A Loving Light

I looked at Marie again. “Has Carly read it?”

Marie nodded.

“And she’s happy?”

“She is.”

“Then consider it signed off.”

She smiled. “I’ll make arrangements.”

With that one short document, everything suddenly felt far more real. This was really happening.

“Where is our star, anyway?”

“In the ballroom, checking everything is set up the way she wants. She’ll be back shortly so Glenn can brief you on the four singers.”

I took a deep breath. Then looked up at Sam and Chloë. “Coffee? Lana says the stuff from that fancy machine is excellent.”

---

“We’ve got four people performing for us today,” Glenn said.

We were in the hotel’s grand ballroom—a huge space, far bigger than we needed, at over five thousand square feet. Jessie and Jackson had set up a small stage beneath the chandelier in the centre of the room—a stool, microphone stands for the singer and their guitar, and a simple two-speaker PA.

The dimmed chandelier lights provided the only light in the room, because the blinds on the windows at the far end were drawn. It gave the vast room a surprisingly intimate feel. This wasn’t a concert; it was a chance for our auditionees to show us who they were, as much as what they could do.

We already knew that the four auditionees were talented—Glenn would not have brought them this far if they weren’t. The question wasn’t about their talent. It was about how well they gelled with Kayla and whether they embodied the spirit of the tour.

Our ‘judging panel,’ I suppose you’d call it, sat on three sofas in front of the makeshift stage. Lana and I were on the centre sofa. Carly and Chloë were to my right, while Sam and Glenn sat to my left, both side sofas slightly angled towards the stage.

“I hope this isn’t the same as the tour managers and we end up only sending one of them home,” Sam said.

“I don’t care if we have to hire all four of them,” Kayla said. “If they are right for the tour, I want them.”

“Yes, but you’re not paying the bills,” Glenn said.

“No, I am,” I said. “And I’ll be guided by my artist.”

“Guided by,” said Sam. “Not led by the nose.”

I glanced at him and nodded.

“So, who are they?” Chloë said.

“Well, first we’ve got Jake Marshall. Twenty-five from here in Georgia.”

“I like him already,” Sam said, grinning.

Glenn smiled. “He’s one of your labelmates, Kayla. Just released his debut album, which has a very modern country-rock feel. It’ll blend well with some of the more upbeat songs on Alabama Sweetheart. He’ll get the audience rocking, hyped and primed, no worries on that front.”

“And that’s what we’re looking for?” I asked.

Glenn nodded. “Yeah—someone who will get the audience in the right mood, ready for Kayla’s set. The label is keen on Jake, but unlike with Evans yesterday, I think he might be a good fit.”

“Why?” I asked.

Glenn shrugged. “He ticks all the boxes for a support act. He’s a safe, uncontroversial choice. Former high-school quarterback, great stage presence, really charismatic. He won’t put a foot wrong in interviews and will look the part on your ‘something good’ visits. He’d be a good choice to send to veterans’ associations, for example.”

“Almost sounds too perfect,” Sam said.

“It’s a question of whether he fits with the spirit of the tour,” Glenn said. “In a way, he’s the antithesis of the message you’re trying to project because he’s just so ... conventional. I’m sure he’s flexible enough to go with it and say the right things but...”

“Will he just be saying them?” Carly said. “Or will he mean them?”

---

Jake was everything Glenn said he would be. His music was so catchy that we were all tapping our feet along with him by the first chorus. He was charming and good-looking and would undoubtedly be popular with Kayla’s core fanbase, which was mostly teenage girls and young gay men.

But Glenn was also right that he was utterly conventional.

He was a clone of a hundred other cowboy singers, right down to his snakeskin boots and black Stetson.

“I think in five years, most people will have forgotten he ever had a career,” Sam said in our break between auditions. “He’ll release the final album on his deal, and no one will notice, and the record label won’t bother to renew. He’ll end up selling used cars before he’s forty.”

“That’s harsh,” I said.

“It’s a harsh business.”

We all decided that if the other three candidates didn’t work out, then Jake probably would.

He was a safe fallback option. But he was far from ideal.

---

The second candidate was a woman with long dark hair and dark eyes so intense that they looked as if they’d seen too much of the world. She wore faded, lived-in blue jeans, a simple cream linen top and no shoes.

Once the young singer settled herself on the stool with her guitar, Chloë took the lead with the opening questions. We all felt she was the best person for that role—she had the happy habit of putting people at ease.

“Hi. Thank you for performing for us today. Please, tell us a little bit about yourself.”

The candidate nodded and spoke into the microphone.

“Well, my name’s Sadie Cole. I’m thirty-one, and I’m from a small town just outside of Memphis. For the last ten years or so, I’ve made my living performing in bars and clubs up and down Beale Street.”

“And what does music mean to you?” Chloë said. “Why do you want to come on tour with us?”

She smiled. Then looked down, took a deep breath, looked up again, and answered.

“Music is the only connection I have left to my Eduda. I—”

“Eduda?” Carly said.

Sadie shifted her attention to Carly. “Sorry. I mean my...” She swallowed. “My Grandfather. Eduda is what we say in Cherokee.”

“You’re Cherokee?” Sam said.

She nodded. “My mother is Cherokee, my father was white. From Texas. He left us when I was little. Etsi ... My mother ... worked all the hours she could to keep us fed, so my Eduda and Elisi mostly raised me.”

“Your grandfather and grandmother?” Carly said.

Sadie nodded.

“And you say that music is your only connection to him. Why’s that?” Chloë asked.

Sadie smiled. A sad, little half-smile. Then it faded. “He passed away three years ago. Eduda was the one who first put the guitar in my hands and taught me to play.” She inhaled. “He taught me that the blues isn’t just the sound from the Delta, but it’s a story of our people too. Of struggle and survival.”

Carly smiled. “I learned to play with my Pappy, too. We’d sit out on the back porch, strum for hours ‘til his fingers went numb. Lucky for me, he’s still kickin’. I still go see him and play for him whenever I can, even if he can’t play no more.”

“You’re lucky,” Sadie said. “You should go and play for him as often as you can.”