Page 18 of August Lane
CHAPTER SEVEN
A ugust took the long way home from work so she could stop at the fairgrounds.
It felt silly, but after her encounter with Luke the day before, she wanted to see where the festival would happen, maybe even stand on the stage where he’d perform the new song.
After their argument, she’d gone home shaken, convinced she’d made a mistake by blackmailing him into working with her.
She hadn’t written new lyrics in years. But the next morning, she woke up calmer and clear-headed about her plan.
This would be like the Writers’ Round in Nashville she’d heard about, where people performed their music on a shared stage hoping to find a collaborator or convince some A&R rep to offer them a publishing deal.
Instead of pitching to a small crowd, she’d be doing it to the entire industry at once, courtesy of Luke’s “fairy-tale comeback,” as they were already calling it on the MusicRow website.
Things were about to change for her. Exactly how, she wasn’t sure, but people said luck was preparation meeting opportunity, didn’t they? She’d been preparing for this her whole life.
The grounds were on the sparsely inhabited south side of town.
When August turned onto the dusty road that led to the even dustier parking lot, she was greeted by a billboard advertising her mother’s show.
Jojo cradled a carbon microphone, her face hidden by a teal cowboy hat that matched her boots.
Her first name was written in novelty Western font dotted with reflective lights that made the letters shimmer in the sun.
The other performers were listed in smaller, less shimmery letters beneath it.
Luke was one of Jojo’s five opening acts, a roster of mostly white men with progressive reputations and multiple top-ten hits.
It made Luke’s inclusion even more of a Cinderella story guaranteed to revive his career.
The grounds were already crowded, which was unexpected.
In past years, most of the setup wouldn’t happen until a few weeks before the event.
A white tent advertised festival jobs. Sweaty applicants stretched in front of two women August recognized from church.
Both looked tired and overwhelmed. One of them, a choir member named Fiona who occasionally chatted with her during practice, spotted August and waved.
Her older companion leaned over and whispered in her ear. Fiona’s tentative smile vanished.
Luke’s return had made August forget it wasn’t safe to be out in public.
Her social media feed was filled with people sharing Shirley Dixon’s posts.
Terry’s wife had posted a barrage of Bible memes and old wedding photos she claimed to have found while cleaning out her phone.
The commenters encouraged her to “keep going high” because “some folks only want what they can’t have. ”
Meanwhile, Terry kept sending August text messages, begging to talk.
She’d finally blocked his number but screenshot everything in case she was accused of trying to wreck his marriage again.
She’d have to be careful around Luke, too.
His wife had a doxx-friendly fan base that reveled in rumors of Luke’s infidelity.
August didn’t want to be their next target. Her sidepiece era was officially over.
She moved past the employment tent, wandered a bit, then stopped short at the sight of a massive steel stage she’d never seen at prior festivals.
It looked like something from CMA Fest. The logo of a brewing company was on a banner waiting to be hung.
Silas used to complain about how hard it was to convince major beverage companies to sponsor the festival.
“It’s a visibility issue,” he’d told her. “They called our audience niche.”
Mavis stood near the stage, speaking rapidly to a man in dirty coveralls. She wore a navy-blue suit, another relic from her law firm days. The man stared at her blankly, fidgeting like he wanted to escape. He looked relieved when August approached them.
“What you’ve done is going to set us back two days,” Mavis told him. “Tell your crew to pay closer attention to their instructions. Can you do that?”
The man drawled, “Yes, ma’am,” in a robotic tone that said we’ve done this dance before. August touched Mavis’s shoulder. Her cousin spun around, irritated by the interruption.
“Oh. Hi.” Mavis turned to face the man, but he’d vanished. She flung her hands up and sighed. “Thanks for that.”
“It was an act of mercy. How long have you been chewing him out?”
“Not long enough.” She hitched up her chin. “This was his second mistake, and we’re already behind schedule.”
“Whose schedule? My mother’s?”
Mavis tensed, which confirmed August’s suspicions.
“Don’t let her stress you out,” August told her. “Award or no award, she’s just your auntie.”
