Abby Road (24 page)

Plus, I knew Todd’s background. His parents were extremely conservative, almost to the point of being old fashioned, which I happened to find charming. Todd would have rather moved into a hotel than live with me in sin.

Back in Seaside, when I would innocently fall asleep on his couch, the evening always ended with me being scooped up and taken home.

“Puppy,” his deep and dreamy nighttime voice would whisper, his fingers tickling various parts of my body. “Last call. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Lindsey and Steve had gotten used to the tall, green-eyed man showing up on their doorstep in the middle of the night with me, half conscious, propped up against his side or completely cataleptic in his arms.

At the beginning of the summer, it had been mostly just the two of us, but after a few weeks, Todd deemed it “safe” enough for me to meet his local buddies. Even Frisbee Dude. They were great guys who probably resented me for stealing away their surfing pal. After their initial reactions, à la Chandler, the guys got used to me, and I was mostly hassled with questions about how well I knew Taylor Swift and could I give them Emma Stone’s cell phone number. Todd also kept in touch with his college alums and Marine brothers-at-arms; they drifted in and out over the summer, dragging him off to cave dive and deep sea fish and climb random tall things while I happily napped on the beach—or in his bed, when he wasn’t looking.

“Will you be working as soon as tomorrow?” Todd asked as our flight attendant loaded us up with water, more Dr Pepper, honey roasted peanuts, and a warm chocolate chip cookie the size of a dinner plate. I declined mine, knowing full well that the eight and a half pounds I’d packed on over the summer would have to come off once Max took one look.

“I think so,” I replied. “Nathan sent some of the new material a few weeks ago.” I reached for my brown-and-gold Gucci carry-on under my seat. “I haven’t even looked at them yet. They could be in Swahili, for all I know.” I tore open a large FedEx envelope, laying the hundred-some-odd pages of sheet music on the pull-down table in front of me.

Todd’s eyes went wide and then glazed over. “It looks like Swahili to me.”

“Music’s a snap,” I said, speed reading through the first song, hearing notes in my head. It was mid-tempo, low register, and something of an ode to a certain frozen dessert, reminding me of George Harrison’s “Savoy Truffle,” his precious ditty devoted entirely to the contents of a box of chocolates. As Todd read over my shoulder, I added, “You’re the one who’s fluent in four languages at last count.”

“You’re memorizing those, aren’t you?” Todd asked when I flipped a page, barely glancing at it, though its picture in my brain remained intact.

I tapped the side of my head. “I wouldn’t survive without this baby.”

“Are you actually expected to sing the word
consternate?
” he asked, pointing to the sheet of a fast-tempo number about a girl meeting a boy for a date on the moon. “You should do more songs like ‘Intimate Strangers.’ One of my favorites.”

I balked in surprise. “Really?”

He nodded, flipping through some more pages. “It’s joyful and sentimental without sounding like a torch song. The lyrics are pretty clever.”

I smiled. We hadn’t talked about my career very much; in fact, Todd was the showoff when it came to singing along to the stereo. His gyrating Mick Jagger was spot on, only to be bested by his croony Sinatra.

“I really like that song, too,” I confessed, staring at his lowered eyes. “I changed it up a little during one of the takes, and we kept it that way.”

He looked at me. “Which part?”

“I kind of tweaked the last verse so it was relevant. I thought my fans would be more interested in a happily ever after, rather than a song about a one-night stand, so I changed the end. Writers hate when singers do that.” I rolled my eyes. “But even something as small as a few lines or the phrasing . . . When I can change something, I feel like the song becomes mine, and I’m sharing a piece of my soul.”

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.