A Nashville Collection by Rachel Hauck Page B

grab a donut from the bakery.” I pick a mug from the mug tree and sweeten my Maxwell House with sugar and cream. When I put the cream back in the fridge, an old note stuck to the door with a magnet catches my eye.
    Lose 25 lbs.
    The letters are faded by the years of afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window. I touch it lightly with my fingertips. I wonder if . . .
    Momma breaks into my thoughts. “You can’t move to Nashville, Robin.”
    Here we go. At three-thirty in the morning, no less. “And why not?”
    â€œYour home is here. Freedom.” She gets up to freshen her coffee, stomping the kitchen chair against the hardwood floor.
    â€œThat’s not a reason.”
    â€œYou’ll get your heart broke.”
    â€œBy who?”
    â€œMusic Row. The business. Do you know how many people move to Nashville to write songs, or to become somebody the good Lord never meant for them to be?”
    â€œWhat’d you do? Powwow with Ricky?”
    â€œAnd by the way, were you going to tell me you turned down his marriage proposal?”
    I glance out the sink window. Twilight has not yet disturbed the darkness. “Seems the town gossips beat me to it.”
    â€œYou know I volunteer at the library on Mondays.”
    I face her. “Ah, yes, the epicenter of town lore.”
    â€œHow do you think it made me feel to hear the news from Elaine McDougal?”
    â€œThen stop listening to Elaine McDougal.” I take a sip of coffee, thinking how the spiky aroma will always remind me of this kitchen.
    â€œDon’t you want to stay here and marry Ricky? Do you know how many girls would love to have what you have?” Forced cheer drives Momma’s words.
    I lift my chin and meet her gaze. “Perhaps songwriting is what the Lord created me to do.”
    She returns to her seat at the table. “I don’t think you have any idea of the Lord’s will for you.”
    Those are bodacious fighting words. “And you do?”
    â€œI’m a mite older and wiser than you, Robin, so yes, I think I have the Lord’s mind on the matter.”
    I walk over to the fridge and yank off the crusty note. “How long has this been up there?”
    Momma snatches at the edge, tearing the corner. “Don’t be smart.”
    â€œI’m serious, Momma, how long? Ten years? Twenty?”
    â€œWhat’s your point, Robin Rae?” She drops the torn edge onto the table. Her long fingers are brown from working in the spring garden, but her young face is old with worry.
    â€œMomma.” I kneel beside her. “Maybe some day you’ll tell me the truth about why you’re against me moving to Nashville, but I’m going. Accept it. I don’t want my kids finding a sticky note on the fridge that says ‘Be a songwriter.’”
    Mr. Chancy attempts a cartwheel down the back hall when I give my notice. Seriously, he tries, but he can’t manage to get his feet wheeling in the right direction. I watch him jig and jive toward the swinging doors with my face squished, my shoulders hunched, and my chin tucked to my chest. When he starts clapping and singing, I get a little offended. Was I that bad?
    His final act of celebration is to whip out his tube of Tums and plop it into the trash. Is he serious? I caused all his heartburn? Good gravy. The market value of Tums will plummet today.
    â€œYou still mad at me?” Ricky asks, leaning against the wall, his arms folded.
    â€œI reckon not.”
    The man is an ornery cuss, but he’s sweet and tender underneath. I do care for him, and there’s no use writing songs about life and how people should give up their grudges if I’m gonna hold on to one.
    He steps toward me with his blue gazed fixed on my face. “The thing with Mary Lu . . . It was nothing, Robin. You have to believe me. Mitch called on my way home, said he and some others were going to Dottie’s for her new