Persistence

"It's my

sister

, Patch. I'm at my

sister's

funeral. I'm not coming back to do a show tomorrow!" Donna was getting agitated. For all his marketing savvy and his adeptness at promoting talent, Patch had next to no sense of friendship, family, or anything that didn't have a profitable bottom line. This was not the conversation she wanted to be having while still in the black dress she had worn to Penny's funeral. Her cheeks were just regaining some of their warmth after the graveside service and the crazy conversations that followed.

"I don't suppose saying 'The show must go on' will make any difference?" he suggested, his accent hard to pin down. Some kind of foreign flavor, but Donna suspected it was faked anyway. Faking an accent was just the thing Patch would do to give himself an edge - to make himself memorable when he talked to people.

"Not unless you want to succeed in making me angry," she replied tersely.

"You've never been angry, dear, it's part of your charm. Sweet, kind, girl-next-door Donna. All the girls want to be your friend and all the guys hope they can bring out your secret

wild

side. That's why you have so many fans, baby. You're so nice."

"Patch, I'm not talking about my image here. I'll be back in about a week; I need some time off. I told you to clear my schedule. You

said

you'd cleared my schedule."

"That was your scouting trips, dear. I didn't think you wanted me to cancel your own show, too."

"I won't be there, Patch."

"Then maybe I'll have to find some new talent to fill in for you."

"That doesn't scare me, Patch. You should know better."

He sighed. "OK, OK. You call my bluff. I fold. No more threats. I'll call the manager. He won't be happy."

"Tell him I'll do my CD release show at his venue this spring, free of charge."

"He'll like that."

"I know he will, Patch. Now

call him

."

"I will, I will. Talent, beauty, and brains. You are quite the ticket, Donnabella," he schmoozed.

"Two out of three, anyway," she mumbled. Donna never liked flattery, especially false flattery.

"Hey, before you hang up, I'm sending you an address. I want you to check out a show near you. I hear good things about this one."

"I'm not working this week, Patch," she said, exasperated.

"Then don't work. Go, enjoy the show, and then next week think about what you saw and heard."

"You're incorrigible," she moaned.

"And you'd be lost without me," he said proudly.

Donna rolled her eyes.

"You're rolling your eyes at me, I can hear it," laughed Patch.

"Good-bye, Patch."

"Promise me you'll see the show," he pleaded.

"Good-

bye

, Patch!" She hung up the phone and looked at the message he had sent. The show was the next night, and the address was local. She searched for the artist's web page and found nothing. He seemed to be a local guy with some talent but no idea how to sell himself. Perfect - that was just the kind of thing that Donna, talent scout and star maker, specialized in.

*******

Donna looked around at the hotel room. It was pretty standard, virtually indistinguishable from the hundreds of rooms she'd stayed in before. She had an apartment somewhere - just on the outskirts of Nashville. Only in the past year had she begun to stay there for more than a few weeks out of each year. She did OK as a performer, but it was clear her career wasn't skyrocketing towards stardom. Enough to pay some modest bills, maybe, but not much more. But she

did

have a knack for finding and developing new talent. When her manager saw that, she connected her with Patch and his agency. Since then, she'd been equal parts performer and scout. While it was frustrating to see some of the artists she'd "discovered" do much better than she ever would, it was hard to argue with the paychecks.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she let herself drop back onto the blankets. While every hotel chain advertised giving their guests a more comfortable night's sleep than the competition, it was all bullshit. Every bed felt the same. She had slept on hundreds.

Hundreds

. And it wasn't the bed that makes you comfortable. It's everything

but

the bed. It's a feeling of cleanness around you, a lack of unnecessary noises, the ability to control the room temperature. It's all that and a dozen other factors. Give her a nice room and she could sleep well on the floor. She had actually done that once when she found out at 2 a.m., coming back from a show, that the bedsheets still enshrouded a used condom from a previous guest. She had called housekeeping but then fell asleep on the floor before they arrived. She had slept peacefully, not considering even once what forms of grossness might be lurking in the carpet.

