Shattered Hearts

by Coral McCallum

  One idea kept returning to her and repeatedly over the past two days she had discarded it as too simplistic an effect for the artwork. Now, as she surveyed her doodles, she wasn’t so sure. Knowing that there was only one way to get it out of her system, she began to draw. Opting to work in pencil, Lori sketched the outlines, carefully angling things to allow sufficient space for the lettering. Shadows were going to play an integral part in the design so the shades of gray proved to be the perfect medium for the design.

  Time ceased to have any meaning for her as she focused on the piece of paper in front of her. Creating the artwork for the band was proving to be cathartic and, for the first time in weeks, Lori felt herself relax.

  “Lori? Lori, you there?”

  Paul’s voice echoing out from the kitchen startled her back to reality as both Melody and Jesse came running through the house.

  “Mommy!” wailed her young son tearfully. “You forgot me!”

  “And me,” added Melody, her cheeks still flushed and blotchy from crying.

  “Lori, you ok?” asked Paul as he appeared behind the kids.

  “What time is it?”

  “Gone four-thirty,” he replied. “Did you lose track of time?”

  “Oh, kids, I’m sorry,” gasped Lori, suddenly realising she’d worked all day without either a break or a second thought for the time. “I got so caught up with this.”

  “You forgot us!” accused Melody, staring directly at her mother, her blue eyes brimming with tears.

  “No harm done,” soothed Paul, trying to ease the tension. “I was picking the meatballs up anyway. Would’ve helped if you’d called me though.”

  “Oh, Paul, thank you!” said Lori, her own eyes filling with tears. “I can’t believe I lost all track of time. Oh, kids, Mommy’s so sorry.”

  “Daddy would’ve remembered us!”

  Melody’s accusation hung in the air for a few tense seconds until Paul laughed.

  “Miss M, your daddy is late for everything,” laughed Silver Lake’s drummer. “He might have remembered but you could’ve been waiting an extra half hour in the cold for him.”

  Smiling, Lori said, “Uncle Paul’s right.”

  Slowly, she got up from her desk and came round to hug her tearful children. “I’m sorry,” she apologised softly as she held them. “I’ll set an alarm on my phone. It won’t happen again. Promise.”

  “It better not,” grumbled Jesse, pulling away from her.

  They watched as the three-year-old stomped off into the sunroom.

  “Miss M,” began Lori quietly. “Go and help Jess find the cartoon channel. I need to speak to Uncle Paul for a minute.”

  Signalling to Paul to go into the kitchen, Lori limped through behind him. Her t-shirt was stretched tight over her growing baby bump and, as she paused in the middle of the kitchen, Lori caught Paul staring at her.

  “You’re….”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “Not a word.”

  “Does Jake know?”

  Lori shook her head.

  “Lori, he deserves to know.”

  “Sh,” she hissed. “Keep your voice down, Paul.”

  “Sorry,” apologised Silver Lake’s drummer. “But you need to tell him and, from the looks of things, you need to talk to him soon.”

  “Thanks. I’d figured that much out,” muttered Lori sourly. Taking a deep breath, she sighed, “Sorry. Look, I’ll tell him soon. I just need a little more time. Right now, I need to run an idea past you.”

  “Idea?”

  Lori nodded. “I’ve been working on your artwork all day. Want to run my rough sketches past you.”

  “Sure. Is that what you were working on when you forgot your kids?” teased Paul, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

  “Oh, don’t! I feel so bad about that. Thank God you were there!”

  “No need to feel bad. You’ve a lot going on,” assured Paul, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Now, show me this design that caused you to leave your daughter standing out in the cold.”

  “Paul Edwards, you’re evil,” she giggled as together they walked back through to her workspace.

  As they stood side by side surveying the rough sketch for the band’s album cover, Lori felt Paul tremble as if he were wrestling with a fresh wave of grief.

  “Lori,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

  “Thank you,” she sighed, resting her head on his chest as he hugged her.

