Todd lifted a slow smile and leaned his face close to mine. “You really are so talented, Abby,” he said.
I felt myself blushing.
With a different smile, he added, “Despite those blasphemous, kitschy pop concertos of ‘E-mail My Love’ and ‘Drive-through Crush.’”
“The kids in Korea love those.”
“Shame on you.” He touched my chin with one finger. “And for someone who worships the Beatles.”
Despite the blasphemous kitsch, I was proud of one thing. Unlike many of my professional peers, I seldom used “melisma.” Translated: I did not over-sing. I clung onto the melody of a song with both hands, sustaining my notes, holding them close to me. It was important to control and protect, to use crescendo or vibrato only when fitting.
Simplicity, less is more, was my motto. At the beginning, I’d practiced incessantly to convert my singing voice into a mere extension of my speaking voice. I studied dynamics and heeded my vocal coaches, all while relying on what can only come through instinct. Once I got the hang of it, singing with a mood came naturally. Without realizing it, my unconventional dichotomy of techniques was perfect for singing into a solo microphone, which is all about the subtlety of breathing and phrasing.
No doubt about it, I preferred performing live. No studio tricks, no reverb or pitch control. Pulled apart, just the mike and me. Despite a career of running around stage in the frantic pop-singer-sprint, when it came to recording, I was a crooner . . . just like Frank Sinatra.
“How long does it take you to record one song?” Todd asked, holding a piece of sheet music close to his face as if that might help him decipher the unknown “language.”
“Depends,” I replied as we sailed over the clouds. “Some artists are allowed to punch in their songs one note at a time, but if you know what you’re listening for, you can totally tell. So many records use a single take for each time through the chorus; they add layovers to make it sound different, but it’s the same exact version over and over. Totally cheating. Must be like a vacation,” I muttered, scanning through the next few pages. “Max prefers me to record the whole song straight through, no stopping. In theory, I agree with that approach. I create a mood when I sing. I’m a performer. I’m better if it’s all in one take. But”—I couldn’t help sighing—“it’s pretty brutal on the musician, standing in one place for hours at a time, trying to sing through a four-minute song perfectly in one try.”
“Sounds frustrating,” Todd said just as the Fasten Seatbelts sign illuminated. The airplane bounced through some choppy air.
“I guess,” I replied, adjusting the buckle around my hips, “I’m just suddenly very aware of what’s coming.”
“Pretty bad?”
The plane shook some more, almost as an answer to his question. I nodded, closing my eyes, attempting to mentally calm the turbulent skies while picturing my happy place. That white, sugary beach behind Todd’s house. Inside our private little Stonehenge. Twilight. Blue and pink swirling clouds. I exhaled, steadily, purposefully. We’re sitting on a large bamboo mat playing a game of Twenty-one. No wind. No cameras. We’re eating cheese and crackers and key lime pie. I knew if I concentrated hard enough, I could paint that scene in my mind, stroke by stroke, like a Rembrandt.
“In your opinion, what makes a good producer?” Todd had gotten very good at distracting me when needed. He was a regular Molly.
I opened my eyes to see him reading a different piece of music. Before replying, I wracked my brain for an answer he’d understand. “Someone who lets me be myself,” I said, my stomach turning pukey as the plane jerked again. “Someone who also allows me a little fun.”
“Does that make a difference?”
I took a drink of water, swishing it around in my mouth before swallowing. “A huge difference. Recording’s not really about the band or even the singer, but about making the song sound good. It’s a group effort. Great producers will do anything to make that happen. I’m really lucky to have Max and Nate.” I stared past him out the window, feeling a little claustrophobic. “It’s less stressful when I’m allowed to have some fun along the way, though that rarely happens these days. It’s all work.”
“Rough business. Um, you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Wrapping your hair around your finger like a tourniquet.”
I lowered my hand and pumped my fist, restoring circulation.
