The Song in My Heart (10 page)

“It’s a long and complicated story. And it’s her story to tell, not mine. But I can tell you that she’s a bit damaged, if you want to know the truth. And for good reason.” Sloane studied her glass and its waning contents. “Promise me you’ll go easy on her, okay? And that you’ll be patient? Because she really is worth it, kid.” Sloane drained the last of her bourbon. “And on that, you’ll just have to trust me.”

Erika drained her own glass. She was going to have to figure out how to gain Dess’s trust. And she would, by God, no matter how long it took.

* * *

Dess lay in bed, tossing and turning. Maggie’s snoring from her bed in the corner did little to soothe her, the way it usually did. She was still rattled by the way she’d gone off on poor Erika earlier. She had ripped her a new one over her suggestion that they use one of her secret songs, and she was sorry now for overreacting. Erika probably thought she was a spoiled, selfish diva. Or terribly insecure. An apology was needed, she knew, but it wouldn’t explain her behavior. The explanation was going to be the impossible part.

Plain and simple, Dess didn’t discuss personal stuff with anyone but Sloane, her sister Carol and her mother. That was her inner circle, small as it was, and it was the only circle that mattered to her. They were the only people privy to her pain and her deepest thoughts, just as the songs she’d written were like her own private diary entries. With a foreshadowing threaded more with relief than worry, Dess knew she would need to let Erika inside—at least a little. And they would have to trust each other. If they didn’t, it was certain their little tour would be doomed.
And we’ll be miserable with each other
.

All right, she decided as she stared into the yawning black of the ceiling.
First chance I get for some private time with Erika, I’ll share some things with her. Not everything. Not by a long shot. But I’ll need to start treating her like a friend instead of a stranger
. There wasn’t much time to make things right between them, and it was Dess who needed to set things on the right course. She’d been naïve, she realized now, in thinking through all the angles involved in joining Erika’s tour, because creating music together had become the least of her worries.

As sleep finally embraced her, Dess’s last thought circled back to Erika’s earlier comment about going home alone nine times out of ten. She wondered with far more than simple academic curiosity what that one woman in ten—the lucky one who went home with Erika—was like.

Chapter Eight

Their luxury Lincoln pickup truck gobbled up the interstate miles like they were nothing, even with the heavy, thirty-foot rented fifth-wheel RV bumping along behind it. They were heading for their inaugural gig, a two-day weekend festival on the outskirts of Indianapolis, and Erika had offered to drive as a way of calming her nerves. “I’m a Texan,” she’d told Sloane and Dess. “Of course I know how to drive a rig!”

In the back seat that was the size of a small living room, Sloane and Maggie snoozed, Maggie’s snoring snout resting on Sloane’s lap, while Sloane’s arm limply cradled the dog. Erika would never have imagined herself in this situation just a few short weeks ago—RVing to music festivals with a bona fide but forgotten music sensation, a highly sought-after concert and studio drummer and an adorable chocolate Labrador retriever. This, she thought with a smile that threatened to bubble into full-throated laughter, was her family for the next four months. Hell, it was a lot more than that. It was the only family that mattered to her these days.

In Erika’s jaundiced opinion, her real family meant a genetic bond and not much more. An only child, she was united with her narrow-minded, socially and economically struggling parents only in blood and in name and in their singular desire to be accepted by society at large. Their means of achieving social acceptance was not only diametrically opposite hers, but full of friction. Erika’s escape to college had been her one-way ticket out of an existence that saw her parents wield her as their biggest weapon against their subjugation. They never saw her for who she was. Never asked her what she wanted. Never gave her an ounce of freedom to explore who she was and what she wanted, and Erika would never forgive them for that.

“You okay?” Dess said from beside her.

Erika slid a sideways glance at Dess, caught the concern in her eyes and felt, for the first time in more than a week, that Dess was sincerely trying to reach out. Things had been tepid between them since Erika’s ill-advised suggestion that they use one of Dess’s secret songs in their set. Apology aside, there’d been no real thaw between them until now.

“You looked a bit…troubled,” Dess added.

