One highlight of the festival was the musical acts. The west end of the park was home to the new amphitheater. It’d taken years to get approved and was only completed last year with Cyrus overseeing the ribbon cutting. Our amphitheater was probably the only state-of-the-art structure in Hume. Talent from all over came to perform at the festival and now, with a stage worthy of a show, bigger named acts were sure to follow.
Fancy and I weaved through the crowd to get as close as possible. Jace Montgomery was in the middle of his set, singing a slow ballad about the one that got away. Standing behind Fancy, I wrapped her in my arms, and we swayed back and forth. Reality washed over me, Fancy was all mine. Burying my facein her hair, I breathed deep. The hair products she’d selected during our shopping trip were worth it because she smelled like horchata, fresh salt water, and rum all mixed in one.
Jace’s song ended, and he addressed the crowd. “This is a great night to forget your worries and just allow the music to move you. And there is no one better than moving a crowd than Fancy Palmer of Whiskey Wild.” Jace pointed at Fancy and a spotlight landed on us. “I’m gonna ask a huge favor. Ms. Palmer would you grace us with a song?”
The crowd cheered while Fancy waved off the attention. She found my hand and squeezed it tight.
“Now Fancy we go way back, and you know I’m not above begging,” Jace joked.
The crowd spurred her on with applause and hooting.
Fancy glanced up at me, uncertain whether to accept the offer. “I think you should do it. The people have spoken.”
Nodding, she planted a quick peck to my lips before releasing my hand. The crowd was already electric by the time she strutted onto the stage, her white sequined boots emblazoned with pink flowers caught every flicker of light like a firework in motion. Fancy’s smile lit up the night, a mix of genuine joy and unshakable confidence, and when she grabbed the microphone, it was as if the whole world tilted in her direction.
“You know I love it when you beg, Jace,” she teased, a spark in her eyes. The crowd ate it up. Turning to the audience, which had grown bigger as word quickly spread, she said, “Hume, how y’all feeling?”
The response was resoundingly affirmative. When the hoots and hollers died down, Ozzie could be heard screaming, “That’s my baby sister!”
Fancy turned to the band and whispered to the guitar player. She started with a few handclaps, the band kicking in with a fast-paced guitar riff for one of Whiskey Wild’s biggest hits “GoodTime Girls,” and the crowd erupted, stomping and cheering as if their collective energy could lift her into the sky. From my spot in the center of the crowd, I felt like I was holding my breath, not wanting to miss a single beat of her magic.
She owned the stage, moving with a rhythm that matched the pulse of the music and the heartbeat of the audience. Fancy performed the perfect two-step while whining her hips, causing a blush to overtake my face at the thought of what those hips were capable of. Her voice was rich and twangy, soaring effortlessly through the lyrics of her chart-topping anthem about chasing men and raising hell along the way.
Fancy threw playful kisses at the crowd, twirling and stomping in perfect time, her curls bouncing like they had their own choreography. The hometown crowd sang back every word, their voices blending into a powerful wave of pride and love. She wasn’t just a star; she was theirs. And for all her glitter and glow, you could see the girl who grew up here shining through, the one who used to sing in her church choir and this exact fair.
Darla who? I meant it when I said Whiskey Wild was nothing without Fancy. She was a superstar. Tooling around the farmhouse, it was easy to forget just how much of a powerhouse she was. Sure, this was Hume and everyone was going to love her because she was our hometown favorite. But she lived up to the hype. Fancy could put on a show and when she was on stage, it was like you were on a joyride in a stolen F-150.
At the final chorus, she grabbed a nearby banjo and began to play, inviting the audience to join in. The air was alive with sound, a sea of clapping hands and stomping feet shaking the ground. I caught her eye for a split second, and she winked at me, a moment so fleeting and intimate it felt like our secret in the middle of all this commotion. When the song ended, she threw her head back, laughing as if she couldn’t believe this was her life. And watching her, I knew something she didn’t, shewasn’t just the star of the show tonight. She was our collective hopes and dreams, and I was the luckiest man alive to love her.
Fancy bounded off the stage and into my arms. “That was amazing,” I gushed.
