sadness, the same one she felt whenever she thought of those last weeks.
She’d done what she could. She couldn’t keep him alive, but she could keep him from worrying about what would happen when he was gone.
Now she’d have to get used to doing this all over again, to getting up on a stage and singing.
Her stomach twisted itself into a knot. Her palms were suddenly damp. You can do this. You want to do this.
She did. Maybe not as much as she’d once thought, but still. And maybe she needed to prove something—to Nashville and to herself.
MG sighed, running a hand across her forehead. What she mainly felt right now was tired. Her feet ached. Her back ached. By next Wednesday she might be used to this schedule, but right now the thought of getting up to gather eggs, putting in eight or nine hours at the Rose and then going over to Dewey’s club in Oltdorf to do a thirty-minute set made her head hurt. On the other hand, it was one more source of income to throw at the bottomless sinkhole that was Aunt Nedda’s pocket.
That’s the way to think of it. I’m only in it for the money, right?
She checked the clock on the wall next to the television set. Eight-thirty and she was ready for bed. Oh well, like they say, early to bed, early to rise, healthy, wealthy and wise. Emphasis on wealthy , please.
Chapter Six
Nedda considered the barren front yard of Lloyd Kurtz’s farm—packed black dirt flecked with white lumps of rock and the occasional tuft of gray-green rye grass. It looked like he was growing a fine crop of limestone.
Clearly, he’d let his goats graze all around the place, and clearly he’d discovered what Hill Country farmers had known for generations—grass didn’t flourish with a only a half-inch of topsoil for its roots.
She sighed. Kurtz was going to go bust eventually. The real question was what she’d do with his farm once she took it back. Still, it didn’t look like he was going broke this afternoon, and he could be useful for the time being.
She strode across the baked soil, carefully avoiding the occasional goat droppings that threatened the black leather soles of her Lucchese boots.
Kurtz stepped out onto his front porch before she reached the steps. He wore overalls and a battered T-shirt. His blue baseball cap was pulled down to his bristling black eyebrows, the design on the front faded to a pale pink. Nedda felt like grimacing—if you were going to look like a cliché, at least you should make it an interesting one. “Morning, Kurtz,” she grunted.
Kurtz’s jaw tightened. “Morning, Ms. Carmody. What can I do for you?”
She allowed herself a faint smile. He wasn’t trying to bluster. At least Kurtz knew where he stood. “How’s the goat business?”
He shrugged. “Same as usual. Got ’em grazing up the road today.”
Which meant he was probably paying somebody for pasture since he didn’t have any of his own to speak of. “Glad to hear it. You got that balloon payment coming up, you know.”
His jaw flexed again. “You’ll get it. Was that what you were worried about?”
She shook her head, resting the toe of one boot on his lower step. “Not exactly. I got a proposition for you.”
Kurtz stared at her boot toe with its elaborate embroidery. Maybe he was afraid to look at her directly. Nedda wouldn’t have blamed him. “What proposition’s that?” he muttered.
She turned slightly, squinting through the pecan trees toward the drive. “You can see a good ways from here, can’t you? All the way to the next field over, looks like.” She glanced back at Kurtz.
His expression had moved from wary to confused. “Guess I can at that.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Never thought much about it.”
“Next field over is Harmon Carmody’s place,” she said flatly. “Where my niece is now.” Technically, she was a great-niece, but Nedda didn’t feel that detail was necessary.
“Yes’m, that’s true. Met her a couple weeks ago.”
She’d done what she could. She couldn’t keep him alive, but she could keep him from worrying about what would happen when he was gone.
Now she’d have to get used to doing this all over again, to getting up on a stage and singing.
Her stomach twisted itself into a knot. Her palms were suddenly damp. You can do this. You want to do this.
She did. Maybe not as much as she’d once thought, but still. And maybe she needed to prove something—to Nashville and to herself.
MG sighed, running a hand across her forehead. What she mainly felt right now was tired. Her feet ached. Her back ached. By next Wednesday she might be used to this schedule, but right now the thought of getting up to gather eggs, putting in eight or nine hours at the Rose and then going over to Dewey’s club in Oltdorf to do a thirty-minute set made her head hurt. On the other hand, it was one more source of income to throw at the bottomless sinkhole that was Aunt Nedda’s pocket.
That’s the way to think of it. I’m only in it for the money, right?
She checked the clock on the wall next to the television set. Eight-thirty and she was ready for bed. Oh well, like they say, early to bed, early to rise, healthy, wealthy and wise. Emphasis on wealthy , please.
Chapter Six
Nedda considered the barren front yard of Lloyd Kurtz’s farm—packed black dirt flecked with white lumps of rock and the occasional tuft of gray-green rye grass. It looked like he was growing a fine crop of limestone.
Clearly, he’d let his goats graze all around the place, and clearly he’d discovered what Hill Country farmers had known for generations—grass didn’t flourish with a only a half-inch of topsoil for its roots.
She sighed. Kurtz was going to go bust eventually. The real question was what she’d do with his farm once she took it back. Still, it didn’t look like he was going broke this afternoon, and he could be useful for the time being.
She strode across the baked soil, carefully avoiding the occasional goat droppings that threatened the black leather soles of her Lucchese boots.
Kurtz stepped out onto his front porch before she reached the steps. He wore overalls and a battered T-shirt. His blue baseball cap was pulled down to his bristling black eyebrows, the design on the front faded to a pale pink. Nedda felt like grimacing—if you were going to look like a cliché, at least you should make it an interesting one. “Morning, Kurtz,” she grunted.
Kurtz’s jaw tightened. “Morning, Ms. Carmody. What can I do for you?”
She allowed herself a faint smile. He wasn’t trying to bluster. At least Kurtz knew where he stood. “How’s the goat business?”
He shrugged. “Same as usual. Got ’em grazing up the road today.”
Which meant he was probably paying somebody for pasture since he didn’t have any of his own to speak of. “Glad to hear it. You got that balloon payment coming up, you know.”
His jaw flexed again. “You’ll get it. Was that what you were worried about?”
She shook her head, resting the toe of one boot on his lower step. “Not exactly. I got a proposition for you.”
Kurtz stared at her boot toe with its elaborate embroidery. Maybe he was afraid to look at her directly. Nedda wouldn’t have blamed him. “What proposition’s that?” he muttered.
She turned slightly, squinting through the pecan trees toward the drive. “You can see a good ways from here, can’t you? All the way to the next field over, looks like.” She glanced back at Kurtz.
His expression had moved from wary to confused. “Guess I can at that.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Never thought much about it.”
“Next field over is Harmon Carmody’s place,” she said flatly. “Where my niece is now.” Technically, she was a great-niece, but Nedda didn’t feel that detail was necessary.
“Yes’m, that’s true. Met her a couple weeks ago.”
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