I remembered the faint smell of cloved smoke that usually lingered around her front porch where her dad often sat, puffing in the corner with a glass of his favorite Russian formula.
It was weird, spendin’ so much time with a family without them even realizin’ I was there. In a lot of ways, I was a ghost to the Bransons, someone who haunted the periphery, never quite important enough to make it all the way into their world.
It’d struck me a lot of nights how lucky I was that Augusta Belle wasn’t anything like either of her parents. She was kind and sweet, full of compassion and a supercharged sense of adventure. A smile still turned up my lips when I thought of the countless nights of fun we’d had, just her and me, my guitar and the moonlight.
If Augusta Belle had been anything like her parents, she probably would have looked through me that first day up on the bridge. I wouldn’t have been a blip on her radar.
I couldn’t imagine the endless dark days and nights I would have had without her sunshine.
A man couldn’t live without the sunshine. I knew; I’d been doin’ it day in and day out for too many years now. “Wish I woulda been around to help you then.”
Her face was soft, reflective. “I’m glad I had that time with him. Spent my whole life resenting the life they’d brought me into, and then all of a sudden…” She shrugged, finally catching my eyes. “Life.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” I slid my palm over her knee, giving it a soft squeeze along with a smile.
“Stayed up late so many nights, lyin’ on the roof outside of my room and watchin’ the stars. Writing music and wondering if we were both watchin’ the same moon turn into the same dawn light every mornin’.” She smiled up at me, the first genuine slice of happiness I’d seen on her face since we’d left Memphis. “Made me feel grounded, looking up at how big the universe is and knowin’ you could see it too. It was the only connection I had.”
I swallowed, the vulnerable side of her something I wasn’t used to. “We’re only a few miles from the hotel. I know it’s late, but I thought we could get something a little nicer tonight. Been so used to being by myself, I didn’t really think about what that last place might have been like from a lady’s perspective.”
“A lady’s perspective?” She giggled, tucking her arm under my elbow and smiling. “Since when have you ever treated me like a lady, Gentry?”
I grinned, shaking my head when I thought of all the times I’d held the door, held her hand, helped her out of the car, sang her to sleep… “You may be a lady now, Augusta Belle, but you’ll always be my whiskey girl.”
She paused, smile faltering for an instant before she recovered. “It’s weird, knowin’ I’m…her.”
I thought about the woman I sang of who’d left my heart sliced open on the floor. A rousing third chorus line I’d added to a lot of bootleg performances in the earlier days. I winced, wondering if she’d heard any of those versions.
“You’re not, not really. That was my perception of things at the time, but I’m not that kid anymore either.” I tapped my fingertips on the wheel as I mused out loud. “The person I am on the stage, the one they think they’re getting, the one they paid money for, I have to give them at least some of that even if that’s not entirely the man I am. Working in the public eye, it’s a weird thing.”
She yawned, leaning her head on my shoulder.
“Rest your eyes. I’ll wake you up when we get there. And if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even carry you upstairs so you don’t have to use your legs.”
She laughed. “That sounds so ladylike.”
“Doin’ the best I can here, baby.” I gave her my best sideways Elvis impersonation. “Welcome to Tupelo.”
“Think you’re cute?” We both erupted into a laugh when the “Welcome to Tupelo” and “Elvis Presley Birthplace” signs were illuminated by my headlights a moment later.
Augusta Belle made everything about being on the road better; there was no doubt about that.
I wasn’t sure what in the hell the future held for us—not a damn thing was most likely—but right then, I made a point not to give a shit and live in every moment, enjoyin’ the sunshine and smiles of Augusta Belle Branson while I had ’em.
NINETEEN
Fallon
By the time we’d checked in to our hotel, which for a midnight staff took longer than it damn well should have, Augusta was wide awake, singing full songs under her breath and interjecting her own, often more clever lyrics into the stanzas.
Just as the clock was inching past three in the morning, she was breaking into a rendition of Queen I’d never quite heard before. “This performance has been truly awe-inspiring, but a few hours of sleep would probably be the adult thing.”
“Let’s go for a walk.” She dug through her backpack and found something long-sleeved to pull over herself, and she was opening the door, eyes on me and waiting.
“You’re shittin’ me.”
She shook her head, grin widening by each aggravating second.
I shoved a hand through my hair, not even considering for more than a half a second tellin’ her no.
