by Grea Warner
“Uh-huh, sure.” He shook his head with a glimmer of a smile.
“Is that Mr. Mean?” Willow chimed in from across the line.
“Willow, I’m gonna go. I’ll talk with you tonight. Let me know if anything else hits.” Before she could question, I abruptly hung up. After all, I wasn’t at the Thompson manse to gossip. I was there to create and grow as an artist. “Sorry,” I repeated to Ryan. “That was meant about a particular guy—not in general.”
“I’m pretty sure I heard the plural version of the word depicting the male species.”
“Sorry,” I repeated. “No.”
“Song material?” he tried.
“Probably. Open a vein and all that. At least it’s not my heart.” It most definitely was not.
“I can work with that. But how about after lunch?”
“Sure,” I agreed, wondering what the plan was.
“Sallie wants mac and cheese. But there are a lot of variations we can add to it—chicken, bacon, on a bun ...”
“It all sounds good besides that last one.” I chuckled, hoping he was teasing. “Can’t wait to get a better look at the kitchen. Put me to work.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean you had to help. You’re the guest.”
“I’d love to ... seriously.”
I loved to cook. I considered it another creative art and a stress reliever. And after getting the news about Andre, I needed that for sure.
Chapter Three
The next day was not only a Saturday, but it was Saint Patrick’s Day. Since the coffee house manager was giving me time off during the week to work with Ryan, the holiday meant an extended workday for me. And a busy one it was. Because on March seventeenth, everyone is Irish, and everyone wants Irish-flavored coffee and/or lots of caffeine to keep them up for all the green beer drinking.
Being on my feet all day, I couldn’t wait to get home, strip off my shoes, and wiggle all the little piggies around. First, though, I wanted to grab some dinner at the apartment’s dining hall. I had just about enough time before dining hours were done to do that.
As I was about to enter, Willow—coming in the opposite direction—pulled me aside. “Grouchy Ms. Ratched is serving today.” She rolled her eyes at the behind-the-scenes nickname for the woman who normally ran the front desk. “I guess they’re taking turns until they find a replacement for Andre. And then it will probably be an old schoolmarm. They don’t want to risk another brothel.” Hopefully she didn’t notice my cringe as she laughed. “Anyway, a few of us are going out later. Wanna join?”
I blew out an extended breath. “I’d love to. I’m just exhausted.”
“I know. I’m gonna need more deets on Mr. Mean.”
“Willow.” I tsked. “He’s remarkably not. He’s actually quite down to earth.” I had briefly filled her in the night before on the hows and whys of meeting with Ryan at his house. “And you promised to keep it on the low, right?”
“Yes, Bethany! Although, you are not going to jinx anything. This is really it. You are going to have a record deal or whatever a songwriter gets.”
Gosh, wouldn’t that be something? “Well, everyone can know then. One grand humiliation on national television is enough for me. I gotta go. I’m starved. I only had a green bagel and some candy at work. What did you have for dinner—the fish and chips or the stew?”
“Go fish and chips. The stew looked like they put in all the leftovers of every meal from the past week.”
“Ewww.” I scrunched my face. “Yeah, better stay away from that, anyway.”
“The pudding was surprisingly decent, though,” she mumbled while running toward the elevator. “Hey, hold that.”
I opted for the fish on a salad bed for dinner, and, yes, the pudding was delicious. Perhaps because it was dark chocolate and not anything green. It made me think of Sallie and the chocolate cake she had requested for her birthday, which was the following day. Sallie had invited six of her friends—one for each year she was alive—to their house for a paint party. Afterward, of course, there would be cake and presents. It gave me an idea, and I couldn’t wait to get started on the surprise.
***
I was able to map most of it out that night. But it was only after coming back from church the following morning when I had a finished product. It was never going to make a greatest hits album and was actually quite laughable, but it was meant to be that way ... especially to a newly crowned six-year-old.
