Somebody's Baby Read online

  Lindsey picked at her coverlet, took time before answering. “More afraid of him than in love with him.”

  Her answer surprised Sloan. “Afraid? What do you mean?”

  “That answer will have to wait for another day. The only thing I can say for sure is that our son was the only good thing Bo Ridley ever did for me.”

  Just then Toby scooted into the room wearing soccer shorts and a too-large Hulk the Avenger T-shirt, and carrying a lidded tumbler of ice water. “I brought your water, Mama.” He set the tumbler on her nightstand.

  Sloan stood, Lindsey opened her arms, and Toby carefully slid into her embrace. “Thank you, Little Man.” She buried her nose in his hair. “Now you smell like my sweet son.”

  “I smell like a girl,” he grumbled. “I used Gloria’s shampoo—stinky flowers. She never remembers to buy the stuff I like.”

  Sloan had moved away to stand near the door. Watching Toby and Lindsey’s hug made her heart take a stutter step as she imagined the weight of his child’s arms around her neck.

  “You mean that bubble-gum-scented shampoo?” Lindsey asked, running fingers through his damp hair. “I’ll ask her to buy it next time she goes to the store. Now be a sweetheart and get Mama her pills. I need some rest.”

  He hopped up from the bed. Sloan started forward, but Toby frowned up at her. “I can do it. Don’t need no help.”

  “He does it all the time,” Lindsey assured Sloan. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  He went to the dresser, stood on a step stool, and sorted through the numerous prescription bottles. Sloan noticed that every bottle was banded with a strip of either dark blue or yellow tape. Some bottles wore both colors. For day and night, Sloan imagined. Toby carefully popped caps off and shook pills into a small dish, stepped off the stool, and carried the dish to his mother. It looked like a bowl of confetti. Lindsey took each pill with a sip of water from the tumbler, and when all had been swallowed, Toby walked the empty dish back to the dresser.

  “Now you two go on,” Lindsey said. “I’m sure Gloria will be here shortly.”

  In the living room, Toby and Sloan sat on opposite ends of the sofa. She felt awkward, unsure what to say or do. She’d just watched a six-year-old boy give his mother a dishful of cancer drugs as if it were a common ordinary event performed by every six-year-old.

  Toby said, “You don’t have to stay, you know. I can stay awake until Gloria comes. I do it all the time.”

  Sloan knew there was no way she’d walk out the door and leave Toby and Lindsey alone. LaDonna had often left Sloan when she was a child growing up, and Sloan remembered feeling afraid of every sound, every imagined bump in the night. She also saw that Toby’s eyelids were drooping. She glanced at the TV and saw a video game box. “You play games on that?”

  “Course! Mama used to play the games with me…not so much anymore. Gloria doesn’t like to play, so Cole plays when he’s got time.”

  “How about playing a game with me?”

  Toby looked surprised. “You can play?”

  She sometimes resorted to gaming boxes in hotel rooms when there wasn’t anything to watch on TV or if she couldn’t sleep. She also thought back to her high school days in Dawson’s basement bedroom, where the two of them passed hours on cold or rainy afternoons playing video as well as other games. Sloan told Toby, “I’m pretty good. Show me what you got.”

  Toby tucked a game CD into the box and brought both controllers to the sofa, then handed one to Sloan. “My favorite game is Alien Space Invaders….You know how to play it?”

  “No, but you can teach me.”

  The game was simple. Flying saucers hovered in a blue sky and dumped blobs of invaders onto a grassy field where Toby, a figure dressed in laser green, and Sloan, an image robed in bright blue, popped up over brick walls to shoot down the aliens that were blasting fiery streams from their guns. The more Toby and Sloan shot down the invaders, the more rapidly the aliens flowed from the saucers. Toby’s face was a study in concentration. “Know what I pretend?” he asked as his thumbs flew on the control buttons.

  “Tell me.”

  “I pretend the invaders are Mama’s cancer cells, and so every time I take one out, it dies and can’t hurt her.” The words were so honest and touching that Sloan forgot to fire, and her protective virtual wall got a hole blown in it. “Watch out!” Toby yelped, firing at the black-robed enemy storming Sloan’s wall. “They almost got you.”