She realized her thoughts were racing. She wasn't focusing. What was she supposed to be thinking about? What had been on her mind before Patch called? There was something important. Something her subconscious was trying to shout out, to draw her attention to... What could it have been? Where had she been today? Was it another show? No... her dress... the cold air outside... Penny's funeral...

Shit!

She had seen Hannah.

Hannah had left when Donna was twelve years old and never wrote back when Donna emailed her. The youngest sister hadn't known why Hannah had left or where she was going. Their father had laughed and written Hannah off with some crude names. Donna had thought he just didn't know how to deal with grief. Donna had resented her sister for abandoning them like that. And now, sixteen years later, she's suddenly there. And the things she had said...

She said Daddy raped her. Maybe not just once. And maybe Penny too? In her head Donna refused to believe it. But her heart was pumping furiously, assuring her that it was true, that it made sense. She needed to think, she needed to clear her head, which meant...

Donna unlocked her suitcase and pulled out her viola. The hotel had been empty enough that they could accommodate her request for a room with no neighbor, provided she promised not to play late at night or early in the morning. Tucking the comfortingly familiar instrument under her chin, she zipped her fingers up and down a few arpeggios before starting in on an old gypsy melody. She let the feel of the song propel her along, flowing from one melody to the next. Sometimes she found herself humming a harmony and at other times she realized she wasn't even paying attention - her fingers worked from muscle memory and she was halfway through a song before she realized what she was playing.

She ended on one prolonged note that faded softly into the empty room. Her eyes closed, she had managed to forget for a moment when and where she stood. But then she remembered the grave and the sad story of Penny's final years. She regretted so much. And then Hannah...

She sat down and wept softly for the happiness that might have been.

*******

Meanwhile, after several hours of driving, Hannah was sitting at a diner, nervously drumming her fingers on the table. The gray-haired waitress refilled her coffee and callously asked, "Still gonna wait? Been an hour."

"Excuse me," came a voice from behind her. The waitress stepped aside, raised her eyebrows in slight surprise, then walked away.

"Sorry... bad accident on the interstate and my phone battery was dead," Wes explained, sliding into the booth across from her.

Hannah winced when she saw him. Scars were visible on his face, scars

she

had given him. The beard was gone and his glasses were different.

"Why didn't you want to meet me at your house?" she began, not intending to start so aggressively.

"Because I've done a lot of reflecting on what our relationship was like, and I needed a place where we could talk plainly without you turning us towards sex whenever I ask hard questions or talk about things you don't like." The Wes she had known wasn't so direct. Now he seemed almost angry from the start. Maybe she couldn't blame him. The last time she had seen him, he was in a hospital bed from the beating she had administered. Even though it had been an accident, it couldn't be easy to face her again.

"You don't want to have sex with me?"

"Didn't end so well last time," he muttered.

They both laughed at that, and for a moment, the palpable hostility between them seemed to dissolve. But then Wes shifted in his seat and said, "No. Not really. Because I don't know who you are, and I'm not into sex with strangers."

Hannah objected, "Wes, you know me, we..."'

He stopped her with a raised palm. "There's a lot I don't know, and it seems like some of it is pretty important. I can't share a roof... and a bed... and my life with someone who is hiding all that. Everyone has secrets, Hannah, but not the big stuff. You don't hide the big stuff from someone you love." Hannah bit her lip in frustration and looked away. Loving someone sounded much more complicated than she wanted it to be.

Wes went on, "I'm not saying never. I'm saying... maybe we moved too quickly. And yes, sex was a big part of that, because you are so... so gorgeous and so... eager. I think it clouded my judgment."

"You're right..." Hannah admitted. "I have some... issues. Some history. And I don't know how to deal with that. But I want to try. And I t-..." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I

trust

you to be a part of that," Hannah said, reaching across the table to hold Wes's hand. It seemed like the thing normal people do in those situations.

Wes pulled his hand back and leaned his body away from her. "And I'm saying I don't know if

I

do, if

I

want to try."

