A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I leave the next day with not a word spoken between my parents and me. Even though it was liberating to finally speak my mind, I didn’t mean to hurt my mother. I just wanted her to understand me for once. She’s still my mother, and I still want a relationship with her—but I refuse to have a relationship with her on her terms any longer; so it seems I’ll have to wait for her acceptance—if that ever happens.

I spend the entire flight fighting to keep my mind off any number of thoughts that will send me over the edge. Of course, it’s just my luck they show
Ever After
as the in-flight movie. What irony: an evil mother and a broken heart.

I get off the plane in L.A. and spot a tall, intimidating bald man holding a sign with my name on it.

“Claire Parelli?” the man asks as I approach.

“Yes, I’m Claire.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jack. I’ll be taking you over to meet with Beverly.” We shake hands.
His hands are huge!

“Nice to meet you, too.”

He takes my small suitcase from me. “This way, please.”

I follow him outside of the gates where the warm sun reminds me of Dan, which reminds me of the photos, which reminds me that he’s moved on. I’m a complete ass for letting him slip through my fingers!

Immediately, the tears threaten.
Stop, Claire! Ugh. You can’t be crying in public!

Jack plops my suitcase into the trunk of the black Lincoln Town Car.

I’ve been so preoccupied with all that’s happened that I haven’t given a thought to the actual experience that’s about to take place—I’m literally about to make a dream come true!

On the ride over to Beverly’s office, my mind races.

Will I be able to play my piece well?

Was last time a fluke?

Will I fail?

I breathe in and out in steady counts of three just so I don’t pass out in the back seat.

“Okay, this is it,” Jack says as we pull up in front of a three-story brick building on a relatively quiet street.

It’s the most benign building, but my heart nosedives into my belly anyway.

“I’ll be here when you’re done.” Jack smiles.

I scoot out of the car and stare up at the building in sheer terror. Somehow my feet carry me inside, and I speak to the receptionist. “Hi, I’m Claire Parelli—here to see Beverly Williams.” Even I can hear the shakiness in my voice.

“Let me call up.” She dials, speaks to someone briefly, and hangs up. “You can head over to the stairs on the right and go to office two-twenty-three.”

I don’t even realize I’m stuck to the spot until the receptionist grins and says to me, “Ms. Williams is waiting.”

“Right.” I move along and arrive at the door that reads ‘Beverly Williams, 223.’

She’s right on the other side. Breathe. You can do this. They asked you here because they like your music. This is your chance. Your time. Your train.

I take a moment to visualize all my fears leaving my body. With a momentary rush of confidence, I knock on the door.

“Come in,” says a female’s voice.

I turn the door handle and enter.

A tall, slightly heavy-set woman with short reddish-brown hair rises from behind a desk.

“Hi, Claire? I’m Beverly Williams.” She smiles warmly, shaking my hand.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you, Beverly.” My mouth waters. I feel like I’m going to puke.
Don’t let me puke. Please don’t let me puke.

“How was your flight? Everything okay? You look a little . . . pale.”

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” I take a deep breath as quietly as I can.

“Please, have a seat,” Beverly says, making her way around her desk and indicating the chair on the opposite side. “Can I get you something to drink? Some water? Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

She nods. “So, this afternoon we’ll go over the paperwork, and then I’ll take you down the hall to the studio and have you practice a bit. We’d like to get a feel for the song live. Tomorrow we’ll do the actual recording, so you can take your time warming up today,” Beverly says.

“Okay.” I nod. So much is riding on this. I gave up my profession and alienated my parents, so if this doesn’t work, which is a definite possibility, I no longer have a safety net.

Moments later, a lawyer joins us and spends a long while explaining the ins and outs of the legalities and the paperwork I only glanced over and need to sign. I nearly fall out of my seat when they tell me what I’ll be paid.

Once I’m done signing my life away, Beverly leads me down the hall to the studio. We enter into what Beverly calls the “control booth” where a large panel of buttons and dials sits like a desk that looks into a second area through a glass window—the “studio.”

The studio is like a blank slate with nothing but a shiny, black grand piano in the center, waiting for me. It’s just slightly intimidating.

