by Cate Remy
“Mr. Munsen, you haven’t recorded any new music in three years. You still owe the company an album under your current contract.”
“I’ve been using the time to get inspiration.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?” Jackson brought up a spreadsheet on his laptop. “According to the studio accountants, you borrowed eighty grand for a trip to Kuala Lumpur this past spring.”
“That was for my client’s new song,” his lawyer defended. “It has an Asian-inspired, futuristic theme. He needed to immerse himself in a true cosmopolitan city to produce it.”
What was wrong with Uncle George for signing this guy? He let artists go off on their own whims and cause the studio to bleed money. Jackson wasn’t buying Romero’s story. He addressed the artist’s lawyer. “Do you have your client’s travel receipts?”
“Hold up.” Romero got defensive. “Old George said I didn’t need them.”
Jackson began to get a headache. “Where’s this new futuristic, cosmopolitan song?”
“Like I said, I needed inspiration. I’m still working on it.” Romero leaned back in his chair. “Good music takes time. George knew that.”
Jackson closed the spreadsheet. This meeting was getting nowhere. “Mr. Munsen, I’m going to cut straight to the point. You owe the studio an album. Until you give it to us, there won’t be any new record deals.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
Romero made a signal to his lawyer. The man nodded before turning to Jackson with a stern look. “Mr. Barnes, we understand that you’re adjusting to your new role as CEO. You may not be aware of how the music business works.”
Jackson tapped a finger on the desk. “I understand how my uncle ran this company based on promises and pinky swears with the artists. Those things are going to change. Is there anything else before we end the meeting?”
“There is one other thing. Our client wants access to the company song vaults.”
“Vaults?” Jackson pictured a large, sound proof walk-in structure like the ones used for high-security banks.
“There was a song he and the former executive were working on.”
None of this sounded right to Jackson. Unless his uncle took up songwriting in his last days, there might be another reason why Romero wanted into that vault. He needed to check it out for himself first. “I’m still accessing the vault. I’ll contact your client when I’m finished.”
Romero stood up fast. “What, you don’t trust me?”
His lawyer stood, too, and uttered quiet words to calm him down. Jackson shut down the laptop and rose, buttoning his blazer. “I should finish accessing the vaults after the holidays.”
Romero shook his head and made a loud sound of irritation in the back of his throat. He looked so mad Jackson half-expected to see scorch marks in the carpet as the artist lit out the door.
His attorney gathered his portfolio. He stuck up his nose to look at Jackson. “We’ll be back soon. Don’t spend too much this Christmas.” He hinted at a potential lawsuit.
Jackson bit back a scathing reply while he waited for the attorney to leave. Once he was able to close the door, he returned to his desk and punched in the extension to his assistant. “Lamar, see if you can clear my schedule for tomorrow.”
“Alright.” His assistant’s voice came in through the phone’s speakers. “Are you going to be out of the office?”
“Oh, I’ll be here. I just have some major housekeeping to do.”
Jackson took his finger off the speaker button and packed up his laptop to go home. Tonight he’d spend the evening going through the laptop’s server files to see what other so-called projects his uncle had his hands in. If it was as extensive as he thought, he was going to have a real mess on his hands.
Chapter 7
Jackson set his alarm early for the next day and woke up regretting it. His phone serenaded him with a maniacal high-pitched elf’s laughter accompanied by jingle bells. He rolled over and shut off the annoying sound. When did his phone change the original alarm?
He stumbled out of bed, half-tempted to switch phone companies for the morning atrocity, but he had a vault to go through at the record company first.
After a quick shower and shave, he somehow arrived in the kitchen. Even after planning to get up early, he forgot to set the coffee maker. He grumbled as he gathered his coat and gloves. More time spent waiting in line at Jumpy Java.
An chilly wind arced straight at him when he opened the front door of his house, striking him with enough force to send his scarf flying into his face. This winter in Atlanta was shaping up to be the coldest in years. Turning his collar up higher, he then shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled down the street to take the rail to Peachtree Boulevard.
The place was a little quiet this morning, with only a small line of six people. Most of the cafe patrons he usually saw probably weren’t up yet. He yawned, fighting off the urge to head back home and fall asleep as he read the daily coffee specials on the chalkboard menu. Today all cup sizes were half off. Nice. Sale or no sale, he’d be ordering the biggest one they served.
He checked his phone for emails while he waited to get his coffee. The bells chimed over the door to the cafe behind him and a brisk wind pushed him from the back. It kept making its presence known for a few seconds longer than usual. He glanced over one shoulder and got a tingly sensation in his chest when he saw Brie. She held the door open for her daughter Kianna to come inside.
The wind made Brie’s zigzag curls dance beneath her beret. She closed the door once her daughter got inside, but the wind succeeded in taking her beret off and sending it sailing over the ground.
“Oops, Mommy. Your hat blew off.”
The beret landed two feet behind Jackson. He bent down to scoop it up. “This isn’t a good day for hats and scarves, is it?” He carried it over to Brie.
“No, but we need them. It’s freezing.”
