Page 71 of A Song for Another Woman

I pick up the hammer again, then put it down because my hand has gone useless. “Hal at the Whip today?”

“Usually is.”

I nod, walk out through the framed doorway, and leave Emmy’s reading nook half-trimmed behind me.

Hal Rickett is behind the bar when I come in, counting singles beneath a Bud Light sign that flickers.

The Whippoorwill smells exactly like it did when I was twenty-five and broke: beer in the floorboards, old smoke in the walls, and some sort of floor cleaner trying and failing to civilize the place. The stage is still tucked in the corner, barely raised, with black tape on the mic stand and one monitor that has always buzzed if you stand too close.

I played my first Harmony Ridge set on that stage for seventy-five dollars and two drink tickets. Emmy stood near the end of the bar in cutoffs and boots, one hip against the wood, her dark hair loose over her shoulder. She had already interviewed me on WHLR and already made me feel like a song somebody might wait up to hear.

That night, I played three originals and a cover of “Angel from Montgomery" without changing the pronouns because someone requested it. Afterward, the jukebox kicked on, slow and low, and she let me take her hand. I remember her palm in mine. I remember being so aware of my empty pockets that I almost didn’t ask. I remember her saying, “Cade Tyler, are you going to make me stand here looking cute by myself?”

I wasn't famous enough then to ruin anything on a large scale.

Hal looks up, squints, and sighs. “If you came to buy the place, turn around.”

I stop with my boot on the brass rail. “Hello to you too.”

“I know that look. Rich boy with feelings.”

“That obvious?”

“Painfully.” He stacks the singles and clips them with a rubber band. His hands shake a little. He sees me see it and slides them below the bar. “I don’t need rescuing.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. Men like you think not needing rescue is a negotiation.”

I take that because I earned more than he can possibly know. “I heard you’re closing.”

“People talk.”

“People care.”

“People care on Facebook. Then they drink at home because it’s cheaper.” He wipes a circle on the bar that’s already clean.“I’m old, Cade. I’m tired. This building eats money, and I’m about done letting it chew on me.”

I look toward the stage. The stool is the same one. One leg is shorter than the others, shimmed with a beer coaster. “What if I played Friday?” I ask.

Hal barks out a laugh. “Here?”

“Here.”

“For what?”

“For the tip jar," I answer, because saying "for free" would just piss him off more.

His face changes. “No.”

“No press,” I say. “No posters. No announcement. No ticket price. I come in with a guitar, play a set, pass the jar for the house, and leave.”

“You think people won’t find out?”

“They will.”

“Then what?”

“Then maybe they buy beer.”