“Is that a problem?” Wolf asked, narrowing his eyes.
“I only submitted for a one-semester sabbatical,” Noah replied, grasping at straws. “I don’t have the seniority yet to take a whole year off.”
Wolf waved away the objection. “I’m sure Stu can pull some strings. Think of the good press for the university when one of their own is associated with such a high-profile film.”
Uncle Stu nodded. “It won’t be a problem.”
Noah considered his uncle. The man had always been a force in Noah’s life, even before his father died. He’d been the one to teach him the importance of following the rules, had ingrained the lesson to always play by the book deep into Noah’s psyche before he even understood that there were others who thrived by coloring outside the lines. Yet at a word from Wolf, he would bend his beloved rules.
“That’s settled then,” Wolf said, setting down his coffee cup with more force than was necessary. “You’ll need to compose most of the score as we film so we can keep to a tight post-production schedule. It’s very important that the music capture the energy of the senator’s campaign, the electricity in the room, as it were. But play me these new pieces you’ve been working on.”
Noah agreed and made his way to the piano in the corner of the room, thankful for the bit of physical distance. He took his seat on the bench, lifted the lid from the keys, and dug in his bag for the pad of manuscript paper containing his latest sketches. Snippets of melodies that felt vaguely presidential or inspirational. Melodies designed to rouse pride and patriotism. He flipped through the pad, pausing when he found the loose sheet tucked amongst the pages containing his latest notation of one of Callie’s songs. A melody so fraught with longing that if he closed his eyes he could picture the color of it, the texture of the orchestration.
“Everything alright?” Uncle Stu called, the unquestioned authority of his voice dashing away the image in Noah’s mind.
He placed his manuscript paper on the piano and began playing. The theme was technically flawless and, when fully orchestrated with brass and percussion sections, would underscore Senator Thorne’s leadership. He’d watched hours of YouTube videos of her speeches, learning the rhythm of her delivery, the inflection in her tone, and he’d written a theme that called upon the deeply ingrained “American sound” honed by Copland while also matching her rhetorical style. When played beneath footage of one of her campaign stops, it would highlight the areas she naturally emphasized when speaking.
Noah was proud of the work, knew that it was fit for textbook analysis, and yet the music left him cold. He longed to turn the page and instead play Callie’s piece, a melody that grabbed you by the throat and twisted in your gut—the kind of song that, even if you forgot the exact notes, you always remembered how it made you feel. Once upon a time Noah had written songs like that. He’d even written them with Callie, side by side at the piano in his mother’s living room, improvising songs as he taught her the emotion of each chord, the shape and flavor of them. What he wouldn’t give to write like that again.
Wolf gave an approving nod as Noah’s hands fell away from the keys. “We’ll finalize your security credentials right away. You should have clearance within a few days. Then we’ll fly you out and the real fun will begin.”
Noah knew he should say something, express gratitude or ask follow-up questions, but his mouth had gone dry and he couldn’t form the words. It was all moving too fast. He couldn’t leave Callie in a few days—but that was the plan all along.
Uncle Stu laughed, the sound a bit too forced to be jovial. “You’ve rendered the boy speechless.”
Wolf chuckled skeptically. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get the ball rolling. I’ll see you both at this shindig in a few hours.”
Noah watched Wolf leave the room, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as he thought of all the reasons he could give for not taking the job, not moving across the country for six months. Who would water his houseplants and bring in his mail? Who would teach his classes, coach his students? Who would clean out his mother’s gutters? Would he have to miss Liv’s opening night on Broadway? And what if Callie had a flare up and needed him? What if he needed her?
“Congratulations,” Uncle Stu said, suddenly at his side.
A jolt of horror punched Noah in the stomach. “Uncle Stu—”
The older man held up a hand, shaking his head. “Sleep on it. You don’t want to make a rash decision here, son. If the senator is re-elected, this documentary will be everywhere. Don’t throw away this opportunity because of some woman.”
“She’s notsome woman.”
“Humor me. Give it a day or two to settle.” Uncle Stu clapped him on the back. “Now get out of here. I’m sure you’re wanted elsewhere.”
Noah deposited his things in his hotel room and retrieved his suit from the closet. He resolved to put the job out of his mind. Liv was getting married in just a few hours—that was where his focus needed to be.
The other groomsmen were already in Jamie’s hotel room, which had been turned into Daemon’s headquarters for the day, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table in the corner. Daemon and Patti sat in armchairs in one corner of the room, while Jamie and Liam sat on the edge of the bed. A cheer went up when Noah entered the room.
“What’d I miss?” he asked.
Liam thrust a plastic cup of amber-colored liquor into his hands. “You’ve got some catching up to do.”
Noah took an overlarge sip, wincing against the burn of it down his throat. As the heat settled in his belly, his shoulders relaxed, tension melting from his limbs.
“Did you get the job?” Liam asked at his side, his voice low.
Noah focused on the whiskey in his cup, avoiding Liam’s eyes. “Yeah. I got it.”
“What are you whispering about over there?” Jamie called from his place sprawled against the headboard of the king-size bed.
“I got offered a job,” Noah said, the words burning as much as the alcohol had.
“Congratulations!” Pattie said, raising her glass in toast.
