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“That’s our girl,” my mama says, beaming at the accolade that Zara just bestowed onto Stormy.
“I was really impressed with her,” Zara adds, making my mother even more proud. If this were a date, I’d say that Zara is racking up the quality points with my mother.
“Levi should give you a tour of the house. Go on now we’ll get the food out to everyone.” My mother winks at me, and all I can do is shake my head. With the height difference between Zara and me, there’s no doubt in my mind that she saw my mother’s not too subtle actions. Sometime later I’ll have to school my mother on the art of the pick-up, not that I’m a pro because as Barbara will happily point out, I’m always single when I need to have a woman on my arm.
Zara turns to me with a glint in her whiskey-colored eyes. I can already tell that if I’m not careful, I could be opening myself up to a world of hurt. It takes everything in me to break eye contact with her and not reach out and hold her hand.
“Follow me,” I say, tilting my head toward the hallway. Never in my life have I given another woman a tour of any home that I own. Iris helped design the house that I live in now, and I bought this one for the girls. I suppose it doesn’t help that I really never submerged myself in the dating scene.
“This house is beautiful, Levi.”
“Thank you. I think it’s rather small.”
Zara shakes her head. “Nah, I love how wide and open everything is.”
“So I think my mama just wanted us out of the kitchen. There really isn’t much to see,” I tell her as we walk down the hall toward the bedrooms. “This is Willow’s room.” I open the door to her bedroom and Zara walks in. Willow’s room is everything a pre-teen's room would be. It’s pink and girly with stuffed animals piled on her bed. There’s a corner dedicated to me, but either Zara doesn’t see it, or she’s already figured out who I am.
“I take it Willow must be. . .”
“My daughter.
Zara steps in and turns in a slow circle. “I had a room like this when I was ten.”
“That’s how old she is. As soon as we go outside, I’m sure you’ll meet her.” Zara tries and fails to mask her indifference about going outside, which sort of boggles my mind. If she didn’t want to hang out with the crew, why is she here?
We continue down the hall and go into Stormy’s room. Now that I know who Reverend Sister is, I’m slightly embarrassed to be showing her this room. Zara chuckles when she steps in and is immersed with pictures of herself.
“She’s a fan,” I say, shrugging. When Stormy was told she would be in the video, she yelled at the top of her lungs, dancing around while her agent was on the phone trying to give her details. Luckily for her, I was able to gather all the information necessary, otherwise she probably would’ve missed the show.
“Levi Austin,” she says my name as if she’s out of breath or as if I’ve done something wrong. Zara is staring at one of the posters that Stormy has up in a montage of me. I’ve told the girls repeatedly that they didn’t need them, but they assured me it was their way of having me with them all the time. “This is you?” she asks, pointing at the larger than life picture of me on stage with my guitar.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, suddenly bashful about who I am.
“I had no idea. I can honestly say I’ve never heard of you.”
This should be an insult, but I don’t take it as one and tell her the same. “I had no idea who you were until today. I mean I’ve seen the posters and such, but never really paid attention.”
“How famous are you?” she asks. I find the question odd, and my facial expression must tell her as such. “I mean. . . actually, I don’t know what I mean so just forget it.”
I couldn’t if I tried. “In my world, pretty famous.”
Her cheeks turn red as she looks away from me. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why?” I ask, stepping into the room. “The way I see it, we’re in the same boat. I didn’t know you, and you didn’t know me.”
“But this is Hollywood. I should know everyone.”
“Ah yes, Hollywood. I live in Nashville,” I tell her. I motion for her to follow me and continue the tour.
“So you split your time?”
Shaking my head slightly, we step outside onto the patio. I purposely avoided showing her the master bedroom or the last guest bedroom where I have been sleeping. With my hand on the small of her back, I guide her up a small flight of stairs to a pergola that overlooks the pool. I don’t know if she purposely avoids looking at the pool where a few of the people in there all know her name or what, but I gather she’s much like me when it comes to attention. Less is far better in some cases.
“I rarely come here. The girls,” I say nodding toward the pool where both are, “live here with their mother. Or they did.”
“What does that mean?” she asks.
I sigh and readjust my hat. “She died last month.”
