The Song in My Heart (2 page)

Sloane’s sigh carried the weight of the world. “Okay, look. Erika’s doing a bunch of music festivals this summer throughout the Midwest. I’m drumming for her.”

“W-what?” Dess leaned against a kitchen island that was as big as some people’s living rooms, her shock momentarily causing her to stumble. “Why are you spending the summer drumming for a singer nobody’s ever heard of? And in front of audiences of like, what, four or five hundred people? Did something happen you haven’t told me about?”

Sloane had toured and played session drums for some of the biggest acts—Pink, Katie Perry, Kelly Clarkson, Melissa Etheridge. Playing summer music festivals was bloody amateur hour. Dess had done it when she was young and hungry, and so had Sloane. Playing through punishing rainstorms and mosquitoes the size of small birds, sound systems that sucked and died, audiences that were either really into it or were more into making out under their blankets and smoking pot than listening to the music. But that was years ago, and once you’d done it, you didn’t go back. Not unless you were one of those washed-up old dope-addled has-beens whose records were hawked on television in the middle of the night.

“I lost a bet,” Sloane grumbled. “I was playing poker with a bunch of other studio musicians I was working with last month outside of Detroit. I lost, and this was the bet, because Erika didn’t have a drummer. And I know what you’re thinking. Hell, I was thinking it too. But she absolutely fucking blew me away, Dess. And you know what? I’m glad I lost that stupid bet, because I think things are really going to happen for Erika, and it’s going to be a blast having a front row seat to it all.”

“All right, tell you what. If she’s as good as you say, if she plays anywhere in Michigan or around Chicago this summer, I’ll sneak in and watch.” Even that, Dess knew, was probably a lie. She hadn’t been to a concert in years and had no desire to go to one now. It simply hurt too much.

“Oh no. You can do better than that, Dessy-Do!”

“Oh Jesus, did I ever tell you that you were put on this earth just to make my life miserable?”

“Too many times to count. Look. I want you to do more than watch. I want you to join us on the tour.”

“What? What the
hell
, Sloane?” Was she kidding? Had she misspoken? Sloane knew Dess didn’t sing anymore—
couldn’t
sing anymore—and would not go near a stage even if it was jammed with hot, naked women carrying bags of money. She knew damned well this was not something to joke about. “You know you just crossed a serious line with me.”

“Okay, look, calm down. I’m not asking you to sing. I’m asking you…Shit. I’d like you to tour with us as Erika’s lead guitarist, okay? The guitar player she was supposed to have broke his wrist three days ago and…”

“Absolutely fucking not! Jesus Christ!” Anger and tears throbbed in Dess’s throat like a second heartbeat. How could her best friend in the world even suggest something as painful, as horrifying, as her getting up onstage again? Sloane knew damned well what it would do to her, what it would cost her. Christ, she’d be the laughingstock of the entire country! The tabloids would have a field day mocking her. The audiences would dismiss her as a joke, or, worse, skewer her with cruelty. The legendary Dess Hampton strumming a guitar for some nobody in the backwater of the Midwest was a preposterous idea. It was a dignity shredder. Well, Sloane could forget it, because it was never going to happen. And it hurt like hell that she would even think to ask something like this.

Dess ground out the words like they were broken bits of glass. “This is the worst thing you’ve ever suggested to me, Sloane. And I’m dead serious. I can’t believe you asked me this.”

“Aw, Jesus. I’m not trying to piss you off or hurt your feelings, okay? I’m sorry, Dess. I really am. But Erika’s in a jam, and I—”

“Erika! What about me? You don’t even
know
this girl, and you care more about her feelings than mine?” Dess’s incredulity rushed out of her in an angry stream. “How could you even think I would do something like this? How could you even ask?”

“Oh, shit. I’ve really screwed this up, haven’t I?”

“Yes, you royally have.”

“Okay, how about this. I’m going to email you a link to her on YouTube. Just watch it. That’s all I’m asking you to do.”

“Sloane, forget it.”

“No, please. Just watch it and then we’ll talk again.”

No
, Dess thought,
we won’t talk about this again
. She could hear keys tapping in the background. Fine. Sloane could send her all the goddamned links she wanted. It didn’t mean she was going to watch a single second of Erika Alvarez. Or anybody else performing. That part of her life was done. Over.

