“Mr. Anderson, I’m Barb. Chloe rang to let me know you’d arrived.” She held out her hand in greeting.
“Thanks for seeing me so quickly. And please call me Dawson,” I said as I gave her hand a shake.
“Follow me, Dawson.”
Her heels clicked on the shiny floor as we made our way to what I assumed was her office. In the center was a large Rubbermaid tote. “There are nine more like this in the closet over there.” She pointed to the open door in the corner.
I sat in front of the box on the floor and removed the lid. There were hundreds of envelopes in there. “Wow. It’s going to take me forever to go through them all,” I mused.
“You have a lot of loyal fans.”
“I can see that. It’s pretty humbling. I mean, I know they come to our shows and buy our albums. But writing us letters, that’s something they don’t expect anything in return for.” I took out a handful and started sorting through them. The sharp, angular handwriting wasn’t on any of the envelopes I grabbed.
After looking through another stack, Barb cleared her throat. “Maybe if you tell me what you’re looking for, I can help. When we open the mail, we sort them. Letters from young kids. Letters that seem to be from repeat senders. Letters that might need to be used as evidence later.”
“Evidence?” I glanced up at her.
“Yeah. Management told us from the beginning to flag anything that might look suspicious or threatening… Just in case something ever happened,” she explained. “Sometimes fans can get a little crazy. Feel a tad entitled because they support you or you smiled at them or God forbid, you slept with one. So, we hang on to any that might be needed by the police later.”
My lips turned down in a frown. Were the letters I just received considered suspicious or threatening?
Not really. They just made me feel weird.
“Well, there were two letters in the box I got today from the same person. They didn’t actually contain threats or anything. But they gave me a creepy vibe. If that makes sense.” I shrugged as I struggled to put into words what feelings the scraps of paper had invoked.
“Creepy how?”
Reaching into my coat’s interior pocket, I pulled out the two letters. “They’re made using magazine cut-outs, rather than being typed or handwritten. You know, like a ransom note or stalker note on TV.”
Her face paled a bit. “Let me see.” The silence thickened between us after she read the notes.
“I have a stack of letters from this sender.” She rose and went to the closet.
I got up from the floor and sank into one of the chairs. Barb sat in the chair next to me and placed a box on the table between us.
“These letters don’t really threaten anything. But like you, they gave me an eerie feeling. So, I set them all aside. They’re in the box in order by postmark. I can’t say every letter she wrote is in this box, because it’s possible there were handwritten letters before this type started coming.” Her brow was creased with worry lines.
“You think the sender is a female?” I figured so myself but thought it would be assuming too much to say it out loud.
“Statistically speaking, ninety percent of your fan mail is sent by females. But other than that, a few of the letters had lipstick kisses and perfume sprayed on them, so I’d say it’s a safe bet to assume the sender is female.”
For some reason, that disturbed me even more. I grabbed the first letter and opened it. The postmark showed it was sent in 2015. Three years ago. A hint of perfume wafted from the envelope as I pulled out the sheet of paper.
Dear Dawson,
I love you. Your words speak to my soul. We're meant to be.
Love,
Me.
“There aren’t any pieces of cut up photo in this one,” I mused.
“No, the first few didn’t have them.”
The next several letters were much the same. They referenced various lyrics and spoke of coming to a concert soon. But they had no photo pieces either.
Dear Dawson,
I know you had to feel the spark when our eyes met again after all this time. I'm waiting for you. I've been waiting for you for years.
Love,
Me.
Paper hearts fell out of the envelope, along with a few scraps of photo paper. Paper hearts like I always enclosed in my letters to Izzy. No one knew about that. Did they?
My heart raced as I calculated how many envelopes remained in the box. Assuming they all had photo bits in them, there may be enough to figure out who the sender was. Or at least what the puzzle was she wanted me to solve.
“I think I’ll read the rest of these at home, where I can start sorting out all these clues,” I said.
“No problem. Let me know if I can help in any other way.”
“Actually, do you have someone you can recommend to handle our fan mail now that we aren’t part of the label anymore?” I asked her.
“Yes, I do. I have an unpaid intern who has been wonderful. She’s already familiar with my sorting system. And she’s even helped me order the swag we send to some of your fans in response to their notes. Would you like to meet her?” Barb asked.
“Please.”
Barb stood and left the room. While she was gone, I couldn’t resist opening one more letter.
Dear Dawson,
It’s been years since we talked. But I know that when we finally reunite, the lost time will melt away.
Love,
Me.
So, I’d talked to this girl before. Probably backstage at some meet-and-greet. Or at a bar after a gig. I really hoped she wasn’t someone I’d hooked up with before Izzy. The thought filled my gut with ice. Having exchanged two sentences with her wouldn’t give me a clue as to who she was.
“Dawson, this is Rayne,” Barb’s voice sounded from over my shoulder.
I looked up into the bright blue eyes of a beautiful young woman. “Hi, Rayne. It’s nice to meet you. Did Barb tell you why I wanted to speak with you?”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She shook her head. I smirked at her.
