Bette Hawkins [Hawkins - In My Heart

Dorothy leaned in, her velvety lips touching mine

Its the spring of 1958 and amateur guitarist/songwriter Alice Johnson feels like a stranger in her small Southern town. Everyone knows her business and is pushing her to settle down and marry like all the other young women in town. Only Alices love of music provides an escape from the stifling expectations of family and society.

One night, Alice hears the mesmerizing voice of up-and-coming country singer Dorothy Long and is immediately entranced. Dorothy becomes Alices muse, inspiring her to write songs for Dorothyeven though she never imagines that Dorothy will hear them.

But then she finally meets Dorothy and her life turns upside down. Soon Alice finds herself on the road, and not just sharing the stagebut sharing a hotel roomwith her idol. Now what is Alice going to do with the unexpected desire that seems to consume her?

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No More Pretending

Bette Hawkins is a social worker who hails from Melbourne, Australia. She lives with her long-term girlfriend and their very spoiled dog. In addition to writing, Bettes favorite pastimes include playing the guitar, watching films, cooking, and reading.

Copyright 2019 by Bette Hawkins

Bella Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 10543

Tallahassee, FL 32302

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

First Bella Books Edition 2019

eBook released 2019

Editor: Medora MacDougall

Cover Designer: Judith Fellows

ISBN: 978-1-64247-061-1

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Thanks to Bella Books and my wonderful editor Medora MacD. And thanks to my mother, who raised me on country music.

In the days when we spent all our time together, during the spring of 1958, Aunt May and I clung to certain rituals.

On Friday after we finished work, we climbed into Mays car to travel along the dirt road to her house. This afternoon, she was letting me drive. She had taught me how and at first, shed laughed at me from the passenger seat while I steered with white knuckles. By now Id acquired her posture behind the wheel, loose and confident, the car an extension of my body.

I dreamed about Friday night from the moment I punched the clock on Monday morning. Though neither of us had much money to spare, May and I put great care into gathering provisions for our little parties. There was always something good to eat like deviled eggs, cherry tomatoes, roast beef with mustard, or sliced pork.

Though Mays house only had a few rooms and paint flaked from its exterior, we treated it like a palace. We laid a fresh white cloth on the table and set the food out on her chipped plates. We mixed gin and tonics and chilled a bottle of white wine in Mays silver ice bucket.

After supper we sat on the front porch with full bellies, on kitchen chairs we dragged outside to cool ourselves down. May sipped her gin and tonic, rattling ice around in her glass so that it clinked against the edges.

Alice, why dont you go on inside and get the guitar? Play me a song, will ya?

My guitar was propped against the wall in the hallway. When I ran my fingertips over the smooth wood, it felt like the first time Id touched it, when Id discovered how it fit perfectly into my hands. The instrument spoke a language I picked up quickly, as though it was my native tongue. Id developed thick callouses on the fingertips of my left hand and when I was bored I ran my thumb over them, testing their firmness.

I strummed an old song called Grave in the Pines while May sang with gusto, her voice made gravelly from cigarettes.

Why dont you sing louder, Alice? Youre like a little mouse!

I cant get it to sound the way I want.

Who cares? Its like a stiff drink, itll make you feel good!

I dont think Mama would approve of that idea, would she?

May leaned back in her chair to look out at the stars. I played some chords, finding a pattern and repeating it. The edge of my thumb moved gently against the strings, the progression melancholy but pleasing. A melody suggested itself, and a song began to take shape.

Whats that youre playing? Its real pretty.

Nothing. Just making it up.

Just now? You could be famous one day. The next Kitty Wells. Just dont forget who bought you that guitar when it happens, will you now?

I set the guitar down, laughing at her. The guitar had been a gift for my twenty-first birthday. I was twenty-five now, and Id barely put the thing down since. When I peeled brown paper wrapping from the secondhand case, I was happy enough to cry. She said that she was sure Id be able to do something special with it. Id been making up songs since I was a kid.

Ill be famous when hell freezes over. Im going to be stuck working at the phone company forever, I said.

Theres nothing wrong with that, is there? Youll be an old-timer like me. We can practically run the place together, keep everyone else in line, she said, smacking her lips after a sip of gin.

I plucked a couple of strings between my forefinger and thumb. Sure, May. Sounds good to me.

Stop being such a grouch. Now go and get the radio. Our country hours gonna be on any minute. I dont want to miss the start.

Okay, I said, the chair creaking underneath me as I stood.

May expected me to wait on her when I was at the house. I couldnt get too mad about her asking me to fetch things, not when shed done so much for me. I was working in a cannery when a position at the telephone company came up, and she put in a good word for me with the manager. After I was hired as a gofer, running errands and making coffee, she showed me the ropes.