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Paisley, on the other hand, sings in an almost-whisper. It’s nothing like the full, vibrant voice she had when I caught her singing before.
Halley looks over at her sister, her face pinched with pain, as if it hurts her to see Paisley so petrified. I don’t have any siblings, so I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think she’s trying to be mean. It’s more like she wants to share Paisley and her talents with the group gathered here.
She shifts closer to Paisley, who’s an inch or so taller, and leans her head on her shoulder. Halley’s voice is still punchy, but she’s toned it down a bit.
Paisley’s response is slightly louder this time, with a definite warble. She strums her guitar like a robot, without any heart and soul. It’s hard to see her up there, a shell of the person I know. It’s like someone hit the dimmer switch.
At the table next to me, a guy with a handlebar mustache turns to the woman next to him and says something about a “boost of confidence.” He waits for Halley to sing the next line, and then, when it’s Paisley’s turn to reply again, he stands up, points at her, and belts out “Yeah” in a deep, booming bass. Then he sits down and twirls the ends of his mustache like he’s pleased with a job well done.
Paisley’s eyes glisten and the side of her mouth curls with a faint, bashful smile.
Halley sings the next line, and a woman on the other side of the room stands and sings “Yeah” in a breathy voice when it’s Paisley’s turn. She blows a kiss to Paisley and then sits back down.
Paisley’s mouth twists into a deeper, less reluctant smile. She steps forward with a bit more confidence and starts strumming her guitar with a more relaxed vibe.
People continue to chime in when it’s Paisley’s turn to sing, offering up their own style of encouragement. Soon, Paisley’s voice—while still timid—is clear enough to hear without any bolstering. The warmth and soul that I heard when she was singing to herself isn’t there, but a chunk of the Paisley I’ve come to know and admire is back. By the end of the song, I think there are only a handful of people who haven’t chimed in to sing along with her.
Paisley strums the last chord to a round of applause. Her shoulders droop with relief when the song is over. Halley pulls her into an enthusiastic hug, though Paisley’s reluctant to reciprocate. Halley whispers something in Paisley’s ear. Paisley stiffens and shakes her head.
A man in a dapper tan suit vest and pants combo steps onstage with a fiddle. After a quick chat, Paisley and Halley step off the stage. They disappear, and I wonder if Paisley’s planning on coming back to the table. I shift, hoping to catch sight of her, my eyes scanning the room, but I can’t find her. The man onstage points to the guy who was setting up the drum kit and the woman sitting next to the guy with the handlebar mustache and curls his finger to beckon them to join him on the platform.
While everyone is getting settled onstage, the man steps up to the microphone and says, “Hey, y’all.”
“Hey, Clive” is the response.
“Now, who’s ready to really get this shindig started?”
Hoots and hollers echo up to the rafters.
The man next to the drum kit holds up a jug. The woman at the upright bass plays a short riff. And, much to my surprise, Paisley steps back onto the stage with a banjo. She picks a quick series of notes with her thumb, index, and middle fingers, and then strums a few chords.
“Here are some ‘Clinch Mountain Blues.’ ”
The man nods to Paisley and sets his fiddle on his shoulder. He counts off the beat, and Paisley kicks it off at a blazing bluegrass speed. They play and people clap along. No one’s dancing yet, but there’s an energy shift in the barn. Paisley’s fingers fly over the banjo as she picks the notes, and the longer she’s up there, the more the tension drains from her shoulders. There’s a moment or two when she even gets lost in the music, her eyes squeezed shut in concentration and her mouth curved up at the edges.
She’s radiant up there and I can’t seem to take my eyes off her.
The song ends and someone to my right calls out, “Play ‘Black Mountain Rag.’ ”
Couples stand and make their way to an open area, which must be the dance floor. They dance as the impromptu band plays, flatfooting even as the music changes from one energetic song to another. I don’t recognize most of the tunes, since I haven’t spent much time listening to bluegrass, but I like the hard, driving boom-chuck rhythm and the twang of the instruments.
“I don’t know about you,” says the man with the fiddle after a particularly brisk song. “But I’m parched. It’s someone else’s turn to entertain y’all now.”
Marla and the Magpies take the stage and the size of the dance floor expands. Paisley helps Mr. Morgan fold up some of the tables to make more room, while Halley and Mrs. Morgan clear the buffet tables. I make my way over to help.
“You were great up there.” I grab a few folding chairs and follow Paisley as she lines them up against the wall.
“Thanks,” she says, but I don’t get the sense she believes me. I wish she could see how amazing she was, more than holding her own against a bunch of older musicians with years of experience on her.
We finish clearing the tables and chairs. Paisley sets her hands on her hips and surveys the barn. Aside from Halley, Paisley and I are the youngest people here by at least a few years. It makes me wonder why none of her friends are here, if this hoedown is for the Morgan family’s nearest and dearest.
The people dancing are having a blast. Some are doing a disorganized line dance, while others are twirling their partners in a two-step. Most everyone is smiling and laughing. When I glance over at Paisley, she’s chewing on her bottom lip.
Looks to me like she could use some smiling and laughing herself right about now.
A version of Tim McGraw’s “I Like It, I Love It” starts up and I spontaneously grab Paisley’s hand. “C’mon.”
She resists for a moment, giving me a critical once-over, and then lets me lead her to an open spot on the dance floor. I’m not much of a dancer, but that doesn’t seem to matter in the good-natured chaos surrounding us.