“I’m fine,” Erika snapped. “Happy to be on the road, as a matter of fact.” Moving, that was the ticket. Erika was always moving forward, because if you moved forward, you could outrun your pain, she believed. She didn’t know how Dess could stand wallowing in hers. Sitting around by herself these last few years, brooding, bitter, writing songs nobody would ever hear. It sounded like one hell of a depressing existence.

“Can I ask you something?” The question was out of Erika’s mouth before she could stop herself. She didn’t wait for permission. “Why do you write all those songs with no intention of them ever being heard?”

Dess paused before answering.

Well, now I’ve done it
, Erika thought, as she waited for the outburst she was sure would follow. Outburst or not, something needed to be said if they were to warm to each other.

Dess’s voice was surprisingly gentle in reply. “Therapy, I guess. Music is the best way for me to express my deepest feelings, whether anyone hears it or not.”

Erika hadn’t thought of it that way. She was so hungry to perform, to put her talent out there in front of people. If she had Dess’s songwriting ability, she’d be singing those suckers all over the place. Or begging others to sing them all over the place.

“But if you shared them,” Erika suggested, “maybe it would help others who’ve felt the same way.”

Dess seemed to consider this. “I suppose. After all, music is about souls connecting, about shared human experiences. The songs we feel the most connection with stir something in our soul. But my songs…they’re so personal. Autobiographical. For some musicians, it’s no big deal. But for me? It’s tough to share my deepest pain, my deepest thoughts, with the world.”

“I would like it if, someday, you would share some of them with me, Dess. Just us, no audience.”

Erika knew she’d thrown down a gauntlet of sorts, and she took a deep breath, steeling herself for Dess’s answer.

“All right,” Dess whispered so quietly that Erika nearly missed it. “Someday.”

Erika smiled. It was progress, at least.

* * *

Dess, who knew next to nothing about camping, let Sloane and Erika hook up the RV to the campground’s power and water supply. They were supposed to be at the festival grounds for a sound check in an hour. Then, as probably the least known act in the lineup, they would open the show.

Dess was unreasonably nervous. This was small potatoes compared with what she was used to—sold-out football stadiums, packed Broadway theaters, intimate concerts with some of the world’s richest and most powerful people. But it was her first time on any stage in more than six years, and she wasn’t convinced, as Sloane suggested, that the years would melt away with the first note of music. She prayed she wouldn’t make mistakes or perform stiffly, but at least it would be Erika in the spotlight, doing the heavy lifting. All Dess had to do, she reminded herself, was be the anonymous guitar player, shuffling around in the shadows.

She pulled Erika aside as Sloane went to unpack their instruments from the large steel box bolted onto the back of the RV.

“How are you feeling?” Dess asked, keeping her own nervousness in check.

Erika pushed a strand of her wild hair behind her ear—a little habit Dess found perpetually endearing. “A little nervous. But excited too.”

“Can I give you some advice?”

“Please.”

“Focus on one person in the audience. Pretend you’re just singing to her. It will keep you from getting too nervous or too excited, okay?”

Erika nodded. “Thanks. And Dess?”

“Yes?” God, the way Erika looked at her sometimes. Those dark eyes full of fire never failed to spark something in Dess.

“Thanks for being here with me. I couldn’t do this without you.”

Dess smiled, rubbed Erika’s arm. “Yeah, you could. But I’m happy to be here. Well, until I have to actually get up on that stage.”

“Maybe I should be asking
you
if you’re nervous?”

“Nah. Like a walk in the park to me.” It wasn’t, but she didn’t need Erika to know that.

The sound check complete, they waited backstage for the signal that it was time. The announcer asked them if they had a name, like a real band, to which they’d lamely shaken their heads. Now it made Dess cringe as she heard the emcee introduce them as “Erika Alvarez and her, um, band. Give it up for them, ladies and gentlemen.”

There was a smattering of light applause. Barely a ripple of anticipation or excitement, which was disappointing. It wasn’t for herself that she cared—she actually preferred a small, disinterested crowd for her first foray back to the stage—but for Erika’s sake, it was disheartening. They looked warily at each other. Sloane shrugged—for her, this summer tour was a vacation interwoven with the occasional high-profile gig like the one she’d had in Detroit with Taylor Swift. Erika smiled gamely, but there was no joy in it.