I forwarded the video of myself to Ryan, but I didn’t let him know what it was. Instead, I told him I had worked hard on it and thought it was my best stuff yet. Then I added that I seriously hoped he would take it into consideration.
I expected an LOL or even a thank-you back. But what I got later that evening was a different video response. It was a recording from the Thompson abode staring little Sallie Thompson. And it wasn’t via direct message, it was a text.
“Hi, Bethany! Thank you!” She bounced as her teeth and light blue eyes shined while speaking into the camera. “Thank you so much for my birthday song. My friends loved ‘Unicorn’s Birthday.’ I played it hundreds of times. Daddy says I can have it be on the movie soundtrack for my book. Bye!”
I laughed so hard and played her response nearly hundreds of times, too. Well, maybe just a few times. Knowing my song brought such innocent happiness erased all the critics who along the way had told me otherwise.
A text from the number I then knew as Ryan’s came in shortly after. Thx. U made her day. It was the only thing she could talk about. For real.
I texted back. The smile on her face made mine. And weirdly so did the fact that he used “for real.”
Private #, BTW. Please don’t give out.
Understood. See you tomorrow, I wrote of our next lyrics-writing session.
How bout if we meet @ my house again? Feel like we got more done here.
I thought so, too. It was more relaxed, allowing better creativity. And there were definitely fewer interruptions ... even with Sallie. Although, she would be going back to school.
I texted a much-amended version of my thoughts. Yeah, sure.
I’ll order car service for U.
I was brought up to be a giver, not a taker. Admittedly, though, having someone else set up the transportation, never mind the cost, was a godsend. After an internal debate, I accepted with a simple thank-you text. I was just going to end the conversation that way. But I still felt as if I wasn’t doing my part. So, I decided on a compromise and added, I’ll bring lunch.
His reply came back in what I was quickly learning was sarcastic Ryan style. What ... U don’t like my mac & cheese?
Very gourmet ☺ I’m sure he knew I was being equally sarcastic, as adding precooked chicken, tomato, and avocado to boxed macaroni and cheese wasn’t exactly gourmet, but at least he made an effort. Just my turn.
U R going to B a hard negotiator Lenay. C U tomorrow.
Even though he didn’t know it, I appreciated Ryan’s use of my name. My formal name was Bethany Lenay Opala, but I chose to use my middle name as my last name professionally ... as a lot of hotshot stars did. But also because I always liked my middle name. As Southern tradition, it was a maiden name from a grandparent—my father’s mother’s. I didn’t mind Bethany, but I hated the abbreviated form of Beth. It sounded so blah and matronly. Besides, I hadn’t moved to Los Angeles for that. I wanted to live life to the fullest. And for the first time, I think Bethany Lenay was.
***
“Song which describes your low point.” Ryan’s eyes intently watched mine, and when I didn’t say anything, he urged me on. “And ... go. Don’t think too long about it. You know you have one. Say it. What is it?”
“‘Landslide.’ I was blasting ‘Landslide’ on repeat for days on end right before the show aired.”
I hated to keep bringing up the show because I was realizing how right Ryan had been about his comments that day. But still, not making it on Singer Spotlight was my lowest point. And “Landslide” was the song I had found
solace in.
“You asked,” I said.
“Classic Fleetwood Mac. Multigenerational love for that song. It’s a good choice, and I see how it fits.”
“Okay, you ...”
We had just said our top song for getting pumped up or motivated. Now, we were on the opposite side of the song spectrum. Ryan said it was a way to think about how the song connected to us personally and how we could use those feelings to create new, additional songs. It was an interesting idea. I was definitely willing to play.
“‘Under the Bridge,’” he said plainly.
“‘Under the Bridge,’” I repeated. “I don’t know that one.”
“Yeah ... Chili Peppers.”
“Hmmm.” I went for my phone.
“No searching. Think.” He had changed from a judge to a mentor for sure. “I don’t ever want to feel like I did that day,” he recited part of the lyrics.
