“No hat,” I say, smiling.
“Yeeeaah, it just didn’t quite go with the whole Parisian thing.”
I laugh. “If anyone can pull it off, Curtis, you can.”
He smiles. “Everybody’s already set up and waiting, Klein. We’ll try to keep this to a minimum. Save your pipes for tonight.”
“Thanks,” Klein says. “I think there are just a couple of songs that could use a redo. The new stuff.”
“It sounded great to me last time I heard it,” Curtis says.
We take a flight of stairs to the third floor. Curtis leads the way, opening a set of double doors into a room with a very high ceiling. Klein’s bandmates fill the room, most of whom I recognize from various encounters in Nashville. Everyone waves, friendly, smiling.
“Hey, guys,” Klein says. “We were doing a little tour of the Louvre.”
Hank Morgan, the band’s lead guitar player, grins and says, “Oh, now, Klein’s gonna go getting all cultured.”
“The only culture you know about, Hank,” Peggy Simmons, one of the backup singers, says, “is the kind you find in buttermilk.”
The room erupts in laughter. Klein slaps Hank on the shoulder, and says, “I’m afraid your reputation precedes you, buddy.”
“What the heck’s wrong with buttermilk?” Hank tosses back. “Y’all land in France and start thinking you’re all hoity-toity.”
More laughter, and I stand back, taking in how comfortable everyone seems to be with one another.
I’ve witnessed it a few times before. When the band members have been harmoniously chosen, the feeling is like that of a family. Everyone knows their roles, where they fit in, and how to interact with one another. Klein, of course, is head of the family. And I can see that he is well-loved by the members of his band. With the polite manners that are one of his trademarks, Klein leads me over to a leather sofa and asks if I would like anything to drink.
“I’m fine. Thank you. Please, do whatever you need to do. Ignore me. I’ll just be taking it all in.”
Klein picks up his guitar, strums a few chords, and then steps up to the microphone. “All right. Two or three run-throughs of those songs I keep messing up, and that ought to do it before the show. Everybody in agreement?”
“Yeah, man,” a couple of voices ring out.
“Let’s do it,” Klein says.
All said and done, they play for forty-five minutes or so. It feels a bit like I’m watching a reality series. Klein has a couple of real comedians in his band. There’s as much laughter going on as there is singing and playing. But I know the final run-through when I hear it. The three songs they end with are as smooth and perfectly rendered as any master recording I’ve ever heard.
I watch Klein deliver the words to each of the songs he’s written, and I’m as mesmerized, hanging on each and every syllable, as I know his fans will be tonight.
Once they’ve strummed the last note, Curtis walks over, sits down next to me, arms folded across his chest, and says, “So what did you think?”
“Incredible,” I say.
“They are, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. The fans will get what they came for.”
A stretch of awkward silence settles between us, and I sense he wants to ask me something.
“So,” he says, “you mind if I ask what’s going on with you and Josh?”
The bluntness of the question would be offensive except for the fact I know Curtis is asking out of Klein’s best interests, representing his client first and foremost.
“We’re getting a divorce,” I say.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Dillon. Except for the fact that I always thought you were too nice for him.”
I lean back a little, not hiding my surprise.
“Well,” he says, “everybody knows Josh is out for Josh. Surely, you knew that, too.”
“I found that out, but no, I can’t say that I knew that in the beginning.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Divorce is a bitch. Believe me, I know.”
I soften. I’d heard about Curtis’s experience. His wife had decided she didn’t want to be married anymore but also wanted to leave the marriage with more than her share. She’d hired a shark of an attorney, and the rumor mill had suggested her efforts paid off.
“It can get ugly, I hate to tell you,” he says. “You got yourself a good attorney? Can’t recommend that highly enough,” he adds with a twinge of sarcasm underlining the words.
“From all indications, yes,” I say, hating the ick factor of the mercenary aspect of ending a marriage.
“Yeah, I never imagined mine would end up the way it did,” Curtis says. “I don’t think any of us do. But when one half decides they’re not happy anymore, and you realize there’s nothing you can do to fix it, you need to get off the boat with a life vest.”
I smile, nodding a little. “I’m pretty sure Josh would just as soon see me drown.”
“You gonna take him for half the business?”
“I’m planning to strike out on my own.”
“Taking any clients with you?” Curtis asks, the glint in his eye telling me the real motivation behind his questioning.
“Would I like to take Klein with me? Yes. Of course, I would. Who wouldn’t? Do I expect that to actually happen? Probably not.”
Curtis looks at me for a few long seconds. “Josh know about these aspirations of yours?”
“He does.”
“And I’m surprised we haven’t already heard about this.”
“He’s probably hoping I’m bluffing.”
“Or maybe he’s afraid Klein would be all for it?”
I meet his knowing gaze, a little surprised. “I’m not assuming that.”
“It’s no secret Josh can be an ass. I’d be hard-pressed to say we enjoy working with him.”
