The Song in My Heart

by Richardson, Tracey

  Until her sudden illness a little more than six years ago, Dess hadn’t realized how exhausting, how soul-killing the demands of the music business had become. There was the constant pressure of producing hit song after hit song, of recording a new album every year, of enduring the grueling weeks and months of touring, giving interviews and making appearances, attending constant meetings with agents, managers and executives, fulfilling the endorsement contracts, the endless wall-to-wall ass kissing. Oh, and trying to have some kind of personal life at the same time, which she’d failed miserably at. It was a merry-go-round that never stopped, never gave you a break.

  No, she thought with satisfaction. She’d left her mark, reached the very pinnacle of fame and fortune and success. Now it was her time to enjoy life. To breathe. To play around with music in a way she hadn’t done since she was a teenager. To write songs, to work seriously on mastering the guitar. To maintain her health, to enjoy nice dinners with friends and family, take long nature walks with Maggie. Make a serious dent in the hundreds of novels and biographies that lined her bookshelves. Maybe she’d even start work this summer on writing her autobiography.

  Her laptop on the little desk alcove between the dining room and kitchen chimed another reminder. Sloane’s email with the YouTube links. Jesus, Sloane could be a pain in the ass sometimes. An obsessive pain in the ass.

  Dess stalled, wiped down the countertops for the third time that day, refilled Maggie’s water bowl, then washed and dried her hands. Okay, fine, she thought. She’d take five minutes and look at the stupid YouTube video so that at least she could say she had. She owed Sloane that much.

  Five minutes turned into fifteen. Dess watched the video, then watched it again, then viewed a second video of Erika Alvarez singing in a coffee house. Many things struck Dess at once as she watched, mesmerized. Erika was attractive. Okay, more than attractive. Dark, thick below-the-collar wavy hair—tamed and wild at the same time. Her cheekbones were high and sharp as rock cliffs, and her eyes flashed black and mischievous. Her skin was rich and golden, her lips full and kissable. She was gorgeous—stunning—in an authentic, natural way.

  Dess leaned closer to the screen to better study the luscious cleavage exposed by the open leather vest, her lasciviousness giving her a pang of voyeuristic guilt. But only a brief pang. Sex appeal oozed from Erika’s sensuous strokes of the microphone and the subtle swaying of her hips in time to the song’s slow beat. A beat that matched the rhythm of sex, it occurred to Dess. Erika knew how to use her sex appeal without flaunting it or debasing herself, and the combination of sexy and wholesome was something money couldn’t buy.

  Her voice too was like nothing Dess had ever heard before—gravel and silk, deep and rumbling, then soaring high and sweet. It was pure, clear, powerful—a light summer breeze one instant, a ripping, thunderous storm the next.

  “Goddammit, Sloane.” Dess whistled softly and wiped the fine film of sweat from her forehead. Sloane hadn’t been kidding about Erika Alvarez. If anything, she had understated her talent.

  Dess knew exactly what having a voice like that meant, not to mention having the looks that accompanied it. If Erika played her cards right, the sky was the limit. And then some. With a voice like hers, she could sing any style of music she wanted. Well, except maybe opera, but Dess wouldn’t even put that past her. She had a face and a body that cameras and audiences would instantly worship. She was the full package, the real deal, as far as Dess could see. Good enough that she should have been discovered by now. But fame and success were fickle. Dess had known countless talented people who went undiscovered or quickly faded away when they were on the brink of greatness. There were others too who, based on their musical talent alone, had no right to the success they enjoyed. None of it was fair.

  She wondered how badly Erika wanted this. What her motives were. What lengths she would go to and how hard she was willing to work. And how she would handle it all if she got there.

  Dess once thought she knew exactly what she wanted, and she couldn’t wait to get there. Of course, in the beginning, she’d only fantasized about the highlights—the adulation, the mammoth and joyous crowds she would sing to, the money, the other artists clamoring to work with her. But there’d been so much more she’d never considered. Things that, had she not been strong and singularly determined, would have broken her. There were the obvious things, but there were more insidious things too, like questioning the genuineness of people and what lay behind their motivations, whether they liked you for yourself. The kind of nagging questions that ate away at the fringes of your life until you began to question everything, to doubt everything, until you withdrew, trusting no one.

