'Yes,' he whispered sadly. 'We both agreed.'
When they kissed she was crying and his chest hurt so badly he felt as if he had broken a rib.
The kiss was bittersweet, and when it ended the embrace continued for several more heartbeats.
'Watch after Momma,' she whispered.
'I will,' he whispered back.
Then she withdrew, letting her palms slide down his arms until only their fingertips touched. They each tried smiling, doing terrible jobs of it.
' 'Bye,' she whispered.
' 'Bye,' he mouthed, his voice failing at last.
She took a step back and the contact broke, leaving his arms outstretched before they fell uselessly to his sides.
She opened his office door and looked back at him one more time before walking out of his life, back to her own.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She reached Nashville at a quarter to five, exited I-40 and wound her way toward Music Row, southeast of downtown. Home could wait. Right now she needed an infusion of what she had missed, the vitality and energy flowing from those twelve square blocks south of Division Street where the business of record producing created the heartbeat of Music City. As if its lifeblood seeped into her own and powered her, she felt invigorated as she approached her office. At the foot of Demonbreun a larger-than-life-sized likeness of Randy Travis welcomed her from a redbrick wall. Tourists moved in and out of souvenir shops and climbed the ramp into the Country Music Hall of Fame. In front of Sony's offices a sign promoted Mary Chapin Carpenter's latest album. MCA lauded Vince Gill's. Along Music Square East and West, headquarters of industry-related businesses lined both sides of the street-law firms, recording studios, video production companies, music publishing companies, ASCAP and BMI, who tracked radio usage and collected royalties, booking agencies, offices of various record labels, offices of America's best- known country recording artists, and restaurants where number-one parties were thrown for the most successful.
Her own office was located in a century-old Victorian house on Music Square West, a three-story monstrosity painted several shades of yellow with a parking lot shaded by four huge basswood trees that were nearly as old as the house itself. Out front on a wooden signpost, an oval brass plaque announced, simply, Wintergreen Enterprises. She had chosen the name to remind herself of how far she'd come from that little burg in Missouri to the top of the country charts and her place as a respected businesswoman in an industry that for decades had been dominated by men. Under the umbrella of Wintergreen Enterprises fell several individually successful companies that had each been born out of necessity or common sense. Her music-publishing company came about when she realized how many talented writers were approaching her to sing their songs, many of which had neither been copyrighted nor published yet. She figured, Why pay another publishing company royalties on her records when she could be collecting them herself? Her specialty clothing operation created custom-designed concert costumes not only for herself but for other recording artists as well. Five years ago when she'd run into a scheduling snag and been kept on tenterhooks not knowing if her posters and buttons would be made in time for one of her concerts, she had purchased a small printing company that created posters, buttons, fan club newsletters and concert programs for her. and did some highly profitable contract work for other performers as well. There was also the small fleet of jets she used and leased to others.
All of this remained secondary, however, to the phenomenally successful operation that kept Tess McPhail on top of the country charts. That operation scheduled roughly a hundred and twenty concert dates a year and provided the essential organizational force allowing her to coproduce her own albums and videos, act as talent in those videos, do publicity, keep contact with fan clubs in every major city of America, and pay the salaries of over fifty permanent employees required to keep such a behemoth operational.
And Tess McPhail oversaw every aspect of it herself.
When she walked into Wintergreen Enterprises, she walked into the hub of her success.
Physical coolness struck her full force when she opened the back door and stepped from the private rear entry through the kitchen that was now used as a copy room and canteen. She passed the former servants' stairway, the one she commonly used to reach her second-floor office, and heard the hum of various conversations as she entered the central hall. The walls throughout the house were cream, the floors were hardwood, and the windows shuttered in white to hold back Nashville's intense summer heat. Country music played softly on a built-in sound system as she entered the main hall where oversized reproductions of her album covers trimmed the walls.
Her receptionist sat at a desk with her back to the ornate stairwell, her blond hair twisted up high in back but left to trail to her shoulders from the temple.
'Hey, Jan, I'm back.'
Jan Nash swiveled her chair slowly and broke into a smile. She was in her mid-thirties, pretty as a Barbie doll and shaped like one. Jan looked smashing in a black scuba dress, her makeup fresh and flattering, silver loops at her ears. She rolled back her chair without hurry and rose in black high-heeled boots.
'Hey, Mac, welcome back. We sure missed you.' She had a pronounced Southern drawl that made 'you' sound like 'yeeuuu.'
'Thanks, Jan. It feels great to walk in here. I can't wait to get back to work.'
'Sorry to hear about Papa John.'
'Isn't it awful?'
Others heard Tess's voice and came out of the various downstairs offices to offer much the same greeting. Soon Tess moved on to her own office upstairs. It occupied the entire width of the rear, which faced east and enjoyed the dappled green shade from the basswoods outside. In a smaller adjoining office Kelly Mendoza was talking on the phone, and turned to smile when she saw her boss approaching through the connecting doorway. Kelly was Cu-ban, twenty-nine, five feet eight and regal, with a mass of long black hair as shiny as spilled ink, worn today in an explosion of ringlets. Her jet eyes tilted up at the corners and her skin was smooth and dark as a pecan shell. She was dressed in a silk suit the color of green tea with a multicolored silk scarf caught under the collar.
'Mac… welcome back.'
'It's good to be here.'
After seven years of working together, the two women hugged, but not for long. They both were geared to accomplish more in a single workday than most people accomplish in two.
Kelly said, 'I'm sorry about Papa John.'
'We all are. Do you have details about the memorial service?'
'Tomorrow morning, eleven a.m. at the Ryman, singers gathering one hour beforehand for a brief rehearsal.'
'Good. What else?'
'I've sent flowers in your name, as well as some from Wintergreen Enterprises, but you'll want to sign the sympathy card on your desk. Burt Sheer called three times since lunch and Jack wants you to call him the minute you get in. He's got studio time scheduled for Wednesday and wants to talk to you about who you want for backup singers. Peter Steinberg got a call from Disney World asking if you'd be interested in them doing a Tess McPhail Day sometime next year-short performance, be in the parade on Main Street U.S.A… do an autographing-that sort of thing. He wants you to call him. Cathy Mack has five dress designs she wants you to look at and Ralph wants to start concert rehearsals as soon as you feel like your head is above water.'
Kelly went with Tess into her office, indicating the stacks of correspondence on the console beside her desk. 'There are notes on everything I've told you. This stack needs immediate attention, this stack could wait a couple of days, and this one I've already seen to. Oh, one other thing-and this one isn't good-Carla's got an appointment with a throat specialist. That problem with her voice is still hanging on.'
Concern crimped Tess's brow. Carla not only sang backup on some of her recordings, she was also supposed to go on this tour.