  “Sorry…thanks for the assist.”

  They were still playing when the front door opened and Gloria shuffled into the room. “Sorry I’m late.” She dropped into the recliner, gave Sloan an exhausted look. “One of our dementia patients got out of his ward and put us on lockdown. No one could leave the nursing home until we found him. He was hiding in a cabinet under the kitchen sink.” She shook her head. “Cole texted me that you were staying with Lindsey.”

  “And me!” Toby said, exasperated.

  “Well, of course, you.”

  “I had good company,” Sloan said, standing and smiling down at the boy. She started for the door.

  Toby rushed after her. Gloria stayed put in the chair. At the door Toby tugged on Sloan’s hand. “Will you come back soon?”

  She peered into his exotic-colored eyes, almost gold, tinged with green, and teased, “So you can beat me in Alien Space Invaders?”

  “Naw…” His smile was sheepish, but his brow quickly furrowed. “Because when you come, it makes my mama happy.”

  Emotion balled in her throat. She nodded, left, and walked swiftly to her car, where she stopped and took deep breaths of the night air, unable to release the image of Toby’s upturned face. What was it Cole had told her? “Toby’s way too old for his age.” She understood the comment now. Toby was an old soul—as she had been—a player in a world where childhoods were contaminated, his by cancer, hers by alcohol. Visions of grasping hands formed in her mind, making her gag. She glanced across the dark distance to Cole’s house, where the party was long over. And for an instant she saw a figure on the deck, a man resting forearms on the railing. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the figure had vanished. Sloan turned, yanked open the car door, got in and started the engine, revved the motor, and sped away.

  “Five months! Are you serious, Lani?”

  “Almost six,” Lani said, remembering she’d have a few weeks of clinic duty once classroom work ended. “But Memphis is only five hours away. I—I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  “I’m glad about the offer, but you’ll have to move if you take it, and I can’t move with you. I have a job and school and a new project starting.”

  Lani hadn’t been prepared for Dawson’s reaction. “There’s a stipend for an apartment included with the fellowship, and I’ll get a paycheck, plus learn a whole new discipline. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. I don’t want to turn it down.”

  “And I’m guessing Melody thinks it’s a great idea for you to go.”

  “I haven’t told her, Dawson. I’m telling you first because you’re always first in my life.”

  Dawson felt a flare of regret for his initial reaction, and stopped pacing his living room floor. May sunshine pooled through the sliding glass balcony doors and puddled on the carpet, leaching the gray color from the fibers. “And you’re first in my life, and I can’t imagine us being apart until December.”

  Lani stood on the kitchen side of the freestanding counter that divided the cooking space from the living room and acted as a physical barrier, much as her news acted as an emotional one. Days before, Mrs. Trammell, head of nursing, had called Lani into a special meeting, where Lani had heard about an addition to be built onto the Arie Winslow Cancer Center—a children’s wing, specializing in pediatric cancers. Thanks to a generous donation from a benefactor, ground breaking and construction would begin in June. Mrs. Trammell was offering Lani a fellowship to St. Jude’s, a premier children’s cancer hospital in Memphis. The fellowship would pay Lani’s wa
y so that she could study cutting-edge procedures in childhood oncology, while also getting hands-on clinical training as a nurse for children with cancer.

  “Don’t you know I’ll miss you too?” she said. “Being with you is my dream come true, but this is my dream too. I’ve always loved pediatric nursing, and you know that.”

  “Windemere hospital has a pediatric floor.” He said the words softly, not meaning to bruise the tender spot on her spirit.

  “I—I don’t want general pediatrics. I’ve learned so much working in adult oncology, and this fellowship is a gift, a way to help children diagnosed with cancer, and I’m the nurse Mrs. Trammell has selected for it. Once I come back, I’ll be in a position to help build the new program. I don’t like the idea of moving away either, but if I’m going to advance my career, I must go. I’ll drive home every chance I get, and you can come to Memphis whenever you can break free. The time will fly—I promise.” This fellowship offer seemed golden to her. She loved Dawson, but starting fresh in a new place, in a challenging learning environment, was her final hurdle to overcoming all that was holding her back.