  If her life-threatening illness hadn’t halted all the craziness her life had become, Dess had no doubt she would have self-destructed by now. No one could sustain that level of fame and success without a spectacular fall, and Dess knew, in that regard, that she was no different than anyone else. No, she thought with conviction. She would not watch, let alone help, this young woman drown in the soul-sucking, parasite-infested, exploitative, drug-, alcohol- and promiscuity-infused business that had destroyed so many others.

  If Erika Alvarez was even half as good as she appeared to be in her videos, she was a shooting star who was destined for exactly that charming fate. And Dess had no intention of being there to see it happen.

  Chapter Two

  Erika Alvarez’s most excruciating piano recitals—the ones that had had her a half note away from throwing up all over the ivories—were nothing compared to this. Waiting for Dess Hampton—her secret idol as a teenager, her first hot pubescent fantasy—to open the door was pure torture. Erika wanted to melt into the walls of the cavernous hallway on the top floor of the spectacular Gold Coast condo building. She wanted that big oak door never to open, and yet she was breathless and weak-kneed with the anticipation of it.

  Sloane, grinning beside her, gave her a friendly nudge that seemed to say, “It will be okay, you’re going to love Dess, she’s just a regular person.” Meeting Dess Hampton was beyond cool, but the truth was, Erika had absolutely no desire to beg for her, or anyone else’s, help. Drool over, flirt with, definitely, but that was it. Dess had been out of the business so long now—six or seven years—that she’d all but been forgotten by her worldwide legion of fans, the media, her record company, concert promoters, the Broadway stages, the corporate world, radio and television and even social media. The disappearance of one of the world’s most bankable singers had been astoundingly quick, shockingly final and seemingly irrevocable. Dess Hampton had simply slipped away like day yielding to night. Throat cancer had stolen her career, the news stories said.

  Though, had she wanted to, Dess certainly could have profited from her illness, Erika supposed. Plenty of famous people had turned illness or some other personal trauma into a success story. Not Dess Hampton. She had chosen to ride into the sunset without a look back. The rumor mill said she couldn’t sing worth a crap anymore, that she shunned even the tiniest shred of attention, had outright rejected any sort of work in showbiz. She had become a recluse, as far as Erika knew. Even the paparazzi had long ago abandoned any interest in her, and that was no simple accomplishment for a star of Dess’s stature.

  There was nothing Dess could do for her, Erika was convinced, save for perhaps an autograph and a selfie for her Facebook and Twitter profiles. Really, she’d begged Sloane, there was no point to this. But Sloane, a little bit crazy, a lot independent, had ignored her.

  The door opened with a heavy thud, and in its shadow stood the legendary singer—smaller than Erika had imagined, youthful, trim, glowing. She didn’t look at all like a cancer survivor nor even someone in her, what, early forties? No makeup, hair the color of honey that just touched her shoulders. The phrase “natural beauty” sprang to mind. With growing apprehension she watched as Dess’s slate-gray eyes lit up at the sight of Sloane, then narrowed shrewdly and suspiciously at Erika. Clearly, Dess Hampton wasn’t partic
ularly thrilled with her presence here. Well, Erika thought, that makes two of us.

  Sloane and Dess traded a secret look, Sloane aiming a follow-up shrug at Erika that hinted of a shallow apology.

  “Come in,” Dess said neutrally.

  She probably gives the IRS a friendlier welcome than that, Erika thought.

  She and Sloane followed Dess and her happy, tail-wagging, wiggly chocolate Lab, whom Dess introduced as Maggie. Forget the dog, Erika thought, as her eyes helplessly gravitated to Dess’s tight little ass, all curvy and filling out her designer jeans perfectly. She amused herself with the fantasy of firmly cupping that ass, pulling it into her body…oh yes! There was plenty she could do with this woman that entailed not a single note of music or even talk. She had no doubt she could melt that icy demeanor in about two minutes flat. Two minutes naked, that is.

