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As if she were caught in a slow-motion tornado, she hit the end call button and turned off her phone.
She could not deal with the bank. There was only so much mortification a gal could stomach.
“Here you go, music teacher,” the bellhop said, pulling her from her stupor. Concern welled in his eyes as he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “It’s good for one free shrimp cocktail at the bar,” he explained, handing her a coupon.
Who knew rock-bottom’s poop kink level came with a coupon for free shrimp?
“Thanks, sir, that sounds…shrimp.”
Okay, she wasn’t firing on all cylinders. That was to be expected. It wasn’t every day a gal drove twelve hours only to learn she’d been mistaken for a porn actress while her song-stealing ex looked on.
She took a breath. “You’re a sweet man.”
“And one more thing,” the bellhop said and fished another item from his shimmery coat. “It’s the number for the impound lot.”
She nodded and dropped it into her bag.
The man shifted his stance. “You don’t look like you landed that gig.”
“I didn’t. They wanted a porn star, and I’m a singer and a songwriter.”
What did she say?
Why had she chosen those words to describe herself?
She hadn’t thought of herself in those terms in years.
“What will you do now?” the burly man asked. “You got any friends or family who can help you out?”
She did.
Her friends were successful gazillionaires. With one call, they’d be there in a hot second. But the thought of coming clean stung. Her pride, her drive to be Miss Snarky Independent Harper Barbara Presley, wouldn’t permit her to wave the white flag.
Out of her group of friends, she was the tough one. The scrapper. The mouthy bitch. When she was in kindergarten, she could terrify the toughest of fourth-grade boys with one blazing glare.
She caught her reflection in the building’s shiny exterior.
She didn’t look so tough now.
The bite of failure had punctured her heart—and it showed.
She lifted her chin. What she required was a reprieve—a brief respite.
Her career was in the toilet, and there was a real possibility that she and Babs would lose the house, but she couldn’t let her mind go there—not yet.
She held up the coupon triumphantly. “Tonight,” she announced, “I’ll enjoy a complimentary shrimp cocktail thanks to a very kind man.”
If she was trying not to look crazy, she was doing a terrible job.
A wry grin stretched across the bellhop’s face. She hadn’t really looked at him until now. He had rosy cheeks and kind green eyes, and he had to be in his early sixties. And was he wearing make up?
“Off you go,” the man said, then held the door for her.
Armed with the coupon, she entered the buzzing hotel, then stopped. Standing in the center of the lobby, she closed her eyes and remembered a piece of advice that had been with her since she was a girl.
If something’s not working, try another melody, but never stop making music.
“Find another melody,” she whispered and listened to the overlapping rhythms of rollicking conversations. Layer upon layer, she parsed out a tune. A warmth spread through her, recalling the silly songs she and her grandparents used to make up on their walks to the bakery for their weekly bonbon date.
