The Song in My Heart

by Richardson, Tracey

  “Come,” Dess said with the brush of a hand on her arm. “I’ll give you the tour of the place. Sloane,” she said over her shoulder, “already knows this place like the back of her hand.”

  There wasn’t a room that didn’t impress Erika. She wasn’t surprised by the magnificence of the fourteen-foot ceilings, the half-dozen or so massive fireplaces, the gorgeous leaded French glass doors dividing the library from the living room, the dark hardwood floors polished to within an inch of their lives. What did surprise her was how tastefully the home was decorated. Everything was designed with simple, welcoming comfort in mind. There was absolutely no pretentiousness—well, except for the Gone with the Wind staircase—but Erika could excuse that bit of grandiosity.

  “It’s a gorgeous home you have here, Dess.”

  “Thank you. I hope you’ll be comfortable here, and I expect my guests to treat it like their own home.”

  Erika couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice. “Now that I’m here, I wish we were staying longer than a week. A month would be more like it.”

  Dess, in form-fitted jeans and a snug, ribbed crew-neck sweater, leaned against the thick wooden door jam, hands lazily in her pockets. She had a vibrant undercurrent of sexiness, made even more potent by her seeming lack of awareness of it, Erika realized. It was damn alluring, and she had to remind herself that, physical attraction aside, nothing was going to happen between her and Dess. Ever. They were oil and water in far too many ways.

  “I’ve saved my favorite room for last.”

  Dess pushed open yet another set of leaded glass doors. What lay beyond them was enough to suck the air from Erika’s lungs. She whistled her approval, but what she really wanted to do was drop to her knees and worship the place. What struck her first was the size of the room—at least sixty feet by fifty—along with the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a straight-shot view to the rocky cliffs that dropped sharply to the lake below. The Mackinac Bridge, one of the largest suspension bridges in the world, reached out of the distant horizon like a skeletal hand.

  Because the appropriate words simply eluded her, Erika said, “My God, this is incredible.”

  The instruments demanded her attention next, and she could no longer resist them. There was another grand piano (also a Steinway), a full Pearl drum kit, hand drums in the form of bongo and conga sets gripped in sturdy stands, four acoustic guitars and three electric guitars adorning the wall, and in the corner a keyboard. Like Lego blocks, a stack of amplifiers stood piled along one wall, and on the opposite wall hung the framed gold and platinum records that belonged to Dess.

  Erika nodded at the framed records and the shelf of trophies and plaques built into the wall and covered with a sheet of glass. The sight of all the accolades and achievements humbled her to the point of wondering what the hell she was doing here. She didn’t belong on the same stage—or even in the same room—with someone of Dess’s caliber. It was one thing to believe she could reach such great heights herself and quite another to be confronted with the evidence of someone who’d actually journeyed from hypotheticals to actual accomplishment.

  “I’m sorry if it’s a bit over the top,” Dess said quietly, as though reading her mind.

  Erika swallowed her insecurities. She’d do whatever she had to do to prove to Dess that she was worthy of her time and her talents. “No, not at all. Hell, if these were mine, I’d have them right inside the front door so everyone could see them the minute they came in.”

  Dess smiled, indulging Erika her little fantasy, before her expression hardened. The gray in her eyes took on the ominous hue of a deepening winter sky. “You brought your guitar?”

  “Yes. I expect Sloane’s dragged it in by now. It’s nothing like these beauties, though,” she said, nodding at the wall of rare and exotic guitars, each worth many thousands of dollars.

  “Feel free, of course, to putter away on any instrument that’s here, whether I’m around or not. Anything in this house is yours to use while you’re here, all right?”

  “Thank you, that’s very generous. Look, Dess—”

  “I think you’ll really like playing my Taylors and Martins. And of course you more than know your way around a piano.”

  Dess was nervous—her short breaths and the higher pitch to her voice giving her away—and it came as a surprise to Erika. She felt compelled to step closer, to put that nervousness to the test. She drew so close that she could smell the citrus of Dess’s shampoo and soap. Could reach out and touch Dess intimately if she’d wanted, but she knew that would get her slapped. Or worse.