“You do that when you’re nervous or stressed. I noticed it our first day together. You standing in the middle of my store in those tatty cutoff jeans, twirling your hair like a sexy little psychopath.”
“I happen to like those cutoffs.”
His attention must have moved to where mine was fixed, on the stack of music set before me. “I’m putting this away.” He seized the pile and shoved it back in its envelope.
I didn’t object the way I probably should have, but instead took the opportunity to grab him by the cheeks and kiss him as much as deemed appropriate while sheltered behind the privacy of the First Class curtain. It was my little way of saying “Thank you for keeping me sane.” I couldn’t see them, but I knew camera phones were going off all around us.
Countless pictures of Todd and me had found their way onto the glossy pages of the tab rags that summer, or so I heard—I hadn’t looked. The possibility of a few more didn’t matter right then, not while I was wrestling with my seat belt, trying to climb into Todd’s seat with him.
“How do you feel about being on YouTube?” I whispered as I playfully bit his bottom lip.
He pulled away. Mr. Todd Camford was not a big fan of making out in public. But as I’d explained to him on our third day, anytime we were together while not behind closed doors, we would be “in public.” That was something he’d have to get used to . . . if he wanted me. And he wanted me.
“You don’t keep up with much in the world, do you?” Todd said.
“Not since I bequeathed my busted-up cell to you three months ago.” I fluttered my lashes. “And then that rotten Molly had to send me a new one. Life was so much better without all that hassle.” I slid my hand up his arm, inside his T-shirt sleeve at the bicep.
“Yes, I know,” Todd said, his eyes flickering disapprovingly at my hand under his shirt. “Molly’s been calling me all summer, keeping us aware whenever anything new is posted.”
My hand froze. “Posted?”
“Oh, baby.” He grinned, playfully patronizing. “We’re on YouTube all the time.”
“Seriously?” I sat up straight. “You are, too?”
Todd nodded gravely. “My parents seem to think I’m the celebrity. They don’t keep up with entertainment trends, but my sisters tell them everything.” He smiled and kissed my forehead, my cheek, my chin, probably thinking he needed to apologize for his parents’ lack of coolness.
I hadn’t yet met Colonel and Mrs. Camford in person, but at that moment, I fell in love with them. “Thanks,” I whispered. “Thank you for being such a good sport about all this. It’s a ridiculous way to live, I know.”
He chuckled softly, his arm tightening around me. “I think you’re kind of worth it. You gave up your summer to stay with me.” He brushed the tip of his nose over mine. “Now, this is the least I can do for you.”
I kissed him again, long and passionately, not caring a hoot if we’d be on the Internet later that day.
“Cool it,” Todd whispered, even as he ran his hand up the inside of my sleeve.
Once the plane stopped its rocking and rolling, an informal queue of passengers began to form behind our seats. “I hate to bother you,” one young woman said to me, smiling, a gap between her teeth. She presented the back of her boarding pass along with a pen.
I took them with a smile. “What’s your name?” I asked and signed my best wishes.
“Just to warn you,” I began again to Todd after the line of autograph seekers died down, “life in the studio’s no picnic. Max is, well, you know.”
�
��I can’t wait to meet him.” Todd was rubbing his hands together like a magician ready to pull a rabbit out of a hat. “I’ve been doing a lot of studying up on him.”
“Really?”
He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Fascinating specimen of ego. The man’s a master businessman. Did you know that in the nineties, he basically reinvented global representation, how entertainment contracts are negotiated today?”
“No,” I replied honestly. Maybe it was a bit narcissistic of me, but I always found it surprising to be reminded that Max Salinger had a career before managing Mustang Sally.
Todd tapped his chin. “He wrote a book about management when he was only thirty, and did you know . . .”
The way Todd was talking about Max surprised me. And he looked, well, impressed. “They should bottle him to study at Harvard,” he continued. “Students could learn a lot. I know I could.” After a chuckle, his expression darkened. “His tactics, however . . .” The sentence trailed off.
