“This looks wonderful,” I say.
“Yeah, the food here is really something.”
“Have you been to Paris before?”
“No. First time.”
“Anywhere else in the country?”
“First trip to Europe, actually.”
“If you have the time, you should see some of the countryside,” I say. “You can pretty much get off the train in any small town and end up thinking it’s the best place you’ve ever been.”
He hesitates, and then, “I’d love to do that, but I’ll be heading back to Nashville once the show is over.”
“Ah,” I say. I pick up my fork, and at my cue, Klein does the same. “So, what’s next for you when you leave here?”
He toys with the pasta, twisting it around the end of his fork. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
“More touring scheduled?”
“Not right at the moment.”
“Maybe that will give you some time to get back to writing. I know how hard it is to be creative when you’re on the road.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not feeling that too much these days, either.”
I put down my fork, listening for the undercurrent beneath his admission. Something is different with him. There’s a sadness in his voice I’ve never heard before. “Is everything okay, Klein?”
“I think I just need a break,” he says. “Some space to, I don’t know, get my feet back on the ground, I guess.”
“Are you planning to take some time off?”
“I am.”
“A few weeks of vacation can be just the thing sometimes. We all need a reset now and then.”
He’s silent for several moments, and I feel there’s more that he wants to say but is reluctant to do so. When he finally replies, his voice is low and sure. “I think this is going to be my last show.”
I stare at him, shocked, not sure what to make of the statement.
Before I can respond, he adds, “I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.”
“Perform you mean?”
“That, yeah, and as far as the writing, I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything to say that’s relevant to what life means anyway.”
I debate my response because I have no idea where this is coming from, what’s happened in his life to bring him to this place. “I think your songs are relevant to a lot of people, Klein.”
“They’re entertainment,” he says with a shrug. “Nothing more. There’s nothing wrong with entertainment. I understand that people need it. I need it. An escape here and there. But in the big picture, it won’t mean anything. No permanent marks left for others to follow.”
I lift my glass, take a sip of the cold mineral water, try to sort my response into something that won’t be about me. “What’s happened, Klein?”
He shrugs. “I’m just seeing life a little differently these days,” he says. “I chased after this thing for a long time, and I don’t know what I thought it would do for me. Make me happy, I guess. And there are moments of that, for sure. It’s been a pretty incredible ride. But when it gets right down to it, it hasn’t made me into a better person. I’m pretty sure it’s made me a worse person.”
“I don’t know what you’re using for a gauge of comparison, but I’m aware of some of the things you’ve done for other people, Klein, and you’ve used a lot of what you’ve achieved for good.”
“With money, that’s not that hard.”
“Not everyone sees it that way,” I say. “There are a lot of people who aren’t as willing to share their good fortune with others.”
He shrugs. “At some point along the way, I let it all go to my head. I started to believe that good wasn’t good enough. That maybe I needed perfect.”
I place my fork on my plate, brush my hand across my napkin. “Is this about the breakup with Riley?”
“I don’t know if it’s as much about the breakup as it is about why I broke up with her. And something that happened because of it.”
I want to ask him what, but I force myself not to because I have a feeling it is deeply personal. And now doesn’t seem like the time. “It would be a great loss for you to give up your music. What if you just took some time off and looked at it fresh in a couple of months?”
He shrugs, shakes his head a little. “It doesn’t feel like that will make a difference.” He looks at me for a moment and then, “What is it you wanted to see me about, Dillon?”
I consider not telling him now because, in light of what he’s just shared with me, it’s almost certainly pointless. It seems shallow, as well. I draw in a deep breath, a flutter of awkwardness in my stomach. I decide to jump in, drop the pretense of beating around the bush. “I’m thinking about starting my own company. I’ve asked Josh for the rights to all of my songs. I’m no longer under contract with him.”
I can see I’ve surprised him. “That’s probably a good thing,” Klein says, measured.
“Yeah.” I hesitate, looking for the right words. “I wanted to see you because I’m hoping you might consider moving to my new publishing house.”
“Oh.” His surprise is clear. “I’m happy for you, Dillon. I think you’ll do well. I feel sure a good number of Josh’s writers are there because of you. I was certainly one of them.”
I know this to be true, but even so, hearing him say it surprises me a little. “It was just lucky for me that I was at the Bluebird that night. Someone else would have signed you for sure.”
“Maybe. But I don’t know that I would have taken their offer the way I did with you.”
The admission forms a connection between us that is nearly tangible. I want to latch on to it, use it as leverage for the hope that Klein will somehow renew his love for the music that got him to where he is today. “I know this thing we do cannot be just about success. Once you’ve achieved a certain level of that, the focus shifts back to a need for it to mean something. For it to matter somehow in the big picture.”
“Has that been true for you?” he asks.
