Jude Daniel (Take a Sad Song and Make it Sexy) Crawford:I believe you’re the one who says it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
Me:Sigh. Pout. Eye roll. Did you turn my location on?
Jude Daniel (Take a Sad Song and Make it Sexy) Crawford:Yes, because of your car. You can turn it off if it bothers you, but please don’t. Big loud kiss on your head. Forgive me?
Me:Fine.
Jude Daniel (Take a Sad Song and Make it Sexy) Crawford:Help Sam and I’ll owe you one.
Me:I don’t know what he wants yet, but you have unlimited favors, so I guess I have no choice.
Jude Daniel (Take a Sad Song and Make it Sexy) Crawford:Unlimited? I can work with that.
I put a heart on the last message with Sam looking over my shoulder.
“Mm-hmm. Thought so.” He bumps my arm, and I have to hold the back of a chair to stay upright.
Sammy wastes no time charming the socks off the girls. I forget how charismatic he is until I see him in action.
“Lucy and Layla got named after great songs, but you got the best one, little Liza Jane,” he croons in his sugar-coated stage voice.
Liza morphs into a human heart-eyes emoji. “Do you really know that song? Nobody ever knows it!”
“Well,thisnobody knows it,” he says with his hand over his heart, “and now I’m going to think about you every time I hear it.” He beams his thousand-watt smile at her.
Poor kid. I should’ve warned her not to look directly into the sun like that.
“What about J-man?” Sam turns to Jamie. “They didn’t name you after a girl song, did they?”
“No, it’s just James,” he says with all the enthusiasm you get from a twelve-year-old boy who’s expected to sit and talk over dinner.
“James Levon,” Mom clarifies. “You know Levon? By Elton John? Once we started naming kids after songs, we had to continue with all four. The ‘L’ part was a coincidence.”
Sam beams at Jamie. “Dude, that’s awesome. You’ll love it when you’re older.”
I make a mental note to replace some groceries as they chat. Mom counts on leftovers for weekdays, and leftovers don’t stand a chance tonight.
While Sam’s eating up the food and the big family energy, he finally confesses why he wants my help. “It ain’t really that big of a deal. I told a friend I’d help him with a gig, but I didn’t ask what it was because any gig is a good gig in Nashville, right?” He grins sheepishly, and I’m already skeptical. “I thought I was playin’with him, but apparently, I’m goin’in placeof him. It’s the last night of a summer camp. Should be easy, but it’s kind of a church camp. No language. My country set ain’t bad, but it’s probably not what they want. I can think of some stuff, but I need help gettin’ a set list together.”
Oh. Well, that’s not terrible. I can help with that.
“Just a guitar? So, campfire style?” I ask.
“Yeah, probably like that. Outside,” he says. “I have a keyboard too. I can prep some things ahead.” Liza jumps up from the table and brings us back a sparkly purple notebook and a pink pen.
“So, no Bro Country,” I tease. “I like this already.”
Famous last words.
Mom tells us she’ll clean up so we can keep working, and Sam brings a guitar in from his car. My interest in mainstream music past my early childhood years is limited. I don’t know a lot of recent country music either, so I’m not sure why I was in demand for this project.
Sam keeps playing “Layla” on his guitar while we take notes, trying to goad her into staying in the living room to sing with us. It’s amusing for Liza and me, but the impromptu serenade turns Layla’s face a shade best described aspink terror.
I get it. He’s strikingly cute, and she’s sixteen. I would’ve died the most pleasant of deaths if this happened to me at her age but died nonetheless.
Liza can’t get enough of him singing her song, so when he switches from “Layla” back to “Liza Jane” again, I sing the harmony.
Sam stops cold, giving me the dirtiest look. “You!”
