, she pressed Play.

“I know you hate it when I beg. So you leave me no choice: I’m going to have to pray,” he said. The sound on the call was terrible, full of bar noise and cell static. “Oh, Ruthanna,” Ethan went on, “Saint of Southern Sopranos, will you take pity upon this poor wretch and get your divine, sublime self to your hole-in-the-wall drinking establishment, such that you may hear the dulcet tones of one AnnieLee Keyes? Please, oh rare, remarkable Ruthanna, hear me in my time of need—”

She clicked off, smiling in spite of herself. His prayer would’ve sounded a lot more convincing if he hadn’t been choking back laughter the whole way through.

Ethan was funny, though, and Ruthanna had quickly developed a soft spot for him, partly because he thought he was so tough. One of these days she was going to tell him that a bullet wound and a Purple Heart didn’t make him hard as nails. They made him just like everyone else. Sometimes you could see the scars and sometimes you couldn’t. But everybody had them.

Her phone vibrated again, and she nearly threw it out the window. He wasn’t ever going to leave her alone, was he? She could be undressed and lying on her Beautyrest Black, listening to the meditation app Maya had downloaded for her, and he’d still be pinging her about that girl, no doubt some fresh-faced, wide-eyed little idiot with a decent voice and the ability to string three chords together.

Of course she’d be beautiful. But as far as Ruthanna was concerned, all young people were beautiful. They just had all that collagen.