“Who betta recognize?” her father asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Daddy. I was talking to my negative thoughts.” She grabbed a magazine from the stack resting on the coffee table in the doctor’s waiting room.
Her father rolled his eyes. “You young folks and your positive-thinking craziness. Never seen so many broke, can’t-stick-to-a-job, can’t-stick-to-a-marriage folk always talkin’ about self-esteem and stuff. What y’all need is to get a job! When you work hard, you won’t have time to go around talking to yourself all day.”
“There are a lot of people without jobs right now. It’s not their fault,” Alexis whispered, trying to model an appropriate indoor voice for her father. He was worse than her students, sometimes.
“Yes, it is,” he squawked. He’d missed her hint to lower his voice. “If y’all had some kind of loyalty, America wouldn’t be in this mess. Ain’t loyal to the job, shole ain’t loyal to the country, all these foreign cars on the road.
“And you ought to be shame. Public school teacher driving a Honder. Teachin’ your kids math and science, then turn around and give the Japanese kids more jobs to make more Honders. Might as well shoot yourself in the foot.”
Daddy’s ranting reminded Alexis to ask Dr. Ewell about the side effects of the medication her father had recently been prescribed. Alexis had taken advantage of Mr. Otis’s death to convince her father he needed to schedule a full physical. Now, with another drug on the list, she wondered if Daddy’s medications might be interacting negatively, yielding the crabby old man who’d fuss about the color of the sky if somebody would listen.
A nurse poked her head out of the door leading to the main portion of the office. “Nevils?”
“Here.” Alexis laughed at herself. School habits die hard.
She stood to accompany her father, but he insisted he could handle this appointment on his own. “I don’t need you standin’ behind me while I got my hospital gown on.”
The sitting area fluttered with snickering.
“Okay, Daddy.” Alexis flopped back down into her seat, almost embarrassed at herself. Her father was right. She could only sit and wait now.
Times like this, she wished Thomas was with her. She also wished he’d take a more active role in caring for their parents. At one point, she had even grown resentful, but her coworkers convinced her that it was normal for daughters to bear the brunt of the responsibility when it came to parents. Not right, but normal as it happened in many families.
If only she had a sister.
A text broke her train of thought. Tonya. Courtney called. Call me.
Immediately, Alexis responded. “What did he say?”
“He’s open!” Tonya hollered.
“Yes!”
“He didn’t promise anything,” she warned, “but he’s already got some foreign labels interested.”
“Great!” Alexis could barely contain herself. “Praise God. I’m so happy I’ll be able to cash my checks without feeling guilty.”
“Me, too. And I’m glad to get this whole thing with Camille behind us, you know? I didn’t lose any sleep over it, but it’s not about me, you know?”
“True that,” Alexis cosigned. “So when do we call her?”
“Not yet. He wants to work out the business details first.”
“Okay. I won’t say anything. Thanks for the great news, girl.”
“Bless God.
“Did you talk to him about the other thing?”
“Yes,” Tonya said. “Since he owns the lyrics, he can revise them, or we can do kind of a dance remix to reduce the number of suggestive phrases. Courtney was like, ‘Y’all serious about the Lord, huh?’”
“He got that right.” Alexis laughed. “I can’t be singing stuff I don’t want my future kids to hear. I still haven’t played every song on our CD for my parents. They’d have a cow and have our old managers up against a wall somewhere.”
“I know, right?”
Alexis reiterated, “Thanks again. I’ll keep quiet until I hear from you again. Love you, girl.”
“Love you, too.”
As she hung up the phone, she smiled to herself. She did, after all, have a sister in Christ.
CHAPTER 26
Timber showed no signs of releasing the grudge. She was obviously one of those one-strike-and-you’re-out types. “John David will see you in a moment.”
“Thank you.” Hopefully, Camille wouldn’t have to kiss up to Timber much longer. The woman might have a better attitude once she realized Camille’s talent paid part of her paycheck.