Beverly introduces me to the two sound engineers sitting at the control panels.

“Claire, why don’t you warm up a bit? Then we’ll have you play the piece to get a sense of any changes we need to make between now and tomorrow when we record it, all right?” Beverly asks.

I nod, entirely too tense and uptight. This is all so new and unfamiliar, plus these people are at the top of their musical game.
What if I don’t measure up?

I walk into the studio, where the acoustics remind me of the atmosphere after newly fallen snow—no echo and deafening silence. I sit at the intimidating piano and stare at the keys for a moment. They’re shiny, well-kept. I practice a few scales; the sound is so clear and crisp in the soundproof room.

After playing some Beethoven to loosen my fingers, Beverly asks me to give my composition a try. A fresh wave of nerves washes over me as my mind sprints from one fear to the next. I force both my eyes and heart to focus on the keys laid out before me.

Feel it, Claire. You can do this!

I begin to gently stroke the keys and feel her rumble—my muse awakening. As always, she comes first as a tiny whisper, gaining strength until she sings loudly through my fingers. Utterly captivated by the blending notes and chords, my heart races and soars, hearing her blissful song resonate through my body.

When the song is complete, I re-enter Earth, and fear floods me again.
If I look up and they hate it, what will I do?
I stare at the keys until I’m startled by a voice speaking through the intercom.

“Claire?”

I look up through the window into the control booth to see Beverly smiling. “That was moving. So much more so than the tape.” She holds up the same cassette I lent Dan so long ago.

Dan
. . . my heart sinks.

“Thank you,” is all I can manage. I can’t fall apart now. Thankfully, I don’t have much time to dwell on Dan because Beverly has me playing for the remainder of the time I’m there, working out the kinks and customizing the song for the scene in the movie where it’ll be used. By early evening, I’m exhausted, and Beverly sends me off to the hotel for the night.

I stand for a long while in the hot shower, my mind drifting to the life-altering events of the past several days. When I finally dry off and dress in my old, reliable sweats, I turn on the TV. I lie back to read the room service menu, but pass out into a sleep so deep that I don’t move the entire night.

I wake well before dawn.
Ugh, jet lag.
After showering and dressing, I sit on the bed for a long time, staring out the window, watching the West Coast dawn become day.
How beautiful . . . Oh! Camille and Bridget . . . oh my God! I haven’t told them anything!
With the time difference I know they’ll probably be up and at work, so I call Camille’s cell phone.

“Hey, Claire! What are you doing calling me in the morning? Shouldn’t you be at your new job?”

“I’m so sorry I haven’t called you, but you are never going to guess where I am right now.”

“Hmm, in the backyard, digging a hole for your mother’s dead body?”

I giggle. “No. I got this call from a music producer about my music—they wanted to use a song of mine in a movie and . . . I’m in L.A. to record it!”

“What? You’re in L.A.? To record a song? Holy shit!” she yells.

“I know! It all happened so fast. I flew in yesterday, and I spent the afternoon playing and working on my piece to fit the movie score, and today I’m going to record it! Can you believe it?”

“Holy shit! Holy fucking shit, Parelli! Tell me everything! Wait, wait, wait. So you’re blowing off work to be there? You go, you bad girl.”

“I’m not exactly blowing off work. I declined the offer.”

“Are you serious? Hang on, I have to sit down.”

“I know! It’s insane. The principal wouldn’t let me start later in the week, so . . . I had to choose.”

“So you chose music.” I can tell she’s smiling.

“I did. Remember the last time we talked, I told you how everything felt so wrong?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this insanity, it feels so right. I just trust it. I know, logically, it’s crazy to ditch a perfectly steady career opportunity, but God, Camille, it just feels right. Does that make sense?”

She giggles. “Yeah, it makes a lot of sense, Claire. I’m so happy for you! Wow! I knew something good was coming. I just knew it! So how did you escape your mother’s evil clutches?”

I sigh deeply. There’s no masking my pain on that one. “Ugh, Camille . . . it’s such a mess. We had a huge argument, and she stormed out. Honestly, I’m not sure we’ll ever get past this.”