  “Dess, I want you to know that I’m incredibly grateful that you’re joining our tour. I know it’s a sacrifice. And I know I don’t deserve it, but I really appreciate everything you’re doing to help me.”

  Dess’s smile was faint. “Don’t thank me until we’re sure it’s not going to be a disaster.”

  Erika’s heart dipped a little. This woman was way too good at deflecting and evading, at being cool and distant. At least with her. She wondered if Dess was an island with everyone. And then she wondered what it would take to crack that mysterious shell, wrapped in such unattainable beauty and talent and as untouchable as a Faberge egg.

  “What’s going to be a disaster?” Sloane barged into the room, out of breath and flexing her biceps. “Bags are all unloaded and in the front hall.” She was rewarded with a laugh from Dess.

  “Nothing’s a disaster. Yet,” Dess replied with a smile that was more mischievous than cynical. She was far more relaxed with Sloane in the room, Erika noted.

  “Oh, come on. Let’s break the ice and do some magic. Right now,” Sloane suggested.

  “Now?” Erika said.

  “We’re here to work, aren’t we? To become a finely honed machine of three over the next seven days.” Sloane winked and tilted her head at the guitars on the wall. “Let’s play something fun, D.”

  Dess hesitated, then finally pulled down a Taylor acoustic and tossed a tambourine at Sloane. She began playing the first few chords of the Lumineers’ “Ho Hey.”

  With her booted foot, Erika began tapping out the beat on the wood plank floor. F and C chords, she recognized. Then an A minor, a G, a quick F and then back to C. Sloane slapped the tambourine on her thigh, and Erika launched into the first verse of the song. By the time she was singing about belonging to each other and “you’re my sweet-he-aa-rr-t,” they were rocking it pretty good. Erika’s tapping had turned into stomping and clapping, Sloane danced and shimmied the tambourine against her thigh and the palm of her hand and Dess…Dess had her eyes closed as she deftly handled the guitar, a smile as warm as July sunshine pressed upon her lips. Sloane had been right when she said music fed Dess’s soul. Except it was much more than that. It was the very fabric of her soul, Erika could see, and she grinned through the rest of the song, her heart floating higher and higher with each note. The music was fusing their spirits together, and to her, there was no bond deeper than this.

  “Woo-ee!” Sloane exulted after the last note rang out. “Now that is what I’m talkin’ about, ladies.”

  The music had noticeably relaxed Dess, acting as some kind of salve to her. Or maybe it was a form of bloodletting, Erika thought. She could relate to that. Music was her savior, her drug, her lover. It was something she’d go to any lengths to create, to enjoy. And creating it now with others who worshiped at music’s altar every bit as much as she did gave her a warm glow in her belly. It was going to be fun making music with these two, as long as personalities didn’t get in the way.

  Breaking the spell, Dess replaced the guitar in its holder. “Well, I think we’ve successfully broken the ice. But let’s wait until tomorrow before we really get to work. You guys have had a long day and you need to unpack and get settled.”

  “All right,” Sloane said hesitantly. “But we’re going to really be under the gun, and it’s totally my fault.”

  Dess looked at her questionably.

  “I just got the
call last night or I would have told you both sooner. I’ve been asked to fill in for Taylor Swift’s drummer in Detroit this week. Just for two nights,” she said, holding up a hand against any forthcoming protests. “He’s down with pneumonia, and I can catch a plane out of here the day after tomorrow and be back in forty-eight hours.”

  “But we haven’t even figured out our set yet,” Dess complained, the pulse at her neck throbbing visibly. It occurred to Erika that Dess was far more frazzled than she should be, given her stature and experience with this sort of thing. She was pacing now too, and Erika had to tamp down the urge to grab hold of her.

  “Dess,” Sloane said with one raised eyebrow. “It’s Taylor Swift.”