  She stepped from around the counter that separated them, went over, put her arms around him, and laid her cheek on his chest. He stood stiffly, rejecting her overtures. What Dawson saw were long lonely weeks without her. Selfish, he knew, but he loved her, and hated the idea of not having her close to him. Moments passed, but she didn’t let go, and soon, despite his resistance, he felt the turmoil within begin to calm and his heart soften. The fellowship would mean separation, loneliness, and isolation for them both. The distance between them was only geographical. Their plans and dreams were not lost, merely deferred.

  Sloan’s nerves were piano-wire tight. She waited with Terri in a small kitchenette of a recording studio for a producer, a man who would help her create an album that could be life-changing. Terri had taken a red-eye from LA last night, picked Sloan up in a rental car this morning, and driven them to an inconspicuous small brick building in a seedier part of downtown Nashville. Terri had talked nonstop about the producer, telling Sloan, “He doesn’t take just anybody, Sloan, but the minute I mentioned your name, he said yes to an interview.” A receptionist had shown them to the kitchen area, where she had asked them to wait. Sloan had been in several recording studios, many small, but this one was totally lacking in charm. Sensing Sloan’s uneasiness when parking, Terri had said, “What matters is the equipment inside and the genius of the producer you’re going to meet. Believe me, some of the top talent in the country record here.”

  The room, painted yellow and in need of a fresh coat, reminded Sloan of a cheap deli. She took a sip of water from her water bottle, trying to block out the smell of coffee left too long sitting on a warming plate near a portable microwave oven. Her mouth felt bone-dry.

  A man breezed into the space, and Terri jumped up, her face lit with a smile. “Conner! Good to see you.”

  The man was tall and thin, wore faded jeans and scuffed boots, had a face deeply lined by too much sun, and wore his gray hair in a long ponytail tied with a rawhide cord. His brown eyes took in Sloan, and he held out a roughened hand. “Conner Callahan. Sorry to keep you waiting. Had a horse emergency at my ranch.”

  Sloan shook his calloused hand, feeling unimpressed.

  “So you’re the gal with that knock-’em-dead voice and a song rocketing up the charts. That song has legs, lady. It’s gonna be around for some time, I’m betting. Pleased to meet you.” His voice held a thick drawl and sounded gravelly, but his smile was a force of nature. He poured himself a cup of what looked like sludge from the coffee carafe and sat across from Sloan and Terri in an old metal kitchenette chair.

  “So far, since winning the contest, my life’s been a rocket ride, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Call me CC…everybody does.” He sipped the coffee, locked his fingers around the cup. “Frankly, I’m not a fan of singing contests, Sloan. Mostly because they turn into popularity contests, and the best singers don’t always win.” She braced herself for criticism. “But in your case, they got it right.” Again, his smile. “My wife’s a fan of the show, and toward the end, close to the finals, she says, ‘Conner, sit down and listen to this girl.’ Now, we been married almost fifty years, and she’s a gem, but bless her heart, she can’t carry a tune in a bucket.” He took a mouthful of coffee, swallowed. “But what she can do is peg good talent, so when she says ‘Listen,’ I do.”

  Sloan figured he was making a point, but he hadn’t quite gotten to telling her what she needed to hear—that he would produce her album. Neither had Terri interrupted with hyperbole about her client, which was a sign of reverence for an agent like Terri Levine, who always had something to say.

  Conner asked, “You know what makes a great singer?” Unwilling to venture a guess, Sloan gave a demure shrug. He said, “There are three things, in my opinion…a great voice, the right song, and a singer’s delivery or interpretation of a song. A lot of singers come and go. Plenty are one-hit wonders. They have a song that grabs the public’s ear, and it zooms to the top of the charts.” He scooted one hand up in the air. “But, unfortunately, these same singers can’t seem to do it time after time. And that’s what I look for in a singer, one who can do it more than once or twice.”