This time, John David emerged from his office, arm extended, wearing a tell-all grin. “He loved the demo. Absolutely loved it.”
“Great!” she shrieked.
Timber huffed to indicate we were interrupting her telephone conversation.
“Sorry,” Camille spoke softly, but she couldn’t stop the squeal from leaking out of her throat. “What do we do next?”
“Timber, draw up a representation contract.”
Yeah, Timber! Draw us up a contract! Camille could say whatever she wanted in her mind; she’d never have the nerve to talk crazy to Timber.
“Come on back to my office. Let’s make some calls.”
John David punched the conference button, dialed ten digits, then a male voice with a thick Spanish accent thundered through the speakers.
“Hola, John Daveeed!”
“Hey, Ignacio. I’ve got the magic voice here. Say hello to Camille Robertson.”
“Oh, my Carmelita! Where have you been all my life?”
Camille leaned closer to the phone perched on John David’s desk. “In Texas.”
Ignacio laughed. John David echoed with a snicker of his own. This Ignacio must really be somebody, so Camille giggled right along with them.
“We’re ready to make a move, my friend. What do you have in mind for her?”
“It’s just as we discussed. The film needs a hot, hot song for the scene. Perfect for someone whose voice can go high, low, and everywhere in between.”
John David nodded at Camille, that money-sign beam in his eye. “Camille is definitely your singer. She’s got a wide range. And I’m sitting here looking at her. She’s hot, Ignacio.”
Where was all this hotness coming from? Last she checked, gospel music wasn’t about steamy songs.
“And tell me, Carmelita, who was that man singing with you?”
“Oh”—she shrugged, as though Ignacio could see her—“he was just a guy from my church.”
“You two”—Ignacio’s voice lowered—“not the first time you have made beautiful music together, I see?”
For the sake of the contract Timber was supposed to be typing that very moment, Camille hid her disgust. “Like I said, we’re in the same choir. He’s a friend.”
“Aha. Johnny boy, can you get him, too?”
The agent shot Camille an anxious stare.
“I could ask,” she said.
“Fabulous, Carmelita. You are perfect! Johnny, Angelica will send details. Gracias!” Ignacio didn’t give them an opportunity to respond.
John David picked up his receiver, then laid it back in its cradle. He turned to Camille and asked, “Ignacio works quickly. How soon can you get in touch with your church partner?”
She shook her head in confusion. “Wait a minute. Is this a gospel song Ignacio has in mind?”
“No. It’s more like pop. Slated for a spot on the soundtrack for a blockbuster movie, however. You’ll get lots of exposure with this song. Lots!”
“What happened to gospel?”
“Forget gospel. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for you to get back on the charts that matter. Don’t freak out on me because it’s not gospel,” John David scoffed. “Now that we’ve got some money behind us, I’ll set up some time in a studio for you and ... what’s his name?”
“Ronald Shepherd.”
“Hmmm ... might have to change it to Ronnie. Anyway, I’ll have Timber call you and set
up an appointment.”
“Ignacio said the song was hot. How hot is hot?”
“Remember that ballad from the sex scene in Top Gun?”
She guessed, “ ‘Take My Breath Away’?”
“Yeah.”
“Multiply it by ten. It’s sizzling, seductive—wait! I think I actually have the lyrics in an e-mail.” He focused his attention on his laptop, clicked a few buttons. The rollers on the printer warmed for a moment, then a piece of paper ejected from the top slot. John David handed her the document.
One look at the title ruined all chances of getting Ronald involved. “On Top of Me.” Her heart sank into her stomach. The first verse was the female’s recount of how it feels to have the man on top of her body. Vice versa for the second verse. The chorus line mentioned body part eruptions. This was almost too hot for even Camille to handle.
“Are they glued to these lyrics?” she asked John David.
“When Ignacio Mendes asks you to record a song, you don’t question the lyrics. What’s the problem?”
