by PJ Vye
It was the first licensed bar Jack had seen in a long time, the bottles and glasses lining the walls on two sides of the corner of the carriage, glistening in the light. The images of a key and lock came into his head without him even having to consciously put them there. Protection. Prevention. Lock the door. Throw away the key.
His resolve was solid as he walked past. Phil was watching him. “I’m good. Thanks. Let’s just meet this spoiled wannabe shall we?”
“He’s not alone, I should warn you.”
“Does he have representation already?”
“Yes.”
Phil had gone mad. “So why does he need us?” Jack faltered. “ I mean you?”
“He’s looking for co-representation.” Phil watched his reaction.
“Why? How does that even work?”
“You’ll see.”
Jack hated the ‘you’ll see’ scenario that had been Phil’s trademark when they’d worked together. He shook his head and continued to follow Phil down the long passages of wood-paneled walls with stretches of blue Persian carpet on the ground. The train lurched sideways occasionally and both men needed to steady themselves, an odd sensation for Jack who had thought his propensity to stagger was in the past. The rhythm of the train pattered along, jolly and soothing. This guy must be loaded. A private train from Minnesota to LA would cost a small fortune. Still, it would make for a more pleasant trip home than the economy flight he’d been planning.
He supposed he should get used to economy living, now that he’d given up his corporate job to return to the life he had before, twenty-five years ago, before everything went wrong. He was composing again now, madly. The sounds, the melodies, the music—a steady barrage of ideas crowding his brain since he’d entered rehab. And the only way to stop the rotation of musical voices was to write it, play it, listen.
The rehab center had catered to his every request. A computer (with no internet connection), orchestration software, a keyboard, a guitar, an interface. Composing was his refuge. His relief valve. His saviour. No way he could go back now. A six-figure salary couldn’t buy this kind of feeling.
His room had been upgraded when he was given the musical equipment. To a suite of rooms where his music wouldn’t disturb others. That’s what they’d told him. Jack suspected there may have been more to it than that. They wouldn’t say. Maybe Phil had pulled some strings. Maybe. Regardless, the extra comfort and privacy had meant he could immerse himself in his music making. He’d been prolific. Music poured from him. Twenty-five years of pent up ideas. And there was still so much more to come.
Phil opened the double doors to yet another carriage, this one opening into a full lounge area, filled with sitting chairs and sofas, lined in striped, rich fabrics and tapestry’s. The wooden walls gave the sitting room a warmth, helped by a selection of thick, Turkish rugs that sunk underfoot. A baby grand piano shined at one end and his fingers twitched at the sight of it.
The pressurized door slammed behind him, making the room feel closer. A small figure sat at the far end of the carriage in a high wing chair, back upright, feet flat on the ground, arms covered in a small, white blanket.
Willa.
She didn’t move an inch when she saw him. Which suited Jack perfectly. He could study her from here, compare the real Willa to the image he’d been carrying in his head for three quarters of a year. The image that stayed with him through every step of the program, through every composition, every sleepless craving. Her hair was darker, styled, and shaped around her perfect face. Eyebrows were tailored, eyelashes showed a hint of mascara, a slight shine of balm on her lips. Her shirt was a pastel pink, open necked and button down, the colour reflecting a serene portrait of calmness on her face. Her eyes blinked slower than he remembered, her smile quicker. Even the upper curve of her breasts had blossomed beneath her shirt, although it was difficult to see because of the blanket she was holding.
“Willa.”
“Jack.”
Phil walked ahead and blocked his view for a moment. Jack followed him, wishing Phil would disappear. After a million years, Phil stood to the side and turned to Jack, “Are you not interested in meeting the next big thing?”
Why was Phil bothering him now? He wished he’d just shut up, but Jack couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell him to go away. The only thing he could do was keep his eyes set on Willa. She was drink to a thirsty man. A very thirsty man. She wasn’t surprised to see him. Not at all. No hatred flicked behind her eyes, no loathing. Her face glowed with openness. Her whole body screamed it. It couldn’t be for him. He didn’t deserve it. So who was all this love for? She was radiant. She was happy. Her eyes turned slowly down and gazed at the blanket in her arms.
The joy, the love, the peace, all stemmed from what lied there, in that blanket.
And then he understood.
His heart had been thudding before, achingly so. Now it seemed to stop altogether. Phil stepped forward and took the carefully wrapped bundle from her and placed it in his arms. “The next big thing, Jack.”
Jack held his arms out automatically, trying to sort the time frame in his mind.
A baby.
A baby boy.
How many babies had he held in his arms in his lifetime? He couldn’t think right now. Not many. Two maybe. Three? It never felt like this before. An overwhelming connection to the floor, the room, the woman, the infant.
He swallowed the rock inside his throat and the child moved against him, stretched a little and opened his sleepy eyes. Jack felt his own glaze over, then fill to overflowing.
“I called him Jack,” said Willa.
The sound of her gentle voice was a reminder of all he’d lost and all he wanted, enough to tip him over the edge. The tears that had piled up in his eyes, now slid down his cheeks, unashamedly. His chin quivered as the boy awoke fully, breaking an arm free of the blanket and rocking it in the air, his fingers tiny pebbles of perfection.
Baby Jack. The name was too old, too hardened, for such an unspoiled thing. His name should be Prince or Perfect or Proud. Not Jack. The association with the name Jack was a lifelong curse of broken promises, ruthless choices and selfish dreams. Baby Jack should be separate from those things.
He was a father now.
A father.
He was also an alcoholic.
What would he have to do to give this child and his mother the life they deserved?
His eyes returned to Willa. She had her head to the side, watching him, a gentle turn on her mouth, her eyes glistening. He could kiss that mouth, wipe those tears that were threatening to fall, whisper every dream he had for them, together, a family of three.
