His voice was low and intimate, and Ruthanna felt the flush move from her cheeks all the way down to her chest. They’d known and loved each other for so long, hadn’t they? They’d always been such good friends.

  But feelings could change, and one kind of love could blossom into another when you least expected it. Was that what was happening now? Or had it already been happening, slowly but surely over all those years? What would it be like if she didn’t send him home tonight?

  Flustered, she took a big gulp of wine and nearly choked on it.

  “You okay?” he asked, looking at her quizzically.

  Instead of answering, Ruthanna reached out and grabbed her guitar. Holding it against her like a shield to guard her heart, she felt better instantly. Everything was under control.

  “You want to hear a song?” she asked.

  Jack gazed at her for a moment, and then he sort of shook himself and smiled. “Retired,” he said. “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s a yes or no question,” Ruthanna said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course I do.”

  Chapter

  47

  Okay, you sit down right here,” Ruthanna said, gently pushing AnnieLee toward a poolside chair. “And don’t be nervous: Poppy’s a brilliant hairstylist.”

  AnnieLee, who’d played the last eight nights in clubs all around Nashville, was more than happy to follow any orders involving the word sit. She felt as though Poppy could shave her head bald and she’d be too tired to even care.

  Poppy, whose wide face and high cheekbones made her look like a young Debbie Harry, ran her fingers through AnnieLee’s long hair, which was still wet from the shower.

  “Virgin?” Poppy asked.

  AnnieLee stared at her in shock. “Excuse me?”

  Ruthanna burst into laughter, but AnnieLee couldn’t imagine what was so funny. “What? What does she mean?”

  “She meant has your hair ever been colored,” Ruthanna said. “Virgin hair is unprocessed.”

  AnnieLee could’ve died right then and there. “Oh,” she said. “I thought—”

  Poppy gently brushed one of AnnieLee’s dark waves away from her cheek. “It was pretty obvious what you thought, love,” she said.

  “I’ve used a box dye once or twice,” AnnieLee said stiffly, trying to regain some of her dignity. She’d never had a professional haircut, though, and the mani-pedi Ruthanna had treated her to yesterday was her first.

  “Well, the color is gorgeous,” the stylist said. “I won’t mess with it.”

  As Poppy began combing, misting, and snipping strands of her hair with the utmost care and tenderness, AnnieLee started to relax again. She was toying with a new melody in her head, feeling almost as if she could drift into a nap, when Ruthanna’s phone dinged with a text.

  “Okay. Eileen Jackson will be here any minute,” Ruthanna said.

  “Who’s Eileen Jackson?” AnnieLee asked drowsily, and only to be polite.

  “She’s the publicist you’re hiring,” Ruthanna said. “She’s flying in from Los Angeles.”

  “Wait. What?” AnnieLee said, sitting up straight and suddenly wide-awake. “What for?”

  Ruthanna took a sip of the smoothie Maya had pressed into her hand. “Jack says that now you’ve got a label, it’s time you got a publicist, and since he’s your manager, you’re supposed to listen to him.”

  Poppy’s scissors clicked across AnnieLee’s back, and the bright, metallic sound reminded her of brushes tapping on a snare drum. “I thought he said I needed a lawyer,” AnnieLee said.

  “And he was right. But the bigger you get, the more people you need,” Ruthanna said. “You’ll probably want to think about hiring an assistant at some point, too.” She flashed a sly grin at Maya. “Though I’d recommend one who doesn’t make you drink kale and bee pollen smoothies, or whatever the heck this is.”

  “Don’t even pretend you don’t love them,” Maya said huffily.

  “Is this a ‘fake it till you make it’ kind of thing?” AnnieLee asked. “Sure, I’m getting a name around Nashville, but I don’t even have an album yet.”

  “If I had to bet, I’d say this was the calm before the storm. It’s best to get your team in place.”

  AnnieLee’s hair was just beginning to fall into long, elegant layers when Eileen Jackson appeared on the pool deck in a chic white dress and towering, leopard-spotted heels. Her cool, confident demeanor wavered ever so slightly when she saw Ruthanna, and AnnieLee thought she detected an expression of barely concealed awe.

