by Holly Rayner
“Thank you. And Shannon?”
“Yeah?”
“Please don’t tell your mom about this.”
“I’ll keep quiet if you will.”
“Deal.”
We shook hands. In the neighbors’ yard, the sprinklers stopped abruptly and silence hung over the street.
Chapter 6
Shannon
Despite its dilapidated exterior, the Winslow House proved to be even more elaborate and luxurious than I had envisioned. In the tradition of Victorian-era houses, it contained a sitting-room, a billiards room, several guest rooms, a smoking parlor, servants’ quarters, and a large dining hall with a rectangular carved-oak table large enough to seat twenty people. The bathroom contained an expensive gilt-framed mirror and a claw-foot tub filled with bath salts wrapped in fancy blue paper. Out back stood a conservatory and a Rococo-style garden with statues and fountains.
Although the last living Winslow had died nearly twenty years ago, the house had been preserved as a heritage site, its grounds maintained by members of the parks department. As I entered the sitting room with its cut-glass chandelier, cane armchair and rosewood piano, I began to wonder if I hadn’t made a mistake pursuing music as a profession. Clearly, whoever was responsible for looking after this house had the better job.
“This is… There aren’t even appropriate words in English to describe it,” I said to Ginger, sitting down at the piano and playing the opening chords to one of my songs. It was perfectly in tune. “C’est magnifique! I’m sure Umar will be impressed.”
“You couldn’t have found a better house in Woodfell,” said Ginger, happily sinking down onto a velvet divan that looked like the sort of thing women would faint on in old movies. “We’ll just have to hope that he doesn’t look the house up online and find that it’s owned by the city, and that no one has lived here since the turn of the century.”
“I feel so old when you say that,” I said, playing a series of gloomy chords. “I still think of the turn of the century as the turn of the twentieth century. Anyway, maybe he’ll read that no one lives here and think we were a couple of ghosts, and that he just had a business meeting with two dead people.”
“When does his plane land?”
“In about half an hour, but it’s going to take him a while to get here from the airport. I wanted us to arrive early so I could figure out where everything was—so if he asks me, ‘Oh, where’s the bathroom?’ I’m not like, ‘I don’t know?’”
“Just tell him that women don’t need to use the bathroom,” said Ginger, sitting down on the stool beside me and playing the opening notes of “Clair de Lune.”
“It’s true,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve lived in this house all my life and never bothered to find out where the bathroom is because I never needed it. Do you think he would buy that?”
“In my experience, men don’t ask too many questions about women’s bodies,” Ginger replied. “They just assume you’re telling the truth and that you know what you’re talking about.”
Since we still had a few minutes before Umar arrived, we decided to continue our exploration of the house and grounds. In one of the guest bedrooms, we found a large wooden chest with a brass lock standing at the foot of the bed. There was something heavy inside it—Ginger said it was probably a body—but we couldn’t get it open. In another room, we found a tulipwood wardrobe that must have once been filled with fur coats and fancy gowns, but now stood empty. Ginger wanted to open it and climb inside, but I wasn’t going to risk accidentally shutting ourselves into a wardrobe just before our guest arrived. At least that was what I told her: the fear of encountering some large, hairy spider was an even bigger disincentive.
“Just think,” she said as we returned downstairs, “if you end up making it big in the music business, I mean really big, you could own a house like this of your own one day.”
“That’s the dream, isn’t it?” I said. “Owning a big, old, spooky, probably haunted, four-story mansion.”
“I wonder how much money it would cost to maintain something like this,” Ginger said softly. Judging by the tone in her voice, it sounded like she wouldn’t have minded living here. “How much money do you think it would take to make you happy?”
“Gosh, I don’t know.” It was a question I had thought about a lot without ever reaching a definitive answer. “I don’t think I’d need to be a millionaire to be happy. I wouldn’t know what to do with all that money.”
“What would you do with it if you had it?”
I paused at the bottom of the stairwell. “Probably make my own music. That way, I wouldn’t be at the mercy of the record labels and I could record the kinds of songs that I want to write, instead of having to churn out pop songs with an eye toward the mass market. Honestly, I would just love to have the freedom to grow and experiment with my music. I think every songwriter hits a point where they get tired of writing the same three-chord songs and they want to do something different.”
“Is that why you’re so desperate to make it?” asked Ginger, her characteristic perceptiveness shining through.
“I think so. Because… Don’t get me wrong, I love the fame and the crowds and the boys and the limos. But mostly, I just love the music. And I want to make the kind of music that I want to make while I’m still young and gifted.”
This was a perpetual worry of mine, though not one that I liked to talk about. It seemed like most great musicians made their best music in their teens and twenties. By the time they hit thirty-five or so, they were releasing their greatest hits collections and playing increasingly smaller venues filled with aging fans whose kids might have no idea who they were. The pressure on me to write and record quality music at this time in my life was enormous, and I sometimes wished I’d chosen a different career, like novelist or filmmaker or falconer, where my “genius” wasn’t rapidly depleting the older I got.