“Yeah. It has. Being named songwriter of the year was something bigger than anything I had allowed myself to dream. But after that, I went through this period where I felt like whatever I was writing had to do more than make the top of a chart. I wanted to know that I had something to say that would move someone. Make them feel like they weren’t as alone as they thought they were. And for a while, I couldn’t write anything that lived up to that.”
“What changed that? Why are you still writing?”
I consider this for a moment, but the answer is easy. “Because I don’t know who I am without it.”
I see that this resonates with him, recognize the flare of kinship in his eyes. “I’ve been trying to picture who I’ll be after all this. I have to admit it’s not clear.”
“Is there anything else you’ve ever wanted to do?”
“Not that I can remember,” he says, his expression resigned to the fact that he’ll most likely be lost without this thing that has been his identity as writing has been mine.
I want to find the words to convince him that leaving his music behind would be a mistake, but I can’t dig anything up from the well of disappointment inside me. Even as I wonder if it is entirely selfish, I realize I feel the kind of grief I am sure most of his fans will feel at the thought of him no longer making the music they have loved from him. But something tells me that arguing this point right now isn’t the thing to do. And so I drop it under the realization that maybe what Klein needs is a friend. Someone to listen, hear what it is that has brought him to this point.
“What time do you have to be at rehearsal?” I ask.
“Four o’clock,” he says.
“Well, you have a few hours until then. Would you like to look around the city with me?”
He hesitates. I force myself to let him make the call without any further prodding from me.
“I thought I might visit the Louvre this afternoon.” He glances down, suddenly awkward. �
�I know. I don’t look like the museum type.”
I smile a little. “Another layer. I like it.”
“Join me?”
My pulse skitters at the thought of actually getting to spend more time with him. “I’d love to. It’s been on my list, and I never made it there when I was here before.”
“Okay, then,” he says. “Would you like anything else?”
“No. I’m good. That was wonderful.”
He signals the waitress for the check and insists on paying the bill against my protests. When she returns with his receipt, she smiles a shy smile and says, “Would you mind giving me your autograph?”
Klein is gracious. “Ah, no, I don’t mind at all.”
She hands him a card with the restaurant’s logo on the front.
He turns it over on the back and asks what her name is.
“Aimeé,” she says, again shy.
“That’s pretty,” he says, writing her name on the card and then scrawling his signature beneath. “Thank you, Aimeé.”
“Non. Merci beaucoup.” She presses the card into her palm and wishes us both a good day.
“Nice to be recognized in Paris,” I say, noting his discomfort with the attention.
“Yeah, I was a little surprised to see we have fans here.”
“Power of streaming. And judging by the fact that the concert is sold out, I would say you do.”
His smile is marked by humility, when he says, “We better head for the museum.”
I reach for my purse, and we both stand. I do notice as we’re leaving the restaurant that Aimeé lets her gaze follow him to the front and out the door. I completely understand.
Dillon
“If you don’t know history, then you don’t know anything. You are a leaf that doesn’t know it is part of a tree. ”
―Michael Crichton
THE TAXI DROPS us at the Louvre. We stand for a moment, taking in the majestic building before us.
“It’s huge,” Klein says.
“It is,” I say, nodding in agreement. “So while we were driving, I googled for a refresher on the history of the Louvre. It was built as a fortress around 1190 and then rebuilt in the sixteenth century to become a royal palace. Apparently, every ruler kept making it bigger until Louis the fourteenth made Versailles the royal palace.”
“Guess this one wasn’t impressive enough,” Klein says, shaking his head.
“Out with the old. In with the new.”
He smiles at this, and we walk to the ticket entrance. We end up waiting in line for nearly thirty minutes. We learn that we won’t be able to see the Mona Lisa, because the only way to do so is by online reservation. Meanwhile, we ogle the architecture of the building, marveling that such elaborate engineering could have been done so many hundreds of years ago.
“They had a lot figured out back then, didn’t they?” Klein says as we finally step inside the entrance.
“More than we give them credit for,” I agree, noticing a couple of girls staring at Klein. One taps her phone screen, and types in something, leans in and shows it to the other girl. They whisper back and forth before finally getting up the courage to walk over. The braver one of the two steps forward, flipping her long dark hair over her shoulder as she says in American-accented English, “Hi, Klein! We both love your music and have tickets to your concert tonight.”
The friend standing behind her giggles, obviously nervous. “We were wondering if we might get your autograph.”
Klein smiles a smile I’m sure he’s given to too many fans to count. It’s a smile that immediately puts the young girl at ease, tells her she’s not foolish for approaching him. “Sure,” he says. “What would you like me to write it on?”
“Ah, oh, gosh,” the girl says. “Maybe the back of my T-shirt?”
“That’s fine,” he says, smiling in a way that puts her at ease.
