“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
A s 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 closer 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.
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.
&
nbsp; 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.
Notes of the Heart: Book 2 of the Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series Page 23