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Warmth fizzed in my chest, even considering the idea. I’d done several tours and had never once taken along a significant other. There just hadn’t been any woman I wanted to spend that much time with on the road. Tours, with all the travel, hotel rooms and groupies screaming for me, trying to get photos with me, the damn paparazzi hoping to catch the money shot, and not caring about who else’s privacy they were invading, could be hell on a relationship. I’d seen it happen way too often with my friends.
I’d bet my last dollar Catie could handle it.
I sauntered into my closet, laid both my phones on the built-in dresser, and then plopped down on the upholstered bench some decorator had placed in the center. I had to admit, as much as I’d argued against it, the low seat was a perfect place to shuck my boots. I yanked them off, then carefully put them on the shelf where they belonged. The closet was just too pretty to mess up. I tossed my socks and jeans into the hamper, then grabbed a pair of sweatpants. There was a big hole in one knee, and the elastic around the waist was so close to shot that the pants hung low on my hips, just my ass pretty much holding them up. I tugged my T-shirt lower, grabbed the papers with all my scribbled song notes on them, then headed out of the room.
My first stop was at the basement bar adjacent to my home studio, where I debated whether I wanted a beer or something stronger. I looked at the paper, studying the words I’d written there and decided that something stronger was the optimal choice. I grabbed a ball of the craft ice the high-priced refrigerator cranked out. The chunk clattered musically in the crystal tumbler, then crackled as I splashed a couple fingers of rye over it. The oaky, spicy aroma tickled my nose as I took a hasty sip and let it linger on my tongue. I carried my scribbles and the tumbler into the studio, making my way across the darkened space, not bothering with the overhead lighting. I didn’t need that for what I planned to do.
I did flip on the lamp on the piano, illuminating the keyboard. This was where I wanted to work out the notes for the lyrics I’d already memorized. I set my glass on a coaster, then pulled a page of blank sheet music from a stack. I grabbed a pencil then parked my ass on the wooden stool and got to work.
For me, when I’m working on a new song, whether it’s music or lyrics, time ceases to exist. My focus is solely on what I’m doing. I can’t have noise, which is why my sound-proof recording studio is an ideal place to work when I already have one piece or the other in play. Tonight was no different.
Correction. Tonight was different because the music wasn’t the only thing on my mind. I heard Catie’s flute-like laughter, imagined birds chirping in the background, as they had when I’d first met her at Beaman Park. The sound of the breeze ruffling through the leaves on the trees. I knew what I needed to write on my scoring sheet to duplicate those sounds. That music lived in my head.
Excitement filled me as I quickly inked the notes on the first three staffs. I tucked the pencil between my teeth and positioned my hands on the keyboard, lightly playing the notes I’d written. Honestly, this is my favorite part of making music. I am damn good at it too. Once I tire of performing, if that ever happens, I could pivot to writing music. Composing for other artists, helping them get a leg up in this crazy business. I know I could do it easily. All my work so far had been my own compositions. I’d been offered songs by various composers, but none of them resonated with me the way my own work did. Even Asher had cautioned me about picking up someone else’s music. Said it would battle with my personal style and flair. Insisted that once a sound is established, it would be foolhardy to change that up to somebody else’s voice. Can’t say I disagreed.
I went back to plunking out the tune, singing under my breath with each note. I saw the chords in my head, A major resolving to C sharp, then rising a minor fourth. I worked mainly on the melody, matching my words to the notes.
To some the waiting is everything,
Others need that sweet treat much faster.
I made a note on the sheet, then replayed the chord, a wave of satisfaction breezing through me at the improved sound.
But the world spins the same regardless of who waits.
And I’ll wait for you.
The words needed some more finesse, but I knew this moment right now, that couldn’t be my focus. I needed to capture the music.
As I worked non-stop, I added in harmonic notes. Iheardthe song mostly on keyboard but tapped in on some other instruments. Like a flute and guitar. I scribbled notes for a part for a snare drum, using just a brush on the taut surface. I loved the way that smoothswishmimicked the breeze in the trees. The clarinet, maybe, for the birds, and a pulsing beat on the guitar to create the sound of footsteps on a pine straw path. The flute worked best to mimic Catie’s laughter.
Now it was time to focus on adding some more lyrics. La, la, las worked fine while working out the notes, but no one would buy a song with only nonsense lyrics. It worked okay for Elvis when he sangI’m Leaving,but no way I had the chops to pull that off.
Under my breath, I muttered words while I played a tune I already knew by heart.
You went away, taking my heart on your journey
And people said you’ll see him again, no worry.
But in my head I hear your voice,
Hold your horses, son, don’t you hurry.
I’ll wait for you.
I scrawled the verse while swallowing hard to clear the emotion cracking my voice.
No one would understand better than my dad how impatient I was to move forward with Catie.
I rubbed my forehead. “Miss you so damn much, Dad.”
The craft ice ball in my glass had melted by the time I’d finished, and I gulped the last dregs of the drink. By the clock, I’d been at this for five hours. Standing, I stretched my arms to the ceiling. My ass was numb and my back stiff as a fucking pin oak tree, but I had the best part of the song ready.
I couldn’t wait to play this for Catie. As I’d added in lyrics about sparkling eyes and curly hair and a creative streak a mile wide, Catie’s face and voice had been in my brain. I thought back on the selfie I’d taken of us together at the observation tower. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but that picture straight upinspireda thousand words.
I looked around for my phone, ready to start texting my band, Asher, Carrie. It might be only three a.m., but I couldn’t control the excitement. Damn, I hadn’t brought it into the booth with me. Must have left it in my closet.
I grabbed the tumbler, turned off the piano light, and made my way across the darkened studio. After rinsing my glass, I left it in the farmhouse sink in the granite bar top and hurried to my bedroom. Retrieving my personal cell, I texted the one person I could be certain of not waking.Dammit.
