Page 7 of Off the Record

I shoot her a look, and she grins back.

When I turn back to face my computer, Leo is watching me. I give him a brief, friendly smile and stare at the blank screen again, wishing he would leave for another trip. I’m hit with a new pang every time I make eye contact with him, like I forget he’s around until—bam—there he is, right in my face.

A private chat pops up on my screen.

Simone Blake: Ignore him. I can see him watching you, and it’s weird.

Paisley McConkie: He keeps trying to grab my attention. I’m afraid he’ll want to talk and clear the air or something. It would be a very Leo thing to do.

Simone Blake: A very douchey thing to do.

Simone Blake: If he asks to talk tonight, you’re busy.

Paisley McConkie: What am I doing?

Simone Blake: Coming downtown with me so I don’t get murdered on my Tinder date.

Paisley McConkie: I can do that, actually. I’ll bring work with me and watch from afar for danger.

Simone Blake: Like spurs or pictures of his cats.

Paisley McConkie: I was thinking more like undetectable drugs, but sure.

Simone Blake: Good. Then if I give you a signal, you can call me and tell me my house is burning down.

Paisley McConkie: Done.

I glance back at the blank screen, the flashing cursor mocking me, and inhale. Four days to write two rough drafts on interesting Nashville people. How hard can it be?

three

My tire heldup long enough to get me to the tire shop. To the detriment of my wallet, a screw was firmly lodged in the non-fixable zone and the whole thing had to be replaced. I took a late lunch to address the issue, then made my way home to get ready to meet Simone at the bar.

Which is where I am now, sitting at the counter two stools down from Simone while she twirls her glass and tries to decide if her date’s black cowboy hat is sardonic or genuine. The fringe on his jacket makes me think it’s not sardonic, but she might not have noticed that yet. Simone won’t take men in Western wear seriously, which cuts down a large majority of the population here in Tennessee. Personally, I think he has a sweet smile, and he pulls it off well.

We’ve been here for forty minutes and they’re still chatting, so he must’ve said something to give her a reason to stay. I have my phone out, notes pulled open to jot down any ideas that might pop up. The smell of lemon furniture polish and alcohol scent the air, and despite needing a coat to reach the car, it’s pleasantly warm inside the Whiskey Sage. The live band isn’t too shabby and the supple leather barstools are comfortable. IfI’m not careful, I might not get any work done while I wait for Simone to flash her distress signal.

Which would be par for the course today. I’ve spent hours brainstorming, doing historical research, and pleading with Google to provide the answers I don’t exactly know how to search for, and I’m still at square zero with the articles.

“You want another?” the bartender asks, lifting her eyebrows and gesturing to my glass of Coke dregs and ice cubes.

“Soda water this time,” I tell her. I have a strict caffeine cut off time and we’ve passed it. “With lemon?”

“You got it.”

Someone takes the seat next to me, smothering me with his overbearing cologne. I turn my nose away, but it doesn’t help.

The easy answer on these articles would be to write the other two civil war properties connected to Carnton, see if I can identify what about the concept is catching reader interest, but Hudson didn’t seem on board with the idea. There is the Country Music Hall of Fame. I could find a docent to walk through with me, see if I can weasel an interesting story out of them.

The bartender slides a cold glass in front of me. Three lemon wedges float on top, bobbing among the ice in the sparkling soda.

“Thanks,” I tell her, reaching for a sip.

“C’mon now,” the man beside me says. “That doesn’t look fun enough.”

Wow. I choose to ignore him, staring at my empty list instead.

“I can order you something better if you’d like to try?—”

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