The Song in My Heart (7 page)

“My parents immigrated to Texas from Mexico before I was born. So. yes, I grew up there, but there isn’t much about that time I like to remember.” Her eyes darkened into black stones shimmering at the bottom of a crystalline river. “I went to the University of Minnesota, so that’s where I’ve made my home the last few years.”

Dess resisted the urge to press. Pain was always the perfect, powerful source of inspiration for a musician. For her, the pain had mostly come later, long after fame had ripped her from the pedantic, pastoral life she had known growing up outside Chicago. Erika, it seemed, was ahead of her on that score. Just don’t let the pain take over your life, no matter how much it advances your career, Dess wished to one day tell her. Too many artists thrived on their pain, then capitalized on it, so they got caught up in a vicious circle. She’d seen too many of them pay for it with their life.

“All right, something bluesy then. Let’s start with what’s been on your mind. What’s been consuming your thoughts lately?” Dess poised her pencil over the pad of paper on her lap and watched as Erika’s finely shaped, dark brows dipped in concentration.

“Honesty, right?”

“Of course.”

Erika flashed a smile that left no room for ambivalence. “You.”

There was a quickening in Dess’s veins.
Oh God
, she thought, mostly unnerved, only a tiny bit flattered.
I don’t want to be at the center of anyone’s thoughts, the inspiration for a song. Especially not from someone as eager and as hot as this young buck
.

She was afraid to think about what this sexy, beautiful, talented young woman actually thought of her. Sloane had already told her that Erika was a lesbian, and Dess imagined she could—and probably did—have any woman she wanted. She certainly wouldn’t want some washed-up old broad like herself, Dess was sure. On the extremely slim chance that Erika did harbor designs on her, it was a moot point, because she was finished with that nonsense. She’d never been able to make a relationship work for the long haul, and she wasn’t about to try again anytime soon. Especially not with someone more than a dozen years her junior. And never again with someone in the music business. Oh no. That ship had sailed a long time ago.

“Care to elaborate?” Dess said, her mouth impossibly dry, as she lobbed the topic back in Erika’s court.

Erika caved with surprising rapidity. She blinked a couple of times, and her Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. The cockiness was gone, and what was left in its place was adorable.

“I—it’s pretty straightforward really,” Erika stammered. She spread her hands out, and Dess noticed they trembled the tiniest bit. “I want what you have. The crazy ride to the top. The massive audiences, the hit records, the awards, the influence and power to create what I want. I want it all.”

“But why?” Dess said, louder and with more bite than she’d intended. This foolish ingenue didn’t know what she was up against. Audiences and record buyers were fickle, managers and music executives were ruthless in their demands, and some were even crooks. Awards were a joke, because too often the best songs and the best musicians got ignored after the orgy of ass-kissing was over. As for influence and power, there was no guarantee you would acquire it, no matter how famous you became. Dess knew from experience that the negatives more often outweighed the positives. What she didn’t know was how she was going to convince Erika of that without snuffing out her hopefulness, her ambition, her dream. As much as Erika needed to hear some of these things, Dess reminded herself that dreams needed to be nourished, guided. With a strong hand, yes, but not with a fist.

“Why not?” Erika countered. “I think I have the talent, and I think I have something to offer. And if I’m right about both those things, then I deserve to be at the top. And at the top is where I can really leave my mark. Where I can prove…” Her voice trailed off, her gaze wandered.

Dess didn’t want to argue about this, but Erika’s motives raised a red flag. Who was she trying to prove something to? Her immigrant parents? Teachers and childhood friends who never thought she could do it? Well, those were pathetic reasons, and they wouldn’t cut it.

As if reading Dess’s mind, Erika shot back, “Why did
you
want it?”

“I didn’t. Or at least, I didn’t think I wanted any of it. I was young, barely out of high school. I started winning some talent contests, and before I knew it, I was signed to a record deal and started doing concerts.”

Erika grinned. “Sweet.”

Dess’s pulse quickened at the sight of those damned dimples again, but her temper escalated too. “It wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be, okay? There’s a lot more to it than you think. And you need to do it for you and for the sake of the music. Because at the end of the day, if you’re not true to those two things, you have nothing.” Not the awards, not the magazine covers, not even the platinum and gold records hanging in her music room.