  AnnieLee smiled to herself. Ruthanna Ryder tended to have that effect on people.

  But Ruthanna, ever the gracious Southern host, rose to greet her. “Welcome to Nashville,” she said. “I hope your flight was all right.”

  “Turbulent, but the Bloody Mary helped.” Eileen smiled. “It’s such an honor to meet you.” She looked over at AnnieLee as Poppy twisted a section of her hair and pinned it on top of her head. “An honor to meet you both,” Eileen clarified.

  AnnieLee offered up a tiny wave and said, “Hi, I like your shoes,” because it seemed like a friendly thing to say. Certainly it was better than Nice ankle breakers, which had been her first thought.

  Eileen said, “You’re taking such good care of your little discovery, Ms. Ryder.”

  Ruthanna laughed. “I wouldn’t call her little if I were you.”

  AnnieLee would rather not be called anyone’s discovery, either—it wasn’t as if Ruthanna had found her underneath the tree near the Cumberland River—but she kept her mouth shut.

  “Are you enjoying the pampering?” Eileen asked her.

  AnnieLee stretched out a leg to admire her pedicure. “I’m definitely not complaining,” she said.

  “Well, good, because it comes with the territory,” Eileen said. “Celebrities should look like the glittering stars their fans think they are. Right, Ruthanna?”

  “I try to look reasonably nice most days,” Ruthanna allowed—an understatement if there ever was one.

  “But I’m not actually a celebrity,” AnnieLee pointed out.

  “You will be,” Eileen said firmly.

  “You got a crystal ball in your purse?”

  Eileen looked at her very seriously. “No, AnnieLee, I don’t. I can’t see into the future. But I’ve been in the business for a long time, and I’m excellent at seeing what’s inside a person. Talent’s not enough, I know that for sure. You’ve got to have something else. Something bigger and deeper. People call it star power, I guess, but the fact is, you’ve got to have it in spades before you’re a star.”

  Poppy unclipped AnnieLee’s hair and came around to inspect it from the front. “Almost done,” she said.

  Eileen perched on the edge of a glass-topped table and crossed her long legs at the ankles. “My job, AnnieLee, is to help the world see that you’re that star. We’ll start with social—Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter—and build you a following. ACD’s very big on social, and you want to show them that you’re a team player. Then we’ll focus on interviews with magazines and late-night. Eventually we can get endorsement deals, too; those are great. I’ll make good things happen, AnnieLee.” She ran a hand through her glossy bob. “And if bad things happen—like if you trash a hotel room or shoplift a six-hundred-dollar scarf from Bergdorf’s—I’ll keep it out of the tabloids.”

  AnnieLee nodded slowly, taking this in. She’d spent a decade of her life dreaming of being up on a stage, but she’d never thought about anything beyond the music. She hadn’t imagined that trying to make it as a singer would involve so many other people and so many new obligations.

  She closed her eyes as Poppy began blow-drying her hair. Eileen’s chatter sounded like a lot of promises to her. A lot of things that didn’t have anything to do with songwriting.

  “The question is,” Eileen said, “what story are we going to tell the world about you?”

  No one said anything for a while, and AnnieLee realized that they were waiting for her to speak. She opened her eyes to find Eileen gazing at her.

  “Who are you, AnnieLee?” the publicist asked.

  AnnieLee felt a sudden jolt of adrenaline. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, as calmly as she could. This was a professional question, wasn’t it? There was no way this woman could actually know any secrets about her past.

  “Can you turn that dryer off for a minute?” Eileen asked Poppy.

  Poppy obediently clicked it off.

  “Are you the girl next door, AnnieLee?” Eileen asked. “Are you country music’s Cinderella story? Or Ruthanna’s anointed successor? Or just a backwoods innocent, stumbling into superstardom?”

  AnnieLee swiveled around to look at Poppy. “Actually, could you please finish the blow-dry?” she asked quietly.

  As the hot air rushed around her head, AnnieLee squeezed her eyes shut again. She’d only come to Ruthanna’s for a haircut, and this line of questioning felt overwhelming. Eileen was tough and smart, but did she expect AnnieLee to pick out a persona the way she could pick out a dress? And what was wrong with who she was right now? Did she have to put a label on herself for the world to understand her?

