The Song in My Heart (6 page)

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.

Over breakfast, Dess had relented on writing a song or two together, more out of debt or deference to Sloane than anything else, Erika supposed. But she wasn’t so proud that she wouldn’t take a gift, even if it was half-hearted. They’d started their morning exploring the island on bicycles, and Dess was inarguably kicking her ass, as she zoomed past her at every opportunity.

Jesus. More than a dozen years older than me, and a cancer survivor too, and I can’t keep up
? Erika was more amused than annoyed that someone a dozen years older was far superior in the fitness department. She appreciated that Dess could out-cycle her, that she had the kind of body that was fit enough to leave her in the dust. Stamina, strength. All good things to have in bed, Erika thought wickedly.

After bisecting the island, they navigated its circumference, which was mercifully flat, but the stiff breeze off the lake was providing a challenge. It was Dess’s theory that they’d be more open creatively later if they burned some energy first, but Erika wasn’t sure there’d be any reserves left. The problem wasn’t in exerting herself, but in the manner in which she exerted herself. She’d be happy to use up her energy on Dess. On top of Dess. Underneath Dess. Inside Dess.
But not on this frigging bike!

Erika pushed on the pedals as they hit yet another hill. The Grand Hotel rounded into view and she stopped to enjoy its grandeur.
Yes, that’s it, I’m enjoying the view and not stopping to pick my lungs up off the ground!
Dess looked back, stopped and gestured at the restaurant directly across from the hotel, a place called the Jockey Club.

“Lunch?” she shouted.

Oh, there is a God!
“Yes, great.”

They took seats at an outdoor table, the golf course a carpet of green straight ahead, the Grand Hotel looming on their right. It took several excruciating moments for Erika to catch her breath, and when she did, she said, “It’s gorgeous here.”

Her eyes raked appreciatively over the hotel’s massive six-story white structure. A quick Google search had told her its porch overlooking the straits, adorned with crisp wind-whipped American flags hanging before every balustrade, was six hundred and sixty feet long. It was built in 1887 and had been made famous over the decades in a handful of movies. It was easy to imagine how little the hotel had changed over a century, and it made sense that it had been the setting for the famous time travel movie,
Somewhere In Time
. If she didn’t know better, watching the bicycles and horses pass by, Erika would swear she had traveled back to the late eighteen hundreds.

“It’s a real sanctuary here,” Dess replied, accepting a soda and lime from the waiter. “Well, not so much in July and August when it’s nuts with tourists. I keep my distance then. Spring and fall are my favorite times here.”

Erika twirled the straw in her tall glass of Long Island ice tea. Alcohol was what this torture called a bike ride needed. “It’d be awesome to sit on that Grand Hotel porch on a chaise lounge with a fancy cocktail.” A couple of girls waving palm fronds over them wouldn’t hurt either.

“Funny you should say that,” Dess said with a laugh. “Sloane had the same crazy idea late one night. She was drunk. She hopped over the fence, her flask in her back pocket, snuck up onto the porch and plopped herself in one of those very chairs and fell asleep. One of the workers found her at dawn and kicked her out.”

For all Sloane’s wildness, she struck Erika as a savvy musician. An expert who knew her way around the minefields in the business. And she seemed to know how to surround herself with great talent, which was a useful skill. She knew talent when she heard it, and she didn’t seem to waste her time with imposters. Erika, however, didn’t allow herself to feel too flattered at Sloane’s—and Dess’s—attention. There was simply too much work to do to keep earning that attention, to keep in her mentors’ good graces. If not much else, Erika could thank her taskmaster parents for instilling a hard work ethic in her.

“Sloane certainly has b—guts, doesn’t she? Listen,” Erika ventured, wanting to revisit the topic of writing a song together. Dess hadn’t seemed altogether thrilled about it earlier, and if she had no intention of giving it her best effort, Erika didn’t want her help. “I’m sorry if I was a bit presumptuous in suggesting we write a song together. If you don’t want to…”

“No.” Dess’s mouth solidified into a hard line as her gaze drifted over the empty golf course before them. “If I were in your shoes, I would have suggested the same thing.” Her eyes swung back to Erika, revealing the barest hint of vulnerability that shifted something in Erika’s heart. “But what makes you think I can help you write a good song? I only had a couple of hits with my own songs. Most of my songwriting has happened since my…illness.”

