Marking Time by Marie Force Page A

only real music joints in this part of town. The rest are downtown.”
    “The Bluebird has open-mic nights on Mondays. I want to go tomorrow.”
    “Do you have original material? You can’t do covers there.”
    “I have a bunch of my own songs.”
    “Make sure you also bring a signed lease with you. You’ll have to prove you live in the city.”
    Ashton navigated through a busy area before he turned left into the Westchester apartment complex. Six buildings, each with four brick-front town homes, made a square around the parking area. A pool and fitness center sat at the far end of the landscaped parking lot.
    “It’s really nice,” Kate said.
    “Home sweet home.”
    Kate giggled. “I love your accent.”
    “At least I don’t sound like a snotty Yankee.”
    “Neither do I!”
    “All right, darlin’, if you say so.” His dimpled grin was full of easy charm as the breeze floating through the open window ruffled his blond hair. “Your apartment is in that building, and mine’s over there.” He pointed to the other side of the parking lot as he turned the car around to head back out of the complex.
    He gave her a windshield tour of all the Nashville highlights: the Country Music Hall of Fame, “Music Row” where all the recording companies had offices, the Grand Ole Opry, the Parthenon, and Belmont and Vanderbilt Universities. As they drove through the city, he tossed Tennessee trivia at her.
    “Do you know who the three presidents from Tennessee are?”
    “That’s easy: Andrew Johnson, Andrew Jackson, and James K. Polk.”
    “Excellent, A-plus. But do you know who the honorary fourth Tennessee president is?”
    “Honorary president? What are you talking about?”
    “Why, Jack Daniels, of course,” he said with a charming smile.
    She cracked up. “Funny, I didn’t see that in any of my American history books.”
    “It’s a well-kept secret.”
    They returned to Green Hills to go to Mabel’s, where she’d applied for a job before she left Rhode Island.
    “A buddy of mine from college bartends here,” Ashton said when he’d parked the car on the street. “Let’s see if he’s working.”
    Kate followed him into a dark hole in the wall where the smell of smoke and stale beer mixed with music coming from a stage in the back of the large open room. Two bars were doing land-office business on the first floor. A sign on the wall over one of the bars said, “Everyone welcome: Be’s, Used to Be’s, Might Be’s, Never Gonna Be’s.”
    The walls were littered with framed photos of country music royalty, many of them posing with a massive black woman who had to be Mabel herself. Interspersed among the photos were gold records, musical instruments, and framed copies of handwritten songs. Ashton took Kate’s hand to keep her with him as they navigated the Sunday afternoon crowd. He led her to the second floor, where a lone guitarist performed on yet another stage.
    Ashton tugged Kate along with him and waved to the bartender. “This is Butch Cassidy,” Ashton hollered over the noise.
    “That is not your name,” Kate said to the jovial bartender. He had close-cropped curly dark hair and mischievous blue eyes.
    Butch grinned and reached out to shake her hand. “What can I say? My mother had a sense of humor.”
    Not sure whether to believe either of them, Kate shook his hand.
    “What can I get you?” Butch asked. They had to yell to be heard over the crowd and the music.
    “Couple of beers?” Ashton said, looking at Kate.
    “Just a Diet Coke for me.”
    “Kate is a new transplant from Rhode Island. She’s here to strike gold.” Ashton had lost the hint of cynicism he’d had before she sang for him.
    “Aren’t they all?” Butch nodded to the room full of people as he drew a beer for Ashton from the tap. “Wanna be’s. Every one of ’em.”
    “This one might be different,” Ashton said with an appreciative glance at Kate. “She’s got some pipes.”
    “Oh yeah? How’d you get