“It’s not Jojo,” Mavis insisted. “Or I don’t think it is. It’s the sponsors. They’ve given us money, but we’re still footing most of the bill. They’ve threatened to pull out and take the concert somewhere else if we can’t meet their expectations.”
“Then let them,” August said. “This isn’t Coachella. We barely have enough people to run this thing most years.”
“We’ve already invested more than we can afford to lose. And the festival needs this after so much time away. The town needs this.” She looked around. “All our businesses are closing. We’re losing our people.”
Mavis was right. Just last week, August heard rumors that Kroger, the only grocery store within city limits, would shut down next year. That meant people would have to drive to Walmart, thirty minutes away, to buy a loaf of bread. What was the point of living in a town that couldn’t sustain you?
Still, hitching their hopes to Jojo’s career was foolish.
A single concert wasn’t a new factory offering livable wages.
And August knew firsthand how risky it was to depend on her mother for anything.
That’s why Luke needed to trade his duet for a solo that would stand out in a sea of flashier opening acts.
“Is this where the money for Silas’s showcase went?” August gestured at the stage. Mavis grimaced and nodded.
“We’ll do modular for everyone else,” she said. “They’re cheaper. But the streaming service insisted on steel for Jojo’s concert because of how it looks on camera.”
“Streaming service?”
Mavis named one of the few streaming apps August spent money to access. “They’re going to debut it in theaters first. Then make it available everywhere. Even internationally.”
No wonder Luke was so determined to appease her mother. All he had to do was perform the same song he’d been singing for years and millions of new fans would be born, all of them with Spotify accounts and YouTube playlists.
She didn’t feel guilty about threatening him. But the amount of power she was taking for herself was frightening. She wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“Okay, so I get that this is a big deal,” August said. Mavis looked annoyed, so to appease her, she added, “A huge deal. But neglecting the rest of the festival is a mistake. This is one concert for one woman. The showcase is so much more than that.”
Mavis gave her a long look. “Is there something going on with you and Jojo? This award is major, and you’re not remotely interested. I know you two have your differences, but it’s almost like you don’t want to see her.”
That was because August didn’t. Not like this. Not during Jojo’s big moment, cheering her on from the audience like some starry-eyed fan. That’s what Jojo would expect from her daughter: unwavering support and loyalty. August couldn’t give that to her after their last argument.
It had been about Birdie’s funeral. In hindsight, they’d both probably been too emotional to think rationally, but burying a body wasn’t something that could wait on the stages of grief.
People kept asking when Jojo was coming home, and August had been tired of making excuses.
Or maybe she’d just been tired of being expected to.
Jojo had answered the phone with a smile in her voice, like always.
August recited a laundry list of decisions that had to be made in twenty-four hours.
Jojo responded with variations of “That sounds fine” and “You choose” and “You care more about those things than I do” until August finally snapped.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I am. I just don’t care.”
August had stopped breathing. Something sharp pricked her lungs. “What?”
“She’s dead, baby. Doubt she’ll be able to smell those lilies.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true,” Jojo tossed back. “I’m paying a lot of money so everyone who claimed to love her can cry in public. But that’s all they’re getting from me. I’m not stressing over woodgrain options for a box that’s going in the damn ground.” She paused. “You know what I think.”
“Birdie didn’t want to be cremated.”
“And I don’t want the image of her dead body haunting me the rest of my life.”
“You mean like me? I’m the one who found her.”
Jojo swore under her breath. “Sweetie, I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask. Ever since she died, you’ve made it all about you. Which isn’t surprising, just more irritating than usual. I need you to think about Birdie for two seconds, Jojo. What she would want.”
“I did that already,” Jojo snapped. “She still called me a whore. Sacrificing yourself on someone’s altar won’t make you worthy, little girl. They’re going to die thinking the worst of you.”
“You’re wrong. Last thing she said was how grateful she was for a daughter to take care of her. She died thinking I was you.”
Jojo made a sound, a hitch of air that could have been tears. “You’re trying to hurt me.”
“Yes, I am. Crying would be something, at least. Effort on your part.”
“I’m not coming to that funeral.”
The pain in her lungs seized, replaced with stillness. A chilly nothing. “You’re a terrible person.”
“Yeah. Well, you get it from me.”