After several minutes, Roger, the head of Reverb Records strolls into the room, his jacket buttoned over his small paunch, his face smiling the smarmy smile of someone used to working a room. He shakes everyone’s hands and introduces himself to Natalie and Grace before sitting down opposite The Professor. Setting his elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers in front of his face, and for a second I flash to the meeting with the Dean of Students when he told me I wasn’t welcome at Marycliff anymore.
But that was another time. Another man. Another life.
This man is going to listen to my demo and approve my pitch for my next album. The demo is fantastic. Everyone who’s heard it loves it, even the stripped down version I performed in Spokane two weeks ago. Imagine the reaction when it’s released as a lead single.
“I understand you have something you want me to listen to.”
Roger directs this statement at The Professor, but I answer. “We do. I’ve been working closely with The Professor, and I think we have the first lead single for my next album.”
Raising his eyebrows to his nonexistent hairline, Roger takes me in. “You contributed to the song?”
“I did.” I keep my voice steady, my eye contact direct but not aggressive.
Roger blows out a breath. “You understand that we’re unlikely to agree to let you write your own album. That’s not your brand. You’re not a singer-songwriter. You’re a performer, and a fantastic one. Stick to your strengths.”
My teeth grind together and my nails dig into the palms of my hands as I try to remain calm in the face of such blatant dismissal. “Performers evolve. Careers evolve. There are plenty of female powerhouses who contribute to the songs on their albums.”
“Mmm, true. But most of them started their careers that way.” Roger gestures at me. “You’re well established. Why fix something that isn’t broken?”
Because it doesn’t work for me, I want to say. But I don’t. That won’t get me anywhere with this man. Instead, I change tactics.
Turning my chair slightly toward the other end of the table, I nod toward The Professor. “We figured you’d say something like that, which is why we brought you a demo. Let you get a taste of what we’re putting together. So far it’s been well received.”
With a shrug, as though listening to my song makes no difference to him, but he’s willing to humor me, Roger takes the memory stick from The Professor and plugs it into the laptop next to him.
After clicking a few things, the song starts playing, a driving beat with long chords layered over the top as the intro before I start with the vocals.
Roger’s face morphs from blasé disinterest to curious to impressed throughout the three minutes of the song. When it’s over, he sits back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and fingers laced over his midsection.
“Well,” he says after studying me for a long moment. “That was much better than I expected.”
I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Thank you. I’m happy with how it’s turned out. And, as I said, it’s been well received.”
His gaze sharpens. “Who’s heard it?”
I glance at The Professor before looking at Roger again. “Well, my assistant and manager, of course, as well as The Professor’s interns and the people that work with him. But I also gave a little impromptu performance when I was in Spokane, Washington a couple of weeks ago. The crowd there loved it, even with just me accompanying myself on the piano.”
The look in Roger’s eyes turns calculating. “People liked that? Just you and your piano?”
I nod, not quite sure where he’s going with that.
He sits forward and taps his fingers on the table. “I don’t think this is a ballad, so it doesn’t really work for that. Do you have a ballad? One you’re working on?”
I glance at The Professor again, and he answers this time. “Yes, she has some lyrics and chord progressions that would make a nice ballad. We could put a soft beat underneath it, something subtle that would just add to the acoustic feel.”
“Excellent.” Roger smacks the table with the palm of his hand, now enthusiastic about the idea. “Work that one up next. And send it to me as soon as it’s done.” He looks at me again. “I like this impromptu performance idea to get you back out there, create a groundswell around the next album before it’s even really started. That’s a brilliant idea.”
Even though that hadn’t been my plan at all when I performed in Spokane, I nod. “Thank you.”
His grin now is all shark. “Yes. This is an excellent plan. I was worried you’d bring me a bunch of sentimental crap that isn’t even fit for album filler, much less single material. I see I was wrong. I had no idea you’d been working on anything.”
“It’s not something I’ve discussed widely. But I knew I’d need help from the best if I wanted to make it happen. Which is why I reached out to The Professor.”
Roger nods. “I see your time in the industry hasn’t been wasted.” He stands and moves to shake our hands again, and this time we all stand too. “This is very exciting. Get to work. Start figuring out when and where you want to put on more of these impromptu performances. We can do a mini tour and send you where you have the most fans. Show up, pop you in a small venue, have these exclusive shows.” I can practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. “Once the album is finally released, people will buy it in droves.” He shakes my hand and squeezes my arm with his left hand. “Good job, Charlotte. Very good. I’m happy to continue working with you.”
I smile back. “Thank you for meeting with us today.”
“The pleasure was all mine, I assure you.” With one more glance at me, he shakes The Professor’s hand and leaves the room.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh as it hits me that he went for the idea of me writing my own album. With help, of course, but still. This album can reflect me, my feelings, my words, my music. And I’ll get to play the piano for my ballad. Which was more than I’d dared hope for.
