Chapter 24: Front Row

The record came out in the spring.

The first place I sang it was a theater in Charleston with nine hundred seats.

Darlene had gone to her sister's house in Knoxville and withdrawn her custody petition by mail.

Sonya's lawyers had stopped calling when the deputies' paperwork reached the district attorney.

I did not open the letter Darlene sent after that.

It sat unopened in the kitchen drawer, and for the first time, it did not weigh anything.

Backstage, the dressing room smelled of coffee and hairspray.

Birdie sat on the sofa in a green velvet dress, with one yellow raincoat sleeve pulled over her wrist.

That was the compromise.

She wore the paper crown too, soft now from handling.

Gus was under the make-up table with his fox, supervising the cables.

Colt stood in the doorway in a clean white shirt, with his hat in his hands.

"I'll go find my seat," he said.

"Wait."

He waited.

I picked up the program from the table.

On the cover, in plain black letters, it said: The new album by Linnea Averill. Every song written by Linnea Averill.

I held it up so he could read it.

"I read the proof six times," I said. "I kept thinking someone would take it off."

"Nobody's going to."

"I know." I put it down. "Come here. I want you to hear something before anyone else does."

His face changed.

I sat at the little upright piano in the corner of the room and opened the lid.

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