car.â
âRight. But the paint did, didnât it?â I wink at him. He and Mitch, who owns Pearce Paint & Body Shop, are kings of innuendo and double-talk. Theyâve planned and executed more secret missions than the CIA.
âIâm not going to hurt your truck. Please, give me the keys.â
âYouâre not going to put tractor tires on it, are you? Or paint angry, hood-eating flames across the front?â
He narrows his eyes. âNo, but I still think flames are a great idea.â
âNo flames.â We had this argument at Christmas. He wanted to paint flames on my hood as a present. I refused. Got a yearâs worth of guitar strings instead. Good man.
âLet me have your truck.â He leans down to my ear. âPlease.â
His warm breath melts every âNoâ in my body. âO-okay.â Is it hot in here?
He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me tight to kiss me. âIâll come by tonight and pick it up.â The man has the best lips. âAnd just to clarify, I did not touch Reedâs car.â
I laugh as he releases me. âLiar.â A mental picture of Reedâs pink car pops into my head. Got to be a song in there somewhere. Right up there with a boy named Sue. I pull my black notebook and pen from my apron pocket and flip to a blank page. âBy the way,â I say to Ricky, âI leave Monday at eight.â
He turns to leave. âSheâll be ready.â
Monday morning the sun burns away the first layers of fog as I wait for Daddy on the back porch. A low rumble of fear has me thinking I might change my mind, but I grapple it down.
Iâve rented the third-floor apartment from Jeeterâs friend, a Nashville artist named Birdie Griffin who had a pretty good run as a star in the â70s and â80s. I also called cousin Skyler Banks. Her momma is Daddyâs sister, Louise. âAbout time,â Skyler said when I told her my plan.
Yesterday I sat with Ricky in church. âHowâs my truck?â I asked before worship started.
âNot pink.â
âGood.â I elbowed him in the ribs.
âSo, what about us?â he asked, resting his arm around my shoulders on the back of the pew.
I wave at Mrs. Stebbins. âWhat about us?â
Ricky turns my chin so weâre eye to eye. âAre we broken up?â
âCan we just wait and see?â I couldnât bring myself to say something final like âItâs over.â Especially with Mary Lu on the prowl. Is that horrible?
âFor now,â he agreed.
So here it is Monday morning, and Iâm about to take flight. On the porch next to me, Daddyâs big leather suitcase is stuffed to the gills, along with the Wal-Mart tote Arizona insisted on buying me. Plus a box of bedding and such, and my guitar. Birdie called Sunday evening to remind me that the apartment is furnished, so no need to bring anything but clothes and trinkets.
After I hung up with her, Momma warned, âBe careful, Robin Raeâcheck for fleas and lice when you get there.â
âFleas and lice? Momma, sheâs a respectable lady, not a bordello madam.â
âDonât be snippy. Iâm just saying . . . if you need anything, call and weâll run it up to you.â She bonked a head of lettuce against the counter and pulled it apart.
Grandma gave me a basket of goodies. Two jugs of her tea, a tin of ginger cookies, and my favorite coffee mug of hers. âGotta have something of the old home.â
Momma handed me two goose-down pillows and the quilt from my old bed. âYouâll need these.â
I felt like it was 1880, and I was going West on a wagon train never to be heard from again. Goose-down pillows, a quilt, and âsomething of the old homeâ? Nashville is two hours away.
âReady?â Daddy steps onto the porch and hands me a bag of licorice.
âWow,â I whisper. âThis is a huge
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