This surprises me, I have to admit. Josh puts on a good front, wining and dining, kissing butts at whatever level it needs to be done to ascertain the complete happiness of his clients. “You still planning on writing once you start up your own publishing company?”
“I’m not sure I know how not to write,” I say, smiling a little. “Some days, I’d like to go that route. Quit trying to outbest myself.”
“You’ve set a high bar, that’s for sure,” he says. “You’ve written some great songs.”
“Thank you.”
“Really. You have. Whatever else you decide to pursue in life, surely you know that?”
“I appreciate that, Curtis. It’s a competitive business, as you know.”
“That it is. The bar gets higher every day. But I enjoy chasing that. Trying to figure out what will resonate as the cool new sound. Keeping enough of the old school in it to keep the traditional fans happy.”
“Y’all are certainly doing a great job of that.”
“Well,” he says, standing and slapping his hands on his knees. “I’ve got some loose ends to tie up before tonight. Anytime you want to talk, you’ve got my number. Whether it’s about business or if I can help you navigate the divorce waters, I’ll be happy to tell you anything I’ve learned.”
“Thanks, Curtis,” I say, sincerely appreciating the offer. “That means a lot. It feels a little overwhelming at the moment.”
“I know. Figuring out how to separate a life you lived as one with someone into two separate lives again is no easy trick.”
Klein walks over and says, “I think I’m going to head back to the hotel, grab a shower. Maybe close my eyes for thirty minutes or so. Still feeling that jet lag.”
I stand and say, “Okay. I’m ready to head back. Mind if we share a ride?”
“Absolutely.”
We tell everyone goodbye and head downstairs.
“So, what’d you think?” Klein asks as we reach the exit onto the street. “Honestly.”
“Honestly? I think you’re going to knock it out of the ballpark tonight. You are hitting on all cylinders, Klein. Really.”
&nb
sp; “That’s kind.”
“I’m not just being kind. You’re writing crazy good songs. And I could sit and listen to you sing them all day long.”
He smiles at this, and I realize maybe I’ve given away a little too much, but I’m not backtracking any of it because it’s true. I could. “I’m no different from anyone else who’s bought a ticket to see you tonight.”
He’s already ordered the Uber, and a black sedan pulls up alongside the curb. Klein opens the back door, waits for me to get in. Once the driver has eased back into traffic, he looks at me and says, “You have no idea how much that means, coming from you.”
I lean back, study him for a moment. “You don’t see yourself that way, do you?”
He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I mean, I understand what it takes to make it in this business, and that I have most of that on a good day. But, no, I have plenty of doubt, that’s for sure. Especially before a big show like this.”
“That’s understandable, but you take to that stage tonight what you had in there this afternoon, and you won’t have a single regretting fan.”
The driver circles the car to the front of the hotel. Klein thanks him. We slide out of the back, walking through the main entrance and down the long corridor to the elevator that leads to our rooms. We reach my floor first.
“Thanks,” Klein says. “It was a great day. I really enjoyed it.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Thank you for letting me watch the rehearsal.”
“My pleasure. I’m heading over at six-thirty. The show starts at eight. Do you want to ride with me, or—”
I want to. I very much want to. But somehow I feel like maybe it will be better for him to be alone in the ride over, have the time to mentally prep for the show. “I’d love to,” I say. “But I have a few things I need to do. Emails and stuff.”
“Oh. Okay. No problem. So wish me luck?”
“Good luck,” I say. “Not that you need it. Okay, then. See you.” And I head for my room before I can change my mind.
Klein
“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”
―Mark Twain
IT AMAZES ME that I still get this nervous before a show.
I don’t know why, really, because I can mostly do it with my eyes closed I’ve done it so many times. I think what gets me is the expectation of giving people what they’ve come for, and I have to admit I’m never one hundred percent certain I’ll be able to do that. It’s as if every time is the first time.
Inside my room, I consider taking a nap first but then decide on the shower since I feel completely wide awake now. I stand beneath the pulsating spray, letting it beat against my face, trying to blank my mind of everything except what’s before me tonight.
But my thoughts go immediately to Riley, and then I realize that for most of the time I have been with Dillon today, the awful sense of anguish I’ve been feeling got put on hold for a little while at least. Thinly veiled, but still not at the front of my thoughts as it has been for weeks now.
The finality of Riley’s decision is the weight I can’t seem to get off my chest. I recognize the emotion as grief. As full-blown and devastating as if I had actually known and held in my arms the child the two of us made together. Somehow, not having known that small life seems worse.
I get out of the shower, towel off, and walk back into the bedroom. I drop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, contemplating the one thing I know I should not be considering doing before a concert. But of its own volition, my hand reaches for my phone on the nightstand. I click into the Home screen, tap phone, and then Riley’s name in the list of recent calls. My heart pounds as I listen to it ring. I want her to pick up and yet dread the fact that she might do so.
“Hello.”