“There was a time,” Sloane said quietly, “when you used to want to help young musicians. You felt you owed it to the universe to bring others along, remember?”

Sloane was right, but that was a long time ago. Before cancer annihilated her career. “I’m not that person anymore, all right? I don’t have anything to give. Look, Sloane, I gotta go. But good luck with the tour and all that. And I hope Erika Alvarez makes it big some day. Tweet some photos or something, okay?”

“There, done. The link should be in your in-box. Dess honey, I know you’ll forgive me when you see how good she is. I’m not letting you off the hook yet.”

Sloane’s arrogance was legendary, but this! This took the cake.

“’Bye, Sloane. Keep in touch.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll be in touch real soon,” Sloane answered before ending the call.

Dess set her cell phone on the counter, reached down to pet Maggie’s head and cast her eyes toward the six-foot-high window in her dining room that looked out on Lake Michigan and Chicago’s Gold Coast. While the cobalt blue of the water looked cold, a reminder that winter had only recently released its grip on the city, spring was creeping up on Chicago with its budding trees and shoots of sprouting grass. It wouldn’t be long now.

“One more month, Maggie old girl, and we’ll be on that lovely island, and you can swim as much as you want, and I can lie around on the screened porch reading novels and writing some songs. What do you think, huh? Doesn’t that sound perfect?”

Maggie licked her hand in response, and Dess smiled. Life was simple, but good. She was healthy again—knock on wood. She had more money than she could ever spend in her life. She had wonderful friends and a loving extended family, and she still had music in her life. Not the way it used to be, for sure. She wasn’t on magazine covers anymore, wasn’t the hottest concert ticket in the land, didn’t trend on Twitter. She couldn’t get a recording contract anymore even if she wanted one. Which, of course, she didn’t. Music had left her behind, but she hadn’t left it behind. She listened to it every day—mostly folk, jazz and blues—and she played guitar two or three hours a day. It was simple, unglamorous, but it was enough.

Until her sudden illness a little more than six years ago, Dess hadn’t realized how exhausting, how soul-killing the demands of the music business had become. There was the constant pressure of producing hit song after hit song, of recording a new album every year, of enduring the grueling weeks and months of touring, giving interviews and making appearances, attending constant meetings with agents, managers and executives, fulfilling the endorsement contracts, the endless wall-to-wall ass kissing. Oh, and trying to have some kind of personal life at the same time, which she’d failed miserably at. It was a merry-go-round that never stopped, never gave you a break.

No
, she thought with satisfaction. She’d left her mark, reached the very pinnacle of fame and fortune and success. Now it was her time to enjoy life. To breathe. To play around with music in a way she hadn’t done since she was a teenager. To write songs, to work seriously on mastering the guitar. To maintain her health, to enjoy nice dinners with friends and family, take long nature walks with Maggie. Make a serious dent in the hundreds of novels and biographies that lined her bookshelves. Maybe she’d even start work this summer on writing her autobiography.

Her laptop on the little desk alcove between the dining room and kitchen chimed another reminder. Sloane’s email with the YouTube links. Jesus, Sloane could be a pain in the ass sometimes. An obsessive pain in the ass.

Dess stalled, wiped down the countertops for the third time that day, refilled Maggie’s water bowl, then washed and dried her hands.
Okay, fine
, she thought. She’d take five minutes and look at the stupid YouTube video so that at least she could say she had. She owed Sloane that much.

Five minutes turned into fifteen. Dess watched the video, then watched it again, then viewed a second video of Erika Alvarez singing in a coffee house. Many things struck Dess at once as she watched, mesmerized. Erika was attractive. Okay, more than attractive. Dark, thick below-the-collar wavy hair—tamed and wild at the same time. Her cheekbones were high and sharp as rock cliffs, and her eyes flashed black and mischievous. Her skin was rich and golden, her lips full and kissable. She was gorgeous—stunning—in an authentic, natural way.

Dess leaned closer to the screen to better study the luscious cleavage exposed by the open leather vest, her lasciviousness giving her a pang of voyeuristic guilt. But only a brief pang. Sex appeal oozed from Erika’s sensuous strokes of the microphone and the subtle swaying of her hips in time to the song’s slow beat. A beat that matched the rhythm of sex, it occurred to Dess. Erika knew how to use her sex appeal without flaunting it or debasing herself, and the combination of sexy and wholesome was something money couldn’t buy.