“I still say you worry too much,” said Ginger, pausing to admire an elaborate model train set—the last surviving Winslow had been a noted train enthusiast. “You’re only twenty-five. You’ve still got your whole life ahead of you.”
“True, but only another decade or more before I’m just another nostalgia act,” I said gloomily. “Maybe less than that if I don’t release another hit.” Which seems likely, I could have added.
“You will,” Ginger said. She pressed a blue button and sent the train careening through an Alpine village. “If you could do it once, you can do it again.”
“That’s like saying if I could get struck by lightning once, I’m bound to be struck again.”
“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” Ginger replied.
Just then, there came a knock at the door that made us both jump. Ginger gaped at me as we both stood motionless in the hallway for a few seconds too long. He was really here; he had made good on his promise and had traveled across the world just to come see me. I hoped he didn’t try to shake my hand and see how badly my palms were sweating.
“I guess this is it,” I said lowly. “The next half hour or so could either make or break me.”
“Don’t panic, whatever you do,” Ginger said as she led me to the door. “I feel like you’ve been preparing for this meeting your whole life. Besides, you’ll have your trusty assistant Ms. Tessmacher here to guide you.”
“Trusty agent, you mean. And it’s Mrs. Tessmacher—you’re married, remember?”
“Oh, right.” She placed a hand over her mouth. “I forgot.”
I swallowed nervously as Ginger placed her hand on the latch and slowly pulled open the door.
There on the front porch stood a young man of above-average height with dark eyes and beautiful caramel-colored skin. He wore a black Panama hat that contrasted sharply with his white seersucker suit and a pair of finely polished white leather boots that looked like they had been designed for dancing. As we opened the door, he removed the hat and bowed slightly, revealing a head of closely cropped black hair.
“Shann
on?” he said. “Do you mind if I call you Shannon? And you must be her agent, Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Tessmacher,” said Ginger, beaming. I threw her a sharp look—surely a real agent wouldn’t be as giddy as this. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said breathlessly, ignoring me.
He followed us through the foyer and into the sitting room, his glance seeming to take in the whole room at once. He didn’t seem overawed by the place, which I guess I should have expected. He had probably been in far fancier buildings than this. “There’s tea on the stove,” I said. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.” He hung his hat up on a hat rack in the corner and seated himself in one of the padded armchairs in front of the fire. I took the seat opposite and sat there in silence while we waited for Ginger to return from the kitchen.
“So…” I asked him, “How was your trip?”
“You know, I’ve had worse.” He spoke fluently, his accent lodged somewhere in the Mid-Atlantic. “I went to school in New York, so for me, when I think of America, I think of those gleaming skyscrapers, and the Trinity Cathedral, and the Jersey City skyline. Being out here is like being in a different country.”
“Not in a disappointing way, I hope?” I laughed to disguise my unease. “You know how much I love small towns!”
“Yes, and I think I’m starting to see why,” he replied in a voice tinged with awe. “I don’t think I ever realized how green this place is—how could I, being stuck in New York? As I was coming up in the taxi, there were wooded hills on either side of me broken up only by the occasional park or cemetery. Other than a woman walking her dog and a couple kids playing on the playground, there was hardly a person in sight. It was so…” He closed his eyes, reaching for the right word. “So quiet. So peaceful.”
“I guess it is, now that you mention it,” I said softly. “Sometimes, I think you need to see your country through the eyes of an outsider to really appreciate it.”
“Well, in a few days, perhaps you can return the favor,” Umar replied. Ginger returned from the kitchen carrying a silver tray laden with mugs and honey. “Sabah used to be very low on the list of Middle Eastern tourist destinations, but that’s starting to change. Me and a friend have been dreaming up ways of capturing the eyes of the world. The model cities are one part of that, but we have so many other things planned.”
“Well, I’d love to hear what those are,” I said from behind my mug, “maybe over tea and falafel at your palace.” Was falafel eaten in Sabah? I hoped I hadn’t just insulted him.
But Umar merely smiled and shifted into a more upright position. “About that…”
“Yes, about that.” I affected a professional demeanor. “As I understand it, your daughter’s birthday is two weeks from tomorrow?”
“That’s correct. Ideally, we would have the concert that night, but I’d like to have you there a few hours early so we can get to know each other and so you can have as much time as you need to get ready.”
So far, it seemed he was buying my illusion of professionalism wholesale. Maybe he assumed I was always this brisk and authoritative. Certainly, I had given him no reason to suspect that it was just a carefully orchestrated performance.
“Well, I have to say, Mr. al-Taleb, I’m very impressed with the courtesy you have shown,” I said. “The reason I like to meet clients in person before accepting an arrangement of this nature is because it helps me to get a sense of who they really are. I don’t want to be flying out there, doing a live show, for some weirdo.” Was I just rambling now? Ginger shot me a nervous look. “What I’m trying to say is, there’s an expression we have in our country, or in some country: ‘I like the cut of your jib.’”
Yikes. So much for that professional demeanor.
