Cerella Sechrist - A Song For Rory

“There we go,” she announced, her voice carrying an air of relief. “As I was saying, the winner of this year’s Artist of the Year is...” She drew a breath. “Sawyer Landry!”

The tension broke as the audience swept to their feet in a standing ovation. Sawyer was a beat behind as the announcement hit him. He’d done it. Artist of the Year.

“Come on up here, darlin’,” Daisy exhorted.

He received several congratulatory thumps on the back as he navigated his way up the red-carpeted runway to the stage. From his peripheral vision, he noticed a montage of his concert performances and various awards ceremonies displayed on the massive auditorium screens.

The applause rose several octaves as he tossed a wave toward the audience. He felt himself warm to the reaction. It was heady enough to hear a crowd of two thousand fans screaming his name, but having such a strong reaction from his peers, even his idols, in the industry cheering him—that was a rush at an entirely new level. He nearly tripped over his cowboy boots—a gift from Nashville’s premier designer—as he moved toward the podium.

The audience was still on its feet, hooting and hollering, as he accepted the bronze statue from Daisy.

“Congratulations, Sawyer,” she murmured for his ears alone as she leaned in to press her cheek to his.

He hefted the weight of the award in his hand. It was an elongated sculpture with a crystal sunburst radiating from the top. He glanced down to read the description: “An artist of the highest caliber, displaying showmanship and talent, Artist of the Year,” followed by the date and year.

Sawyer swallowed hard as he read the words, making an effort to keep his emotions in check. He’d done it. After years of living out of a van, playing dive bars and community events, never knowing where his next paycheck would come from, he’d finally reached the top. He raised his head and looked out over the auditorium. The stage lights were too bright for him to make out individual faces, but the applause still rippled on.

He finally let out a breath and grinned. The sight of his smile set the crowd off once again, and the clapping intensified a few more notches. He raised a hand to quiet them, but it was still several long seconds before the room was silent.

“I don’t even know where to begin, there’s so many people I need to thank.” He drew a breath. “My band, my manager, Perle, and all the talented folks at Americana Records.” He quickly ticked through his mental list of industry partners, executives and collaborators.

“My family, especially my parents, for buying me my first guitar. I told you I’d pay you back for it one day, and now I guess I can.” He was rewarded with a rumble of laughter from the audience.

“I’m especially grateful to my fans. Every single one of you who bought an album or downloaded a single or attended a show—you are what has made this possible.” He laid a hand across his heart. “And I thank you for that.”

He stopped then, his gaze fixed on the sunburst at the top of his award. He experienced a tug in his chest, as he so often did when he was onstage, staring out at a crowd or accepting an award. In all those times, there was still one individual he had yet to thank.

She was the one person who had made all the difference in his life and his journey to this stage. But he hesitated to name her. After all, it was unlikely she harbored any fond memories of him after the way he’d ditched her.

But wasn’t this the moment? The occasion when he was meant to pay homage to those who had shaped and defined him, the ones who had believed when others had withdrawn their support? If that was the case, there was only one person whose belief in him had been unfailing, no matter the hard times. It was his own pride—the recognition that he was the selfish one who had given up on her and not the other way around—that had kept him from voicing her name.

Well, there was no time like the present.

“There’s one more person I need to thank. And she may be the most important person of all.”

A hush swept over the auditorium. With the stage lights blinding him, he could have almost believed he was alone in the room. He drew a breath and closed his eyes, struggling to find the words.

“Rory, if you’re watching—” he opened his eyes, trying not to wince at the bright glare “—I’m sorry.”

Saying those two words eased a bit of the ache in his chest. He hadn’t realized what a relief it would be to speak them aloud. It bolstered him to continue.

“You deserved so much more than what you got. And truth be told, you hold more talent in your pinkie finger than I have in my entire body.”

If the audience still remained in the auditorium, they had fallen utterly silent—he could imagine he was speaking directly to Rory. Only the faint electrical hum of monitors and amplifiers could be heard.

“If anyone deserves an award for best artist, it’s you. Because you’re the best artist I’ve ever known or collaborated with. Your faith in me helped me to believe in myself. I dedicate this award to you.”

Daisy cleared her throat, and a soft guitar riff from the speakers signaled it was time for him to wrap it up. He also heard a faint reverberation from the crowd, a wave of whispers traveling through the room.

“So, thank you...for everything.”

He tipped the award in acknowledgment and then moved toward Daisy, who was waiting to direct him off the stage. There would be a crowd of reporters wanting to interview him. Applause followed him into the wings, and he heard the ceremony’s host segue the proceedings into the next performance.

Sawyer paused at the hallway that led to the press area and looked down at the award he held in his hands. Though he felt relieved at having finally recognized Rory after all this time, a weight of grief still hung over him. Most days, he was too busy to acknowledge it, but in moments like this, the truth hit him full force.

No matter how many albums he sold, concerts he played, or awards he won, he wondered if he would ever shake the regret of letting her go.

* * *

RORY CALLAHAN TRIED not to fidget as the scones were passed.

It wasn’t that she was bored or having an awful time, she was just uncomfortable. High-tea luncheons weren’t really her type of scene, especially when she’d been forced to dress in a frilly pink sundress and strappy heels thanks to Paige Worth’s stringent dress code for the bridal shower. She tried to slip off the tight heels, but her best friend, Erin, nudged her gently in the side.

“Stop moving so much,” she whispered in an aside. “Paige is shooting daggers.”

Rory frowned and stopped working one open-toed shoe’s heel against the other. She slid a glance in Paige’s direction and caught her fellow bridesmaid glaring in disapproval.

“Well, it’s ridiculous,” she hissed back at Erin, her Irish accent more pronounced with her exasperation. “Why do we have to dress up in these fancy frocks anyway? Harper doesn’t care. In fact, I’m sure she’d have been just as happy having the shower at the Moontide, like I suggested.” She looked in her soon-to-be sister-in-law’s direction. Harper was smiling graciously. If she was unhappy with the choice of venue, she didn’t show it.

Beside her, Erin’s shoulders slumped. “That’s what I would have preferred, too,” she acknowledged, “but Paige insisted. And as the matron of honor...”

“I know, I know.” Harper’s sisters were sharing the role of matron and maid of honor, and that meant that whatever Paige wanted trumped anything Rory or Erin suggested. Tessa, as the maid of honor, occasionally spoke up to veto her older sister’s ideas, but on the whole, Paige was the one running the prewedding events.