  Life at the gothic palace was surprisingly calm and, after a few days, Jake found he’d slipped into an easy routine. He quickly established that Garrett wasn’t a morning person but that suited him. While his host went about his usual methodical morning routine, Jake made himself scarce and headed out into the chilly New York air to pound out a few miles along the sidewalks. City centre running was never one of his favourite activities but Jake worked out a route that took him up Broadway to Columbus Circle, up Central Park West, across Central Park either via the 65th Street Transverse or the 79th Street Transverse then back down 5th Avenue to the music store. After a hot shower and a quick breakfast, he’d venture down to the store and spend the day helping out.

  After a day or two, Jake noted that the music store attracted a wide and varied clientele. Trade was brisk and, after his appearance on stage with Three Dead Mice, word spread that Jake Power from Silver Lake was hanging out in the shop. Initially being confronted by Silver Lakers looking for guitar advice unnerved Jake but Garrett swiftly put him straight suggesting, “Run a daily guitar clinic for a week. One-hour sessions. Vary the theme. Acoustic. Electric. They’re going to come in so you might as well structure it like you would a lesson in the classroom, son.”

  Reluctantly, Jake agreed to run five sessions then see how things felt after that. They restricted the sessions to ten people, purely based on the fact that that was the maximum number of people who could be comfortably squeezed into the recessed area usually reserved for acoustic instruments. After the first couple of classes, Jake confessed to the older musician that he was enjoying the sessions. With a smile, Garrett agreed that so was he as takings for the week were up by fifty per cent.

  As Jake was winding up the third session, he was aware of being watched. Looking up, he saw Jethro standing at the back of the group. Briefly, they made eye contact and the Silver Lake manager nodded his approval towards Jake. The workshop centred around transposing the music for electric versions to acoustic versions of songs. In front of him, the ten musicians hung on his every word.

  “Allow me to demonstrate,” began Jake, reaching for one of the shop’s PRS guitars. “Are you guys familiar with Depths?”

  Not surprisingly, all of them were.

  “Good,” declared Jake as he adjusted the guitar’s tuning. “Then you’ll be familiar with this.”

  Without hesitation, he played the intro, first verse and chorus of the hard and heavy Silver Lake fan favourite. In front of him, the group began to nod. Deciding to push it, Jake executed the song’s complex solo then played a reprise of the chorus.

  As he sat the guitar back down on its stand, his ten students applauded him.

  “Now, how well do you think that translates into an acoustic song?”

  “No way!” declared one more mature musician. “Not even you can make that work.”

  “You sure about that?” teased Jake with a wink towards Jethro, who had moved closer while he’d played.

  Throughout the workshops, Jake had been playing a Martin acoustic and, as he lifted it from its stand, he smiled. There was something about that particular guitar that was talking to him and he knew in his heart that he’d soon be talking money with Garrett. Settling the guitar on his lap, Jake began to play the more tortured, haunting version of Depths. Unable to help himself, he started to sing, much to the delight of his small select audience. They sat enchanted by his impromptu solo acoustic performance, each of them hanging on his every word.

  When the song ended, Jak
e sat back with head bowed while the students applauded him for a second time.

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done,” he said calmly. “I took the liberty of writing out the music for both versions for you and ran off a few copies. Feel free to lift one and hopefully it will let you see what I’ve been trying to describe for the last hour.

  “Hey, Jake,” called out an older man, who had been to all three sessions. “You’ve still got five minutes. Play another one.”

  Hesitating for a moment, Jake debated whether to acquiesce then slowly began to play Stronger Within. It was the first acoustic song that came to mind but playing it, knowing how things were between him and Lori, tore at his heart. Keeping his gaze lowered, avoiding eye contact with the class, he somehow made it through the song. As the last note faded out, Jake cleared his throat and said, “Thanks, folks.”

  A fresh round of applause interrupted him and he felt his cheeks flush as he gazed round the group.