“What?” I asked, wanting him to finish his thought.
Todd shifted, uncrossing his arms. “Well, some things you’ve told me, he sounds like a typical type A, obsessive workaholic.” He shook his head an inch and looked down. “In my opinion, that’s not the best way to deal with people who need support.” When he looked up, I recognized the expression that crossed his face as worry.
Over the past three months, I’d become something of a master at reading Todd’s face. The throbbing vein on his forehead meant concern. The crinkly lines shooting out from the sides of his eyes were mischief. I was about to get kissed really, really good when the tips of his ears got red. When he pressed his lips together until they resembled two straight lines: anger.
“It’s a good thing I’m completely prepared,” I said, feeling like I needed to reassure him, even though I knew darned well there was no real way to feel even halfway prepared for what was in store for us.
Todd opened his mouth, probably about to dispute my statement by pointing out that among other things, I hadn’t bothered to learn any new songs over the summer.
“Completely prepared,” he said with a kind smile instead, realizing that was exactly what I needed to hear.
{chapter 17}
“WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS”
After three months of relative peace and quiet, my cell exploded with calls and texts the moment our plane touched down.
“All yours,” Todd said, passing it to me.
“Is it too late for me to go to clown college?” I asked, staring down at my phone.
The first call was Molly, reminding us that she and the car were waiting in front of the airport. She called right back—Shugger was meeting us directly outside the security checkpoint.
“I don’t know why she doesn’t just text,” I complained. As the plane taxied down the runway, I listened to three months’ worth of messages, deleting most of them after the second word. Nothing like a tidy voice-mail inbox.
“Looks like vacation’s officially over,” Todd said, glancing at the cell as he handed me my carry-on. I unzipped the side pocket, pulling out slate shadow, charcoal liner, and black mascara.
“Sorry,” I said after painting on some quick smoky eyes. “There’s a lot for me to catch up on.”
“It’s fine,” he replied, gathering some of our things from the overhead bin. “Anything I can do?”
“I’m afraid not. But it should quiet down once we make it to the car.” After slicking on some cherry-red lips, I sighed and looked up at him.
He did a double take. “Wow.”
“What?”
His green eyes crinkled mischievously. “You look . . .” He tilted his head to the side. “You’re her now, aren’t you?” His first two fingers made air quotes. “Abigail Kelly.”
“In the flesh.” I beamed, puckering my glossy red lips. “And all the crapola that comes with her.”
Todd ruffled the top of my head. This casual touch not only sent a familiar sizzle down my spine, but it also filled me with a comfort I’d grown used to.
“The airport’s always crazy,” I continued into my compact, touching up the purposefully smudgy makeup. “You’re welcome to keep a distance from Shugger and me if you want.” I snapped my mirror shut and tucked it away. “Actually, I wouldn’t blame you if you made a run for it back to Florida right now.”
“Now that you mention it . . .”
I grabbed his arm. “Don’t make me hurt you, Marine.”
“Relax,” he soothed, his thumb rubbing the inside of my elbow.
Suddenly it was me who longed to make a run for it, to hop aboard the next returning flight back to his home, his beach, his store, his wonderful world.
But my world was calling now. “There’ll be a lot of people,” I said, tucking my hair behind one ear.
“Obviously.”
“Shugger’s likely to grab me before we even see him. He’s sneaky that way, despite his size. You’ll recognize him; he looks like Chuck D, but bigger, and he always wears white.”
Todd nodded.
“Oh, and he calls me ‘Sally.’”
“I know, Abby.”
“It’s like an inside joke that’s barely funny.”
“I know, Abby. You told me all that.”
“Oh.” I nodded and smiled at him. “There’ll be questions, too. About you. Apparently, your picture’s been everywhere. Pretty tough to lay low, but we can try.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Todd said, pulling me into the aisle. “Like I told you last night, this is your turf. Until I get my feet wet, you’re completely in charge of me.”