The Professor reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, giving me a wide smile. “I told you not to worry, that he’d love it. I know what Roger likes. That man knows a hit when he hears one. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s been wrong about a single hitting the top ten in the last few years I’ve worked with him. This is going to be your best album yet.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Thank you. And yes. It definitely is.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bridge:
A transitional passage connecting two sections of a composition
A part of a violin family or guitar/lute family stringed instrument that holds the strings in place and transmits their vibrations to the resonant body of the instrument
Damian
I’m in the practice room when my phone vibrates on the piano bench. I hear it over the sound of my own cello filling the tiny room. Annoyance flickers through me at the disruption that shatters my focus. I should’ve put my phone on Do Not Disturb.
Laying my bow on the music stand, I move my cello to the side so I can lean forward and grab my phone, my irritation fading away when I see it’s a text from Charlie. That’s the real reason I didn’t turn my phone off. I was hoping I’d hear from her.
They went for it!!
A grin stretches across my face, and without thinking, I unlock my phone and call her.
She picks up after two rings, her voice breathless in my ear. “Hi, Damian. I didn’t expect you to call.” Her voice hits me like a punch to the gut, albeit one that spreads warmth all through me. Time and space hasn’t dulled her effect on me. If anything, it’s only intensified. For a while, even hearing her songs on the radio was torture. Now, though, I don’t avoid them as much. Not since we’ve started talking again. I’m not sure where this is going, but I like that we’re at least friends.
“I didn’t think a text message would adequately convey how happy I am for you. I know you’ve been working hard. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” I can h
ear the smile in her voice and can’t stop the answering one from spreading across my own face. Pinching the phone between my ear and my shoulder, I lay my cello down on the floor next to me and settle back in my seat, all thoughts of practicing gone for now. The cello can wait.
“Tell me about the meeting. Did they take much convincing, or did they jump on board right away?”
She laughs, and the familiar tingle I get at the sound runs down my arms. “He took a little convincing, but once he heard the demo, he was sold.” She fills me in on the meeting, her voice animated and happy, and I sit, one leg crossed over the opposite knee, enjoying listening to her talk. “God, I’ve missed this.”
The words are out without thinking, and I don’t even realize I’ve spoken the thought aloud until Charlie cuts off mid sentence, the sound of her breath whooshing out the only thing letting me know she’s still there.
“What do you mean?” she asks softly.
I swallow hard, sitting up straighter in my chair and rubbing my free hand down my leg. But it’s already out there. I may as well say it again. “Just what I said. I miss talking to you like this. Hanging out. Although we used to do it in person, not so much on the phone. But it’s good to hear your voice.”
“You never did like talking on the phone very much. You always asked me to come over or if you could come to my place.” The smile is back in her voice.
“Can you blame me? Would you rather talk on the phone when we have the option to spend time in the same room instead?”
There’s a moment of hesitation before she responds. “Are you saying you’d like to be in the same room if we could?”
I snort. “Of course. Like you said, I’m not a huge fan of talking on the phone. But you’re like a thousand miles away, so I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”
She gives a noncommittal hum, and I don’t really know what that means. I swallow again, feeling jittery and nervous. The last time I opened myself up to her, I ended up flying home from California by myself. I get up, but there’s nowhere to go in the practice room. An upright piano takes up the whole back wall, my stand sits directly in front of it, my chair in front of that with my cello on the floor next to it, and my case stands in the corner behind the door. There’s two feet of space to the right of my chair, and that’s it.
I sit back down. She still hasn’t said anything else, and now the silence feels awkward.
I clear my throat. “Well, uh, anyway. I just wanted to tell you congratulations. But I should probably get going. I was in the middle of practicing.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Is it my imagination or does she sound disappointed? “Thanks for calling.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m really happy for you. I hope they like the rest of your songs. The ballad sounds like it’ll be awesome.”
“Yeah.” Her voice is smaller, not so animated as before. “Um, can I call you again sometime? I mean, just, y’know, to talk. Or maybe get your opinion about a song or something?”
The vulnerable hope in her voice twists something inside me. “Yeah. Of course. I’d like that.”
“Good. Great.” She sounds a little happier now. “I’ll let you get back to practicing then. Thanks again.”
“Sure.”
After we end the call, I sit and stare at the ceiling for a minute, not certain how to feel about that conversation, especially the end. When I texted her last week, I hadn’t really thought about how I expected that to play out. But I never expected us to start communicating more, checking in daily, just little things about how the day is going. Sharing victories and frustrations. Reconnecting.
Talking on the phone will only make that connection more solid.
But is that smart?
I push my glasses up my forehead and rub my hands over my face. Sighing, I sit forward again and lean down to pick up my cello. I don’t know if talking to Charlie is a good idea or not, but I’ve never been able to resist her. Which is why I wouldn’t answer her calls or texts when I was so mad at her before. I knew I’d break down and let it all go the minute I heard her voice again.