She exhaled. I’ve come too close to my dreams to quit now. “No problem.”
None of this second-party nonsense sat well with Camille. John David was supposed to be representing her, not her and some other guy he’d never met. Why couldn’t that loony Ignacio just pair her up with Musiq Soulchild or Anthony Hamilton and get this ball rolling?
Wouldn’t be such a problem if Ronald wasn’t so holier than everyone she knew. He needed to lighten up, but she didn’t have the time to talk him out of his rigid beliefs before the studio date. Timber had set it for Wednesday at twelve thirty PM and she wouldn’t reschedule it no matter how much Camille tried to explain that she couldn’t take off any more time from work.
“This is a state-of-the-art facility. We were fortunate to get a slot,” Timber claimed. “Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.” How could Camille not pursue her destiny because of a day job? She didn’t want to be ninety years old, rocking in a nursing home, recounting the day she chose a measly old job over worldwide fame. Sad enough she’d already blown her first chance at stardom.
Camille completed yet another request for Wednesday afternoon off and placed it in the plastic wall file holder outside Sheryl’s door.
One more logistic left to handle: the missing duet partner. Ronald was out of the picture. The only other men she knew with decent voices were Faison and Nathan, and Nathan was right up there next to Ronald on the holiness ladder, from what she could tell. Plus, he and Ronald seemed to communicate regularly.
Faison, however, told an occasional off-color joke or two in practice. She’d also seen quite a few fresh tattoos ascending his arms. No old-school Christian would have body art let alone expose it freely, in Camille’s opinion. For a few dollars, she could probably get him to do anything. His voice wasn’t nearly as strong as Ronald’s, but a little less perfection on the male end might actually work in Camille’s favor. Maybe Ignacio would X the whole man thing and pick her alone for the song. If he didn’t “Ronald” would become “Ronnie Faison.”
She didn’t have Faison’s number. Didn’t know how to reach him outside of church. And he had no clue that he was part of phase two of her scheme, but he was about to become one of her closest confidantes. Thanks to a message Ronald had e-mailed to members of the young-adult choir, Camille obtained Faison’s e-mail address and sent him a generic note, asking him to give her a call.
He responded to her request quickly. She answered at work, spoke in hushed tones because Sheryl wasn’t too happy about the request for time off, probably because it wasn’t animal related.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Camille. It’s Faison. I got your message. What’s up?”
“Thanks for calling me back.” Okay, how was she supposed to say, “I need you to sing a nasty song with me because I know you’re not all that saved?” She advanced cautiously. “Well, I’ve got a little proposition for you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know if you know this or not, but I used to sing in an R and B group. Sweet Treats?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’d heard. Y’all had some good songs back in the day. ’Specially ‘Meet Me in the Hot Tub,’ you know what I’m sayin’?”
She thought she picked up on a slightly suggestive twang in his pitch. Maybe it was just her imagination. “Anyway, I’ve got an agent who’s interested in me. He wants me to go to the studio and record a song, with a male vocalist in the background. I was wondering if you’d be willing to accompany me.”
“I’d love to. But if you don’t mind me asking, why not Ronald instead of me?”
Why he gotta go there with a question?
“Well ... it’s not a gospel song, and I don’t want him to put his position at the church in jeopardy, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Pastor wouldn’t fire him for singing a secular song, I wouldn’t think.”
Ugh! “This particular song is ... let’s just say it’s ... a love song he probably wouldn’t want Brittney to hear.”
“Oh”—Faison finally caught on—“it’s one of those type of songs, huh?”
“Yeah. It is,” she had to admit.
“I’m cool. To me, music is music. As long as God knows your heart, people can’t judge you.”
Funny. Before she started going to Grace Chapel, listening to Pastor Collins, and observing the living truth in Ronald, she might have agreed. But when Faison spoke those words, something within her knew he wasn’t exactly right. Good thing, too, because he probably wouldn’t have agreed to sing with her otherwise.
