A Carol for Kent

Chapter 3-1

Friday, April 20th

“BAH-BEE! Bah-bee! Bah-bee!” The roar of the crowd vibrated the steel I-beams supporting the arena.

Robert “Bobby” Jason Kent was currently the hottest young male star in country music. He stood tall, a few inches over six feet even before he donned his cowboy boots, and lanky. His eyes were a bright blue with laugh lines in the corners, set in an angular face the cameras loved. Wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of jeans, he looked like anyone’s iconic epitome of a modern American cowboy. His rugged, striking handsomeness made him a favorite of both the magazines and tabloids.

Even without his wholesome good looks, his voice would have been enough to push him up through the ranks of stardom. Between his trained tenor and his natural baritone, he could effortlessly belt out the fast dance tunes his fans loved so much. With his powerful tenor, he could sing a slow song that had women sighing to themselves, feeling as if he sang only for them. He answered interview questions in a thoughtfully slow, refined southern drawl honed on the whetstone of central Virginia. His responses always held a hint of dry humor that gave his spoken voice a velvety sound and female interviewers always felt relaxed and flirtatious in his presence.

The crowd continued to chant his name. “Bah-bee! Bah-bee! Bah-bee!”

He smiled as his band reset after the opening act. The trappings of modern-day stardom often included things like drugs and alcohol. Early in his career, Bobby had wisely realized the reason they were called “trappings” and carefully and consciously avoided them ever since. Standing backstage at this moment, he realized once more that nothing could equal the euphoria of thousands of fans screaming his name. That feeling had no equal in this world.

“Ready?” Gary yelled. Bobby threw him a thumbs-up to cue his band, and they started the opening music to their signature song, The Amarillo Swing. The crowd roared. Smoke billowed from the wings as the platform Bobby stood on shot upward through the floor of the stage. He began to sing.

He could actually feel the sound waves from the crowds’ voices and wondered if they could even hear his voice as they joined him for every chorus. After he finished the song, the band quieted, and he held his hands up, motioning for quiet.

“Good evening, Raleigh,” he said with a sideways smile. Another wave of ovation swept through the room. As it started to quiet, he said, “All right. All right, now. If y’all will just bow your heads, we’ll really get this party started.”

As intoxicating as the sound of the ovation of the crowd felt, there was nothing on earth like the silence of thousands of fans as they, as one, bowed their heads. Bobby prayed in a loud, clear voice, “Father God, we are so thankful to be here tonight.”

He went on, praying over the concert, over hearts and minds, and ended with thanking God for his talent. Then he said, “And Father, please bless Harmony Harper tonight as she sings her new hit song, Even if it Were Only You!”

As soon as he said, “Amen,” four spotlights bathed contemporary Christian newcomer Harmony Harper in pure white light. Her sequined lavender gown dazzled the audience even more than her bright smile and blonde curls. Bobby’s band instantly began the intro of her latest hit single that had met with such unexpected crossover appeal.

The crowd went completely wild.

Harmony had a young voice and a fresh outlook and, if Bobby knew anything about the business, he had a strong feeling she had a bright future ahead in music. Her brother, Franklin, acted as her manager and he had made some savvy decisions with her career so far. Earlier in the year, Bobby and superstar Melody Montgomery had invited Harmony to add a few tracks to their annual charity Christmas Album, and Harmony had enthusiastically agreed to meet with him and discuss it further. A few weeks ago, he had contacted her about Raleigh since she had a concert scheduled at one of the largest churches in the Triangle the evening after his show, and she had agreed to surprise Bobby’s audience.

The crowd was on their feet singing along with her at the top of their lungs. She finished her song with Bobby Kent singing backup. More than forty thousand voices sang the closing chorus along with them. “Even if it were only me! Just me! He would do it all for me. He would do it all for you! Just you! Even if it were only you.”

It took over a minute for the shouts, whistles, and applause to die down enough for Harmony to be heard when she spoke. In her sweet, soprano voice she said, “Hey there, Raleigh! Thanks for letting me sing for you tonight!”

The crowd roared. When they settled down again, Bobby grinned and said, “I’ll sing backup for you anytime.” Applause. “Hey folks, we’re gonna let Harmony go now, but remember she’s playing her full show right here in town tomorrow night…”

The crowd’s reaction was deafening. Harmony covered her mouth with her hands and laughed out loud. She reached out and put a hand on Bobby’s forearm, and he quickly snatched off his hat and fanned himself as if heated by her touch. She laughed even harder. The crowd ate it up.

When the audience noise faded to merely a roar, Bobby said, “I take it some of y’all already have tickets.”

Laughter and applause. Bobby’s band started strumming and drumming the opening chords, and rhythm to Cowboys Don’t Cry. They could keep the bridge going for as long as necessary until Bobby sang the opening lyrics.

Harmony bowed and waved and said, “Bobby, thanks so much for letting me share your stage tonight. I was really nervous, but it was great. Thank you so much for your hospitality. And thank you, North Carolina. I’ll see you tomorrow night!”