“Oooh, I like that.” I kissed his cheek, rubbing off my lipstick mark afterward. “Stay close to me. When Shugger separates us, it’s okay.” I took his hand as we climbed the ramp that led to the gate.
When we rounded the last bend, I could hear it.
“Todd,” I said out of the corner of my mouth, “don’t freak out.”
“Don’t . . . ?”
“When Molly called last, she told me our arrival time had been leaked.”
“Leaked?”
“Yeah.” I grasped his hand tighter, for his benefit. “So just—don’t freak out.”
“Why would I fr . . .”
Usually the cool, macho Marine officer, Todd actually flinched when we exited into the terminal. The noise from outside security seemed exceptionally loud today, and growing louder the closer we got.
“You’re not scared?” he asked as we stepped off the escalator.
I slid on my sunglasses. “Dah-ling,” I replied, doing my best impersonation of his mother’s accent, “I am much too petrified to be scared.”
He turned a shade of green.
“Don’t worry.” I squeezed his arm tight. “Allow me to be your armored car for a change.”
Todd stopped walking and held me at his side.. I stood at his side. “I think . . .” He hesitated, looking down at me. “I think I might need to kiss you first. Do you mind?”
More than willing, I complied, allowing pedestrian traffic to pass us by. As our respective fingers linked around each other’s, I felt like we were a real team, poised to face the horrible, hairy beast of Show Biz together.
“Ahhh. Thank you,” he breathed, taking a deep inhale of the side of my neck when we were finished.
“Prego,” I whispered, properly rolling my r.
In response, Todd moaned one of his throaty growls, making me want another five minutes to pull him into a dark corner and finish that kiss.
People were waiting for me, though. There were always people waiting. So instead, I plastered on a smile and chirped, “Ready?”
Todd stood up straight, shoulders squared. “Lead the way.”
The ear-splitting roars were like white noise to me as we passed the last security exit. Shugger immediately seized me on one side, while another bodyguard popped up on the other.
“Flamingo’s landed,” Shugger reported into a headset.
> The excited mob was barely being held at bay by the troop of airport rent-a-cops and flimsy barricades. Signs welcoming me home were peppered throughout the throng. Cameras flashed, questions were shouted. Everyone was cheering.
“Sally,” Shugger’s low voice boomed out. His muscled, protective arm around me gave an affectionate squeeze. He seemed bigger after all these months, or maybe I’d forgotten what a mountain of a man he was. It wasn’t every day you see a six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound black man dressed in impeccable head-to-toe white linen. Well, maybe in Miami you do.
After properly assessing that I was okay, my burly bodyguard’s round, toffee-colored eyes moved to Todd. “So, this is him?”
“Shugg!” I got right in his huge face. “Do not embarrass me.”
Shugger chuckled and then pursed his lips, pointing his chin toward Todd. “How’s it going, son?”
Todd attempted to formally introduce himself, but most of it was lost to the other noise. The two men shook hands across me while I waved and blew kisses to the screaming crowd.
Shugg let go of me for a quick second and laid one large hand on Todd’s shoulder. “Ya ready for this?”
Todd forced a smile, but his eyes revealed bewilderment, lights and flashes reflecting between every blink.
Shugger laughed. “You’ll get used to it. Don’t worry, Shugger Daddy’s got ya.”
Shugg handed off my purse to the other bodyguard, who slipped it into a larger bag.
“Y’all set?”
We nodded.
“A’ight. Let’s bounce.”
With me sandwiched between my two huge escorts, we began our rapid escape through the sea of people like some demented scene à la A Hard Day’s Night, girls shrieking, fans crying, pushing, pulling, fighting their way to gain a glimpse. From the lobby, past baggage claim, to the car took all of five minutes, yet somehow we managed to lose Todd along the way. I was practically hurled into the back seat, and then Shugger disappeared.
Abby Road Page 17