Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series: Box Set 1

by Charli B. Rose

  Other images from my travels— St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, Santorini and Athens in Greece.

  “Most of those were taken after my treatments were over, and I was given a clean bill of health. I always had this bucket list of places I wanted to see and photograph and paint. Nearly dying made me realize I didn’t have time to waste anymore.” I was rambling. I hated the contemplative silence as a man I respected in the art world examined pieces of me printed on paper.

  ♪ Wind of Change by Scorpions

  “Your technique has greatly improved over the years. You’ve really honed your craft,” he said with a smile.

  “Thank you.” His praise meant a lot. It validated my art.

  “Now, let’s look at your creations. Instead of starting at your oldest ones, I’d like to go in reverse and see your most recent stuff first.”

  I led him to the far right. “These photos are of the unfinished pieces on my easels at home.”

  The muted watercolor beach sunset was up first. “This is gorgeous. Why do you consider it unfinished?”

  “I was thinking it needed something in the horizon. A boat, the arched back of a dolphin, something.” I shrugged.

  “A surfer?” he suggested. “Right here in the swell of that approaching wave.”

  My heart stuttered. “Perhaps.”

  “This is one you definitely need to finish. It’s highly marketable.”

  “OK.” We moved to the charcoal of the old fisherman.

  “I like your technique here. It’s different from the other things I’ve seen from you. But it needs something else too.” He squinted as he tilted his head to view it from a different angle.

  “You see that too?” I asked, astonished.

  “Yeah. Maybe you need a big splash. Evidence of the one that got away?”

  “That’s a perfect idea.” It was exactly what I needed. What the piece needed.

  “Tell me about this one,” Charles encouraged.

  “It’s an abstract self-portrait.”

  He leaned his head to the side and pursed his lips as he surveyed one of the pieces I felt most vulnerable about. I could tell when he saw it. Awareness lightened his features. “How long have you been working on this one?”

  “Gosh… I probably spent a year creating it. But I haven’t worked on it at all in nearly a year.” I expected him to scold me. But he didn’t.

  “The emotion flowing on this canvas is… I’m not sure what the right word is. I feel like it’s an exercise in contrasts. Like I can’t decide if the red represents danger or desire. And does the yellow symbolize betrayal or hope? Is green jealousy or growth? The blue… does it symbolize peace or sadness? Why would you stop working on such a beautiful piece? How could you leave it for a year?” His gaze peered into my soul.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I prepared to share my truth with him. “Honestly, I started this painting when I was feeling every negative emotion you mentioned in your wondering assessment. I was in a very dark place. Every day, I sat at my easel and painted what stared back at me in the mirror. I hoped if I dumped it out onto the canvas I could rid myself of it. It didn’t work. Then I got sick. I revisited this painting when my first good test result came back. And I started trying to blend the positive things into the paint. But it still boiled down to me not liking what stared back at me in the mirror. So, I lost the urge to capture it in paint.” I held up my hands in surrender. The piece was probably destined to forever remain unfinished.

  Charles rested a big, comforting hand on my shoulder. “Isabelle, I understand. But I think if you can find a way to finish this piece, you will find healing and peace.”

  “Maybe. And one day maybe I’ll be strong enough to take a brush to it again. But for now, I just can’t.” I bit my lip to keep from crying.

  “These look like happy pieces.” He moved further down the line.

  I was grateful for the change in subject. “Yes, they’re my most recent completed pieces. A series I call ‘A day at the park’.”

  “Each one captures a different, positive human emotion. I think I like the little girl with the balloon the best,” Charles said.

  “That was her second one. When she let go of the first balloon, she was devastated. Her dad stepped up and bought her another one right away. He was her hero.” Every girl needed a hero.

  ♪ Hero by Enrique Iglesias

  “The series would display well together. They convey joyful scenes, in beautiful, clean shades, soft colors. Perfect for waiting rooms, businesses, lobbies. They’ll make people smile.”

  He moved on to the desert landscape painted in sandstone and shades of orange and red. The ripples across the sand looked like waves flowing towards the viewer. “This one will do well too. The color palette is pleasing to the eye. And the lines are almost hypnotically soothing.”

  With a shuffle of feet, we stood in front of the cavern painting I’d selected. My heart clenched as I tried to view the piece with an objective eye. “Now this one… This one speaks volumes. It is exquisite. But it doesn’t give off the same vibe as your other nature pieces.” With a gentle touch, he traced a stalactite from its base to its sharp tip. “This one is dark, almost painful. The rock formations are reaching towards each other, like grasping fingers. But at the moment in time where you’ve frozen them, the two shall never meet. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful.”

  ♪ Say Goodbye by Skillet

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I murmured.

  He didn’t linger over my piece featuring the Blue Ridge Mountains at the peak of color. Did he not like it? Was it too chaotic looking? Too plain?

  Before I could think too much about it, he asked, “What’s the story of this one?”

  He was gazing at the medium-sized painting of a group of eclectic fans waiting outside a concert venue, all eager to watch LO play their hearts out. It was one of my favorite pieces. I’d created it in a tiny corner of Dawson’s room on the moving tour bus. For weeks, the guys had complained about the paint smell. I’d planned to give it to them whenever they opened up their own record label to hang in the lobby. Yet another unfulfilled goal in my long list of them.

