Dess’s features had once again taken on a pinched, annoyed look. “Why am I not surprised?”
Sloane plowed ahead, ignoring her friend. “I propose that we work together. The three of us.”
“Work together how?” Erika asked, confused. She was expecting Sloane to ask Dess to offer guidance, advice, maybe make a few calls on her behalf. Endorse her, somehow.
Sloane grinned like it was already a fait accompli. “It’s simple. Me on drums, Erika on keyboards or bass or rhythm guitar, whichever the song requires, and Dess on lead guitar. Maybe backup vocals too… Just for this summer tour of music festivals we have lined up, of course. Nothing more.”
As swiftly as a light being switched off, the color drained alarmingly from Dess’s face. Silence stretched out, Sloane looking less and less like the genius she thought she was, and Erika shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, the idea was not going over well with the Ice Queen.
“It’s brilliant, Dess, it really is,” Sloane said, her tone less certain than her words.
“No,” Dess said with asperity. “It’s not brilliant at all. First of all, you know I don’t sing anymore, even backup. Second, I have no desire to be back on stage, let alone a circuit of outdoor festivals. Third, my presence would only ruin things for Erika because it would become all about the washed-up Dess Hampton and not about this emerging, wonderful talent here that deserves all the attention.”
Erika blinked. She was wonderful? Okay, wait. Dess’s compliments don’t mean anything to me… No sir. Not. One. Single. Thing.
“It could work, Dess. In fact, nobody would even have to know it was you. You could go by a stage name—just another anonymous band member wearing tie-dye, a big floppy hat and oversized sunglasses. And your presence would help Erika. Having that experience, that guidance, along for the ride would be priceless. Joining us would give Erika that foundation that could push her career to a whole new level.”
“And I should do all this because why? Because I need the five hundred bucks a week I’d earn? And the adulation of three hundred people sitting on lawn chairs stoned out of their minds?”
Ouch! Okay, thought Erika, she didn’t have to be mean about it. It was a crazy idea to have her join the band, though. Dess was right about that. And it rankled that nobody had asked her opinion. Christ, could Dess even play the guitar?
As if on cue, Dess and Sloane gazed questioningly at her. Erika shrugged, her confidence deserting her. These two women had played on stages all over the world, had amassed more awards than Erika could even guess at. Who was she, after all, to offer an opinion when something this big was offered to her? Could she afford to say no? Did she have the right to? She was in a jam. She needed a guitarist, and right now she’d take anyone who knew at least six chords.
Her attention back on Dess, Sloane said, “For you, my friend, the reason is simple. It would be good for you. Because music feeds your soul. And you’ve been away from real music for too damned long.”
Dess crossed her arms over her chest, the tea long forgotten. “Hmph. Kale and quinoa are good for me too. Doesn’t mean I want to eat them three times a day.”
“No, but this is something you’ll thank me for one day. Just you wait.” Sloane and cocky were no strangers to each other obviously.
“And I should believe you because why?” Dess said suspiciously.
“Because I know music is still the most important thing in your life. And this is music, and musical talent in its purest form. It’s about people playing and singing for the love of it and not for the money or the accolades. Or the drugs or the pussy.”
Erika gasped, unsure how Dess would react to that last part, but she only laughed. And what sweet, warm laughter it was. It softened the faint lines around her eyes and immediately humanized her.
“Well, damn,” Dess said. “I was looking forward to the drugs and especially the pussy.”
“Pfft, as if, Ms. Pure-as-the-Northern-Michigan-Snow.”
So the Ice Queen didn’t do drugs and didn’t play around. But she did like pussy. That was good to know, although Erika couldn’t say why, just that it gave her a tingle in her southern regions. Dess, by the sounds of it, was serious about music and was the antithesis of a party girl. Erika wasn’t so sure about Sloane, however, and that gave her pause. She didn’t want destructive distractions around her. To her, it was all about the music, about striving for perfection. Erika was all business in her pursuit for greatness. She didn’t want high-maintenance people around her who were more interested in fun than work. The other thing they all needed to be clear about was that she was the boss here, in spite of her youth and her thin résumé.