“It’s about depression, right? And about living here in LA.”
Instead of answering, he immediately went to the next song. “Song which describes your childhood.”
I wanted to think more about Ryan’s response, but I knew he didn’t want me to by the change of topic. So, I appeased him with an answer. “Ha! I actually have one for that. I used it for a college paper. It’s an oldie—‘Sheltered Life.’ Yours ... go!”
“‘Old F-ing MacDonald Had a Farm.’”
I couldn’t help but laugh, knowing of his roots in Iowa. “I don’t believe there is normally an expletive in that song title.”
“There is in my version.” He seemed as enamored by his upbringing as I was mine. “While on topic, how about your favorite kid song?”
“Um ... I used to love ‘There’s a Hole in the Bucket.’”
“Good one. Do you know why?”
“I think because it is kind of a story.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s yours, farm boy?” I jested a teasing name at him. “Can’t do ‘Old Mac’ again.”
“‘Unicorn’s Birthday’... yep.”
My laugh equaled my previous one. “That is so not. Geez!”
“Not changing my mind.” When I shook my head, he continued, “Song when you were most in love.”
I was waiting for that one. I was dreading that one. “Why do I have to go first all the time?”
“Bethany ... song which reminds you of when you were or are—whatever—in love.”
“Nope.”
“Nope? That’s a song?” he teased.
“Nope. Don’t think I ever was.”
“Really?” He looked extremely doubtful.
“‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn,’” I decided on. “There you go.”
“No, I don’t think that counts.”
“Not changing my mind,” I echoed back to him.
“How do you manage to take my words and use them against me?”
Ryan’s eye roll started because of my comment but then continued when glancing at his ringing phone. Remarkably, it had been pretty silent up to that point, or he had ignored it. Apologizing, he answered it and immediately started sounding more like the businessman persona I had originally met. His phone to his ear, he walked out of the room, and I couldn’t help but think I was glad the interruption had put a halt to our being-in-love talk. After all, how depressing would it be to discuss my failures with a man who was so happily married?
***
“I think these words are crisp ... spot-on now,” Ryan spoke of our fourth rewrite of one of my originals.
“Yeah, I’m glad we let it sit.” Playing around with new song ideas the day before was a perfect way to let “Somewhere” rest and hear it cleanly.
“It’s missing something, though. The words are too powerful not to add more of a powerful piece of music behind them.”
“Okay. What are you thinking?”
“That’s just it, I’m not sure.” He sat in silence for a moment and then suggested, “Close your eyes.” When I did so, he read the lyrics like poetry instead of singing them. When done, he asked, “Did you visualize anything?”
I opened my eyes. “I know this doesn’t have anything to do with the lyrics, but, actually, I saw us kids in my dad’s old Firebird at the summer drive-in.”
“Your dad has a Firebird? The classic car?” That’s what Ryan got out of the vision exercise.
“Yeah. Late seventies. He’s a little classic-car obsessed.”
“Sweet.” Ryan got up, moved across the living room, and sat at the piano. “Sing. Sing it for me, but see if you can go with what I am playing. Keep in mind, I’m just tinkering ... trying things out.” He started with multiple keys that were quick, and I even pictured my brother, sister, and me laughing. “Sorta? Maybe?” he asked, stopping midway. He didn’t seem altogether sure.
“Absolutely. Start from the beginning again.” I picked up my guitar and matched the piano for the next round.
“God, that sounds good together.”
We still went through some modifications and had to settle on an intro, but the end result was out of this world. I honestly didn’t care if any artist liked or bought it. It was beautiful to me. Of course, I didn’t tell Manager Ryan that. No matter how much I could see he was enjoying making music, his bottom line had to be making something else—money.
***
Ryan and I continued to create music over the next couple of days at his house. After finalizing “Somewhere,” we really got into a groove of getting new songs down. We realized our individual strengths and how they complemented one another. Ryan was great at having the story starters and general idea of the music style to accompany it. Then I would pick it up and make the words actually flow into lyrics ... with a little switching done by him along the way.