Erika’s breezy shrug was typical of a twenty-something. “I will. But I still want what you’ve got.”

Dess shook her head and stood abruptly, her pad of paper thudding to the floor. The girl clearly didn’t know what she was saying. “Honey, all I’ve got is a rearview mirror.”

“Oh my God. That’s a perfect line for the song. Maybe even the title.” Erika began writing furiously on her own pad of paper.

Dess stormed off. She needed to collect herself.

* * *

Erika remained in the three-season room, so engrossed in writing her song that she barely registered Dess’s absence. She was satisfied with her first draft of lyrics, but the more difficult part lay in the writing of the music, as she knew from experience. Marrying the two together was both the fun part and the most challenging.

She tiptoed to Dess’s music room, Maggie approaching her with her wet nose and her happy tail.

“Hi, Maggie, old girl, where’s your mama hiding?” she whispered, letting Maggie lick the back of her hand. “Think she’d mind me using her piano?”

Erika sat down at the piano and propped her sheet of lyrics in front of her.
Hmm, something kinda bluesy, maybe a little raunchy and plaintive too
. She banged out a riff, then another one until she found one she liked. What she really needed was Dess on guitar laying down the rhythm and contributing ideas for blues licks they could roll into the song. Dess was supposed to be helping her with this, dammit, not storming off in a snit because Erika had dared to suggest that she led an enviable life. Jeez, why should a little idolizing bother her anyway? It couldn’t have been the first time somebody had said that kind of thing to her, and it was flattering. Wasn’t it?

Erika stopped playing, questions about Dess buzzing through her mind like a swarm of angry bees. She had so many questions, but she didn’t dare ask. Not yet. What bugged her most was why Dess seemed so bitter about the music business. It gave her the life she had, after all—this house, all these awards on the walls, infinite adoration. Yet she acted like it had been some kind of curse or nightmare that she’d had to endure. Her anger made no sense
.

“You’re making progress,” Dess said, stepping into the room.

Startled, Erika jumped. “I think I’ve stalled, actually.”

Dess plucked a Les Paul electric guitar off the wall and plugged it into a nearby amp. “Play me some more of what you were just doing.”

Erika obeyed, and Dess joined in, improvising some licks on the spot. They each made adjustments until the two sounds melded, fitting together like seamless slots. It reminded Erika of whipping up a gourmet meal without a recipe. Trying a little this, a little that, until it began to taste just right.

“Can I see what you’ve written for lyrics?” Dess asked.

Erika handed over the sheet of paper, bracing herself for the nuclear explosion she was sure would follow. She watched Dess read the words, watched as the line between her pretty gray eyes deepened, then smoothed as she reached the end.

“It sounds a little on the cynical side,” Dess said. “A bit harsh.”

“It’s the blues. It’s supposed to be sort of angry and cynical. But it’s plaintive too, I hope. The feeling of wanting something you can’t or don’t have.”

Dess still hadn’t indicated whether she liked the song, and her omission hurt. Erika had laid bare her feelings on that wrinkled piece of paper. She did want what Dess once had and now so casually didn’t give a shit about anymore. What was so wrong with wanting what tens of thousands, perhaps even millions, of other people wanted? She’d thought long and hard about it for years, had worked her ass off since going away to college. This wasn’t some fly-by-night fantasy that she would discard in a few months. She was no longer a kid with stars in her eyes. And whatever was haunting Dess was not her fault.

She pounded out a few bars on the piano.

“Whoa there,” Dess yelled over the racket. “That might be a bit heavy for the song. Okay, look.” She squeezed onto the piano bench next to Erika, their thighs and shoulders touching.
Damn
. The contact electrified the air around them, and Erika’s heart pounded. Maybe it was the mix of anger and reverence toward Dess that put her breathlessly on edge. But something else, too, something much further south, was stirring.