“Well?” Sloane looked at Erika for acknowledgment. Finally. “Do we have a deal?”
Dess was looking at her too with an unreadable expression.
Mustering a brand of bravado she reserved usually for the stage, Erika flicked a thumb toward the limited-edition, mahogany Taylor acoustic guitar she’d earlier noticed nestled in a stand in the corner, next to the grand fireplace. “Why don’t you play something for me this time?”
Amusement flickered in those liquid gray eyes, and the barest hint of a smile spilled from the corners of Dess’s mouth. But she did as she was told, fetching the guitar and plunking down on a high leather stool beside the window. Quickly, she ran through a few scales, her comfort with the instrument evident in the smooth grace with which her fingers moved. She adjusted the tuning as she went, then plunged into the opening notes of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” arpeggio style.
Erika’s attention was riveted on Dess’s fingers—long, sure, adept, sensuous—moving quickly yet deceptively, the guitar as one with her body. The notes rang out clear and true, yet Dess’s unique musicality bled through in the subtle movements—the pauses, the hammerings, the bending of notes, the transitions. She was putting her own signature on the song, and clearly the woman knew what she was doing. Dess Hampton was every bit as talented with a guitar as she’d once been with her voice.
With magnetic force, Erika could not take her eyes off Dess. Her eyes were closed, and there was an angelic smile on her lips as she continued to play the guitar. Erika could no more resist joining in the song than a child could resist a sprinkler on a scorching day, and she took her place beside Dess at the window.
“I don’t know how someone controlled you, they bought and sold you,” she sang. They fell into a groove together, neither outshining the other, but rather complementing each other’s gifts perfectly—a true equilibrium of give and take. Dess flashed her a look of silent acknowledgment that the impromptu duet was fine with her, that it was working. And it was. It was lightning and thunder merging to produce an immeasurable power, and it felt and sounded more natural than any duet or collaboration Erika had ever been a part of. An uncanny instinct had them fitting their music around each other, joining, separating, merging seamlessly again.
The song’s end was met by silence. Sloane’s mouth hung open in what Erika assumed was approval. She glanced at Dess and was rewarded with a nod. Both of them, it seemed, had passed each other’s test. And Sloane’s.
“My God!” Sloane said, breathless. “Do you two have any idea how incredible that sounded?”
Two shrugs, both playing it cool, like two champions sizing each other up at the finish line.
“Well, I sure as hell do,” Sloane answered herself with an enthusiastic clap of her hands. “You two are lethal together. Spectacular! I can’t wait for us to get started.”
Hmm, thought Erika. Lethal, huh? An interesting choice of words.
Chapter Three
It took only a few strides for Dess to regret confiding in her sister that she was joining Sloane and Erika for their summer tour. The sisters were running along the path parallel to the lake, dressed in matching Adidas nylon pants and jackets. To outsiders they probably looked like twins, except Carol was two years older and two inches taller. And didn’t have a musical bone in her body.
When D
ess had also confessed she was having second thoughts about the tour, Carol began verbally kicking her ass, promising that if she didn’t do the tour, she was going to kick her ass for real. Dess sparred back, expounding on all the negatives—living out of an RV, keeping late hours and being subjected to an exhausting pace that could negatively impact her health, having to find an alternate place for Maggie to live (and she didn’t want to be separated from Maggie!). There were other things she didn’t bring up, like her terror of getting back on a stage, fear of her identity being discovered and, worse, that she’d be ridiculed.
Carol, as usual, had an answer for everything. She was an executive with a pharmaceutical company and more than expert at debating, arguing, selling, manipulating. It’ll be fun living out an RV, she said. Humbling but fun, like a giant slumber party with your friends. And Dess could maintain her health by making sure she ate properly and got her rest, taking it easy during the days between gigs, going for a lot of walks or runs. And why couldn’t Maggie go along? Everyone loved Maggie, she was a sweetheart and would be no trouble at all on the tour.