  Sloan’s heart sank. Was he warning her that she might not be able to repeat a success?

  “Know why?” Conner asked. Again, her shrug. “You know Patsy Cline’s song ‘Crazy,’ don’t you?” She nodded, hummed some of it, making him break open another grin. “Did you know that Willie Nelson wrote that song?” She didn’t. “Willie couldn’t find any of his buddy singers to take it. He sang it in a fast tempo, but still no takers. Finally Patsy got hold of it, slowed the tempo, reinterpreted it, put her voice brand on it, and turned it into a classic.”

  Sloan thought the information interesting but didn’t understand how it applied to her.

  Conner leaned forward, his eyes on Sloan’s. “First time my wife brought me ‘Somebody’s Baby,’ I got chills up my spine. That’s one hell of a song, little lady.”

  Sloan felt moisture skim her eyes, blinked it away. “Thank you.” She hastily added, “But I usually sing others’ songs.” She hoped Terri had told him she wasn’t a lyricist.

  He shook his head. “Lot of the top voices don’t write their own music. But they sure know how to deliver a good song that people like to hear. When Terri called me and asked me to take on your album, I knew I had to do it.”

  She had been unprepared for the ease of his acceptance. “I—I appreciate—”

  He held up his hand. “You got two things going for you—two things that come with top-tier singers—talent and an ability to connect with an audience. What you need are the right songs. So I’ve already talked to some of my best songwriters and got them working on songs for you.”

  “Really?” Sloan felt breathless, as if she’d been riding a roller coaster.

  “Fair warning. You will work harder than you ever have in your life, Sloan. You’ll hate me and you’ll love me, but when we’re finished, I predict we’ll have an album that will make its mark on the country music world. And if it makes enough of a mark, it’ll cross over to other charts. Best of both worlds.”

  Now Sloan grinned and eyed Terri, who gave Sloan a Didn’t I tell you so wink. “Conner’s the best.”

  He added, “We’re calling the album Somebody’s Baby, ’cause the single’s already a hit. I have a CMT video in the works for the song too.”

  Sloan swallowed hard, felt her insides quiver, and told herself she could distance herself from the song and perform it for video. Her emotional specialty was disconnecting on the inside from the things she didn’t want to deal with. She would do this from now on when she performed the song. Push away. Forget. “I look forward to working with you.”

  Conner stood and stretched. “I want you here in the studio at four tomorrow afternoon so we can get to work on one of those songs you picked out in LA. Only one I
want to use. Now come on, and I’ll show you the studio where we’ll be working and introduce you to a few people you’ll be working with.” He stopped, hung his head slightly, let out a sigh. “I’m acting like a charging bull….My wife says I get too carried away, and I forgot to say that Terri’s told me about your sister, her cancer and all.”

  Sloan sidled a sideways glance at Terri, who shrugged, but Sloan trusted that Terri had her reasons for telling the producer. To Conner, Sloan said, “Her name’s Lindsey, and she’s very sick.”

  “I won’t be insensitive to that pull on your time, Sloan. I lost a brother to cancer, and I know what it feels like to watch someone you love dying and you not being able to do anything about it. You just have to tell me when you have to cut out of here. But until you do, we work.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “Come on now. Let me show you off. Everybody working here wants to meet the gal who sings the song that makes ’em cry.”

  “So how are things going between you and my sister?”

  Lindsey’s question caused Cole to turn his attention from the road to offer her a long stare. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing going on between me and Sloan.” Cole was taking Lindsey to her two-hour chemo infusion appointment at the hospital, before heading to the firehouse for his shift. She liked to go while Toby was in school, get home, and recover somewhat before his school bus dropped him in the afternoon.

  Lindsey gave him a smug smile. “Not sure I’m believing that, Cole Langston.” Lindsey crossed her arms. “You better look where you’re driving, or you’ll put this truck in a ditch and both of us with it.” He turned his attention toward the road, adjusted his steering. “I have cancer, Cole, but I’m not addled. I see the way you two look at each other.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Like you were two ice cream cones that each wanted to lick.” She laughed at her own clever wording.