The urge to bend Dess over this piano bench, peel off her clothes, kiss every inch of her skin, plunge herself inside her, strangled the very breath from Erika’s throat. She hadn’t felt such a thunderous rush of desire for anyone in a long time. Years, in fact, and she had to squeeze her legs together. Shakily, she wiped the back of her hand over her moist forehead, and tried—
please God!
—to think of something else, anything else. The birds outside, the freighter out on the lake that looked the size of a toy, the storm forecast for tomorrow night…

When she allowed herself a moment of clarity, she knew this attraction made little sense. Half their time together was spent at odds with each other, and the other half, well, they weren’t exactly good friends. Friendly strangers, maybe. And yet there it was, a physical chemistry that had the power to shake the ground beneath her and to instantly decimate any walls she might erect for self-preservation.

Dess, completely oblivious to the hormonal eruption next to her and Erika’s struggle to tamp it down, began reading the first verse and chorus out loud;

I want what you got.

You say all you got’s a rearview mirror.

But that rearview mirror’s got a highway full of memories.

Memories I’ll never know.

’Cuz I want what you got.

I want where you lived,

Who you loved, what you did.

I want what you got.

“Okay,” Dess continued. “I like it. It’s good. But I think we can improve the writing. Then we can layer in more music, though I like the riffs we’ve done so far.”

“Really?” Erika said, a starstruck kid all over again.

Dess rose from the piano bench, her absence like a cool, unwelcome breeze against Erika’s skin. She flipped some switches at a bank of electronic equipment in the corner.

“Let’s record what we have so far for posterity, then get something for supper, okay?”

“Oh shit.” Erika glanced at her watch, saw that it was after six thirty. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Another half-hour of this before dinner, then I think we should pack it in until tomorrow.”

Erika couldn’t keep the mischief from her voice. “What if we’re struck by inspiration late tonight?”

Dess smiled. Damn, her smile was alluring, almost heartbreaking in its vulnerability.
Makes you want to hold her in your arms and never let go. Protect her, nourish her, adore her, kiss away all those sad things she has inside her. God, what’s happening to me? Am I trying to write some schmaltzy ballad now
?

“We’ll see about that, but I wouldn’t count on it. Maggie and I are usually in bed by ten thirty every night.”

Boy, would I ever like to change that
, Erika thought with renewed lust. While the strength of her attraction to Dess still surprised her a little, she felt no guilt. She loved women, loved sex, and Dess—a beautiful, sexy woman—was here in this big house, alone with her. In her mind, it could be that simple, although she’d been brought up well enough to mind her manners. A little fun in the sack with Dess Hampton was nothing more than a harmless, masturbation-inducing fantasy that she had no intention of trying to make happen.

Dinner consisted of pizza and a tall glass of beer at the Rebel Yankee tavern, and Erika quizzed Dess about the island—its history (she’d had no idea it had played a role in the War of 1812), its people (fewer than a thousand inhabited it year-round) and its charm. The cab ride back to Dess’s house was the most interesting—and the most enchanting—cab ride Erika had ever taken. The cab was a horse and buggy, because motorized vehicles weren’t allowed on the island. Another charming quirk about the island—all the bicycles and horses, Erika thought, her nose twitching at the earthy, not unpleasant smell of horse sweat permeating the air. She inched closer to Dess to ward off the evening chill.

“How come you don’t have your own horse and buggy?” she asked. It would be fun to take a ride like this, just the two of them.

“Are you kidding? I don’t trust myself to be able to handle one of these poor beasts. I’m sure they’d raise a fuss if a city slicker like me ever tried to command one. A bicycle works just fine for me most of the time.”

“Well, I think it’s incredibly cool. And romantic. I’ve never been on a horse and buggy before.”

Dess simply looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“What?”

Dess smiled, shook her head teasingly. “Romantic, huh? You’re going to be writing love songs by the end of this visit here, aren’t you?”

“With any luck,” Erika mumbled, hyper-aware of the fluttering sensation between her thighs. She wasn’t especially into casual flings, but she’d be happy to make an exception. Nothing complicated, nothing full of entanglements. A mature, sexy, smart and talented woman like Dess would be the perfect choice in making this a summer to remember. A smile rose to her lips as she envisioned slowly unbuttoning Dess’s blouse, slowly tasting what was inside.