Ghosts of Christmas Past, Page 2

  “Our reputation’s spread that far, has it?” Libby asked, smiling. “You can talk to Jake about setup. He’s doing sound tonight.” She shot a meaningful glance in the direction of her guitarist, visible through the glass as he stood just outside the doorway.

  He spoke a few words to a child in a heavy parka, who turned towards the parking lot and shuffled away through the snow. Stomping the white layers from his boots, Jake set his guitar case on the floor inside.

  “Slim,” he said, with a nod. His gaze took in the colored lights and cheap greenery festooning the walls. “Like what you’re doing with the place,” he commented, as he approached the bar and stood near Libby.

  The proprietor grinned. “Thought about lettin’ this place go after this year. Feel like maybe I should start changing some things in my life. You know what I mean?” As he spoke, he opened a cardboard box and lifted out a barn with cheap resin figurines affixed inside with glue. A nativity scene.

  “Never too late to start early,” Jake answered. It was an old joke, but his voice was gentle as he caught Slim’s eye.

  The older man’s glance softened. “You’re right,” he said, nodding. Clearing his throat loudly, he looked at Libby. “Got a good one here, Miss Taylor. Ought to hang onto him if you can.” He returned to his jovial attitude as he busied himself with another strand of colored lights.

  Libby found this power of Jake’s irritating. Watching other people melt over a gentle suggestion, a sympathetic smile, as if they were convinced he really understood what their pain was all about. As he would say, God had given him a chance to connect with people damaged by loss and loneliness—something Libby couldn’t argue with, despite her bitter wish to prove him wrong.

  ****

  “Wherever I turn, you’re there...softly I reach for your hand...” Libby’s eyes drifted closed as she sang. “Don’t think the moment between us isn’t there. You are the reason I believe.”

  It was a soulful ballad from Alecia Allard, whose songbook had consisted mostly of bubbly, pop-infused country hits in the eighties. This particular song was one of Libby’s favorites, drawing out the full timbre of her voice.

  A classy song—that’s how her mother would describe it. As the slow patter of the cymbal died away behind her, Libby lowered her face, fingers cradling the microphone.

  Loud applause followed, enthusiasm from her fans who had probably seen her perform here last month as well. Amidst whistles and cat calls, she raised her head and spoke.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much. On behalf of the band, I want to say how much we appreciate you coming out tonight, two nights before one of the year’s biggest shopping days.” She paused, allowing the faint laughter to die out in response to this joke.

  That was the closest she wanted to get to the subject of the holiday: a hackneyed reference to Christmas Eve.

  “To say thank you, we want to do one of our favorites now...” Mentally, she planned to introduce their final number, barring an encore, a cover of a classic from one of the Opry performances she listened to as a child.

  “What about a Christmas song?” a voice shouted from the audience.

  Ignoring him, Libby nodded towards Jake to signal the start of the song. “It’s called...” she began. But another voice shouted from below, backing up the first request.

  “Do something Christmas!” Then another. “Hey, what about ‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire’?”

  A flicker of annoyance shot through her; her fingers tightened around the microphone.

  “It’s called...” she began.

  The murmur in the audience grew anxious, voices mumbled snatches of holiday songs as others called out titles faintly from the back.

  For a moment, she hesitated. Staring at the stage floor beneath her as if it were the boards of the Ryman Auditorium instead of a dingy platform before a hundred or so attendees, her curtain of hair hid her expression beneath its shadow. An expression she felt must be noticeably paler. Her lips opened close to the mic.

  “Sil-ent night,” she sang. “Holy night. All is calm, all is bright...”

  She did not cue the band to follow her. After a moment, her guitarist’s fingers strummed the first chord, following the beat set by her voice, the sound of the steel guitar vibrating slowly to life.

  “Round yon virgin, mo-ther and child...” Libby’s voice echoed above them, infused with a soft ache. “Holy infant, so ten-der and mild. Sleep in heaven-ly peace...” She paused, letting the note trail off for one beat, then two.