She shrugs out of her leather jacket, turning her back to him. Her friend passes a Sharpie, which she’s dug from the bottom of a backpack. Klein glances at me with an apology in his eyes. I shrug, shake my head. It’s part of what he does, and I’m actually happy to see him getting recognition for his talent, although I’m sure the girls’ interest in him includes the fact that he’s so easy on the eyes.
Klein writes something and then scrawls his signature across the middle of her back. She turns to thank him when he’s done. “Would you mind doing one for my friend? She’s too shy to ask.”
“Of course,” he says.
The other girl steps around her friend and displays the back of her T-shirt, giggling as she does.
“We can’t wait to hear you tonight,” she says.
“Well, I certainly appreciate both of you planning to be at the concert. Where are you from?”
“North Carolina,” she says. “We’re here on tour with our college debate team. We heard you were going to be playing while we were in Paris, so we begged our professor for permission to get tickets. Luckily, he’s cool and agreed.”
Klein hands her the marker back and says, “Lucky for me.”
Both girls giggle now, the more daring one giving me a look of envy. I start to reassure her that she has nothing to worry about, but press my lips together and keep silent.
“Okay, then, we’ll see you tonight, Klein. We’ll be waving from the audience.”
“I’ll be watching for you. Thanks again.”
“No. Thank you,” the two girls say in unison, turning around to skip off.
“Does that ever get old?” I ask him once the girls are out of earshot.
“Ah, it’s not something I think I’ll ever get used to,” he admits.
“How so?”
“Well, being recognized for one thing. And I always want to look over my shoulder to make sure they’re not talking to someone else.”
I smile. “Yeah, I get that, but by now, you should know you have a lot of admirers.”
He shrugs, drops his chin. I realize he really isn’t comfortable with fame. “You don’t need to feel guilty about it, you know.”
He lifts his gaze, stares off into the crowd for a moment, and says, “Sometimes, I do. I don’t know. People do far more important things in this world than sing. And yet, I get so much recognition for it, not to mention the money.”
“People like to be entertained,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with that. You let people escape for a little while into something they enjoy. Put aside the realities of life.”
He looks down and then meets my gaze. “I get all that. That’s what music has always done for me, but somehow being on this end of it, there are times when I wonder how justified it is.”
The line has started to move, and within a couple of minutes, we are standing in an enormous open area that appears to be the center of things. Since we’re short on time, we agree to do the Richelieu wing and tour the French paintings on level two.
We follow the brochure map and then take a staircase up. We start in Room 1, standing and staring at the artwork hanging wall to wall. I sense that Klein is as awestruck as I am. We amble room to room for the next twenty minutes, saying little, each of us lost in our own wonder at the masterful works surrounding us.
I stop in front of one painting. The title reads, Trussing Hay. I stare at the people captured lifelike in their work.
I look at Klein, and ask, “Do you think the artists here were aware of their talent or saw it as something that would be revered hundreds of years after they completed it?”
“Some of them, maybe, but I kind of think most of them would be amazed to know that anything they created could have such a long life. And too, I doubt many of them actually earned a lot of money for their art.”
“No,” I agree. “Probably not. It’s kind of hard to understand why it would be nearly priceless now and virtually worthless at the time it was created.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I don’t think of what I do as art,” he says. “I would never compare myself with any of the artists h
ere.”
‘“But then we’ve just acknowledged that most of them probably never saw themselves like that at all.”
We walk on into another room and spend the next hour and a half absorbing all that we can. It’s almost three o’clock when Klein glances at his watch and says, “I hate to go, but I have rehearsal in thirty minutes.”
“Oh, of course,” I say. “I’ll walk out with you.”
We follow the signs to the exit and find ourselves in the pyramid courtyard. “I’ll get an Uber to rehearsals.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll head back to the hotel then.”
He hesitates for a moment, and then says, “Would you like to come with me? If you’re not doing anything else, I mean.”
I could deny the flood of happiness surging through me, but who would I be kidding? Klein Matthews just asked me to go to his rehearsal. I’m as giddy inside as the teenagers asking for his autograph. But I manage to sound like it’s no big deal. “Ah, no, actually, that would be great,” I say. “I would love to come.”
Dillon
“Music is a writer’s heartbeat.”
―A.D. Posey
THE MERCEDES UBER weaves us in and out of Paris traffic, getting us to the rehearsal hall in fifteen minutes. The driver drops us at a side entrance per Klein’s request. Klein texts someone, telling me, “They’ll be down in just a minute to let us in.”
A few seconds later, the door opens, and Klein’s manager, Curtis Bartholomew, greets us with a smile. “Hey, man. Oh, wait, Dillon. Where did you come from?”
“Staying at the same hotel,” I say. “Klein was kind enough to invite me to watch y’all do your thing.”
“It’s good to see you,” Curtis says, squeezing my shoulder. He’s tall, six-four or so, without the cowboy hat he’s known for wearing around Nashville.
That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3) Page 4