My phone beeps, indicating a low battery. “Hang on. My phone’s going to die; let me get my charger.” I fumble through my bag. “Damn, I didn’t pack it. Shit. Listen, if my phone dies I’ll try to call you later, okay? I have to leave soon.”

“Yeah, sure. Claire, I’m speechless and shocked! Totally shocked! Here I was ready to kidnap you, and you’re in L.A.! Hey, what did Dan say when you called him?”

My heart somersaults at his name and then sinks and sinks and sinks.

“You
did
call him, didn’t you?”

“No,” I answer quietly. “I was going to before I flew out, but then I saw this photo of him in
Gossip Guru
making out with Sophie . . . it wasn’t from the movie, Camille. He’s moved on.” The thought stabs me square in the chest.

“What? I don’t think you’re right, Claire. Are you sure it’s a real photo?”

“Well, the angle, the background, his normal clothes, the way his arms were holding her, nothing about it looked fake . . . I lost him, Camille. In all this, I gave him up, and it’s too late to get him back.”

“I still think you should call him. I spoke with him the other day to tell him you got a teaching job, and he—”

Click. My phone dies.
He what?
I look at the clock. I only have a couple of minutes before the car arrives.
Maybe I should call him.
I begin to pace.
Maybe the photos aren’t real. Maybe we can meet up and talk. Talk about everything. Just maybe . . .
I stare out the window again as the sun blazes across the early morning sky.
I’ve already come so far . . . hell, I should take the chance.
I glance at the hotel phone sitting on the nightstand.
That’s enough avoiding, Claire.
I should thank him, at least. It’s still early, but well, he’ll probably be up by now.

With breaths that don’t seem to provide an ounce of oxygen, I dial his cell number, which I have memorized, and wait with shaky hands for that silky voice to answer.

“Hello?”

My heart leaps.
It’s him!
“Hi, Dan. It’s Claire.”

“Claire? Christ, how are you?”

“Yes, it’s me. I’m in L—” I stop when I hear someone talking in the background.

“Here’s your jacket, Dan. Ready?”

No! It’s her! That bitch! Oh God, she’s there!
She must have stayed the night.

I gasp and toss the phone onto the receiver as though it’s on fire. Back and forth I cross the room, shedding hard, frustrated tears. I shove the things I need for the day into my small satchel, berating myself the entire time.

I should have called him a long time ago. But no, I avoided shit as usual, and I screwed things up again! I wasted time on Mark, stayed in a career I didn’t really want, and let my parents have their way with my life. What am I doing? I’m a stupid bystander in my own life! And Dan—just one more thing I fucked up. Did I really expect him to wait for me? Why would he? He’s sweet, funny, beautiful, and, damn it, I broke up with him! God, I’m an idiot!

I quickly wash my face, trying to erase the rage that pours from my eyes.

I’m not going to screw today up! No way. Not going to happen!

I dig through my suitcase and pull out Dan’s shirt. I hold it to my face and breathe in the scent that’s nearly faded away.
That’s it. I’m wearing this.
I slide the shirt on over my tank top and jeans and roll up the sleeves.

The phone rings—the car is waiting. I need to switch gears.

I make my way downstairs to the Lincoln Town Car and use the ride over to focus all my energies on what I have to do at the studio.

Once I arrive, Beverly explains the entire recording procedure again. While the two sound engineers get things ready, I warm up, feeling far more comfortable than the day before. My muse stirs.

Of course, nothing runs smoothly. There’s one technical glitch after another; however, by the afternoon, with all systems finally go, we begin recording.

“Okay, Claire, whenever you’re ready,” Beverly says through the intercom, smiling at me from the control room.

I nod and focus on the keys.
You can do it, Claire. Knock it out of the park.

And just like yesterday, my muse begins with a whisper, followed by her joyous singing as my hands fly over the keys. I can’t help the tears or the smile that rises—elation mixed with sadness mixed with determination. I’m a melting pot of emotion.
God damn it, at least this is right!

When I’m done, I look up at the control booth to see their reactions and notice a fourth person standing there—Dan.