“Barb here tells me you’re an unpaid intern here.” I held out my hand to shake hers.
The dark-haired beauty nodded again as she gently placed her hand in mine.
“How much longer do you have left on your internship?”
“A few weeks,” she squeaked.
“So, you can talk,” I teased.
“Sorry. I’m just a huge fan. Especially of Jett. I mean, I, uh…love you all. But Jett’s my favorite,” she stammered.
“I’ll try not to take offense that I’m not your favorite.” I winked at her to let her know I was only kidding. “Anyway, since we’re starting an independent label, we don’t have anyone in charge of our fan mail or making sure our fans are taken care of. I was wondering if you’d be interested in overseeing that for us.”
“Oh, gosh. I’d love to do that.” Her face lit up with excitement.
“Write down your contact information for me, and I’ll give you a call after I talk with the guys about the position.”
“Thanks so much,” she stuttered as she scribbled her info on a Post-it note.
“I’ll be in touch. And any info you need to get from Barb to make sure we can keep giving our fans the same or better treatment, make sure you get it. Oh, and I’ll pay you for your time to gather it. Consider your time of unpaid employment over. Finish out your internship time, but you’re also employed. I’ll get with you about logistics later,” I explained.
“I’ll get right to work.” She walked out.
“Thank you. I wish I could hire her. But the label won’t let me,” Barb said.
“I appreciate the recommendation. Now I have to potentially find us a new manager, as Steve is undecided about staying on with us since we walked away from such a lucrative contract. And we need a new publicist.”
A throat cleared behind me. When I turned around, Lila stood in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt. I couldn�
�t help but overhear. I can help you with the second position. If it’s OK, I’ll give you a call next week?”
“Sure,” I offered. I wasn’t sure who she had in mind, but I still harbored some lingering hard feelings towards her about how she handled my relationship with Izzy. But it wouldn’t hurt to hear her out.
A few hours after I left, I found myself back on my couch with another box of letters, this one full of something that went beyond appreciation of my musical gifts. Some of the letters mentioned minor shows and festivals we’d played years before we got signed. They mentioned things only someone who’d followed us for a long time would know. The more I read, the tighter the knot in my gut pulled. They all had slivers of the mysterious photo. And quite a few had paper hearts in them.
Dear Dawson,
Thought a rock star like you didn’t do relationships? Who is she?
Love,
Me.
The paper hearts inside that envelope were black and torn. The sender seemed slightly unhinged. There was a big gap in time after that one, when the letters appeared to stop. The next one had red hearts inside and was postmarked 2016, after Izzy stopped taking my calls. It was the longest note yet.
Dear Dawson,
I was so happy to hear the rumors about you being in a relationship weren't true. I don't mind the one-night stands.
For now.
I'm patient, and I know you have needs while we can't be together. I've never minded. Not even years ago.
Love,
Me.
It totally creeped me out. She wrote as if she had a claim to me.
Staying up late, I rapidly scanned the remaining letters. The sender had been to ten of our big shows over the past two years and referenced countless gigs we’d performed in Ohio. But the postmarks on all the envelopes indicated they’d been mailed from New York.
It was quite possible some girl I’d hooked up with while we were recording our EP album in the label’s NY studio back when I was nineteen was nuts. My mind drifted back to my time in the Big Apple. All of us were single, and the city had a lot of options. We’d all gone through a ton of hookups while we were there.
It was the wildest few months of my life. Izzy and I weren’t together then. Both of us had decided to maintain just our friendship while she was in college and the band was just getting discovered. Even though a big part of me wanted to be with her.
♪ To Be with You by Mr. Big
With a sigh, I dumped all the scraps of photograph on my kitchen table, but my eyes were too weary to begin sorting them out. They’d be there in the morning.
Chapter 19
Izzy
As sunlight danced on my eyelids, I stretched and slowly came aware of expensive sheets on a bed too big to be mine. Blinking, I took in the hotel room I’d been too tired to appreciate when I checked in. After listening to half of Dawson’s CD, I was emotionally drained over wishing for what used to be and what might have been. Reliving our prom night halted my trip down memory lane. And once I checked in and had dinner, I gratefully surrendered to sleep.
♪ Here Without You by 3 Doors Down
A glance at the clock revealed I had just enough time for a quick shower and breakfast before I was supposed to meet Charles at his largest gallery.
The hot water and deep breaths didn’t help calm my nerves. This meeting with Charles was nothing like the circumstances that led to my work being displayed in the gallery near my home. While I was in the hospital undergoing treatments, I painted as a distraction. I listened to the stories of those undergoing chemo with me, and I turned their stories into works of art. The hospital staff decided to hang them along the walls of the treatment rooms. Charles saw them when he brought his daughter in for treatment. And he sought me out. Back then, I didn’t have time to worry about convincing someone to see meaning in my work. He looked at the pieces in my hospital room and took them. This time, I was baring bits of myself for him to accept or reject.
