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I hoped they were merely passing through for old times’ sake.
I put in an order for just about everything we specialized in for breakfast, including three different slices of pie. If I remembered correctly, they all had a sweet tooth and could down enough food in one sitting to feed a family of six for an entire day.
I asked Jen to take over the table once I put in the breakfast order.
“You betcha,” she said, smiling. “Anything else you need, Connie?”
Jen was several inches taller than me, had bright-red, short hair, a slim figure, and liked to work in three-inch chunky heels which made her more in the realm of Luke’s height.
“I’ll deliver the coffee, but they also need three bottles of sparkling water, no ice. And please add sliced lemons and limes on a plate. I think they might like that.”
“Got it,” she said. I could tell she was happy to get the extra table.
By the time I delivered the coffee, I was feeling much more in control of my emotions.
“What brings you back to Cricket? I thought none of you ever wanted to see this place again?” I asked, as I put down the three mugs, then poured the steaming dark coffee. Our clients loved our coffee. It was a Hawaiian dark roast that we ground fresh every morning.
None of them drank their coffee black, as I watched them dump the half-and-half into their cups, adding at least two packets of sugar each.
Rascal pulled out his phone, found what he was looking for, placed his phone down in front of me on the table, and I watched myself harmonize with Booker Lasater from over in Sweet Whiskey. His grandfather’s favorite song wasSave a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.A strange song to sing at a memorial service, but this was in Sweet Whiskey, and there wasn’t anything normal about the down-home town. Especially when it came to memorial services for an old cowpoke like Dusty Lasater, Booker’s grandfather and one of the most colorful cowboys I’d ever had the pleasure of getting to know.
How Rascal got ahold of a video from that day was beyond me, but however it happened, I wanted no part of the conversation that was about to take place.
I plunked the coffee pot down on the table, turned on my boot heel, and marched right out of the restaurant, hoping these guys, these three members of my ex-band, would simply fade back into my past once again.
No matter what was on that video, I wasn’t that girl anymore and had no intention of ever reviving her again.
Connie 2
How the video happened… Two Weeks Ago, Sunday.
I’d met Dusty Lasater, a wily looking, rail-thin cowboy, with longish, wispy, gray hair, a black cowboy hat, jeans, black Western shirt, and a tan fringed jacket, when he strolled into Gio’s Repair Shop for the second time. He’d wanted a repair on one of his wife’s favorite Christmas tablecloths. I still sometimes helped at the shop whenever Gio needed a repair on something either knitted or crocheted. I knew how to do either one and could repair an item so well, you couldn’t tell there had ever been a slipped stitch.
Dusty’s wife had long since left this earth, but Dusty had kept up her Christmas tradition of a lavish Christmas Eve dinner, presented on her ripped and ragged tablecloth. Fortunately, the tablecloth had been created in intersecting crocheted squares, which made the repair relatively easy. The only problem was reverse engineering the stitches for the squares. That took me several tries, but once I got it, the repairs went quickly.
I’d gotten to know Dusty during that time, while I was making the repairs. Whenever he would wander into the shop to check on my progress, he’d always brighten my day. Every time I saw him, he made me smile with some wild story from his past. I loved listening to him, especially since he had a sweet gait to his conversation that reminded me of an old-time Western movie.
On one of those occasions, Dusty had somehow pried it out of me that I used to sing and that I’d actually made it all the way to the audition stage at American Idol, but then choked at the last minute and couldn’t perform. He’d gotten me to admit all the miserable details of that day, and even had me telling him about Rascal, Luke, and Josh, and how I’d let them down as well. After that disheartening day, I never wanted to sing again, so any thoughts they may have had for a record deal or for singing locally after we graduated from high school, were dashed on that American Idol stage.
Dusty had a way about him, a kind way, and a nurturing way that reminded me of my own grandfather who’d died when I was only seven. Not only did he get me to relive those days of utter defeat, but he made me realize that I was only human, a concept I could preach to other people, but couldn’t admit to myself.
Soon after that, Dusty had me harmonizing with him to his favorite song, something I’d long since decided to never do again. That was the thing about Dusty. He was so charming, he could get almost anyone to do all those things they’d loved but had tucked away and kept behind a wall.
“Oh, no. Thanks, but no thanks,” I told Booker for the second time as we made our way to Dusty’s gravesite. “I don’t sing in public. Besides, that song was written for a guy, not a girl. It would be way too weird if I sang it.”
“It’s one song. Joey Osborne, the other singer, will take the lead. All you have to do is the harmony, and I’ll be joining you on that part. He’ll be playing guitar, as well. It’s just one song. Everyone will be laughing over the absurdity of it, anyway. No one will notice who’s doing the actual singing. Besides, we’ll all be drinking a beer during the song, and with this rowdy group, we’ll be more interested in our beer than the song,” Booker said, trying his best to convince me. “And Dusty would’ve loved it.”
Booker looked like a younger version of Dusty, only with darker, thicker hair, sea-blue eyes, and the exact same smile.
I didn’t have much time to make up my mind as we all made our way to the gravesite after the short memorial, which had taken place in the small colorful chapel. An ocean of cowboy hats, casual Western clothing, Western boots, and wide rodeo buckles crowded the paved path in front of me. Sweet Whiskey’s cemetery was like no other I’d ever seen. Cricket had its own cemetery with a little bit of color, but this one was right out of a fantasy movie. All the tombstones were either painted a bright color, or they’d been crafted with a colored marble or stone and mosaics created out of tiles. There were several mausoleums that were also colorful, with intricate, vibrant doors. And to tie it all together, flowers were the last things left at this cemetery. There were all sorts of wooden toys, plastic glasses filled with wine, beer and of course, whiskey. Small statues adorned some of the tombstones, with the occasional Elvis bust or ornament. I’d even spotted a Johnny Cash doll, complete with guitar, standing inside a small shrine.
My stomach clenched on the walk up the hill to the gravesite, as my throat tightened. Soon, I spotted the large aqua-blue, tiled mausoleum, with a horseshoe and an impressive set of longhorns crafted from metal hanging on the half-open door. Dusty’s bright green urn would be slipped in next to his wife’s urn on the wall of the dead, just inside.
When we reached our destination, a few beer kegs from Last Call in Cricket were opened. The beer was poured, and a couple hundred rowdy friends and family waited for the toast. The air buzzed with chatter and laughter.
There was nothing somber about this group or about this cemetery.
“This is for you,” Booker said, handing me a rectangular box as we stood in front of the open door.