Her hair was wild and windblown. Jackson loved how big it was without the beret. That kind of volume couldn’t be put in a bottle and sold. To his disappointment, she smoothed the crown of her head before placing the beret on again. She set it at a cute little angle. “You’re here early,” he commented.
“So are you,” she pointed out. “Kianna has a therapy appointment this morning so we’re getting blueberry muffins to go.”
“Mommy’s getting a double shot of espresso,” Kianna added. “She says that way, people won’t be terrified.”
“That’s not quite how I said it, sweetie.” Brie patted her shoulder. “I said I need coffee to be a morning person.”
“So people won’t be scared of you. Did I say it different?”
Brie looked up at Jackson and gave a helpless shrug. “Guess my little secret’s out. I’m not perky in the mornings.”
“You should’ve seen the bear that came out of my house at six-thirty.”
Kianna tugged at her mother’s coat. “I don’t want to wait in line. Can I go look at the board?” She referred to the cafe’s bulletin board of upcoming community events.
“Go ahead, but stay right there so I can see you.”
“Bye, Jackson.” Kianna turned her wheelchair to go across the room.
Jackson got back in line. He let Brie go ahead of him. “You and your daughter have an appointment. My work will be waiting when I get there.”
“That’s nice of you.”
He caught a whiff of her hair when she stepped in front of him. The scent reminded him of vanilla and coconut, and made him think of palm trees and sandy beaches. He wouldn’t mind being in some place warm and tropical, sharing a daiquiri with Brie. Whoa. Where was his brain jetting off to this morning?
“So,” she broke his train of thought. “What brought the bear out of hibernation this morning?”
“I have to go into work early to look at archives. It’s going to take hours and I need a head start.”
“Your work keeps you pretty busy.”
Jackson could’ve smacked himself upside the head. He didn’t communicate with Brie after their dinner date last Friday. “I’ve been swamped.”
She gave him a pleasant, understanding look, but Jackson could see a glimmer of doubt in her brown eyes. His excuse sounded just like…an excuse. He got an uncomfortable tug in his gut. He had to say something to let her know that he really wasn’t trying to avoid her. “I enjoyed spending time with you last week.”
She looked at her boots. The line moved. She edged forward and then gazed out the window. Jackson followed her gaze, wondering what to say next. He saw Christmas lights come on in the window of a small boutique. They lined a festive wreath above a mannequin. “Those are pretty.”
“What’s pretty?” Brie looked around the store.
“Not here. I mean, there are pretty things in here, too.”
“Huh?”
He wanted to crawl into the coffee bean grinder. So this was how his brain worked when he was short on sleep. “Those lights on the wreath across the street.”
She located them and nodded in agreement. “They have them up early this year.”
“How long do you wait to put up lights?” he asked.
Jackson hated asking such a dumb question. He floundered as Brie was up next in line. She ordered her coffee with a double shot while Kianna approached the line, clutching a piece of paper in one hand. She waited off to the side until her mother finished paying for her order. Something got her excited. She tapped her fingers on her knees repeatedly.
“What’s gotten into you?” Brie reached for the napkins on the table beside her daughter.
“The Harper Lights show is back this year.” Kiana raised the paper towards her mother.
“I see. That looks like a lot of fun, doesn’t it?”
Jackson watched them until he saw the barista’s impatient expression. “Sorry.” He peered behind to see a line of ten people had formed out of nowhere and now extended to the door. Everyone in line gave him one of three looks that expressed anger, annoyance, or confusion. He ordered. “I’ll take an extra large coffee, black.”
“You want room for cream?”
“No.” Jackson took out his card. “I’ll just pay for the people behind me since I held up the line.”
The barista blinked. “How many?”
“All of them.”
The barista blinked again. His mouth moved as he counted the people. “I’ll close your tab when the last guy orders.”
“Appreciate it.” He grabbed his giant cup that another barista hurried to fill from the carafe. “That’s a big cup.” Brie’s daughter marveled at the coffee cup when he carried it over to them. “It looks like it could hold three cans of soda.”
“It probably could and would be less caffeine.” He reached for the sugar next to the napkin holder and poured it into the dark brew.
Brie smirked at his action. “I feel sorry for whoever has to work with you today.”
Kianna yawned. “Do you like Christmas lights?”
Jackson realized she was asking him. “Sure. Back when I was your age, my parents used to drive through Amber Grove to look at the lawn decorations and lights.”
Brie’s daughter frowned. “Isn’t Amber Grove where the mall is?”
“There used to be houses there,” Brie explained. “It used to be a neighborhood.”
Jackson finished stirring his coffee and put a lid on it. “Guess my age is showing.”
His comment got a chuckle out of her. “No, I remember when Amber Grove was a residential area, too. I had a cousin who used to live there.” She gathered her purse and headed for the door with Kianna. “I liked to see the decorations, too.”
Jackson went ahead to get the door for them. “Nowadays, they have special neighborhoods to drive through and look at the lights.”
“True, but they charge a crazy price.”