When I finally pulled up in front of the address Charles had emailed me, I was awestruck by the sleek, modern building. Moments after entering, a warm, booming voice called my name.
I spun around. “Good morning, Charles. I hope you’re doing well.”
“I’m very well. I trust your drive in wasn’t too bad.” He pulled me in for a hug.
“Actually, I drove in yesterday afternoon, so I wouldn’t have to find my way first thing this morning. My artist’s prerogative is to sleep in,” I said with a wink.
“Hear, hear. Let me get a cart so we can unload your car.” He grabbed a large one out of the closet tucked in the corner.
With care, we moved each wrapped piece, my portfolio, and the box containing my photos and smaller pieces onto the cart. I trailed behind Charles as he led me into an empty studio in the back. The smell of paint and canvas lingered in the room.
“The featured artist from last year kept a studio here. The room hasn’t been used since he left for Venice. I thought you could set up your work in here, then we’ll go through them. Does that sound OK?”
I twirled around, taking in the open space. “That sounds perfect. Can I get a few easels brought in?”
“I’ll have a couple of the guys bring you some. Come find me when you have everything set up.”
Once I was alone, I unpacked the box first, placing the photo album by the head of the table. I moved to the wire strung along the back wall. Using clips, I attached the smaller pieces in order from oldest to newest. By the time I was done, two young guys had brought in some easels. I staged them where they would fit in the timeline of my art. Then I carefully unwrapped the covered paintings and settled them onto their appropriate easels. Lastly, I hung the photos I’d taken of my works in progress at the end of the wire.
With a critical eye, I looked over my work. As my own worst critic, I could see the difference in my work as it progressed chronologically. I knew it had metamorphosized after everything happened. But I hadn’t realized how much until the pieces were side by side. I’d be interested in hearing Charles’s expert opinion on the change. Before my nerves could get the best of me, I went in search of him. With a little assistance from the receptionist, I located his office.
♪ Colors Faded by Lost Autumn
“Ready for me?” he asked as soon as I stood in his open doorway.
I nodded. My fingers twisted behind my back nervously.
He rounded his desk and took the lead back to where I’d left my soul on display. His long steps ate up the distance much faster than I was prepared for. He seemed oblivious to my inner storm.
“I’m really excited to see the range of your work. I know the work from your time in the hospital was definitely colored by your circumstances. I want to see who you were before that life-altering event and who you’ve become since your recovery.”
After we entered the room, he closed the door softly behind us. “Tell me what you’ve set up.”
“Well, on the table is a photo album of some images I took and edited to bring today,” I explained.
“Let’s start with those.” He moved to the end of the table.
I exhaled a sigh of relief. Though the photographs contained bits of me, they weren’t quite as personal as my sketches or paintings. I settled in a seat next to Charles and slid the album in front of him, encouraging him to open it.
He flipped through images of flowers, animals, waves crashing—all things that inspired me when I first started taking photos. “Those are some of my first images. So, don’t be too harsh in your judgement.”
“How old were you when you started taking photos?” His fingers traced a photo of Brownie running across the grass. Even when he got older, he still loved to chase a ball.
“Um… I got my first camera when I was thirteen, so those first couple of images were around then.” I’d been so excited when I got it.
“That’s amazing. I mean, they’re far from perfect. But even back then, you had an eye for composition and light.” He leaned clos
er to the pages to examine one in particular.
I left out several years’ worth of images in the album because my inspiration was all Dawson. I hadn’t really realized how singular my focus was even before we gave romance a try. Even images that didn’t feature him had been taken through a Dawson-colored lens.
“Those were taken when I went on tour for a while with the band Lyrical Odyssey as their band photographer,” I narrated as he turned the page to a photo showing the cacophony of colors in the crowd of a rock concert.
“They show so much energy. These right here,” he said, pointing to images of the band on stage, “show so much movement.”
It was my favorite thing about the images—the blur above the drumsticks about to strike, the distortion of the keyboard as it rocked on its legs from the intensity of the song, the haze around him as he strutted across the stage, pouring his heart out through his lyrics.
Next came a series of nature images—Mingus Mill in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the sun sparkling off the water at Looking Glass Falls in North Carolina, a moonlit shot of Cumberland Falls in Kentucky, the huge leafy canopy of Angel Oak, dark storm clouds over Lake Jocassee, wild horses on Cumberland Island, the chaos of autumn along Tallulah Gorge, Ruby Falls, where Beckett kissed me for the first time. My eyes misted at the memory, but my heart didn’t surge like I wished it would when recalling what should be a pivotal moment in any couple’s history.
“You have a thing for water, I see,” Charles remarked.
“Yeah. Water is cleansing and life-giving and powerful and destructive and peaceful. It fascinates me,” I offered by way of explanation as he continued to flip through more photos featuring water. Devil’s Den in Florida, one of the most breathtaking places I’d ever visited. The colorful buildings climbing the seaside cliffs at Cinque Terre, Riomaggiore in Italy. The canals in Venice. The rocky cliffs in Capri.
Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series: Box Set 1 Page 36