  “Thank you,” repeated Jake smiling. “Ok, tomorrow’s workshop will be at ten-thirty. There’s still a couple of slots left and we’ll be covering off more vocal techniques than playing techniques. If you want to put your name down on the guest list, see Garrett on the way out,”

  “Great session, Jake,” complimented his regular member of class. “See you again tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Jerry. See you at ten thirty sharp.”

  Once the last of the students had departed, Jake began to idly improvise on the acoustic guitar. For a few minutes, Jethro stood watching and listening in silence before asking, “How are you, son?”

  “Been better,” confessed Jake without looking up. “Missing my wife and my kids. Missing my home and the ocean.”

  “I know,” sympathised Jethro sincerely.

  “Have you seen them?”

  The band’s manager shook his head, “Sorry. I’ve been in London for the last week. Lord Jason summoned me.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Nothing Maddison and I can’t handle,” assured the older man calmly. “The suits are getting nervous that the band haven’t named a new guitarist yet. Think I’ve calmed those stormy waters for now.”

  “Still feels wrong to replace him,” sighed Jake, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  “I know,” said Jethro. “I’ve bought you a little more time but they need a name before the album comes out. They want a name confirmed before Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s only five weeks away,” protested Jake sharply.

  “Their counter-argument is that it’s been almost five months. With a new album comes a new tour and they need a name.”

  “I guess,” sighed Jake sadly. “Todd still gets my vote but I’ll need to find a new guitar tech.”

  “Anyone in mind?”

  Jake shook his head.

  “Plenty of time, son,” soothed Jethro with a warm smile. “Now, we need to combine forces and get Mr Court over there into rehearsals for his launch show on November 7th.”

  “Finding a new guitar tech might be easier than that!” laughed Jake, glancing through the store to where Garrett stood behind the cash desk.

  “Well, he needs to do something. Tickets for his show at the Gramercy Theater go on sale on Friday morning. He’s got a week to pull a show together.”

  Over dinner, Jethro broached the subject of the album launch with Garrett. Both he and Jake watched the older musician’s face closely, trying to gauge his reaction. In true Garrett style, he revealed very little but, grudgingly, agreed that Jethro was right.

  “Jake, care to jam a few numbers after dinner?”

  “Any time,” agreed Jake warmly.

  “Guess it’s time to re-enter the dragon’s lair,” muttered Garrett, almost under his breath.

  “The what?” quizzed Jake as he topped up his own and Garrett’s wine glass with the last of the red wine.

  “My home studio,” explained Garrett. “It’s in the basement.”

  “Didn’t know you had a rehearsal space here?”

  “The gothic palace has many secrets,” replied Garrett cryptically. “Bring your ladies down with you. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  When their meal was over, Garrett excused himself and asked Jake to meet him downstairs at nine-thirty. Before Jake could ask where downstairs, his host said “Press the dragon button on the elevator panel. Bring your guitars and maybe warm up that voice a bit too.”

  Leaving Jethro to tidy up the kitchen, Jake went up to his room to run through his vocal warm-up routine and to gather his guitars together. He could feel nerves gathering in the pit of his stomach at the thought of entering Garrett’s private rehearsal space. He’d expressed his concerns to Jethro before he’d left the kitchen but the old man merely said, “It’s Garrett’s space you’re entering, not Salazar’s. He had a separate studio in the attic. I believe it’s been sealed off since his death.”

  Knowing that this space wasn’t the late Salazar Mendes’ space eased Jake’s anxiety somewhat as he entered the small elevator. Despite the number of times he’d used the elevator, he’d never paid attention to the small green dragon button below the one that said B. Smoothly the elevator glided down and the doors opened to reveal a small, dark hallway. The walls were stone and there were two lit, mock flaming sconces, one mounted either side, their flames casting shadows over the rough cold stonework. At the far end, there was a black closed door with a large green dragon design expertly painted on it. As he drew closer to it, Jake smiled. Lori’s initials were painted in small gold letters just below the tip of the dragon’s tail.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked then opened the door. Inside, the dragon’s lair was vast. Continuing with the Oriental theme, everything was black or jade green with some gilt-edged paintings hung on the black walls.

