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“I got her, Cal,” James assured me.
I scowled at him, provoking an amused chuckle as he pointed to the booth. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
The booth door clicked as I eased it shut, then superstitiously leaned against the wall next to the opening. Athletes all have their rituals before they perform. Some baseball players jump over the first base line on their way onto the field. Tennis players have to bounce the ball a set number of times before tossing it in the air to serve. A pal of mine in high school had to have a parfait with his mom at a local ice cream shop every Monday, or he was convinced we’d lose the game on Friday.
I’m not above this irrationality. This was my ritual to insure a solid recording. I tapped my fist on the closed door exactly three times.Tap, tap, tap.Next, I flattened my palm on the space between the door jamb and the door, making sure my space was soundproofed. Nothing they said in the control room would bleed into the recording I was about to lay down.
With a satisfied smile, I crossed to the piano and turned on the light, then walked back to the wall and dimmed the overhead lights. When I turned back to face the window, James was leaning toward Catie and speaking to her. She caught my eye as he continued to talk, and once he paused, she arched a brow and mouthedmood lightingto me.
I tipped my chin up, acknowledging the statement. James leaned back toward Aspen, who pointed out the sliders he needed to pay attention to while I was playing. Satisfied James was focused on his work for me, not on my woman—my woman?—I turned back to the piano.
The stool creaked as I settled on it, and slipped the headphones over my ears. The mic holder squawked as I adjusted it in front of me. I flipped the switch to turn it on, then hovered my fingers over the ivories, ready to play the intro into the song.
“Ready when you are, Cal.” Aspen’s words resounded through the headphones.
I nodded in response, and flexed my fingers above the keys for A Major, then C sharp. That’s what I heard in my head, and even without actually playing the chords, I knew it was right. Just like I’d known the melody had been a winner for “Alone But Not”.
The silence in the booth was fraught with anticipation—mine. I let my eyelids drift shut and straightened my spine. My shoulders lifted and fell a couple times as I just breathed, letting the cadence center me.
I lifted one hand, holding three fingers up. It was my way to signal to Aspen I was ready. I dropped one finger at a time…three…two…one. Without looking toward the control room, I knew Aspen had started the recording to capture my music. This was it. My favorite moment in the entire process. Knowing I was about to create something magical, hoping my fans would love it.
I started playing the chords for the intro and lost myself in the music.
12
CATIE
I think you’d have been proud of me today. Wish you could have been here.
Love you, Dad. Miss you more every day.
Good lord in heaven, I’d known the man could sing. I mean, his speaking voice was magnetic and powerful. And I’d added his music to my permanent playlist. But as he began playing the song he claimed I inspired, a shiver ran up my spine. I bit my lip and leaned forward as the notes from the piano lit up all the lights on the sound board. James had plugged in a set of headphones and handed them to me, but then ignored me as he and Aspen fiddled with the sliders in front of them.
In the booth, Callan’s fingers caressed the keys, coaxing out an enchanting melody, and his voice resonated above the notes. God, I wanted those fingers on my body, that voice crooning and coaxing in my ear. Those lips on every inch of my skin.
It’s official—I don’t want to wait. I want Callan Wilder right this minute.
How had he created this in the few hours since I’d last seen him? The song seemed polished and ready to be released to the world. Freaking amazing how fast he could put that together. I didn’t know much about songwriting, other than what I’d seen onCoyote Ugly.Based on that movie, writing music had to take weeks, or maybe months. Then again, some songwriters say the music just flows out of them. Bob Dylan said “I and I” only took fifteen minutes from start to finish.
The creative process for writing music seemed a lot like graphic design. Some designs are easy. Others, like a Viking on country music artwork, not so much. It seemed like Callan’s song fell into the other camp. No time at all.
The thought of the cover pulled me back to my job, and I rummaged in my backpack for my camera. I pulled it out, then nudged James’ elbow and lifted the device so he could see. I aim the lens toward Callan in the booth and lifted my eyebrows.
James gave me a nod. “No flash, okay?”
“No flash,” I confirmed. I knew I could finesse any images in Photoshop. But the way the light on the piano pooled around Callan was perfection. I wouldn’t need to do much.
I did play with the shutter speed, focus ring, and aperture to be sure I didn’t get fuzzy photos, and allowing the shutter enough delay to take advantage of the low lighting in the booth. There was no easy way to fix those kinds of problems.
Callan swayed side to side on the stool, his broad shoulders moving, his booted foot tapping on the rubber mat under the piano. I clicked the shutter as his right hand stretched out. The notes he played sounded high and sweet, like sunshine or birdsong, while the lower notes he struck kept up a steady cadence.
There was an infinitesimal pause in the music before he began the chorus. Then the music swelled and Callan sang out,
To some the waiting is everything,
Others need that sweet treat much faster.
But the world spins the same regardless of who waits.
