Max
Nashville, Tennessee
December 25
Max sat on the gargantuan white L-shaped couch in the opulent living room of his childhood home, where he had been staying for the past few weeks. The floors in his condo in the Gulch were being replaced, and moving home had seemed easier than temporarily relocating somewhere else for the month. Plus, withStarmaker’s demanding schedule he’d figured he would barely be home.
He tried to focus on anything but his now-opened birthday gift, its glossy surface mirroring the twinkle lights from the Christmas tree. It was over the top, even for Holden Brody—a blond Gibson SJ-200, vintage but in pristine condition and supposedly played by one of the Everly Brothers at a concert in the late 1950s.
“He couldn’t have bought me, like, a book? A pair of socks?” Max said to Patsy, straightening her sweater, a bright red knit with rows of white-and-gold Christmas ornaments that he had finished only yesterday. In truth, Max had no idea what other families bought for birthdays. Everything had always been over the top in the Brody Mansion.
Patsy nuzzled her nose into the crook of Max’s neck and gave a long sigh.
“Exactly my point. I don’t need this guitar.I have a guitar.” Sure, it wasn’t an SJ-200. It didn’t hold the same pedigree, the patina was worn, and the sound could be finicky, depending on the humidity and temperature. But it had belonged to his mom. She’d played it the one and only time she’d been onstage at the Grand Ole Opry.
“Go chart your own course, my love,” his mom had told him when she gave it to him, just over six years earlier. Maren’s once-melodic voice had been weak from the grueling treatments, and she had numbness in her fingers, so couldn’t play anymore. Though she’d had cancer, it was a bout of pneumonia that had resulted in her death only eight months after her diagnosis. Max hadn’t had nearly enough time with her.
So yes, his guitar was sentimental, but it was also a damn fine instrument and it didn’t need replacing.
Max glanced at his watch, his anxiety ratcheting up. Sadie was due to arrive in about ten minutes. He was supposed to propose in a couple of days, after the finale. If being onstage playing a well-rehearsed song still caused him to break out in a nervous sweat, how would he manage getting down on oneknee to propose to Sadie? That was a performance he wasn’t sure he could pull off.
And then there was the even bigger issue: Max had complicated feelings toward Sadie. There, yeah, he admitted it. He couldn’t shake the sense that this plan—even if executed perfectly—was going to backfire... big time.
—
So, I had just sung this line... You may know it, Sadie.” Holden leaned back against the overstuffed easy chair with his cocktail glass—three fingers of scotch—in hand and sang,“In my whiskey dreams, I like you best with just your T-shirt on...”
“I think I may have heard it once or twice,” Sadie said. It was one of Holden’s most famous songs, and was now a permanent fixture on the country music charts.
“So, this young woman is holding up a bottle of whiskey. She was right near the front, but I couldn’t see much. You know how bright those spotlights are.” Holden sipped his scotch. He no longer drank the way he had when Max was younger—like a fish, whatever was within reach though he preferred an expensive red wine or a fine whiskey—but he had never committed to total sobriety.
“Anyway, I already had my bottle ready—I always did a shot of whiskey at that part of the song, and people loved it. Showbiz,” Holden said with a shrug. Max stared into his beer glass, having heard this story a hundred times.
“But I stopped singing and said, ‘Honey, why don’t you come up and join me?’ ”
One of the household staff poked her head into thegreat room. “Mr. Brody, I’m heading out now,” she said. “Everything is in the refrigerator, and I’ve made up the guest room.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Holden said. Sadie glanced at Max—she was not a fan of the term “sweetheart”—and he gave her a weak smile, because now she knew he had picked it up from his dad.
“So, security helped this young lady up onstage and it was then that I saw the problem.” He laughed, caught up in the memory.
“What was it?” Sadie asked, taking a small sip of her own drink—a glass of red wine that she had been nursing for a while.
“She was only wearing a T-shirt!” Holden exploded with more laughter, delighted by his own storytelling. “I hadn’t been able to see her legs, so had no idea she had half stripped before coming up on the stage.”
Sadie gave an appropriately placed gasp and said, “No, she didn’t!”
“She sure did, darlin’.” He took a gulp of his scotch. Max set his half-finished beer down, the only drink he’d had all night, because the alcohol was making his stomach turn.
“I assure you I would not have invited her up if I’d known she was half naked. I am a father to a daughter after all,” Holden said. “But it was an honest mistake, and, well, the show must go on.”
Max didn’t love the way Sadie seemed so enamored with his dad and his stories. He wasn’t jealous—he was merely annoyed by the spotlight that followed his dad everywhere. The backdrop of Max’s life.
“What do you think, son? Should we open the lovely giftsSadie brought for us?” Holden turned to their guest. “You being here is a gift for both of us, isn’t that right, Maxy?”
“Hmm-hmm,” Max replied quietly. “The gift that keeps on givin’.”
Sadie, who was close enough to hear his quip, cleared her throat and tightened her ponytail. But her smile never faltered.Why did you say that?Max silently berated himself. Why did he turn into such a jerk when she was around?