Hannah wasn't used to this. She had never been denied. She had always done the leaving. She felt... powerless. She looked out the window and blinked a few times, trying to take in this unprecedented and completely unexpected turn of events. She had thought Wes would be happy to have her back; she had thought he would be waiting for her. She had expected to spend that very night in bed with him, showing him how sorry she was and feeling his warmth inside and out, in her body and in her soul.

She didn't know how long she had been staring out the window, thinking, but eventually Wes stood up. Her shocked eyes followed him as he stepped away from the table.

"It's a lot to take in all at once, Hannah," he said. "I mean, I thought you were gone for good. And we didn't leave on the best of terms. You didn't even wait for me to get out of the hospital, or even to be able to talk again."

"Wes, if you would just let me..."

"No. No, Hannah. I mean, I've been very patient and generous, and I like to think I'm a nice guy, but even nice guys have limits."

"Please, Wes," she begged, tears starting to form. Hannah hated crying. She didn't even know how to do it right.

He leaned in and spoke in a lower voice. "I'm just saying that if you're serious about this, it's going to take some time. And I'm not sure you're willing to do that." He picked up his coat as Hannah felt his words sink in. Shrugging it onto his shoulders, he said, "But if you decide you are, then give me a call. I'm willing to at least hear you out."

*******

Donna ate at a local pub, then walked the few blocks to the venue where she was supposed to scout out this local talent. The city wasn't big enough to have a real, thriving music scene, so she guessed this guy was a big fish in a small pond. But Patch's sources were usually reliable, so if he had heard good things...

Arriving at the venue, she was surprised to see that it wasn't a planned performance, but an open-mic night. She immediately texted Patch.

Hey, are you sure about this? It's an open mic night.

Taking a seat at the counter, Donna ordered a drink. The room was nearly full, but not crowded. A gaunt, middle-aged man with an electric guitar took the stage and played some blues riffs along with a drum track pumped through his amp. It was OK, but nothing special. Her phone buzzed.

I'm sure. He ALWAYS plays the open mic night.

Two college-age guys took the stage with acoustic guitars in hand. They covered a couple of pop songs and then played an uninspired original piece. One of them had pretty decent guitar skills but neither was very impressive.

How will I know which one is him?

she texted.

She suffered through one woman's attempt at a show tune. When the gaudily dressed lady sat at the piano, Donna didn't mind listening to her play, but once she opened her mouth, Donna wanted to walk out. She was glad the house rules limited each performer to ten minutes, generally.

Trust me, you'll know,

Patch wrote back. Smug.

She ordered another drink and watched a handsome young cowboy take the stage. He had a winning smile and a slight goatee. Donna squirmed in her seat, playfully fantasizing about getting to work closely with this young talent.

Please let it be him

, she thought. She wasn't his type, she was sure, but it was fun to imagine.

A few seconds in and she knew it wasn't him. Image she could create. Talent she could not. Her disappointment must have been evident in the way she sighed and looked down to stir her drink. Someone just to her left said, "Don't worry; he only ever does one song."

Donna laughed and turned to look at her co-sufferer. "Every time?" she asked with a smile.

A tall, brown-haired guy about her age shook his head slowly and said, "Same song. Every. Damn. Time."

"Is everyone here a regular?" she prodded, wondering if she could get some inside information.

"Just about. Hardly anyone is serious about performing. It's just a way to blow off some steam after work and maybe hear some people cheer for you."

"Are you here to watch anyone in particular?" she asked, trying to stay focused on her job and not to get lost in the hazel eyes that kept meeting her gaze.

"No... not exactly... I..." he was cut off by a hearty cheer from the crowd, which had nearly doubled since Donna had arrived. People stood all around, holding drinks and chatting. It was a nice environment with a very positive vibe.

"Excuse me," he said, slipping off his stool and walking away. Donna was confused and only slightly offended. It didn't surprise her when she couldn't hold a man's interest. His stool was quickly taken by half of a couple who had been standing nearby. Moments later, Donna watched in momentary confusion as her conversation partner took the stage to the sound of much applause.

He rolled a little cart from the rear of the stage, revealing an assorted range of instruments. She watched as he moved his hand across the line-up, seeming to debate which instrument to start with. She smiled as the audience cheered and hollered, trying to cajole him into choosing one or the other. Good - he knew that he had to play the crowd just as well as he played his music. Finally, he snatched a fiddle and tucked it under his chin.