  “Very dramatic,” commented Jake, gazing round admiringly. “Beats my basement.”

  “Thank you,” said Garrett quietly. “I wanted to create something a bit different down here. My music room in London was always so clinical. White. Cold. A blank canvas almost. Here I wanted the opposite.”

  “It’s incredible!” declared Jake, wandering round inspecting the artwork.

  Each of the paintings was of a different dragon, all in keeping with the dragon on the door.

  “When did Lori paint these for you?” he asked, the sight of her initials hitting him like a knife to the heart.

  “Must be about ten years ago,” replied Garrett, looking thoughtful. “She was reluctant to take the commission on as it didn’t involve an album cover. Part of the deal was that I’d record an album one day to tie in with the theme. Lori designed the artwork for that at the same time. It’s a fabulous cover with all of these dragons on it. Pity I’ve yet to make the record.”

  “Plenty of time for that,” said Jake, setting his guitars down. “Let’s get this one launched first.”

  “True,” conceded Garrett, sounding weary before they’d even begun. “Where do you think we should start?”

  “Hey, what’s this “we”? This is your show, not mine,” corrected Jake. “You tell me what you need me to do.”

  “Help me work out a set list for a start.”

  “That I can do,” Jake agreed. “But it’s your show so there needs to be a lot of you in the set.”

  Producing a legal pad from a hidden cupboard in the black lacquer wall, Garrett opened it at a blank page and stared at the lined paper.

  “Where’s the track listing for the album?” asked Jake. “Let’s start by deciding how many of those you want to include.”

  “It’s here,” answered Garrett, opening up a file on his cell phone. “And we’re playing all of them.”

  “There you go with that “we” thing again,” joked Jake, sensing how anxious his friend was. “Ok, that’s a start. Write them down. Decide if you are playing them in the same order or if you want to group them differently.”

  It took the two musicians until midnight to agree on a
two-hour, twenty song, set. While they discussed the options, Jake had made a few phone calls in an effort to get some guests along to support Garrett on the night. Eventually, with a few favours called in, Garrett seemed comfortable with the plan.

  “Pity Ellen and the boys aren’t in town,” mused Garrett as he read over the list of songs. “Black Heart Dark Mind would be perfect for Ellen to sing on.”

  “Who sang it on the record?” quizzed Jake curiously.

  “Some little pixie of a girl that Jim recommended. Tiny girl with green hair.”

  “Riley?” questioned Jake, recognising the description of his former student.

  “Might have been. I only met her briefly,” replied Garrett vaguely. “No idea where Jim found her or how to get hold of her.”

  “Leave that with me,” said Jake. “I’ll make a call in the morning. See if we can’t get her on board with this.”

  “You know her?”

  Jake nodded. “Riley was one of the students in my ten-day workshop class. Incredible voice for such a tiny girl. She’s a senior at the high school. I’ll call the principal first thing and see what we can work out here.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Now, where are we with this?”

  “Just about there, I think,” said Jake, casting his eye down the list. “Want to play a few of these before we call it a night?”

  Almost reluctantly, Garrett nodded.

  Playing seemed to soothe the older musician’s nerves and, once they got started, he was keen to keep going. Gradually, they worked their way through the set, adding scribbled notes alongside the song titles to annotate who would guest where. After some gentle persuasion, Garrett finally agreed to do three of the songs entirely on his own.

  “There is a price to pay for that idea, Mr Power,” he commented as he unplugged his guitar for the night.

  “And that is?”

  “I need an opening act.”

  “Garrett!” protested Jake, sensing he’d been backed into a corner.

  “Forty-five minutes. An hour tops. Eight or ten songs.”