“Really? It’s better with Darla next to me.”
“I didn’t notice, but maybe that’s because I only have eyes for you.”
“I will admit it was nice being on stage again. Performing was always my favorite part, feeding off of the energy from the crowd. Witnessing them sing along word for word. I’ve missed it.”
“You were born for the stage.” A lump the size of a grapefruit settled in my chest. It wasn’t lost on me that annual festival performances in Hume weren’t enough to fill the urge nestled in Francesca’s core to entertain. Hume would never be enough. As much as she loved me … I couldn’t replicate the adrenaline rush her career provided.
Once the crowd of fans disbursed, we made a beeline for the beer garden. We ordered two beers each so we wouldn’t have to wait in line a second time. I made quick work of my first one, and Fancy wasn’t far behind. In the center of the tent was a makeshift dance floor and from the swing in her hips, I could tell she wanted to dance. I nodded my head in the direction of the dance floor, and she beamed in agreement.
Line dancing in Hume wasn’t like most line dancing, maybe because the city was founded by Black folks and remained predominantly Black to this day. Our line dancing was a bit honky tonk with a whole lot of rhythm. We’d performed that soul filled line dance to Megan Moroney or Juvenile; it didn’t really make a difference. And that shit was an art form. The basic steps were simple, but everyone had their own little spin on the parts in between. So, if it was one, two, dip, spin, shimmy, you were going to get fifty variations of the same move executed in sync.
Right now, Fancy was dipping her hips with each movement. Occasionally she’d back her ass up against me and we’d dance close, performing the moves like we were connected. We clinked our bottles, taking long gulps while rolling our bodies to the beat. Not going to lie, I felt like the big man on campus because everyone knew Francesca Palmer was here with me. And when Fancy claimed you, she acted like there was no one else in the room.
Francesca was a free spirit, and you could see it in the way her body moved across the dance floor. Arms in the air grooving side to side. I loved her adventurous nature the most, maybe because that was a quality I was lacking. When we were younger, Fancy talked me into skinny dipping in the lake. Truthfully, I opted to keep my boxers on. Now Fancy, was buck naked and didn’t care. I stared for an unusually long time before averting my eyes. That woman kept me on my toes, and I relished every minute of it.
Life is short and long at the same time. And we remember our life in moments. Our memories like photographs sealed in time. You don’t remember the mundane day-to-day tasks. Watering and feeding the animals, driving to and from work, Sunday dinner with the family. But we remember the special times. The days when we were really happy. Like the day my father bought me my first horse. I named him Turpentine because I thought the name sounded bad ass.
You also remember the days of immense sorrow like when our parents sat Cyrus, Dial, and me down and told us about Momma’s cancer diagnosis. I remember breaking into tears at my big age because cancer sounded like a death sentence. Luckily our mother survived and was currently thriving. But fear of the possibility of life as you know it being over is scary as hell.
Right now, two stepping on the dance floor with the woman I loved was etching itself in my brain as a fond memory. The typeof memory you call up when your head hits the pillow to help lull you to sleep. I was luckier than most because I had a healthy family, a town I could call home, and a woman who made me feel special even on the most ordinary days.
I felt heady,like I was on a natural high the entire ride home. Edison’s hand was intertwined with mine and I was stuck with a goofy smile that would not fade from my face. Shit if this was what love felt like, I’ve been doing it wrong all these years. I’d never been this content or at peace with Chap. Not ever. Maybe because he was always correcting me and trying to dull my shine. It’s strange the time away was allowing me to clearly see things that should’ve been blatantly apparent.
They say love is blind but that shit with Chap wasn’t love, it was codependency at best. I thought I needed him to fit into the country music industry. There weren’t a lot of Black artists in the field. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Chap shielded me from all that. Or at least that’s the lie I told myself to keep me with him. Plus, his stepmother was Billie Preston and the handful of times I met her she’d always been gracious, offering great advice. In the past I’d convinced myself if dating Chap meant I had access to a legend, I could grin and bear it.
I turned to Edison with puppy dog eyes and said, “I love you.”