“Harmony Harper, ladies, and gentlemen!” Bobby declared as she left the stage and he got back to his own program.

This was the last concert of the tour, so he gave the crowd all he had. He played his guitar and his fiddle, sang for two hours without a break, then returned to the stage three times to perform three “final” encore numbers. He and his band members soaked up the crowd’s energy. It wasn’t until much later, they sat backstage in the early morning hours after the last fan left and technicians and support crew packed up the equipment and gear that belonged to his show that they all realized how exhausted they felt.

There would be no loading onto the bus or the plane tonight to head for yet another venue. Instead, they took a limousine to the five-star hotel that towered over the Research Triangle Park and went to their rooms to sleep, ready for the six-month break in touring that they’d earned. It had been eight years since they’d taken more than a few weeks off at a time.

After a steaming hot shower, and a rapid surf of cable channels that lasted less than five minutes before he powered off the flat screen television, Bobby settled into the king size bed. Sleep refused to claim him. He rose and paced his suite, going from one room to the next, while the remaining adrenaline from the night’s show hummed through his system and kept his body from relaxing and getting some rest. He wasn’t concerned or bothered by it as he would be the night before another show because there would be no concert the next night. Nevertheless, he felt restless and couldn’t stand the thought of waiting for the sun to rise before he left.

He wanted to go home.

Bobby Kent wondered why he found himself all alone in a posh hotel room at the age of twenty-nine. He didn’t even have someone he could call and talk to at this hour. When or where had his life gone so far off the planned path he had laid out in his youth? By now he fully expected to be married and settled at his family’s horse farm. He figured he’d have at least one and hopefully a few children by this age.

The idea of superstardom had never even crossed his mind, never become a hope or a dream, until college. He started picking guitar with a couple other guys in his dorm room, they got a drummer, a keyboard player, and somehow made a demo tape. Now, here he was. Adored by millions, but privately alone and feeling so lonesome.

Bobby Kent had the blood of his Savior. The gift of eternal life awaited him one day. He had fame, fortune, and the adoration of hundreds of thousands of loyal fans. In the dark quiet of his hotel room, he wondered, had God made a woman especially for him? Had God made Bobby to be the perfect mate for his future wife? When would he meet her? Had he already met her and blown it?

After finishing a concert tour like this one, he should be able to celebrate with someone, confide in someone, talk with someone, relax and laugh and tease someone. He couldn’t celebrate like that with his fans because they didn’t really see the man he was, only the singing icon they imagined him to be. Women he had never met in his life often proposed marriage within minutes of conversation. His fan mail averaged forty marriage proposals per week. The letters that made his heart ache started with, “When I get out of prison…” In spite of that, he still didn’t have what he wanted most in this life, what he needed.

Bobby Kent was alone.

That feeling of lonesomeness led to nearly overwhelming homesickness. Making a quick decision, he called down to the concierge and asked her to secure him a rental car right away. He had just played a full house in Raleigh, North Carolina, less than a three-hour drive from Richmond, Virginia. He and his parents hadn’t planned on him visiting until later this summer, but he suddenly felt a strong desire to see them. He wanted to get back to his roots, to relax on the ranch while he worked the horses, watched some sunsets, and ate his mother’s cooking.

Within a few minutes, the telephone in his room rang, and the clerk told him that his car would be delivered by five in the morning. He thanked her, then laid back down and shut his eyes. His mind made up, he could finally relax. He set an alarm on his phone, said a quick prayer, and closed his eyes.

BOBBY Kent left a message for his manager, Gary, to let him know where he’d gone, grabbed his already packed overnight bag and his guitar and fiddle cases, then headed downstairs. Room service had delivered his breakfast earlier, and he had shoveled it down and topped it with three cups of coffee. It was a little past five o’clock, and no one was in the lobby except for the clerk and a bored bellman, so he was out of the hotel and driving away into the Carolina predawn darkness within seconds.

He passed an occasional semi-truck, but other than that, he had the road to himself for the first half of the trip. He stuck to State Road One, heading north toward Interstate 85, and drove through rural northern North Carolina where his songs dominated the airwaves. As his rental car ate up the miles, the tension—and what others had diagnosed as fatigue—started to fade into the background. The predawn countryside revealed by the high beams started becoming more and more familiar. He rolled down the window as he crossed the Virginia state line on Interstate 85 and breathed in the smells of the countryside.

In the nearly nine years since he’d started recording, and in the six years since he’d made it to the top, he’d never been home even once. There had been only a few breaks in all those years, and his parents had always wanted to come to wherever he was at the time. Somehow, his tour schedule had never allowed him any extended time in Richmond. Usually, he had to back-to-back double book Richmond and the nearby Army base at Fort Lee south of Petersburg, then double book the naval base at Norfolk followed immediately by a Washington D. C. show before heading on up into New England. By the time he played two double back-to-back shows, he was utterly exhausted and would just sleep in his hotel with the rest of his crew before leaving for the next show.