  Dess halted, a fleeting look of bewilderment on her face before she broke into a pained smile. “You’re right, what was I thinking? Taylor Swift or…” She spread her arms, not finishing the thought, but Erika guessed it would have been something sarcastic. Taylor Swift or the three of us. Like that was a fair choice. “Okay, look. After dinner we’ll sit down and work on our set list. Then tomorrow we can get working on the songs and then tweak the list.”

  Erika should have bristled against Dess’s commandeering tone, given the fact that this band, this summer gig, was hers and not Dess’s. But all she could think about was Sloane’s coming absence for two days. And two nights. Sloane was the buffer, the mediator, the court jester. How in the hell am I going to stay here alone with Dess without one of us killing the other?

  Chapter Four

  Dess’s hangover shrouded her like a wispy morning mist rising from a lake, but without the awe and beauty. She suspected Sloane’s hangover, by the look of her, was more like a raging thunderstorm. Not her problem if her friend couldn’t hold last night’s wine, she thought wickedly. Of the three of them, Erika seemed the least affected, but she was young, so her body probably metabolized alcohol much easier. Her body. God, I don’t want to think about her body, Dess thought with irritation, rubbing her temple. If she rubbed hard enough, maybe all thoughts of those athletic thighs, tight waist and full, round breasts would disappear. Last night over the kitchen table, she couldn’t stop herself from stealing guilty little glimpses (dirty little glimpses!) of those luscious attributes. She had then spent half the night tossing and turning in bed, wondering what the hell had come over her. They had work to do, she reminded herself. A lot of work to do. There was precious little time to indulge in or even think about whatever midlife crisis might be trying to invade her life and make it hell right now.

  To Dess’s disappointment, they’d failed to come to an agreement on the dozen or more songs they would need to perfect in the coming week. Badly failed. To the point where they’d only managed to agree on a couple of songs so far. Erika had made the grave mistake of asking if they could play one of Dess’s hit songs, which had nearly sent Dess through the roof. Not only could she not fathom someone else singing one of her songs while she stood only a few feet away, but it was much too risky. She didn’t want anything to give away the fact that it was really her up on that stage, masquerading as a nobody. She would die from the humiliation. No. The Dess Hampton the world had come to know was happily retired and wanted to be left in peace. Any suggestion to the contrary would imply that she was out to try and prove something. That she was a coward trying to slip in through the back door or, worse, that she was trying to recapture her earlier glory on the coattails of this talented up-and-comer. It was absolutely imperative that her true identity be kept a secret.

  Dess swallowed back the annoying tears gathering in her throat as she watched Erika go through her piano scales and wondered—again—how the hell she’d been talked into joining this little road show. She was largely doing it for Sloane and Carol, to get them off her back. But mostly it was because she owed them for their loyalty and friendship during her battle with throat cancer. They’d stuck with her, pushed her through the radiation treatments that ultimately destroyed her livelihood and crushed her spirit, then helped her pick herself back up again. She’d go to the ends of the earth for them, including doing this summer concert series, since that was what they seemed to want. But she didn’t have to like it, nor was she yet convinced it was a good move for her. Once October came, however, she’d never have to step near a stage again.

  “We need to cover a bit of everything with Erika’s voice,” Sloane suggested. “Rock, blues, jazz, R & B, you name it.”

  Dess didn’t agree, and she and Sloane had been arguing all morning about the set list as Erika fiddled at the piano, ignoring them. Dess argued that Erika should stick to a couple of genres rather than spreading herself too thin. Better she make a name for herself as a rocker or a blues singer, a country singer, whatever, she’d urged, and then she could branch out after she’d established herself. Sloane thought Erika should try everything and see what stuck. Or simply be great at all of it and dare people to try and pigeonhole her.

  They were about to ask Erika to weigh in when the first instantly recognizable piano trill of the Carpenters’ “(They Long to Be) Close to You” floated through the air.

  Dess stopped talking. Stopped moving. Stopped hearing what Sloane was saying. Every nerve in her body danced on the head of a pin, painfully alert and riveted on each note taking flight from Erika’s fingertips. It was an iconic song, the opening piano riff like nothing else that had ever been written. But it was Erika’s voice that instantly set her nerve endings ablaze, made her catch herself from her weak-kneed stumble. It was a voice every bit as uniquely talented as Karen Carpenter’s—deep and tonally clear and perfect in depth and pitch and range.