  Four beats passed before she lifted her voice again. “Sle-ep in heaven-ly peace.” Her voice trembled with the last note. It died away beneath the cheers and applause from below.

  “Thank you,” she said, speaking into the microphone. “You’ve been a wonderful crowd. Goodnight.” She raised her hand in a brief wave before turning to leave the platform.

  The bar was crowded as Libby motioned for a drink, avoiding the glance of any interested patrons. In the corner, she spotted a dark, empty booth—something she would much prefer over the makeshift rehearsal room in the back.

  She avoided making eye contact with any of the overeager fans of her performance, the ones interested in more than an autographed flyer. In the midst of the crowd, she could see a man in a sports jacket making his way towards her.

  “That was a beautiful song, Libby.” The voice wasn’t the approaching admirer’s, but Jake’s. “I never heard you sing a Christmas song before.” He leaned against the bar, his callused fingers mere inches from her glass.

  “That’s because I hate Christmas.” Libby lifted her drink, taking a long sip. In the mirror, Slim’s tiny nativity was reflected, the colored figures kneeling in the resin stable beside the cash register. Her face a few feet away had the first signs of tears in her eyes.

  “Run along, Jake,” she said. “I’m sure you have other things to do this evening.” She directed a flat smile at his reflection, surprised by the troubled dark eyes studying her in the bar mirror.

  “Libby…” he began.

  Pretending not to listen, she took another swallow from her glass. After a moment, his hand slid away from hers, his body disappearing in the crowded bar.

  Another figure approached in the reflection—the man in the sports coat. One hand on the bar, he leaned closer to her, showing her a square of paper between his fingers. “Mind if we talk, Ms. Taylor?”

  As Libby stared at the glossy surface, the embossed letters glowed in the Christmas lights.

  “Be happy to.” She slid from her stool to follow him towards the dark corner booth, hoping this time his words weren’t the hollow promises she heard from others in the past.

  3

  “Let’s rearrange the set so ‘Midnight Madness’ comes first,” said Libby. “It’s fast, light-hearted, gets them pumped up for something more contemporary. Maybe a cover from the top forty.” She thumbed through stacks of music, searching for some of the newer sheets.

  Bob stubbed a cigarette in an ashtray. “What about that hit the little blonde does? The one about falling in love like a shooting star?” He yawned. “My kid had that on her iPod last time I went home. People love it.”

  They were seated at a table in the closed barroom of Carlyle Country, working out the songbook for the evening performance. Rehearsals in the morning, then crashing to sleep before performance time—that was the plan. Some of the band planned to pick up their Christmas gifts during the afternoon’s free time, something Libby didn’t have to worry about doing anymore.

  “All right, let’s give it a shot,” she said, passing a sheet of music to Jake. Hopping onstage, she hummed the tune under her breath a few times, scanning the vapid lyrics. No meaning in them, no sense of history, either. That made her wonder why she bothered to listen to anything that wasn’t still on vinyl.

  “I’ve got a love bigger than the great outdoors,” she sang, “better than the taste of—” A loud twang sounded as a string burst on Ted’s bass guitar.<
br />
  “Sorry, Lib,” he said, grinning.

  With a sigh, she pulled her long hair into a ponytail, fastening a band from her wrist around it. A few more weeks and I’ll be free of this same old scene...

  Jake lifted the guitar strap from his neck. “Hang on, Ted. I’ll grab a new one.” He climbed down from the stage and made his way towards the storage area where their equipment was stashed.

  As he disappeared from sight, something stirring outside the bar’s door attracted Libby’s attention. A boy crouched down on the snowy threshold, peering through the glass. An extra-large parka was wrapped around his body for warmth.

  She stared at him for a moment, as if seeing someone else. Then, with a sigh, she climbed down and crossed the room to the door. She pulled it open to reveal a small, guilty-looking face on the other side.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your camper with the door locked?” She tapped her foot against the floor impatiently as the boy slid past her, into the warmth.