Now I’ve had time and space to process, and I can see where she was coming from. But even if I get her reasons, even if I’ve decided to forgive her for her deception, I can’t get past the idea that getting sucked into her orbit again can’t end well for me.
I’m a nerdy cello player from Spokane. She’s a superstar.
We’re from different planets. With incompatible atmospheres.
Shaking my head at myself, I start in on the Bach suite I was working on when her text came in, hoping the immutable notes will center me, ground me, keep me from deciding to fly off into outer space to chase after her.
“Hey, you busy?” Charlie’s voice over the phone makes me smile.
I close the book I’m slogging through for my English class and set it next to me on the couch so I can talk to her. Capping my highlighter, I toss it on the coffee table and prop my feet up. “Just doing some homework, but I’m happy to take a break. What’s up?”
“Are you at home?”
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“Oh, well, I kind of have a surprise for you. Lauren’s going to swing by to pick you up and take you to it.”
I sit up straighter, putting my feet on the floor. “What kind of surprise? And why can’t I just drive myself?”
“One that I hope you’ll like. And because that would ruin the surprise.” Her voice has that veneer of bravado I’ve come to recognize as an indication that she’s not quite sure of herself. When we were talking about her meeting with the label exec beforehand, she’d sound like this a lot. Like she’s trying to convince herself of her own confidence. It’s cute.
“Okay, I’ll go along. When’s Lauren going to be here?”
“In about ten minutes. Put on your shoes and be ready when she gets there.”
“Do I need anything else?”
“Nope. Just you.” Excitement fills her voice now, and I smile as I stand up from the couch.
“Alright. I’m getting my shoes on now so I’m ready when Lauren gets here. Are you going to stay on the phone with me the whole time until I get to the surprise?”
She laughs, and I go all gooey inside. I’ve gotten addicted to her laugh again since we started talking on the phone the other day. It’s amazing how quickly she’s become a fixture in my life again. First the daily texts that have now graduated to daily phone calls. Even if we only chat for a few minutes, it always makes my day that much better.
“No. I’m going to hang up now. We’ll talk again when you get to where your surprise is.”
She says goodbye and ends the call. Bemused and curious, I get my shoes on, then grab my coat, wallet, and keys before sitting back on the couch to read some more while I wait for Lauren.
I don’t get through very much, though. Distracted by trying to figure out what this surprise could be, I end up reading the same page four times. When I finally give up and toss the book on the coffee table, the doorbell rings.
Lauren greets me with a smile when I open the door. “Ready?”
“I guess so. Any hints about where we’re going or what’s going on?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Nope. Charlie was very clear that I’m not to drop even the slightest hint. Come on.”
Locking the door behind me, I follow her to her car. She chatters away about classes and orchestra while she drives, and I try to engage in the conversation, but I’m more concerned about where we’re going. Downtown, from the looks of it.
She stops in front of the main entrance to Davenport Towers and puts the car in park. Holding out a room key, she smiles. “Room 608. Have fun.”
I give her a questioning look, but she just smiles wider and presses the card into my hand. “Go. It’s good. I promise.”
In a daze, I take the card and climb out of the car, slightly stunned when Lauren drives off, leaving me standing there.
“Sir? Do you need any help?” The doorman’s voice s
hakes me out of my stupor.
“Ah, no. Thanks. I’m good.” I hold up the key card as I head for the door, which he opens for me with a nod of his head.
“Have a good evening.”
“Thanks, you too.”
I follow Lauren’s directions, taking the elevator up to the sixth floor and following the rooms to number 608. Is she …? Why would she …?
Only one way to find out. Sliding the card into the reader, I wait for the light to turn green and the mechanical sound of the door unlocking before taking a breath and pulling on the handle.
Charlie stands on the other side, a tentative smile on her face. “Surprise.”
Chapter Fourteen
Canon: a theme that is repeated and imitated and built upon, creating a layered effect
Charlie
Damian stands in the entrance to the suite, blinking at me.
I stand there too, trying to absorb every detail about him. His faded T-shirt, the way his jeans mold to his legs, his hands clenching at his sides making the veins pop under his tan skin. His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail like always, and it looks like he didn’t bother to shave today. He does that sometimes. Or at least he did last semester.
When he doesn’t move, I offer a tentative smile and take a step toward him. “Is … is this okay? You said the other day about how it’s nicer to be in the same room. And we’ve been talking more. I thought …” I flop my hands around, gesturing at the seating area over my shoulder.
“Why are you here?”
My smile slips, and now I’m worried I maybe made a bad choice. “Well, like I said, I thought it’d be nice to spend time together. In person. And not just talk on the phone. Like we used to.”
“Like we used to,” he echoes. His eyes leave me and examine the room. When he meets my gaze again, it’s with one eyebrow raised, a skeptical look on his face. “Like we used to, Charlie? What exactly does that mean?”
Counterpoint and Harmony Page 6