  “So, you’re Erika Alvarez?” Dess said, turning sharply, not offering her hand.

  They were standing before a massive leather sectional in a great room with ceilings the height of a European cathedral. Massive windows looked out over the lake and there was a fireplace that took up an entire wall. Erika could imagine sitting here watching a thunderstorm, or even a snowstorm, as the fireplace warmed them. A bottle of wine wouldn’t hurt. Maybe some soft music…

  “Ahem,” Sloane mumbled at her to draw her attention.

  Erika swallowed, nervous again. Was she supposed to sit? Kiss the queen’s feet? Make a beeline for the baby grand in the corner and start playing? It was, after all, an audition of sorts, thanks to Sloane and her meddling plan to enlist Dess’s help. She had been instructed to impress, though to what end she wasn’t quite sure yet, and the prickle of pressure brought back memories of her mother dragging her to auditions before brow-furrowed strangers in starched suits, pens poised over clipboards. Her mother always had caustic words of advice for her. “Sit up straight, Erika, breathe, breathe!” Or, “No, no, nina, not that song, the other one!” And, “Ay Dios mio, do not look at the keys, hija!”

  “Yes, this is Erika,” Sloane answered on her behalf. She looked innately pleased, like she’d just discovered the cure to a particularly unpleasant social disease. Sloane was clearly enjoying her role as broker. Or star maker. Whatever. She would indulge Sloane, because Sloane had been good to her and would be indispensible to her on the tour this summer.

  “Well, then,” Dess replied, her tone as cool as the lake outside.

  A pity, Erika thought, that someone so beautiful, so successful and full of talent, had become so imperious, rude even. As if that were the only option left to her now that her career had disintegrated. I can’t sing anymore, but I can still play the part of queen if I want. Queen Bitch, that is. I can still act like you’re wasting my precious time.

  “I’m going to make a pot of tea. Why don’t you play something for us?” Dess gestured at the baby grand piano, so shiny it looked wet. Clearly it was an order because there was no accompanying smile, no hint of a question or that it was a friendly suggestion. She might as well just have said, “Do it.”

  Erika ground her molars, hard, and took her time getting to the piano. She was used to performing on demand. Had grown up rushing to the piano at the snap of her mother’s fingers. Fine, she decided. As with her childhood recitals, she’d get this over as quickly as possible. It would make everyone happy—well, Sloane anyway—and then she could catch a flight back to Minneapolis and start some serious prepping for the summer circuit. The first festival was five weeks away, and she had at least a dozen more songs to learn with her band, such as it was. So far it was only herself on keyboards and bass or rhythm guitar and Sloane on drums. They still needed a lead guitarist, and she could kick Sloane’s butt for not securing someone yet, like she’d promised. They were cutting it damned close.

  At the piano, Erika flexed her fingers, stretched her wrists and admired the gorgeous Steinway & Sons instrument. Antique and top of the line, by the look of it. With rancor, she wondered if Dess even knew how to play it. She’d been in a few rich peoples’ homes before, knew it wasn’t uncommon for them to have an expensive, rarely played piano as a display of their wealth. Same thing, in her mind, as hanging an original Warhol or a Picasso. Look what I can afford to own!

  Without a word, she launched into the opening notes of Adele’s “Set Fire to the Rain,” having decided to play something she liked instead of trying to guess what might appeal to Her Majesty. She closed her eyes, gave herself up to the words and the beautiful notes. She went to another place when she sang, a place somewhere between heaven and earth, where everything else fell away and the only emotion was pleasure. No, more than pleasure. Joy. And it came from her innermost being and reverberated through her entire body, pulsing a hot glow in its midst. It was almost like an orgasm, only longer and, more often than not in her experience, more fulfilling.

  She was belting out the chorus, feeling it course through her from her gut and up into her chest with hurricane-like force, shimmering past her vocal cords and out of her mouth, when she became aware of the distant shattering of a dropped dish. The intrusive noise took a moment to register, like awakening from a dream, and it was another bar of music before she stopped playing.