But his feet stayed glued to the floor. There was so much to say. Would she believe a single word? How could she ever believe him again, when there was so much more now to risk. He wished he had more time to think, to work out what he needed to tell her. To promise her. Months in rehab hadn’t been nearly enough time to prepare him for this.
He held his breath and spoke in a quivering voice he barely recognised. “I love you, Willa.” He stopped to steady himself. Air wouldn’t catch in his lungs. The impact of what he had to say made the words catch in his throat. “And I know it’s the very best kind of love because I’m prepared to walk a—…I’m prepared to walk away…. if that’s what’s best for you…and our boy.” The sentence slipped upwards and disappeared, drenched in pain. He meant it. Every word. Whatever she wanted was what he’d do.
Willa rose from her chair and took the final few steps between them. She tucked the boys hand back beneath the blanket and rubbed his check with her finger. The gesture sent another barrage of tears down Jack’s cheeks.
The train lurched and she grabbed Jack’s arm to steady herself. She left it there and looked up into his face. “Whatever you need, Willa, I’ll do.”
“Your addiction worries me.”
He nodded. Of course it would. How could it not. He nodded.
“Can I trust you?”
He looked
at her, allowing her to see everything in his face. Every line, every notion. He would spend his life proving he’d changed. Proving he was sorry. Proving his first alliance would only ever be for her. “Yes.” As he spoke the word, he knew it to be the absolute truth.
She looked down at the child and he waited. The boy thrust his head back, sensing his mother was close, maybe from the smell, maybe instinct. The connection was indisputable. Jack yearned for his part in it.
“I can’t be sure,” spoke Willa softly, “but I think your place is with us.”
An involuntary sob wracked his body and his free arm wrapped around her shoulders, bringing her to him, the baby a cocoon between them. His knees wanted to give way but he held firm, strong now, for he must be. His reason for living the best life he could was in each of his arms. He kissed the side of her mouth, where the tears were, and tasted their salty richness. Then he lifted the boy up and kissed the top of his head, and handed him back to his mother, so that he could take a picture in his mind of the most perfect image he’d ever seen in his lifetime.
Backstage at the Staples Center, Willa closed her eyes and focused on her vocal warm-up routine. She imagined herself by the river, guitar in hand, playing the song to the birds, the wildlife, the chickens. This was no different. Well okay, it was a little different. The Grammy’s stage looked nothing like the river back home. There were thousands of lights for a start. Thousands of lights and thousands of people. Millions watching around the world. But she had to push this from her mind. Focus on the music, the lyric, the one man in the audience who she would be singing it for.
The artist who was to introduce her stood in the wings beside her now. She was some kind of country pop singer songwriter who’d won a bunch of Grammy’s herself. The tall, blonde-haired girl reached out and squeezed Willa’s hand with her own, wishing her luck and congratulating her on the album. She seemed nice.
Willa heard the prerecorded one minute recap on her musical career so far, a snippet of the shack recordings, images of the home she once thought she couldn’t live without, a glimpse of a life barely lived. She didn’t even recognise that life now. Shuddered to think how close she’d come to missing out on the things that truly mattered to her. Sure, the cameras, the media and the constant scrutiny were as invasive as ever, but she could escape to that river frontage property in Australia whenever she needed to. Now, when she hid away from the world, she did it in a home with full amenities and services. And instead of a lonely guitar for company, she’d have Jack and their child beside her.
A backstage man wearing headcoms and dressed completely in black helped her fix her foldback piece in her ear and then lead her onto the darkened stage. She sat on a single stool and he handed her the guitar, gave her a thumbs up and disappeared. The orchestra were under the stage but she could see the conductor in the monitor at the back of the auditorium. The audience were hidden in the darkness beyond. A single pool of light shone on the young songwriter as she headed onto the front part of the stage, flanked by audience applause.
She read from the TelePrompter… “Ladies and Gentlemen, there isn’t a human being on the planet who hasn’t heard the name Willa Jones. Nominated for twelve Grammys tonight including best Album of the Year and best Song of the Year, her unique voice and fresh interpretations have captured the hearts of so many. Her courageous story has become as renowned as her music and we’ve been witness to her struggles, her personal demons and her determination to overcome them. We’re honoured she has agreed to sing for us tonight. To sing her Grammy nominated song, ‘Love Me Like A River’, please welcome to the stage, The Hermit Next Door, Ms Willa Jones.”
The lights blazed on and the cameras moved from every angle. She allowed the heavy silence to hang for a moment. Anticipation. Suspense. Wonder. Then she slowly lifted her hand and began plucking the strings, her mind drifting to the journey behind the words.
Love me like a river…
Not a murmur was heard in the auditorium, the thick stillness lasting long after the final note faded. A room united in emotion. And then the crash of applause hit. It almost knocked her over in it’s intensity. People stood and cheered. It sounded to Willa like the running of a waterfall, flowing over thousands and thousands of rounded river stones.
She was home.
The tall, blond songwriter headed back onto the stage and had to wait several minutes before the room was quiet enough to begin reading the nominations for Album of the Year.
A drum roll began and then stopped.
“…and the winner is…”
PJ Vye lives on the plains of central Victoria where the sun shines nearly every day, even when it’s freezing. She shares her home with her husband and two teenage children who have finally come to accept they have a writer in the household. When their questions are met with a glazed over, faraway look, they no longer expect dinner any time soon.
PJ Vye has spent a number of years in music education and finds the world’s obsession with fame and celebrity intriguing. There is nothing she enjoys more than exploring this fascination in her novels.
Her other passion is gardening and when she’s not writing she’s transforming her six acres into a writer’s sanctuary. The muse is in her garden so it’s a vicious cycle.
You can find her and her other stories at www.pjvye.com
Title
Dedication
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
