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They were quiet for a few moments, both of them gazing out over the water, and Donovan let the easy silence wash over her. It was so peaceful here. So far away from her everyday crazy life.
“So tell me about yourself Donovan James,” Brett said glancing her way. “What’s your story?”
His voice was low and raspy, and she had to concentrate in order to hear him properly.
“My story?”
He nodded. “Yes. Everyone has a story. What’s yours? I know you’re a big time celebrity, but I don’t know much else about you.”
“It’s nothing special.”
“Humor me.”
Donovan hated talking about herself and hesitated for a few moments, eyes back on a boat crossing a mile out. Maybe it was the ease of Brett’s company. Or maybe it was the magical waters of Lake Muskoka. Whatever it was, she found herself settling back into her chair and talking.
“Well, I grew up in Arkansas at the foot of the Ozarks with my mom and my grandparents. Our house was a lovely, restored trailer and yes, you guessed it, we lived in a trailer park. Not very original. We didn’t have much, but I never went hungry or anything. Even though my clothes might not have been trendy, they were clean.”
“No father?”
“Nope.” She shrugged. “I have vague memories of him. Just images and feelings, really, and even then sometimes I wonder if what I remember are things I was told, not things I actually saw. But I do have a clear memory of him sitting on the front porch with a beat up Gibson. He’d play and sing and toss me sugar candies.”
Donovan paused, chest tight. She hadn’t thought about him in forever. A man who was part of her history. A man she’d never really known.
“He loved music almost as much as he liked his whisky and that caused a lot of problems. He left when I was five and died when I was ten. I never really got the story of how he died, but I’m pretty sure he drank himself to death.”
“I’m sorry,” Brett replied, softly rolling his words.
“Don’t be,” she replied. “He was a mean drunk. My mama said it was for the best, but I think she was hiding a broken heart and that changed her. I can’t remember what her smile looked like.” Donovan paused, reaching for a memory, but there was nothing there. “How sad is that?” she whispered. “She was half alive, and the part that was alive was sad and angry.”
“You get your talent from him?”
“I suppose. I mean, he played guitar like no ones business. He could pick hillbilly and bluegrass and pretty much everything. He would make me sing for him and after he left, I’d sing everywhere. I think in my mind if I was singing, he’d hear me and come home. I’d sing in church.” She smiled. “In school when I was supposed to be studying. I’d sing on the street corner while Mama was in getting our grocery order.” She paused. “Singing was my way of leaving all the ugliness behind. It was my way of daydreaming you know? When I sang, I wasn’t me…I was like an angel floating above everything. Free to be happy.”
“Sounds nice.”
“My mama figured out early on that my singing could bring in some extra dollars, so she started booking shows at fairs and such. When I was seventeen, we got ourselves a talent agent and well, here I am.”
“Living the dream,” Brett said.
“I’m living someone’s dream,” she replied. “Just not mine.”
Shit. What was she doing? A trip down memory lane was never a good idea.
“Sometimes life gets crazy,” Brett said. “You need to slow down and appreciate everything you’ve got.”
Donovan took a sip of iced tea and nodded, her gut twisted and her throat tightened with emotion. What the hell was wrong with her?
“You’re right. Of course you’re right, but it’s hard sometimes. America thinks I have the world by the balls. They think that fame and money is everything. That if you’re some kind of star, you must be happy.” She glanced at Brett sharply. “I’m not gonna lie. Money makes things a whole lot easier. I don’t have to worry about where my next dollar is coming from. Don’t have to worry about how I’m gonna pay the mortgage or car payment. Those are real problems for a lot of folks, and I get that but…”
She took another sip of iced tea and hoped she didn’t sound like a spoiled, ungrateful brat.
“It’s not everything. I play in front of thousands of fans. I step out onto that stage and man, the love I get... Whew, the love is fast and hard. It wraps itself around me for those two and half hours, and I can’t even describe the rush. You just can’t know unless you’re there. But I miss…”
She stared down at her hands unable to continue because the truth was hard.
“What do you miss?”
“I miss simple and easy. I miss a time when I didn’t have to worry about my road crew and their families and their need for income. I love them all, I do, but the weight of knowing I’m responsible for their livelihood is heavy. I miss the honkytonks. Those little hole in the wall places filled with smoke and sweat and beer and sex. That right there is an entirely different connection. I mean, when the light was just right, I could see the faces of the people standing at the back of the bar watching me. Feeling me. I miss that intimacy. Everything in my world is so big and flashy and commercialized that sometimes I feel lost inside it.”
