Page 26 of The Sound of Harmony

ChapterEight

Monday evening,Emma lounged in her apartment, her leg dangling over the arm of the couch, letting it swing freely back and forth as she talked to Kendrick on the phone.

They’d long since gone past the original purpose of the call. He’d chosen one of the pianos she’d picked for him, and they’d arranged delivery, but the conversation soon turned from professional to personal and they’d been chatting like old friends for the past half hour.

She’d learned that Kendrick was an only child, and had grown up mostly in Europe, moving every couple of years. She marveled at his ability to slide effortlessly into a new place. When it was time to go, you just rolled up your old life and started a new one somewhere else. He made it sound easy.

Their conversation moved from museums, which they both loved, to sports, which they both hated. They’d somehow got on the topic of movies, and tried to one-up each other about the obscure films they’d seen, but Emma had to concede defeat since Kendrick watched movies in German and Italian as well as English.

“What’s it like to write music for a movie?” she asked.

“It’s terrible,” he said. “They give you a huge budget, but a short time frame. Impossibly short. You end up working crazy hours. Nobody knows what they want. They argue with you through the entire process, constantly questioning your judgement, and when it’s done, they cry because they’re so happy. Then you forget all the terrible stuff and can’t wait to do it again.”

“Oh,” Emma said with delight. “You just described my job.”

Kendrick laughed. “I promise I won’t argue with you or question your judgement.”

“Are you going to cry?” Emma asked.

“I might.”

“Have you written music for a movie I might have seen?” She already had her computer open to Netflix, ready to type in titles.

“That depends,” Kendrick asked. “Have you seen The Goodbye List or Hill of Stars?”

“Yes, I have.” Emma started typing as fast as her fingers could move while trying to remember the soundtracks for those movies. “You scored those?”

“No, I did not,” Kendrick said. “But I did score a small-budget project by that same director’s little brother. And I got invited to one of his parties.”

“Wow,” Emma said, sitting back on the couch. “That’s a real claim to fame.”

“Yes, I am one degree of separation from celebrity status.”

Emma laughed, but it was always like that, wasn’t it? People famous in their own little worlds. Kendrick was well known in some circles, but ten days ago, she’d had no idea who he was. And Kendrick knew nothing about country music, or her own connection to celebrity. He didn’t know that she was once married to Jonah Dalton, and had co-written some of his songs. Even inside the Nashville scene, very few people knew of her, since Jonah never shared writing credit.

Emma shuffled through her apartment. She put the TV remote back in its basket and straightened the placemats on her tiny kitchen table. Tidying calmed her, even when there wasn’t much to tidy.

She remembered how proud she’d been the day she rented this apartment. After months of sleeping on Gwendolyn’s couch, she’d finally had the courage to live on her own. The one place she could afford was so far out of town she was practically in Bridgeton, and her whole apartment was barely five hundred square feet, but she’d made it beautiful with a blue and white color palette and made it functional with every organizational trick she knew, even if that meant storing her crockpot and rice cooker under her bed. This apartment wasn’t much, but it was hers.

“Anyway, that part of my life is over,” Kendrick said. “If another movie director wanted to hire me, how would I get to California? I can’t drive and I can’t fly.”

“I’m sorry.” Emma wasn’t sure what she could say beyond that.

“Thanks.” Kendrick paused. “And thanks for not saying something condescending about how I’m being so strong and brave.”

“I’ll save my thoughts and prayers.”

“That’s for the best,” he said. “I’m getting treatment. Doesn’t mean there’s a cure.”

Emma had looked up Meniere’s disease after Kendrick told her why he wasn’t playing in his orchestra. Nobody knew what caused it. Nobody knew how to fix it. All they knew was that the fluid in Kendrick’s right ear went haywire now and then, causing hearing loss and vertigo. The attacks of vertigo were unpredictable—anything from two a day to two a month. It didn’t hurt, but it could still make his life miserable.

She opened a kitchen cabinet and lined up all the mugs so their handles pointed forward. “Also?” she said. “Flying’s overrated.”

“You mean you don’t like crying babies?” Kendrick asked. “You don’t want to make small talk with the person sitting next to you in that miniature seat?”

“I think my favorite part is the three ounces of water you get from the drink cart. Really makes up for the dry air.”

“But that air smells so nice. It’s perfumed with unwashed feet and grandmas passing gas.”