She would not have expected to hear an Irish jig in a place like that. She certainly would not have expected the crowd to enjoy it as much as they did. And she also didn't expect him to transition seamlessly into a guitar-driven ballad that he sang beautifully.

Donna knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was him. Only after his fifth or sixth number did she realize that he had gone well over the usual ten-minute allotment. Twenty minutes stretched into thirty and no one seemed to mind or make a move to stop him. When he finished his set, the crowd cheered and asked for more. He said it was time for a short break, but that there would be more people playing in a few minutes.

She tried to find him during the break, but he was predictably swamped by well-wishers and fans. He seemed a little uncomfortable with the attention, which Donna knew was something they'd have to work on. There were tricks to that, too.

In the meantime, she needed a way to get his attention, and an idea occurred to her. She chatted with the waitress and tracked down the woman the waitress pointed out to her. The woman said the line-up was full, but a few twenties slipped onto her clipboard got Donna a slot.

After the break, a few more forgettable acts took the stage, and then it was Donna's turn. She played a popular number on the piano, convincing the crowd to sing along with her on the choruses. Then, risking creating a bad situation, she went up to the other mic and politely asked if she could use one of the instruments on the cart. She knew he would feel pressured to say yes in so public a scene. Donna took the guitar and played a short original piece that was usually well-received at her shows. She was sure to get eye contact with her target.

And then for the tricky part. Finishing the song and putting down the guitar, she picked up another instrument from the cart. Having earned the good will of the crowd, she said, "I'd like to do one more number, but I need some help. Would the owner of this mandolin please join me on stage?" Cheers all around. His friends pushed him forward and he stumbled awkwardly up the steps. Donna handed him the mandolin and said, "May I?" as she picked up his ukulele. Time to see how good he really was.

Donna strummed the opening bars of "Baby It's Cold Outside." A light of recognition shone in his eyes and he began playing along. They didn't nail the lyrics, but they got them close enough, earning a laugh whenever one of them would stumble on a line. Donna had always been a solo act, and it had been a long time - probably since high school - since she had felt that much chemistry with another performer. But this time she didn't want to stop. Inevitably the song ended, and by then Donna knew what she needed to know. She exited the stage to much applause, leaving her partner in song to begin his next set.

Someone offered her a stool at the bar, and as she sat down, a drink appeared in front of her unbidden. As she sipped on the fruity alcohol and listened to the music, a familiar accent spoke behind her. "I told you you would know it was him."

Donna spun around and punched Patch in the shoulder. "What are you

doing

here, you bastard?" She was playfully angry.

"Since you weren't going to work, I had to make sure

someone

scoped out this guy."

"You are such a..."

"Never mind that. He's good, no?"

"Yes," she had to admit. "He's good."

"And you two sound good together, I think."

"But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Maybe," he said, with that smug look she had seen too many times already. "But now the only question is, which one of us talks to him after the show?"

Patch let the question hang in the air for a moment before it got its inevitable answer. "I'd like to talk to him," Donna stated, not taking her eyes off the stage. She could easily let herself get enchanted by his motion as he played. She wished

she

could look half that good when she was performing.

"Good. Shall I stick around?"

"Does it matter how I answer?"

"No, not really," he smiled. "But I will make myself scarce," he said. "I'll see you back home, Donnabella."

The crowd was just cheering as their beloved hometown bard exited the stage. He looked around the room a bit, tall enough to peer over most of the heads that surrounded him. When his eyes turned in Donna's direction, she raised her glass a bit and smiled. He smiled back and started heading towards her, handshake by handshake.

When he got close enough, she asked over the din, "Do you need to pack up?"

"Nah, my buddy'll put stuff in the back and I'll get it in the morning."

"Then let's take a walk," she suggested.

"Good idea."

"I'm Donna," she said, offering her hand.

"Steve," he replied, shaking it and giving her a half smile that was hard to look away from.

Oh, girl

, she told herself,

don't go down that road!