When her voice comes across the line, I close my eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she says. It’s clear that she’s not happy to hear from me.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” I ask.
“What is there to talk about, Klein? I think everything has been said, hasn’t it?”
“No, actually, it hasn’t.”
“You’ve said everything you needed to say, right?”
“Riley, I don’t want to fight with you. That’s not why I called.”
“Then why?”
“Because. . .I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about—”
“Just stop, Klein. There’s nothing to think about. It’s done. Over. There’s nothing you can do to change it.”
I press my lips together, suppressing the instant knife of rage that slices through my chest. What I really want to do is ask her how she could have done such a thing. But I know that won’t change anything, so I say in as even a voice as I can manage, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Klein. It’s not as if you care about me. If this is about your guilt, you need to just let it go. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t give you a choice in the matter.”
“It doesn’t make me feel better at all,” I say.
“You’re at the top of the world, Klein. You don’t need me. You made that very clear. Enjoy your life. Enjoy what you made for yourself. And don’t call me again. Please.”
The resounding click in my ear tells me she’s hung up. “Damn.” I shout the word, hurling my phone across the room where it bounces off the far wall and lands on the rug-covered floor with a thud.
My chest tightens, and it feels as if my heart will beat a hole in my chest. What had I expected, though? I’m the one who broke up with her. I’m the one who told her we didn’t have a future.
If I hadn’t ended things with her, would she have made a different choice? Yes, I know she would have. So how can I be angry with her? She’s right not to want to see me again. I put her in the position of having to make an awful choice. I did that.
A bottle of wine and two glasses sit on a table a few yards away from the bed. Funny, I hadn’t paid any attention to the bottle until now. But that’s what usually does it, me getting on fire about something and wanting to squelch the flames with the one thing I know for sure will put them out.
I consider getting up and opening it. Chasing away the terrible fury eating me alive, if only temporarily. But then I think about the show tonight and how I cannot arrive there drunk. It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before, but I owe my band more than that. I owe them the promise I made the last time it happened.
A memory of the rehab center where I’d done my last dry-out rises up and slams me with a wave of nausea.
The only comparison I have for detox is the images of hell I grew up envisioning in my small South Carolina Baptist church. Listening to my own body scream for even an ounce of alcohol to dull the pain was as close to being consumed with Satan’s flames as I can imagine.
I glance at the bottle again. The pull is strong. So strong that I do not trust myself to ignore it.
I don’t trust myself to stay here alone.
Granted, me getting drunk would provide ample evidence to everyone in the band that I’ve gone off the wagon, but even so, I know the best thing I can do for myself is to not be alone.
I get dressed for the gig, throwing my clothes on as fast as I can. And then I grab my slightly dented phone and head for the door.
Dillon
“I dwell in possibility.”
―Emily Dickinson
THE KNOCK ON the door surprises me. Maybe it’s housekeeping to do the turndown service, but it seems a little early for that. I peer through the peephole to see Klein standing in the hallway. I turn the deadbolt and open the door. “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I know you said you had some work to do, but would you mind if I just hung out in your room for a little bit until it’s time to leave for the show?”
“Sure,” I say, surprised, but waving a hand for him to come in. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, nerves, I guess.”
“I was just
getting in the shower, but if you’d like to take a nap on the bed or something, I’ll be glad to wake you up whenever you want to get ready to leave.”
“Thanks,” he says. “That actually sounds really good.”
I grab the robe from the corner of the bed and head for the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me. I lean my head back, blow out a breath. That, I had not expected.
Something is wrong. I can feel it, the tension emanating from Klein, but somehow I don’t think I should ask. At least not now. It feels like maybe he just needs a safe space, although I can’t imagine why or what would make him seek it out here in my room.
I undress, notably conscious of the fact that Klein is on the other side of this door. I stare at my naked self in the oversized mirror above the sink and wonder when I last felt beautiful. It occurs to me with some clarity that at some point in my marriage, I stopped thinking of myself as beautiful at all.
In the beginning, Josh couldn’t get enough of me. That had always made me feel good, especially since I had been completely impressed by Josh and his success in the town I so badly wanted to make it in as well. His desire for me had lasted the first couple of years of our marriage.
And then around year three, I had started to feel something a little different, noticed how his gaze always seemed to find the most attractive woman in whatever restaurant we were eating in or party we attended.
At some point along the way, I began to realize it was not my imagination. I tried to renew his interest, did the obligatory Google search for ways to fan the embers of a waning physical attraction. I had been embarrassed for myself as my fingers moved across the keys entering first one phrase, then the next, until I had accumulated a long list of sure-to-succeed recommendations. I am nothing if not determined, though, so I started at the top and worked my way through at least fifteen different foolproof methods for reviving a partner’s interest. Each of them worked temporarily. Still, none of them prevented Josh from staring at a woman he obviously found beautiful. But then the final straw had come when I got sick.
That Weekend in Paris (Take Me There(Stand-alone) Book 3) Page 5