“The Harper Lights are really nice, Mommy.” Kianna still held onto the paper she snagged from the bulletin board. She shoved it into her pocket so she could pull her hood over her head.
Brie held onto the edge of her beret. “You should have left that flyer on the board. Was it the only copy?”
“No, there’s another.”
Jackson began walking with them up the street. He saw how excited Brie’s daughter got when talking about the lights. “Have you and your mother been to the Harper Lights show before?”
She shook her head, braids swinging. “I wish. All the other kids at school say it’s great.”
He glanced at Brie. “The three of us could go. It opens this Friday.”
She scrunched her shoulders and tucked in her bottom lip, looking indecisive. “I don’t know. You said you’re busy and we have things to do, too, for the holidays.”
If that was her polite way of saying no, he could take a hint.
“Please, Mommy.” Brie stopped her wheelchair. “We never get to go see the lights. You always say it costs too much.”
Jackson saw dark pink appear on the surface of Brie’s cheeks. Either it was from the cold or embarrassment at her daughter’s admission. He didn’t want her to feel, either. “Since it was my suggestion, I hope you can come as my guests.” That sounded way too formal. Brie’s going to think I’m stuffy.
“I can’t ask you to do that for us.” Brie’s van was parked in a tight spot. She pushed Kianna’s wheelchair to maneuver it without bumping into another car.
“You’re not asking. I want to.”
“He wants to see the lights, too, Mommy,” Kianna supplied.
Jackson set his coffee on the roof so he could take hold of the wheelchair ramp. He pulled it down for her to get inside the van.
“I guess I’m outvoted.” Briana secured the wheelchair and went for the driver’s side door.
Jackson put the manual wheelchair ramp back into place. “Pick you up at six?”
“Sure. I’ll text you my address."
“First, you’ll have to give me your number.”
“This is why I need a caffeine IV drip.” She gave him her phone number, then added, “We’ll have to take my van for Kianna.” She buckled her seat belt. “If your office is around here, I can drop you off.”
Jackson didn’t want her to know where he worked. Not until he got some things settled and he made it public. “My office is just around the corner. I can walk.” He saw Kianna’s pink-gloved hand waving at him. He waved back and took his coffee off the roof of the van. “See you on Friday.”
Brie’s face was the last he saw before she pulled the van into the street and drove down another block.
Jackson felt good, warm all over, and he hadn’t even taken a first sip of coffee. He stared at the monster-sized cup in his hand. The upcoming trip to Harper and chance to see Brie again on Friday gave him something fun to look forward to. Which was good, because he was not looking forward to seeing what lurked in the dusty vaults of Georgie Peach Records.
Chapter 8
Jackson went to work and found out from the legal department where the vaults were located. Ted accompanied him down an elevator to the basement floor of the building. “The vaults are located in a climate-controlled storage unit,” the head of the legal department said. “Some items date back to the seventies.”
“Seventies? He started the company in the nineties.”
“Your uncle liked to collect disco memorabilia.”
Sure enough, once Ted gave him the key to the unit and left, Jackson discovered a record collection of disco dance numbers and a tarnished ball that looked like it had seen better days in a John Travolta movie. He kept looking around the eight by eight foot space.
Why did Romero want access to the vault? It appeared to be Uncle George’s collection to his disco dance heyday than it did an archive for the current artists’ work at the recording company.
He bumped his foot into a box sticking out from the bottom shelf. Someone forgot to put it back. He bent down and proceeded to move it into place when he noticed th
e box contained loose pages from a spiral notebook and a flash drive. The notebook pages were folded at an uneven angle, like the person who stored them had been in a hurry to stash them away. He unfolded one. Someone’s neat handwriting in blue ink filled the page. There were line breaks and short paragraphs labeled Chorus and Key Change. Song lyrics.
Jackson skimmed the words to the song. It looked like praise and worship music. He unfolded another notebook page and found more lyrics to praise songs. As far as he knew, the company didn’t have a gospel or worship music label. Maybe Uncle George had gotten into a new music genre or was scoping out new talent.
He studied the unlabeled flash drive. How did something from modern tech get in here? He thought his uncle didn’t like computers. Jackson slipped the flash drive in his pocket to look at on the computer later.
For the next three hours, he combed through the vaults in search of what Romero might be interested in. All he found were more seventies hits and some one-hit wonders from the nineties grunge era that Georgie Peach briefly contracted.
He checked the time on his phone. Almost time for lunch in an hour. He couldn’t stay down here all day. Romero was mistaken about anything down here related to his music. Perhaps the recording studio side of the company or IT department could check to see if some of the artist’s older music was stored on the servers.
Jackson locked the vault and left to go back up to his office.
Brie tied Kianna’s scarf snug around her daughter’s neck. “There. All set to go see the Harper Lights tonight.”
“I don’t need this scarf on while I’m in the van. It’ll be too hot.”
Brie removed the scarf and stuffed it in her purse. “You’ll get it back tonight, then.” She heard the doorbell. “Looks like Jackson’s here.”
She made sure her coat didn’t have any lint before answering the door. “Hi.”