  “I was watching my dad,” he answered. “I just wanted to see you guys play for a while.” He offered her a shy smile. “Please, can’t I stay? Just for a few songs? I know Dad said you—”

  “Will.” Jake’s voice sounded tense as he entered the room. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you—”

  “Please, Dad,” the boy pleaded. “Libby said I could stay. Didn’t you, Libby?” He turned towards her, his eyes begging her to say yes.

  For a moment, she wavered. “All right,” she answered, her voice rough. “Let him stay. Just sit in a corner and be quiet, OK?” She shot a warning glance in Will’s direction as he nodded eagerly, making his way towards a table near the windows, its chair flipped up on top.

  Jake glanced at her. “I would have sent him back to the camper,” he said. “He’s supposed to be studying, not…not hanging around here,” he finished.

  She sensed the guilt in his voice, the way his eyes avoided hers as he stared out the bar window. They’d had this conversation several times in the past. He was used to avoiding any mention of his family life, his personal history—as if he somehow knew the reasons why she preferred him to keep them away from her.

  “Relax,” she said. “It’s freezing. He can stay this time.” She shuffled through the pile of music as if looking for a different song, trying hard not to think of another young boy whose dark hair and features she had imagined countless times.

  Jake’s steps moved slowly towards the stage, where he lifted his guitar from the stand.

  “Libby.” His voice was quiet, addressing her without the notice of the rest of the band. “I want you to know that if you’re not busy this Christmas, you can spend it with us. Will says—”

  “Not interested.” She didn’t want to know what Will said, her gaze avoiding the part of the room where he sat, no doubt watching her in anticipation of her answer. The way he sometimes sneaked into concerts and rehearsals before, his eyes locked on her as if she were a star serenading hordes of fans below. “So let’s get to work, all right?”

  She shoved a piece of music into Jake’s hands as she passed another to Greg. “Let’s try this one. The classic ‘I’ll Be Standing Here.’ From the top, guys.” She assumed her spot onstage again, careful to keep her face averted from the sight of Jake’s shoulders hunched over his guitar and the adoring eyes of her youthful fan seated by the window.

  When she finally made it to Nashville, she wouldn’t have to endure the pain of seeing them every day, the bitterness that tightened its hold on her heart as she rejected them again and again. She would be free from the guilt gnawing her at the sight of Will’s tousled hair and shy smile.

  Twelve years old. Almost the exact same age as the child from her past.

  ****

  She kept the letter folded up and hidden in the bottom of her makeshift chest of drawers. No band member ever ventured past the rickety door that shut out the rest of the bus from her private room, the only place she ever felt safe revisiting her past.

  Huddled against the wall on her narrow bed, she opened the envelope again. The paper’s lines were soft from countless refolding, yellowed from long storage. The business stationary bore the logo of a cherubic infant seated, a songbird perched on one of its tiny wings.

  This is to inform you that your son Nathaniel’s adoption has been officially completed. As per our policy at God’s Little Angels Adoption Agency, the names of the parents have been made known to you as part of our open adoption process, creating a partnership between willing parents-to-be...

  Mark and Marcia Hammond. She had read those names countless times. Had looked them up once and written down the address of their home on impulse, only to stash it out of sight again.

  She was supposed to write them a letter upon receiving this notice, something they could give her son when he was ready to hear the truth. The agency encouraged birth parents to provide cards and gifts to be distributed to the child at the discretion of the adoptive parents.

  Libby had done none of these things.

  Holding the letter in her hands, she remembered the moment it was new, mailed to a post office box she opened in a city where her first band often performed. After she received this in the mail, she never again visited the box.

  Behind the letter was tucked the scrap of paper with the address written on it. 118 Farthington Lane, Starsfell, Mississippi.

  Only one day’s driving distance on the highway, a car ride between herself and the child she had last seen in the hospital nursery. The end of a long road of hiding, denial, and loneliness that began six months into her pregnancy, an event that seemed as separate from her life as the stories in the songs she performed.