Umar didn’t seem to mind, though; if anything, he looked flattered. “I like the cut of your jib, too,” he said with a laugh. It was one of those warm, throaty laughs that left the hearer with a feeling of complete reassurance. “I have to say, this house is very impressive. But what I find even more impressive is that you spend so much of your time here, in your hometown, as opposed to staying in LA.”
I searched his face: was he making fun of me? But his eyes betrayed no trace of insincerity. “Why do you find that impressive?”
“Because most singers dream of abandoning their hometowns for the lights of the big city. It’s been a theme in music since the first caveman banged the first drum. But—and granted that I only just met you, so maybe I’m completely misreading you—you seem different from most celebrities. You actually seem to enjoy being home, being with your family. Living the small-town life. I have to admit, when Kalilah first showed me the video for that song, I rolled my eyes: ‘Great, another manufactured singer trying to profit off heartland values!’ But you’re not one of those. You’re so genuine.”
“Gosh, I don’t even know what to say to that!” I looked to Ginger, who was beaming her affirmation. “You really know how to charm a woman, Mr. al-Taleb.”
Umar shrugged modestly. “I only say what I mean. If I didn’t like you—well, I’d be too professional to say so, but you’d know. Believe me, you’d know.”
It was at this point that Ginger stepped in to direct the flow of the conversation. “While I agree that Shannon is more relaxed and down-to-earth than a lot of women in her position, she still expects to be compensated fairly for the time she’s taking out of her schedule to visit your country—”
“Right, let’s talk about that,” I cut in. I could feel the delicacy of the next several moments, like we were walking across a bridge made of ice that could crack and snap without warning. “As my agent just mentioned, I have an extremely busy touring schedule, and that’s on top of my other commitments—”
“What are some of those?” Umar cut in. “Forgive me, I’m not trying to be nosy, I’m just curious.”
“Well, I own my own record label, for one.” At this point, my mouth was just doing the talking for me. “And one of the reasons I flew home was because I’m working on writing a song for an upcoming Hollywood film. I can’t say which—it’s all very hush-hush—but it’s one of those movies where the heroine starts out being trapped at home by her parents and wondering if she’ll ever escape and see the world.”
“So basically, the plot of every kid’s movie ever,” said Umar.
“Pretty much, yeah. And I can still remember sitting in my bedroom at the ages of fourteen and fifteen and sixteen and thinking I would be stuck in this tiny Ohio town forever. So for the last couple weeks, I’ve just been locking myself in my room for three to four hours a day, playing the piano and trying to summon up those old feelings.”
I stopped suddenly, my reserve of lies momentarily depleted. Ginger raised an incredulous brow: I don’t think she’d realized until just then what a skilled liar I could be when pushed to it. But I had learned that a lie was always easier to swallow when it came wrapped in a truth, and lately I had done a lot of sitting around in my room and playing piano and wishing I was somewhere else.
“Well, it sounds like you are incredibly busy,” said Umar. “I admire that; it shows ambition.”
“Oh, Shannon is nothing if not ambitious,” said Ginger. For the most part, she had stayed strangely quiet, but this was one thing she could say without lying.
“I like to stay busy,” I said with a shrug. “It helps me to feel like I’m being productive, like I’m contributing something.” Hence my recent ennui, I could’ve added.
An odd shift had taken place between us since I’d started listing my accomplishments. All that talk about owning a record label and writing songs for movies had given me the edge in the conversation. Somehow, Umar looked more nervous than me, as if he sensed what a prized client I was and worried that he might fumble the arrangement in its final moments, causing me and Ginger to walk out.
“Well, I can promise you that I’ll get you home in a timely fashion,” he said. “Here’s the offer I’d like to make—I’ll lay it out
and you can tell me whether or not you like it. Two weeks from today, you’ll fly out to Sabah—I’ll cover your airfare, so you don’t even need to worry about that—and play a private concert at my palace for Kalilah and her friends.” Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead, he was so nervous. “And in return for that, and for two or three days of your time, I would be willing to pay two hundred thousand dollars.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Two hundred thousand dollars?” I repeated in a voice so low I’m not even sure he heard me.
“If you think that’s too low, let me know and we can discuss it.”
He ought not to have added this last part: a more experienced scammer, or anyone who wasn’t completely overwhelmed by the thought of two hundred thousand dollars, might have sensed his weakness and negotiated for a higher price. But I was content: this was more than I had expected, maybe even more than I needed.
Recovering my composure, I said, “I’ll need a minute to discuss this with my agent.”
“Sure, take all the time you need,” said Umar, clutching his mug tightly as we rose and headed for the kitchen.
The moment we closed the door we collapsed into a huddle of shock and elation.
“Oh my God, Shanny, you have to take this offer,” said Ginger heatedly. “You have to. Have you ever been offered this much money for a single gig?”
“I’ve never been offered this much money in my life. Who does he think I am?”
“The legendary musician Shannon O’Neill, apparently.” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Who owns her own record label and writes songs for movies.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t look that up until after I’m long gone,” I said with a grimace. “With the amount of money he just offered me, I could practically buy my own record label.”
“So you’re not really lying, you’re just thinking ahead.”
“Exactly!”
“So, what are you going to do with all that money?” she asked.
