Lost in NashVegas Read Free Page B

auditorium to Bill Hamilton and Mike Greaves.
    â€œRobin? Dinner?” Momma calls.
    â€œYes, dinner,” I say with a sigh.
    Saturday night dinner at Bit McAfee’s is the eleventh commandment. My sister, Eliza, and little brother, Steve, are pardoned from the commandment since they live and breathe out of town, but for me it’s a requirement. I’m suspicious that the eleventh commandment is why Eliza left for college, and Steve got married and joined the Marine Corps.
    â€œBring Ricky,” Momma calls from halfway up the aisle.
    Everyone looks around at us. “All right, Momma,” I mumble, snapping the buckles on my case.
    Ricky lifts my face with a touch of his finger. “You okay?”
    â€œYeah, just worn out.”
    His very sexy blue eyes survey mine for the truth. “I guess facing your fears and your Momma in one night has to be tough.” He chuckles and bends down for a kiss.
    He thinks he’s joking, but he’s right. I walk with him toward the stage door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were one and the same.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    I shove my hair behind my ears. “Me afraid to sing on stage, Momma afraid for me to sing on stage . . . I don’t know, but something’s not right . . . or missing.”
    He waves to his friend, Mitch Pearce, who’s leaving the Hall. “You’ll figure it out.”
    â€œYeah, sure.” Typical Ricky. I try to take the conversation deep, discuss the intimate issues of my heart, and he opts for the baby pool.
    At his truck, he falls against the door and wraps me up. “See you in the morning?” He kisses me like he’s not thinking about work in the morning.
    I rub my hand over his short blond hair. “Bright and early.”
    I bolt upright to the high-pitched beeping of my alarm, my hair flopping over my eyes. Parting the strands, I stare bleary-eyed. Three a.m.
    If the good Lord meant for folks to get up before the crack of dawn, He would’ve made us all roosters and been done with it.
    But, truth be told, it’s not waking at three a.m. that bothers me. It’s the reality of the job itself—stocking shelves at Willaby’s Market & Grocery. Is this the culmination of my twenty-five years? Shelving food for the masses?
    The other day Mrs. Farmington came into the store, saw me blocking down the sardine section, and said in her shrill voice, “Well, Robin McAfee. What in the world?”
    Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know. What in the world?
    After showering, I find that my Willaby’s uniform is on the bedroom floor, wrinkled and soiled. Should’ve done a load of washing last night. I left in such a jittery rush to get to the Music Hall, half hoping for an earthquake or flash flood (regardless of dry skies) to stop the show, I forgot all about my pile of laundry. Gathering an armful of clothes from the floor and making sure it contains two uniform pants and two shirts, I hurry to the stacked washer and dryer tucked into a kitchen corner.
    The washer hesitates when I click the dial to Normal and push Start . Come on, Betsy . I bang the side and the machine lurches.
    â€œGood going, girl. You’ll be worth my fifty bucks yet.”
    The set came from my landlord, Boon Crawford Jr. “Hate to see you toting your stuff to the Laundromat,” he’d said the afternoon he and Daddy helped me move in.
    â€œI can always do laundry at Momma and Daddy’s,” I answered.
    That’s when Daddy raised his eyebrows and stuck out his chin. “If you’re gonna move out and be independent, might as well go all the way.”
    Who’d have thought a washer and dryer would symbolize my emancipation?
    Standing at the time clock at Willaby’s, I punch in and follow my nose to the coffee machine. French vanilla. Ricky and the rest of the stock crew are waiting for me as my nose leads me around the back hall