  Three months into the pregnancy, she stopped writing songs; there were no words to describe the realization that her own childhood was over and she was alone in the world. Miles from home, from her dreams, from the Heavenly Father whose gift she was supposed to cherish.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to remember the last time she prayed. It must have been the moment in the nursery as she waited for the adoption agent to arrive. Outside the door were the sounds of Christmas cheer and holiday joy, but inside that room her weary body was tense and fearful, heart pounding as she listened for the steps that would take away her baby forever.

  It’s for the best. It’s for the best. In the back of her mind, she promised herself this. There would be a way to fix everything. Someday. To make it all better so the two of them could be together.

  Maybe that day was finally here. This was the thought that entered her head, instead of the words of whatever prayer she had whispered all those years ago. Her hands folded the letter and slipped it in the envelope again.

  There was a rap on the thin paneled door. Tucking the letter out of sight, she yanked open the partition.

  “Yes?”

  Ted stood there, adjusting a bolo tie over the collar of his blue shirt.

  “Sound check in fifteen minutes, Libby,” he said. “Jake’s got the setup ready.” He grabbed his jacket and moved towards the bus door without waiting for her.

  Glancing in the mirror above her bed, she saw stains of mascara beneath her eyes, puffy red lids—what had Ted thought when he saw her like that? Wiping her eyes with one hand, she grabbed her cosmetics bag and the fitted satin blouse hanging on the other side of her door.

  At least it wasn’t Jake at the door. His uncanny ability to read things about people would have made her more uncomfortable than she was now. As she exited the bus, she looked in the direction of the camper, its windows and door outlined with colorful Christmas lights, a string of cheap plastic glow-in-the-dark bells trimmed with holly.

  Probably the work of Will’s hands; the strands were tangled, strung unevenly across the frames. The windows were empty of life, only the silhouette of a miniature Christmas tree visible, a sign that Jake and his son were already inside the club.

  The club’s floor was crowded with after-five cus
tomers taking up the tables and booths, a few others dancing to a jukebox. None noticed Libby as she slipped into the back, tossing her stuff on an old armchair in the makeshift dressing room and rehearsal zone.

  “You good with taking the bus Kentucky-bound tomorrow?” she asked Bob, casually. Their next gig was in January at a country club near Bowling Green. Bob’s wife and daughter were only twenty miles south of the city.

  “Guess so,” he answered. “Unless you got an objection, that is. Greg’s coming, but we’re dropping Ted off at his dad’s along the way. You’re welcome to have dinner at my place, if you want.”

  She could hear the reluctance in his voice as he issued the invitation. “I’ve got other plans. I’m renting a car, so I’ll catch up with you guys in the city.” She flashed him a smile before she disappeared behind the cordoned-off dressing area.

  Jake wouldn’t be traveling with them. He and Will had Slim’s permission to stay parked here until after Christmas. He, no doubt, imagined they would all meet up in Topeka after the holidays and go on touring just as they had in the past.

  The thought of her not showing up sent a pang of guilt stabbing through her heart, especially when she pictured the hurt in Jake’s eyes.

  But it was too late to change her mind now. Her new life was about to start.

  4

  In the backseat of Libby’s rental car was a box wrapped in red Christmas paper, trimmed with curly ribbons. A gift was tucked inside, a snap case containing a harmonica, its silver surface engraved like the one her grandfather always carried.

  Beside it was a bag containing her clothes, her battered guitar case, and a small cardboard box filled with the scraps of sheet music and photographs from her room on the bus. A meager pile for almost thirteen years on the road.

  She wondered how long before one of the band members noticed that her possessions were gone.

  Static blasted from the car speakers as she searched for sounds of radio life. Blurry stations faded in, then receded as the car passed beneath power lines. A classic country station wavered as Libby adjusted the dial, the sound of Patty Craye’s voice singing “Midnight Madness.” I go a little crazy, without you here...this midnight hour’s ticking by so slow...