  “I painted it while I was on the tour bus. Quite the challenge to paint in a moving room. I created it from a photo I snapped of the crowd anxious to get inside. When we arrived at the venue, the staff told us some of the fans had slept outside the entrance. They didn’t need to have a good spot in line to secure their seats. They had their tickets. They were just so excited to see their favorite band. I wanted to capture their excitement for the guys.” I twirled a lock of hair around my finger, a nervous habit I thought I’d shaken years ago.

  “Why don’t the guys have this painting?” he mused.

  I shrugged. “Things happened.”

  His eyes searched my face, examining me like I was a painting whose meaning had to be deciphered. Good luck. I hadn’t been able to figure it out myself the past couple of years.

  He turned to the next piece. It was the largest one and was propped on an easel. “Ahh, the one I’ve been dying to see in person.”

  The piece that meant the most to me.

  I painted it after one of my most perfect days with Dawson. Spring in Paris the first time I went there with Dawson. The most romantic city in the world, with the most romantic guy in the world. All the flowers and the butterflies and the Eiffel Tower.

  Dawson convinced a lady walking by to take our picture kissing in front of the iconic tower. The photo became the painting Charles now examined.

  “I might want to buy this one for myself.” He gripped the edges of the canvas, careful not to touch the front.

  “We can include it in the display, but it isn’t for sale. There are some pieces I’ve created I just can’t bear to part with. I’m sorry.” No one would ever be able to pay me enough to let it go.

  “I understand.” He moved to the moonrise over the ocean. It was a peaceful creation. Even now, it soothed me. Dawson had sat on t
he beach with me for hours while I painted it.

  “Very good,” was his only comment.

  Next up was the tornado of butterflies. He moved closer, then back, tilted his head this way and that. The colors swirled. “I love how, depending on the perspective, a different butterfly becomes the focal point.”

  Finally, he stood in front of the oldest piece I’d brought. I painted it when I was fourteen.

  In it, a young teenaged hand held out a bouquet of wildflowers to a hand with pink fingernails. Wrapped around the wrist holding the flowers was a friendship bracelet, primarily red with a little pink twined in it. A matching bracelet that was mainly pink adorned the girl’s arm. I smiled as I recalled making those bracelets for me and Dawson. My eighth grade history teacher was teaching about a legend from her culture. The invisible thread. I could still hear her in my mind.

  “Legend has it that when two people are destined to be together, fate ties an invisible cord around each of their ankles. This invisible cord links those two people to each other and ensures that they’ll find one another one day. It also means these two people stay bound together despite space and time differences. The red thread may have to stretch the world over, and it might get tangled up, but it will never break.”

  It was such a romantic notion. I had told Dawson about it over the phone that very day. I fully expected he’d think it was ridiculous. But he didn’t. He actually thought it would make a cool concept for a song. I’d been feeling extra distant from my best friend, so I bought some red and pink thread. Red for Dawson’s favorite color, and pink for mine. I made us matching friendship bracelets. At his next visit, I’d tied his on his wrist. He’d smiled and said, “The red thread legend?”

  We both wore the bracelets for years. Mine had to be removed when I got sick. By the time I was released from the hospital, it hurt too much to put it back on. The stupid legend was a fraud anyway. But the painting represented a time when I still viewed love so innocently.

  “Isabelle, I have to say, your work is very good. I see a lot of potential sales hanging on this wall. I’m very excited about the prospect of displaying more of your work in Charleston and here. As an art lover though, I have to point out, there is a distinct divide in your pieces. Every piece, from your earliest piece up to your Eiffel Tower painting, illustrates not just more color, but more passion, more emotion. Your later pieces, with the exception of the cavern painting and your abstract self-portrait, are sterile. They’re very good technique-wise. But they lack the emotion you poured into the other pieces. Now, I don’t think that will hinder the sales of these other pieces. But for your well-being as an artist, I think you need to examine yourself and figure out what the difference is.” A sad smile tipped up his lips.

  I nodded at him. I knew what the difference was. Dawson. I just didn’t know how to get back the love of life I had when he was a part of mine without getting him back. And it was painfully obvious from the tabloids that my heart couldn’t handle having him back in my life.

  ♪ Collide by Howie Day

  Chapter 20

  Dawson

  ♪ Things Will Go My Way by The Calling

  After a restless night, I was no more ready to tackle the photo puzzle in the light of day than I was the previous night. But it had to be done. With a sigh, I sank down in front of the pile of scraps with a cup of coffee and an apple. I spread the pieces out and made sure they were all right side up. As I took a bite of the crisp apple, my eyes roved the fragments. With one finger, I began to slide the pieces with a straight edge over to one side. I also noticed several of the pieces had a pattern like lattice work on them. I shifted them all together.

  Two hours later, I had one long side and both the top and bottom assembled. The bottom was just green grass. The side was a line of trees planted in a symmetrical row. It could be anywhere. The pieces with the crisscrossing pattern didn’t seem to fit together just yet. A few of the pieces seemed to indicate a metal framework in the shape of an arch. But with all the places I’d been in the world over the past three years, there were at least a dozen locations this could be. And there was nothing to say the photo was from a place I’d been.