  Sloane leapt up from the sofa and ran to the kitchen. “Dess, you okay?”

  Erika turned and saw that Dess was bent over, picking up pieces of a china cup from the floor.

  “Shit,” Dess huffed. “Clumsy, that’s all.”

  Sloane had begun hopping around, looking panicked. “You didn’t cut your hands, did you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Thank you, God!”

  “Jeez, Sloane.” Dess stood, hands on her hips. “What’s the big deal if I did? It’s not like I’d need stitches or anything. It’s just a cup.”

  Sloane fumbled with the broken pieces, leaving Dess to turn her full attention to Erika. She strode purposefully toward her, but when she stopped, she seemed wary, unsure.

  “Y-you,” Dess stammered. “Your voice.”

  “Yes?” This was going to be fun.

  “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  “Like what?”

  Jaw muscles clenched, relaxed. A tiny glint ascended in Dess’s eyes. “Like you’re the offspring of Gladys Knight and Karen Carpenter. With a little Whitney and Wynonna thrown in for good measure.”

  Erika shrugged. Even from someone as famous and talented as Dess Hampton, the compliment meant little. For most of her twenty-eight years, praises for her singing and musical talents had been heaped on her, but they simply didn’t satisfy anymore. She wanted to be known as one of the best. Wanted to be known. Like Dess. Or the legendary singers Dess had mentioned. She not only wanted to perform before thousands, tens of thousands, but to have those thousands prostrate themselves before her. She wanted to transform peoples’ lives, to influence not only the music business, but popular music itself. And not because she was insecure about herself, but because she was completely secure in her talents and in what she had to offer. She dreamed that her voice, her playing, her songwriting, her performances, would be the vehicle by which those transformations might take place. She wanted never to be forgotten. Wanted her music to set a new standard. Of course it was arrogant to think that way, but if she didn’t believe it could happen, it never would.

  “Church?” Dess was saying. “Did you grow up singing in a church or something?”

  Erika shook her head.

  “Voice lessons since you were four?”

  “Nope, but piano lessons since I was five.”

  “Then where…”

  “I sang whenever I could, which was almost always in private until I went away to college. Then I joined a garage band, earned some pocket money singing in bars. Sang at weddings, birthday parties, open mic nights. Any place I could.”

  Dess stared at her as though she were an apparition, and Erika resisted a smart-ass retort.

  Sloane rejoined them and set down a tray on which sat a
teapot, three intact cups, sugar and milk. “Erika’s parents weren’t exactly supportive of her wanting to grow up to be a singer,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Wanted her to be a master pianist or something. Isn’t that right, Erika?”

  “Something like that.” Erika didn’t want to talk about her parents and their obsession to push her onto the world stage in an honorable career in the arts that would elevate her and her family past the stigma of immigration and how that career would not—could not—be something as common and ignoble as singing. She didn’t want to think anymore about the endless hours at the piano, her cramped hands, her sore back, her mother snapping at her with her whip-like voice.

  “Could you sing another song for me?” Dess asked, polite this time.

  Erika began playing “September in the Rain,” softening her voice to a warm, intimate tone that spoke of a broken heart still stuck on someone. Inexplicably, the emotions of lost love came easy to her, even though she’d never known the kind of big love that people wrote novels and songs about. But I will, she knew with certainty, which was why she could sing about it being spring while it felt like a rainy September in her heart.

  When she’d finished, she stole a moment to enjoy the look on Dess’s face—the distinct, momentary melting of the Ice Queen. It was, strangely enough, more gratifying than a screaming audience. Or at least what Erika imagined a screaming audience before her would feel like. There was serenity, rapture, on Dess’s face, like she’d just had a religious experience. Erika sucked in her breath, her lungs tingling at the pure beauty emanating from Dess. I did that to her, she thought, and it filled her up with something she couldn’t name. She never tired of how people physically reacted to her music, because it was far more genuine and spontaneous than verbal compliments. It was the reason she sang.

  Sloane poured tea, asked Erika to join them on the sectional. “So,” she said, looking every bit the director of a colossal business deal, “I have a proposal for you both.”