She gave him the when and where, and breathed a sigh of relief when Faison said there was no schedule conflict for him because he was off on Wednesdays and Thursdays.
“Great. I’ll e-mail you the lyrics so you can look over them. Thank you so much, Faison. I can’t pay you any money for doing this, but since you won’t have to speed back to work, I’ll treat you to lunch.”
Camille understood well: People like food. Especially free food. She’d be sure to watch the mail for a two-for-one restaurant coupon.
CHAPTER 27
For the first time she could remember, Camille saw a smile on Timber’s face as she and Faison checked in at the studio.
“Hello, Camille. Good to see you again.”
I guess. “Good to see you, too. This is my friend, Faison. He’s going to sing with me today.”
“Hello, Faison. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Timber’s eyes fanned up and down his body twice.
Obviously aware of her interest, Faison opened up a borrowed can of chivalry. Without a word, he kissed Timber’s hand and Camille thought the woman was going to unzip the back of her pencil skirt on the spot.
“Ooh, Faison. The pleasure is all mine.”
“It can be,” he intimated, pulling up his sagging pants.
Can y’all wait until we finish taping? Why is she here anyway? This ain’t her office.
“Follow me,” Timber said as she switched her nonexistent behind down a short corridor leading to the sound room. There, Timber handed them off to a man who introduced himself as Stevie.
“Thanks, Timber. I’ll take it from here. Tell John David I said hello.”
“Certainly.”
While Faison busied himself exchanging numbers with Timber in the hallway, Camille made sure Stevie had things in order for the recording. She took in the control room, noting obvious changes in equipment over the past ten years. Six-foot sound engineering boards lit up like Christmas trees, computer monitors contained images that floated from one screen to the next.
The actual recording booth, however, hadn’t changed. Just a headset and a microphone. Even with all this new technology, there was no substitute for the human voice.
From his seat behind one of the boards, Stevie assured Camille that he’d been in touch with both John David and Ignacio. “They’re a great team to work with.
“And I look forward to working with you two. I heard t
he demo. Awesome.”
Then he switched into music producer mode. “Let me have you in the booth first. Then, we’ll bring Ronald in—”
“Oh, he doesn’t go by Ronald, professionally. Call him Faison,” Camille interjected, thankful that Faison was still outside the room flirting. That Timber was good for something after all.
Stevie made notes on a sheet of paper. “Faison what?”
“Just Faison.”
“Okaaay. Since you’re in the spotlight, per John David, we’ll start by recording separate tracks. We’ll probably end up laying Faison’s track on top of yours.” Stevie chuckled slightly. “Goes with the song, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Afterward, we’ll run the duet.”
When her singing buddy finally made his way into the studio, he stood there hollering like a straight-up country fool who’d never been off the farm. “Daaang! This is off tha chain! You didn’t tell me we were going to a real music studio!”
Stevie glanced at Camille curiously.
She, in turn, pulled Faison’s balled fist from his lips. “Alrighty, then. Let’s get started.”
After listening to the general beat, Camille delivered a sultry, strong performance in a relatively short period of time.
“You hit the spot, Miss Robertson,” Stevie complimented her.
Next came Faison’s turn. Maybe it was the computers, or blame it on his lingering infatuation with Timber—Faison butchered “On Top of Me.” He hadn’t any more studied those lyrics than a man on the moon. And his dreadful voice surprised both Stevie and Camille. Without the padding of other tenors, Faison sounded like Keith Sweat without LeVert covering him up, all that off-key, off-beat begging and whining.
After several hours’ worth of stopping, restarting, redoing Faison’s track, Camille was fit to be tied. And one of poor Stevie’s clients had been waiting for his appointment in the studio almost forty-five minutes. Stevie obviously hadn’t dreamed he’d be in the studio this long with someone who’d already been handpicked by John David and the Ignacio Mendes.
Falling Into Grace Page 19