  Sloane had finally stopped talking too, and both women stared at Erika, who seemed so absorbed in the song that she had completely tuned out everything and everyone else in the room. God, I remember what that’s like, Dess thought on an intake of held breath. There were moments and songs when a singer reached a zenith of immersed perfection, where flawless met the transcendental. It was a high that was better than any alcohol, opioid or orgasm. Dess could reach those perfect moments playing guitar sometimes, but it wasn’t the same as simultaneously playing an instrument and singing, where the two coalesced into a synchronicity that soared on the wings of angels. The way Erika was doing now.

  “Goddammit, she’s good,” Sloane whispered.

  Yes, Dess thought. Goose-bumpy good. It was almost frightening to think of the possibilities that awaited such a talent. Erika Alvarez could be one of the greatest singers of her generation if she wanted it badly enough and the stars all aligned. The summer concert series would give a good indication of her drive and ambition, how she coped with demands both on-stage and off, how audiences received her. As for the stars aligning, who knew? Luck remained the biggest determinant of success, followed by hard work and then talent. The jury was entirely out on Erika Alvarez’s future, but it was going to be one hell of an experience to see it all unfold.

  As Erika played the final notes of the song, Sloane clapped, then dourly said, “I hope you’re not including that song on the set list. Much as I like it, it’s too saccharine and not the kind of thing—”

  “Don’t worry,” Erika said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I wouldn’t dream of it, unless I’m playing to a bunch of old ladies.”

  Ouch, thought Dess with a wince. I like that song, dammit!

  “Anyway,” Erika continued, “I was only fooling around so I didn’t have to listen to you two bicker about my set list.”

  Dess and Sloane traded a look. Erika was right. They were being rude and overbearing about the damned list, and it was time to give Erika some control. “Point taken, Erika. It’s your set list. Why don’t you decide what you want, and we’ll back off.”

  Dess ignored Sloane’s raised eyebrows. If Erika was going to grow as a musician, part of that growth included being assertive and making her own choices.

  Erika, still at the piano, shuffled some sheet music and cleared her throat nervously as if she were preparing for a speech. �
�I want the songs to be bluesy, with a bit of R & B and folk thrown in. I haven’t decided on all the songs yet, but mostly they will be new takes on old covers with a couple of originals mixed in.”

  “All right. The originals,” Dess said, zeroing in right away on what could be the strongest—or the weakest—part of Erika’s concert set. “Pick your best ones and let’s hear them.”

  Erika’s face colored. “I don’t want to use my stuff. It’s not good enough. I’d like to write something new. With your help, that is.”

  Oh hell, Dess thought. Not only do I have to play guitar, shepherd the young pup away from all the pitfalls in the music business and give her whatever sage advice I can, but now I have to help her write some bloody songs? Why don’t I just do everything and dub somebody else’s voice over mine? Her eyes shot daggers at Sloane, as if to say, you got me into this!

  Sloane gave her a needling wink but directed her remarks at Erika. “Fabulous idea. You and Dess can work on writing a song while I head off to Detroit tomorrow.”

  Dess’s imminent protestations were quickly and strategically preempted by Erika’s enthusiastic gratefulness. She’d look like a snotty bitch now if she said no.

  “There’s something we can work on now,” Erika said. “With Dess on guitar and you, Sloane, on the hand drums. I want to do a really bluesy, soulful rendition of ‘Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone.’ And then I want to do a full acoustic version of ‘Sweet Child O Mine.’”

  “Now you’re talking,” Sloane said, racing to the conga set.

  Okay, those songs she could do in her sleep, Dess thought as she retrieved her best acoustic guitar.

  * * *

  The grueling hills slicing through the center of the island, forcing Erika’s legs to pump harder and harder to propel her bicycle along the path, were exactly what she needed. An exhausted body left little energy for the mind to nervously ponder being alone with Dess for the next couple of days, although it occurred to her that her burning lungs didn’t need quite this much exertion.