Her voice too was like nothing Dess had ever heard before—gravel and silk, deep and rumbling, then soaring high and sweet. It was pure, clear, powerful—a light summer breeze one instant, a ripping, thunderous storm the next.

“Goddammit, Sloane.” Dess whistled softly and wiped the fine film of sweat from her forehead. Sloane hadn’t been kidding about Erika Alvarez. If anything, she had understated her talent.

Dess knew exactly what having a voice like that meant, not to mention having the looks that accompanied it. If Erika played her cards right, the sky was the limit. And then some. With a voice like hers, she could sing any style of music she wanted. Well, except maybe opera, but Dess wouldn’t even put
that
past her. She had a face and a body that cameras and audiences would instantly worship. She was the full package, the real deal, as far as Dess could see. Good enough that she should have been discovered by now. But fame and success were fickle. Dess had known countless talented people who went undiscovered or quickly faded away when they were on the brink of greatness. There were others too who, based on their musical talent alone, had no right to the success they enjoyed. None of it was fair.

She wondered how badly Erika wanted this. What her motives were. What lengths she would go to and how hard she was willing to work. And how she would handle it all if she got there.

Dess once thought she knew exactly what she wanted, and she couldn’t wait to get there. Of course, in the beginning, she’d only fantasized about the highlights—the adulation, the mammoth and joyous crowds she would sing to, the money, the other artists clamoring to work with her. But there’d been so much more she’d never considered. Things that, had she not been strong and singularly determined, would have broken her. There were the obvious things, but there were more insidious things too, like questioning the genuineness of people and what lay behind their motivations, whether they liked you for yourself. The kind of nagging questions that ate away at the fringes of your life until you began to question everything, to doubt everything, until you withdrew, trusting no one.

If her life-threatening illness hadn’t halted all the craziness her life had become, Dess had no doubt she would have self-destructed by now. No one could sustain that level of fame and success without a spectacular fall, and Dess knew, in that regard, that she was no different than anyone else. No, she thought with conviction. She would not watch, let alone help, this young woman drown in the soul-sucking, parasite-infested, exploitative, drug-, alcohol- and promiscuity-infused business that had destroyed so many others.

If Erika Alvarez was even half as good as she appeared to be in her videos, she was a shooting star who was destined for exactly that charming fate. And Dess had no intention of being there to see it happen.

Chapter Two

Erika Alvarez’s most excruciating piano recitals—the ones that had had her a half note away from throwing up all over the ivories—were nothing compared to this. Waiting for Dess Hampton—her secret idol as a teenager, her first hot pubescent fantasy—to open the door was pure torture. Erika wanted to melt into the walls of the cavernous hallway on the top floor of the spectacular Gold Coast condo building. She wanted that big oak door never to open, and yet she was breathless and weak-kneed with the anticipation of it.

Sloane, grinning beside her, gave her a friendly nudge that seemed to say, “It will be okay, you’re going to love Dess, she’s just a regular person.” Meeting Dess Hampton was beyond cool, but the truth was, Erika had absolutely no desire to beg for her, or anyone else’s, help. Drool over, flirt with, definitely, but that was it. Dess had been out of the business so long now—six or seven years—that she’d all but been forgotten by her worldwide legion of fans, the media, her record company, concert promoters, the Broadway stages, the corporate world, radio and television and even social media. The disappearance of one of the world’s most bankable singers had been astoundingly quick, shockingly final and seemingly irrevocable. Dess Hampton had simply slipped away like day yielding to night. Throat cancer had stolen her career, the news stories said.

Though, had she wanted to, Dess certainly could have profited from her illness, Erika supposed. Plenty of famous people had turned illness or some other personal trauma into a success story. Not Dess Hampton. She had chosen to ride into the sunset without a look back. The rumor mill said she couldn’t sing worth a crap anymore, that she shunned even the tiniest shred of attention, had outright rejected any sort of work in showbiz. She had become a recluse, as far as Erika knew. Even the paparazzi had long ago abandoned any interest in her, and that was no simple accomplishment for a star of Dess’s stature.