When the kids bounded in from school that Thursday, we hadn’t realized we had worked that long. I had left before Sallie and Joel had come home the other days, so it was my first time meeting Ryan’s son, who had the same light blue eyes and blond hair as his sister. Joel had more energy than Sallie, for sure, but he was a four-year-old, after all.
Since we were on a roll and I wasn’t scheduled for the coffee house that evening, Ryan and I continued for a little longer as the kids found refuge in their tablets. Ryan then insisted I stay for dinner. “Sorry. This is nothing like your meals.” He was making simple sandwiches.
“Believe me, I’ve been geeking out using your kitchen. I miss cooking so much.” Not to mention having three marble counters and top appliances to work with in his gourmet kitchen.
The meat ravioli I had brought on Monday was premade. I had fried it up with dried fruit in a sugar and sweet spice mix. There had been so much leftover, we had it again the next day for lunch. And we did the same with the crunchy tacos we had for lunch on Wednesday.
“I can’t believe you don’t have a kitchen at your place.” He shook his head, recalling the story I had told him about my living arrangements.
“I can’t believe I’m allowed to make lunch again tomorrow.” I gleamed while slicing some fruit and veggies to complement our dinner.
“I think I totally won on the provide transportation versus provide lunch deal.”
“Not a chance,” I countered and then made a suggestion for the next meal. “I am thinking chips and dip—tortilla and potato chips with salsa, guacamole, hummus, and maybe seafood salad. Are you good with that for tomorrow?”
“It sounds great, but don’t make too much work for yourself.”
“I’ll buy most of it already made, but I’ll definitely make the guac. Then, we can snack all day if we get on a roll.”
“Like today.”
“Yeah.”
“Sallie! Joel! Dinner is ready,” he called out to his two little ones, who had been pretty well behaved, considering they had to be patient as Daddy finished work.
Staying for dinner at the Thompson abode was unexpected, but it was also refreshing. It had me thinking of home far away ... of my sister, brother, parents, and me sitti
ng around the kitchen table talking about our day. With Sallie and Joel, it was no different. They had so many stories about life in kindergarten and preschool, Sallie could have written another book just about that day. It was a nice break from the normal gossipy group of women sitting cafeteria-style at the apartment, or grabbing a lonely dinner on the go when I was on break at the coffee house.
“Bethany, it looks like there is going to be a wait getting someone here to pick you up,” Ryan said after we had finished and the kids were in the family room with their electronics.
“What? Why?”
“Maybe March Madness? I hadn’t thought about it. But since it’s being played here tonight, tons of people are probably looking for rides.”
“Oh.”
“We can wait, or I could drive you back myself.”
“No, I don’t want you to have to do that. The kids don’t need to be towed across town.”
“Or ...” He nodded a tiny bit. “You can stay the night.” When he paused again ever so slightly, a strange feeling suddenly zipped through my body. “You’ll be here tomorrow, anyway,” he added. And before I could get that weird sensation controlled, he concluded with, “We have a guest room.”
“No. No need for that,” I denied. “See what time they can make it, or I can call my next-door neighbor. She might be able to pick me up.”
I got all of it out but wasn’t making very good eye contact. What was going on? Concentrate, Bethany.
“Are you positive?”
“Yep. When am I going to pick up all the food for tomorrow if I stay?” I smiled quickly.
“I’m sure we could figure that out.”
“Should I call Willow?”
Ryan looked at his phone again. “They said forty-five minutes. Not so bad. You’ll just have to hang out with us for a bit longer.”
“I guess I’ll make the sacrifice,” I teased, resorting to my usual Bethany wit. He tilted his head significantly to one side, and I heard the same popping sound I had another time when we were working together—possibly when we had been discussing our favorite songs. “What was that?” I implored. “Was that your neck?”
“Yeah.” He exhaled. “It doesn’t hurt—just sounds kind of bad.”