Dess slowed to a walking pace to catch her breath. The April air was like a knife in her lungs. “There’d be a lot of material to learn in a short period of time. I don’t even know if I can do it. I mean, if the three of us can get it all together in time.”
“You’re a professional. All of you are professionals. You’ve still got a month. That’s plenty of time, especially if the three of you can hole up together for a week or two.”
Dess laughed. “What, in an RV park somewhere?”
“No, silly. Why not invite them to the island?”
Dess’s jaw dropped before she quickly clamped it shut, realizing she had no rebuttal because it wasn’t a bad idea. She owned a six-thousand-square-foot Victorian mansion on two acres of shoreline property on Mackinac Island, Michigan. It was more than big enough for the three of them. It had six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a huge kitchen and dining room, a library and a music studio constructed with all the latest soundproofing techniques and outfitted with all the musical instruments they’d need. There was more room above the carriage house—a two-bedroom cottage that her mother took possession of every July and August to “get away from the city,” as she called it, but really it was to keep an eye on Dess, to make sure she wasn’t spending too much time alone.
Dess knew her excuse was lame before she even opened her mouth. “Hardly anything’s open on the island for a couple more weeks. It’ll be like a ghost town. And the house is still closed up for the winter.”
“That’s perfect. Nobody to bother you guys or to gossip about what the three of you are up to. And you can get a cleaning crew to get the place ready with a day’s notice.”
“I don’t know, Carol.” Dess dropped down on a worn wooden bench facing the water. It was cold and hard on her ass. Hemorrhoid City, she thought with a frown.
“What don’t you know?” Carol sat down beside her.
With the toe of her sneaker, Dess drew circular patterns on the sand-crusted, paved path. “I don’t know if I want to do this tour. I mean, why should I?”
Carol gaped at her. “Why should you? Oh, Dess, honey, are you really that out of touch with yourself?”
Dess stiffened.
“Look.” Carol squeezed her hand affectionately. “Music is the most important thing in the world to your soul. And it’s been that way since you were a teenager and got discovered on that stupid local television show. Remember that? Tomorrow’s Singing Sensations?”
Dess laughed at the memory of her ‘80s hairstyle and sequined dress, how she tried so hard to look and act much older than her sixteen years. She didn’t win the contest. Someone two or three years older got the trophy, but her second-place finish was enough to get her noticed.
“Anyway,” Carol continued. “You know I’m right. You might have stopped singing, but I know you play that guitar every day of your life. And how many binders full of songs have you written now?”
Dess shrugged. She knew her sister was right about her love of music, but so what? What did that have to do with joining this backwater summer tour?
“It’s your chance to do something with your talent and your passion again.”
“I don’t need to be on a stage to enjoy my music. I’m enjoying it just fine the way I have been, thank you very much.”
Carol waved a dismissive hand at her. “Come on. That’s like saying masturbation is as good as sex.”
Dess didn’t dare look at her sister.
“And speaking of sex.” Carol bumped her shoulder. “When’s the last time you had any?”
Oh, God. Not that it was any of Carol’s business, but it’d been more than six pathetic years. Not since Dayna, which made it even doubly pathetic. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“It means masturbation, playing your guitar with only Maggie as your audience and writing music nobody will ever hear are facsimiles of the real thing. They don’t cut it, Dess.”
“For me they do.”
“Bullshit. You even wrote a song once about how the love of a good woman makes, what was it? ‘Sunshine on a cloudy day’ or something like that?”
“That’s the Temptations and ‘My Girl’! Jesus, you’re pathetic about music.”
“Okay, okay, sooorry! I can’t remember the exact words.”
“It was called ‘Rainbow Rays,’ and it was about the love of a good woman parting the clouds in my heart and filling it with rainbow rays. Look, why are we talking about love and sex anyway? What the hell does that have to do with this damn tour?”