  She could hear Eileen talking about how important it was to take the image aspect of her career seriously—that social media was a necessity these days, and that building a brand identity was the best way to keep ACD happy.

  AnnieLee remembered the night she’d sung “Two Doors Down” for Spider, and how she’d left the bar that night feeling like she’d been part of something new and bright and real. Would any of those people care if she posted selfies on Instagram? If she had an endorsement deal with Vitaminwater?

  The dryer whined, blowing a D and a B flat simultaneously, as Eileen went on about maximizing followers and building synergistic partnerships.

  “Is she even paying attention?” she heard Eileen ask eventually.

  Ruthanna gave a low chuckle. “Oh, believe me,” she said, “AnnieLee’s tracking every word.” She paused. “She’s going to take it all in and turn it all over. And she’ll do whatever she thinks is right.”

  The blow-dryer finally shut off, and Poppy appeared in front of AnnieLee with a handheld mirror. “Behold the glory that is you!” the stylist said, without even a trace of irony.

  AnnieLee’s dark hair fell in smooth, luxurious waves over her shoulders, while a sweep of a shorter layer slipped teasingly down in front of her right eye. She looked sultry, innocent, and defiant all at once.

  “Prettier than a picture,” Ruthanna said.

  “Speaking of pictures,” Eileen said, pulling out her phone and snapping one. “It’s perfect for your Insta.”

  AnnieLee was about to protest, but then Eileen knelt down and looked her in the eye. “We can handle the social media. Just think hard about who you are,” she said gently. “And who you want to be. The truth—whatever that may look like—doesn’t really matter. There’s only what you tell us, and what you’ll have us believe.”

  AnnieLee rubbed her hip, where there was still the faintest ghost of a bruise, a visual marker of a past that didn’t want to leave her alone.

  The truth doesn’t matter? she thought. If only it were that simple.

  Chapter

  48

  All this for us?” AnnieLee asked, glancing around the clean white cabin of Ruthanna’s small private jet. “Shoot, I was impressed by Delta. They had those cute peanut packets.”

  “A Bombardier’s a little nicer than Delta,” Ethan agreed. “And it’s a lot nicer than hitchhiking.”

  “No kidding.” AnnieLee set down her duffel bag and sank into her seat. “I still can’t believe any of this is happening.” She shot a warning look at Ethan. “But you don’t need to pinch me again, in case you were thinking about it.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Never.”

  It had been an exhausting, exhilarating few weeks. First she’d moved out of the Pepto-Bismol motel room and into a rented cottage in the neighborhood of Hope Gardens; it felt like the first real home she’d had in years. And then, after talks with her manager, her lawyer, and her label, AnnieLee had released two more singles on the same August day. Though ACD had initially been against the idea, AnnieLee had insisted that the songs go out into the world together, like the A and B sides of an old-fashioned 45.

  Even more unusual than a double release, the tracks weren’t fully produced, perfected, and mastered. Instead, they were the ones that she’d recorded in Ruthanna’s home studio: the Cellar Sessions, AnnieLee called them. People loved them, even more than she’d dared to hope, and an influential music critic tweeted that AnnieLee would be the next Taylor Swift—“but fierier and fiercer, with a voice so raw and gorgeous it’ll make your jaw drop or your eyeballs leak. Or both.” ACD was thrilled, and now—rather than release an EP—they wanted AnnieLee to write more songs so she could put out a full-length album instead.

  Ethan waved a hand in front of her face. “Hello? Buckle up,” he said, and soon the jet had risen above the clouds, where it then seemed to float as smoothly as if gravity had suspended its rules just for them.

  AnnieLee gazed out the window at the endless blue sky. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  “Try riding in an Apache over a Taliban stronghold,” Ethan said.

  “That sounds terrifying,” AnnieLee said. “But I didn’t mean I was afraid of flying.”

  She’d been profiled in Rolling Stone’s “Ten Women to Watch Out For” feature, and so she was heading to LA for a photo shoot and an interview, which was far more frightening than streaking along at thirty-five thousand feet above the earth. Far too soon, the plane made its graceful descent, landing at Van Nuys Airport, twenty miles from downtown Los Angeles, where a car was waiting to take them to the photographer’s studio.

