Page 11 of Rumor Has It

I shouldn’t keep everyone waiting, but I linger, examining an older picture. There’s no way Rhiannon took this one. But something about it strikes me as special. It’s of a group of women—one of whom I recognize as Daveigh Sanchez—and a bunch of gangly girls surrounding a trailblazing female artist.

“Is that—”

“—It most certainly is,” Rhiannon confirms.

“She’s a legend.”

“We were little and didn’t know, you know? How important she was? We were just over the moon. The lady who sang the song our mothers dropped everything and turned up the radio to hear came to visit Uncle Cris. Cass and I could sing her lyrics before we could speak.” Rhiannon looks me straight in the eye mentioning Cassidy.

Curiosity has the best of her, and she’s baiting me. I won’t bite. I think whatever anyone has to say should come from Cassidy.

A male voice interrupts. “What’s funny about that picture is my wife and my sisters-in-law were bigger fans than I ever was. The energy the women brought to the table made those writing sessions click. Doing something important to them made her visit larger than life.”

I spin, finding the man I’ve idolized since I picked up a guitar standing in the doorway.

In the snapshots adorning the hall, Cris has morphed from his strapping youth, singing lead in his original band, to the man I associate with his success. Still in good shape, he’s closing in on his seventh decade. Although, I notice his hair has swaths of white streaking the deep black. I’m humbled by the kindness and knowledge in his soulful face.

I’m no slacker at songwriting, but Cris Sanchez has the artistry and industry experience a singer needs to level up. You fit into his schedule, not the other way around. I’m grateful to be here before he retires and the opportunity passes me by.

“It’s a pleasure, Isaiah.” Cris greets me like we are old friends, pulling me into his studio.

“It’s absolutely all mine.”

Gatlin is already here, sitting a loveseat. Jake Ballentine is pacing the room. His lighter complexion hides a weathered lifestyle and his Norse-God height is as imposing as the list of artists he’s worked with over the past three decades.

On the inside, I’m reacting no differently than Rhiannon. The number of times the duo has been nominated for song of the year is incomprehensible. Writing with them is a goal of mine.

I shake hands with Jake and meet his wife, Paisley, a tiny brunette, before she excuses herself. Rhiannon’s camera shutter clicks rapid fire from every angle.

“Glad you dropped by. Looking forward to hearing what we can help you with,” Jake says.

“A number one would be great,” I joke.

“That’s what we strive for, and we have solid footing. The album you released this summer gives us great momentum to build on.”

“Of course, you’re familiar with Gatlin,” Cris remarks. “In a good way, thank goodness for small favors.”

“Thank Cris for saving Gatlin’s behind and getting him back on the air or you wouldn’t be here,” Jake instructs me with a hint of the devil.

“I’m thankful,” I tell Cris.

More than they realize.

Gatlin grumbles, rising from the couch to grip my hand. “Number one syndicated country radio show. I bring youtheIsaiah Roomer. Yet, I won’t ever live down one slip up on the radio around here.”

I first encountered Gatlin at a concert after he rebooted his career. The internet buzz surrounding the scandal was loud—and I know he met his wife Bellamy at a resort while doing his penance—but I’ve never asked Gatlin for the whole story. The DJ never struck me as a complete asshole, and celebrity gossip is like a game of telephone. The message you receive isn’t always the one that was sent.

“Now, if you could save my ass I’d appreciate it,” I say.

“What’s going on?” Cris inquires, offering me a seat. He motions to his niece. “Rhiannon has a non-disclosure. She blends into the woodwork, but if you’re uncomfortable talking about anything, she’s never held it against us to come back once we’ve got a few instruments out and are in the throes.”

It doesn’t make a difference to me whether Rhiannon stays. I learned how to choose my words in this industry a decade ago. With Gatlin milling about, he’ll hear everything anyway. It’s easier to settle into the couch and get down to business.

“I guess now is as good a time as ever to delve into the nitty-gritty. The new singles we’ve been promoting for the upcoming tour I wrote before Kylie’s accident. They’re climbing or holding steady on the charts. Online the video views for the upbeat songs keep racking up.

“What about the ballad?” Jake pushes. “It’s topping the country chart and having crossover success in the pop top ten, but word is the lack of promotion is promoting it.”

I sigh. “I’ve been fighting with my PR team and the video director. All of them want a montage of Kylie. Our wedding pictures, home movies, personal highlights.”

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