Erika brushed her thigh against Dess’s as she leaned closer, wanting the physical contact to reassure Dess. “I know you’re a great talent, Dess. And I trust that you can take me places with my music that I can barely allow myself to imagine. I trust you completely. And I trust that we will come up with something way better than I could ever write on my own. If you’re willing to try, so am I.”

Erika held her breath. It was the first real crack she’d seen in Dess’s confidence, and she worried her words would fall short. She needed a sharp, confident Dess if they were to write anything good.

After a long pause, Dess grinned at her as the waiter, dressed in jodhpurs and knee-high boots, delivered their chicken and vegetable wraps and side salads. “No pressure, huh?”

“For me, lots of pressure. For you?” Erika said, bravely raising an eyebrow. “This’ll be a walk in the park.”

They chatted about the charms of the island as they devoured their lunch. After their plates were cleared away, Dess laid down the gauntlet. “If we’re going to write a good song and trust each other, as you say, then we’ll need complete honesty between us. And that means getting to know each other better. Strangers writing songs together doesn’t work in my experience. Deal?”

Erika didn’t have to give it a second thought, even as her palms began to itch. The thought of getting better acquainted with the enigmatic Dess Hampton was both terrifying and electrifying. “Deal.”

Chapter Five

It was too chilly to sit on the porch to hatch ideas for a song, so Erika and Dess moved to the cushioned rattan sofa in the glassed-in three-season room off the back of the house. Dess didn’t normally take up residence on the island until late May, but she found herself enjoying the crisp air, the buds on the trees and the ubiquitous lilac bushes, and the smell of fresh earth on the cusp of giving birth to another season of greenery. It was a clean, invigorating time of year that was full of promise. Not only for the coming season, but perhaps for something greater, Dess thought with a prescience that was disconcerting. There was no doubt that Erika Alvarez had come swooping unexpectedly into her life for a reason. Dess hadn’t entirely decided if that was a good thing or not, but for now she would bravely ride this wave and see where it took her. Because her sister Carol and Sloane were right—her life needed some shaking up right now. But more important, helping a neophyte like Erika might be Dess’s chance to right a long-ago mistake that still haunted her. She hadn’t told anyone, but she hoped Erika might answer her need for redemption. That Erika might be the key to finally securing the universe’s forgiveness.

“This song,” Dess said. “A ballad? Rock? What pace and feel do you want it to have?”

“Definitely something bluesy,” Erika said without hesitation. “And a bit mournful. Plaintive, like I’m longing for something. That’s the sound I want to go for.”

“How does a girl from Texas become such a student of the blues? Because you have a great bluesy voice, by the way. It’s just that I would have expected country and western out of you, given your geographic roots.”

“I love the blues because it’s so old and it’s such a melding of so many other styles. Gospel, rock, country, soul. It’s all there. And it’s so raw, so full of feeling. It’s about life’s best and worst, which really means it’s about the good and bad in all of us. I think it’s the root of all music, and that’s where I want to be. At the root of it all.”

Erika’s obvious passion for the blues was impressive. “So the blues is big in Texas?” Dess asked.

“Oh yes. There’s an incredible amount of blues talent in Texas, and playing blues makes you a better musician in a hell of a hurry. There’s a gunslinger mentality in Texas.” Erika’s dimples rose with her smile. “It’s simple. Be the best or be gunned down.”

“Well, then. You’re used to pressure.”
And wanting to be the best.

Those damned dimples were unnerving, the ghosts of them lingering after Erika’s smile faded. They’re lethal, Dess thought with a spark of concern for the effect they were having on her. “You only have a trace of a Texas accent, but you grew up there?”