“They’ll come,” Dess whispered. “Be patient. And remember what I said earlier.”

Erika nodded and grabbed the mic, Dess and Sloane taking their places behind her.

“Good evening, everyone!” Erika yelled into the mic. “It’s so nice to be here with y’all. Thank you for having us. Are you guys ready for a little action?”

Barely a murmur acknowledged her remarks. A few people were stretched out on the grass before the stage, the picture of disinterest. Others were coming and going, finding their seats or wandering off. It was supper time, though. A bad time slot. They’d have to grind through it and act like they were having fun, like they were singing to a thousand people on the edge of their seats, Dess told herself by way of a pep talk. They’d need to find their own energy, because they sure as hell weren’t going to get any from the crowd.

Dess put a hand to her beret one last time to make sure her dark wig remained in place. The wig, the beret and the sunglasses were, she hoped, enough of a disguise that nobody would ever recognize her. Dora Hessler would be her stage name for the summer. It would be fine as long as all the attention remained riveted on Erika, which was the whole point of this exercise.

Dess took deep breaths to still her suddenly pounding heart. It was like a piston on overdrive, leaving her light-headed. Being onstage again sure as hell didn’t feel like riding a bike again (Sloane’s advice!). Her hands were trembling—not good for a guitarist, she reminded herself.
This is not about you
, she told herself over and over again.
This is for Erika
.

Sloane had launched into a beat on her drum kit. Dess missed her cue, and Sloane threw her a withering look as she kept the beat going. A few more beats and Dess jumped in this time with the beginning electric guitar licks of “Anyway You Want It.” It was the perfect high-energy song to launch their set. Erika’s voice rang out—so powerful, Dess decided, that everyone on the entire property would feel it in their bones whether they were actively listening or not. Erika gave the song its gritty, raunchy due, and slowly heads looked up, bodies sat up straighter, empty seats began to fill up.

Yes
, Dess thought as she flashed an acknowledging grin at Erika.
It’ll come, baby, just keep going; it’ll come.
A tickling sensation bloomed in Dess’s stomach as she watched Erika relax into the song and her confidence take hold. Her tentative steps around the stage began to resemble a strut. Then, as they launched into Mary J. Blige’s “I Am,” Erika’s sex appeal exploded like a bomb. She stomped around the stage in her leather boots, offering up a spirited leg kick on the occasional downbeat, stood still to caress the mic like a lover as her voice dripped into it, all sultry and soulful, then she pointed challengingly to faces in the growing crowd. Dess, like she imagined others in the audience did in that moment, truly believed Erika when she sang the words “
Ain’t nobody gonna love you better than I am
.”

Oh yeah
, Dess thought with satisfaction,
she’s got it
. She was a natural—something Dess herself had to struggle much harder to accomplish in the early days of her career. Erika had charisma and presence by the truckload—two things that would take her further and faster than most aspiring musicians.

By the time they finished their six-song set (they’d been promised more but were cut at the last minute) with their bluesy piano-guitar rendition of “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone,” the crowd was fully involved and hanging on their every note. Most were on their feet, and most were cheering and yelling for more.

The three women high-fived their victory backstage, then shook the hand of the sheepish stage manager, who didn’t waste any time telling them he’d move them into the eight o’clock slot tomorrow night. And that they could perform two extra songs.

Sloane sidled up to Dess as Erika made small talk with a musician who was tuning his guitar. “Isn’t this a blast? Being in on the ground floor like this? Things are really gonna take off for Erika one of these days.” Sloane bumped Dess’s shoulder. “And we can say we knew her when.”

Dess studied Erika from afar as she thought about that. She remembered her own meteoric ride to the top. How one day it was roadside motels and smelly buses, then almost overnight, private jets and penthouse suites at five-star hotels. It was like rocketing to another time zone or perhaps to another planet altogether. It was nothing and everything like she’d imagined. And now, watching Erika idly run her fingers through her thick hair, oblivious to Dess’s scrutiny, she had the unmistakable urge to wrap her arms around Erika in a protective hold, keeping her here, where things were still simple, forever.