  I had this sense of urgency inside me, demanding I figure out the clues. But I couldn’t explain it. The letters had apparently been coming for years, and there’d never been an incident that raised alarm with my security team. My palm slammed against the table as air huffed from my lungs. The chair scraped against the tile when I shoved away from the table. I needed to get out of here for a while.

  A quick trip to my room had me ready to go to one of three places where I found peace. Making music wouldn’t bring me tranquility at the moment, since my musical ties created the situation currently frustrating me. Breathing in Izzy wasn’t an option, for obvious reasons. So, seeking serenity on the sea was all that was left.

  Detouring through the garage to grab my favorite board, I decided to try the waves in my own backyard rather than waste time driving to a better location. There’d be no point breaks, but with any luck the beach breaks would be long today. The weather indicated strong offshore winds, so that should help. Even if the surfing sucked, the salt and water would help clear my head.

  My toes sank into the cool sand as I trudged through the dunes to the rolling water. No matter how many times I’d surfed over the years, especially in recent days, sixty-degree water wasn’t something I’d ever get used to. I sucked in a sharp breath the moment the water washed over my feet. Knowing the best course of action was to go all in, I dove into the approaching wave, embracing the chilly sea as my board floated behind me. Strong strokes as I broke the surface pulled me past the breakpoint to wait for some ridable waves.

  I sat astride my board, bobbing up and down. The beach was virtually empty. With the late winter wind and morning hour, the picturesque scene wasn’t exactly inviting for more than the diehard surfers. I waited through a series of waves until finally a decent one approached. I paddled hard to meet the wall of water. Counting the seconds between swells used to be necessary to get my timing right, but now my pop-up was second nature. Shortly after the takeoff, I slipped into the barrel and lost myself in the churning tunnel of water. The foam chased behind me as I rode the tube for a while. It was a rush.

  I managed to catch a couple more good waves before I noticed someone hanging out in the dunes. For some reason, my heart rate shifted, and unease filled me. Squinting, I tried to make out who it might be. I knew most of the people who frequented this stretch of beach since it was accessible to only those of us who lived here. And I’d lived in the neighborhood for a while. Even before I bought my house, my apartment was a few streets up from the area. Long hair floated in the wind. A hint of black and pink. It wasn’t one of my neighbors. The woman held a pair of binoculars to her face, and she seemed to be watching me. When I threw up my hand in a wave, she turned and hurried away.

  I allowed the rolling water to carry me back to shore. My peace was shattered.

  When I arrived back at my house, I noticed the guys’ vehicles were in my driveway. They were early. We’d arranged to practice “Dear Universe” so we’d be ready for Elle’s show. Standing under the spray of the outdoor shower, I washed away the bulk of the sand and salt, then went inside to find the guys lounging in my living room and kitchen.

  “Glad to see you made yourselves at home,” I teased as I made wet tracks across the floor on my way upstairs to shower and change.

  “Thanks, dude. And tell your mom thanks for the yummy cookies,” Brooks shouted at my back.

  I flipped him off over my shoulder and took the stairs two at a time. “Order some pizza. Menu’s in the drawer by the stove. I’m gonna shower and change. Be down in a bit,” I shouted down to them.

  Since the guys were downstairs, I locked my bedroom door before I made my way into the bathroom. Reaching in, I twisted the knob to just shy of lava setting. As the room filled quickly with steam, I peeled my wetsuit from my torso and down my legs, near
ly breaking a sweat at the effort to remove the second skin. With a plop, it landed beside the hamper where I tossed it.

  I stepped beneath the hot spray and sighed as the water pounded my muscles. With my eyes closed, I reached for a bottle of shampoo from the shelf. Blindly, I squirted some into my palm. As I lathered it into my hair, the sweet aroma of strawberries filled the air.

  Damn. I’d grabbed the wrong bottle. Though Izzy had never even visited my house here in LA, let alone set foot in my shower, she had left a bottle of her shampoo on the tour bus during her last visit. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. During some of my lowest points after she left, I’d used her shampoo. And I’d worn her flavored lip balm. And sprayed her perfume on my sheets. Eventually, I stopped doing it every day. But I hadn’t been able to bring myself to discard the reminders of her.

  As the scent of berries wrapped around me, my mind drifted to the first time Izzy had showered with me.

  ♪ Impulsive by Wilson Phillips

  It was the second semester of Izzy’s sophomore year. Since I’d moved to New York to record our first album, Izzy and I were back on the same coast again. I’d been surprised when she texted to ask me for a favor.

  One of her assignments for art school was to paint a nude portrait. A model was available for the students to use, or they could find their own subjects. Izzy had been all nervous when she called and asked. She’d been so cute on the video screen, twirling her hair around her finger like she always did whenever she was anxious about something. We hadn’t hooked up since the summer before our senior year in high school. So, I understood her nerves, but I also understood why my sweet Izzy couldn’t bring herself to paint a stranger’s naked form. I happily agreed to bare all for her…