“It, my dear sister, has to do with living your life. Getting out of your cocoon. Playing your music, meeting people, interacting with audiences again. Maybe even getting this Erika to record some of the songs you’ve written. And…” Carol grinned at her. “Maybe some hot little groupie will knock on your trailer door after a concert one night.”
“Oh good God, Carol. Give it a rest. And why on earth would you suggest Erika might record one of my songs? I don’t even know this girl yet, and I would certainly never allow just anyone to record my songs. You should know that. She’d have to prove that she was worthy.”
Carol laughed, further annoying Dess.
“It’s not funny, Carol.”
“No. It’s not. Nor is it funny that you’re wasting your God-given talent.”
“I’m not wasting it. I can’t sing anymore, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten that you can’t sing like you used to. Like people have come to expect of you. But you can play that guitar like Hendrix and you can write songs way better than ninety-nine percent of anything that’s on the radio these days. You’re talented, Dess. Supremely talented. And it’s a tragedy not to share that with people. As well as just plain old wrong.”
Dess quietly shook her head, near tears. She started to rise, but Carol pulled her back down.
“It’s natural to be afraid of this, sweetie. I get that, okay?”
Dess looked grimly at her sister, at the matching gray eyes that reminded her of cloudy November days. “Do you?” she said simply.
“Not really, no, but I get it enough to know that I’m right. To know that your soul is dying on the vine.”
Dess was surprised by the tears in Carol’s eyes.
“We almost lost you once, Dess. I don’t want to lose the part of you that makes you you, okay?”
For a long time they didn’t speak. Companionably they stared out at the gray-blue of the water, at the lake freighter crawling ever so slowly along the horizon, not needing conversation. Dess knew Carol loved her unconditionally, the way sisters should. She knew she had only her best interests in mind. Yet her words were hard to accept. For Dess to admit she felt only half alive since she’d put her illness behind her was to admit that the cancer was still defeating her.
Barely above a whisper, her heart in her throat, Dess said, “I don’t know if I can do it
.”
Carol reached for her hand again, held it tightly, while her eyes remained fixed on the horizon. “You can do it.”
* * *
Erika’s heart hammered inside her chest as she and Sloane waited for Dess to open the door—this time at Dess’s sprawling Mackinac Island mansion. Erika had already marveled at the outside of the structure—the massive white columns that supported the lengthy front porch overlooking the Straits of Mackinac; the tall three stories clad in white siding; at least three impressive cupolas; more porches and balconies on each floor, some of them screened in; shuttered windows; the detailed wood trim of the many peaks of the roofline; and of course, the massive black-walnut double door surrounded by leaded glass.
“This is her real home,” Sloane said with a grin. “You’ll love it.”
Erika swallowed. “I already do.” She wondered, with little hope, if she would ever be successful enough to own a place like this. God, it seemed so impossible. And so far from her shabby little childhood home in Texas or her plain apartment in Minneapolis.
Unlike her greeting in Chicago, this time Dess smiled when she opened the door. She hugged Sloane before an awkward moment passed between her and Erika. They shook hands, and the acknowledgment was enough. Not friends perhaps, not even equals, but yes, they could have a cordial, working relationship, Erika decided.
They dropped their bags inside the foyer—a cathedral-ceilinged affair with black marble flooring.
“I’ll get the rest of the stuff,” Sloane said and shot out the door.
Maggie, tail thumping and her nails clicking on the floor like a tap dancer on overdrive, began dancing circles around Erika. She petted the dog’s brown head, which immediately intensified the tail’s tempo.
“She likes you,” Dess said plainly. “But then, she likes everyone.”
The jury’s still out on whether you like me, though, Erika thought with deepening concern. She was unclear about Dess’s motive for joining her tour, but if it was being done grudgingly, it would affect the band’s chemistry—its ability to perform seamlessly with genuineness and energy. Audiences almost always picked up on rifts or personality conflicts, and it made for a crappy live performance, Erika had learned.
The Song in My Heart Page 3