  On the top floor of a refurbished warehouse in the Arts District, Eileen Jackson greeted them like old friends—even Ethan, whom she’d never met but took an instant liking to.

  I’m sure it has nothing to do with his smoldering good looks, AnnieLee thought wryly.

  Eileen directed Ethan to go wait in the studio, and then she took AnnieLee by the elbow and steered her into a stark room lined with three large clothing racks, all of them full.

  “As you can see, we’ve sourced pieces from a number of designers,” Eileen said. “This is Rachel, who’ll be styling you today.”

  Rachel was tall, pretty, and probably deliberately underfed. “Who do you like to wear, AnnieLee?” she asked.

  AnnieLee looked down at her outfit: jeans, Fryes, and a T-shirt she’d stolen from Ethan that said CASH NELSON JENNINGS on it. “Don’t you mean what?”

  Rachel laughed as if AnnieLee had made a joke. “I meant which designers. Rag & Bone? Burberry? Oscar de la Renta?”

  The stylist clearly had no idea what a ridiculous question this was. “Honestly, I don’t give much thought to clothing,” AnnieLee said, “as long as it covers the bits it’s supposed to.”

  Rachel gave another bright laugh, although it seemed a bit forced this time. “No worries,” she said. “We’ll just play around, then.” She slid several dresses off the rack to her left and laid them out on a table. “A classic little black number, something with a little flounce—and how about this Monique Lhuillier? Oh, and try this one, too. The garnet works great with your coloring. It’ll make your eyes pop.” She spoke over her shoulder as she kept thumbing through the clothes. “You can just change right here. Try this one, too. And this.” Then she turned around and blinked at AnnieLee and the pile of dresses on the table. “All right, that’s good for now, don’t you think? I’ll go grab shoes.”

  Then she was gone, and AnnieLee was alone among a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of clothing. After a moment’s hesitation, she undressed. She grabbed the black sheath that Rachel had picked and stepped into it. The fabric felt cool and elegant against her skin. She zipped it up, gathered her hair into a topknot, and stepped barefoot in front of the mirror. She turned this way and that, squinting at this new version of herself.

  “You look like Audrey Hepburn!” Rachel exclaimed, coming back in with an armful of heels.

  “Really?” AnnieLee said. “I think I look like I should be going to a funeral.”

  “Try the garnet Burberry, then,” Rachel suggested. “You want to love what you’re wearing.”

  The Burberry was beautiful, but it showed too much cleavage. AnnieLee didn’t like the flouncy Carolina Herrera at all, or the minidress with the eyelet trim. Finally she slithered into the floor-length yellow gown that Rachel had picked out for her, and when she looked in the mirror, she almost gasped. It fit perfectly, from the graceful neckline to the way it skimmed her slim hips. The dress was exquisite, delicate—“totally hand-sewn,” Rachel said proudly.

  “Wow,” AnnieLee whispered. “I didn’t know I could look like this.”

  Rachel beamed at her. “Just wait until you get out of hair and makeup.”

  In another room, sitting before a huge, illuminated mirror, AnnieLee watched as a makeup artist rubbed bronzer and then blush into her cheeks, brushed smoky gray eye shadow onto her lids, and outlined her eyes in black kohl. A neutral lipstick with a touch of gloss made her mouth look lush and pouty. Then a stylist curled and sprayed AnnieLee’s dark locks, arranging them into cascading waves with even more care than Poppy had taken.

  Once the makeover process was complete, AnnieLee went out to meet the photographer, Tyson Mitchell, in the studio. He was standing in front of a carefully constructed set that looked like the dark corner of a dive bar, complete with a nicked table, two crooked chairs, and a handful of empty beer cans placed artfully here and there. A guitar leaned against the painted backdrop.

  Tyson Mitchell held out his arms in delight as she approached. “You look like an absolute queen,” he said. “I’d fall down at your feet, but my knees don’t allow that kind of thing anymore.”

  Eileen giggled girlishly. “Tyson is a relentless flatterer,” she said. “It’s one of the reasons I love working with him.”