I'm Glad I Did (8 page)

When I was done, I turned to her.

“This is soulful, girl,” she told me. “Play that chorus again for me, will you?”

Seconds after my fingers hit the keys, she wrapped her beautiful voice around the words. Suddenly they had depth. And tenderness. They really meant something now.

She laid a hand over mine, interrupting my playing. “You write these words, baby? They are deep.”

“I'm not sure who wrote them,” I told her, a little embarrassed. “I kind of found them.”

“Found them?” She arched an eyebrow.

“It was, well … it was in the elevator. I dropped a bunch of papers, and so did some guy. Everything got all mixed up, and I ended up with—”

“With these lyrics? You gotta find out who wrote them,” Dulcie interrupted firmly. “You gotta ask that person if they'll let you set their words to music. You can't just go and do it without permission.”

I bit my lip, then nodded quickly. “I know, I know. I just got so excited about how the words fit that I got carried away. Don't worry, I know where to go to find out.”

She patted my shoulder. “Get that squared away, 'cause you're on the right track with this, JJ, girl. I got a good feeling.”

I sighed, staring at the keyboard. “I don't think Bobby's gonna like it. He only likes really happy songs.”

“My grandma wouldn't like it either,” Dulcie stated
seriously. Then, seeing the look on my face, she burst out laughing. “She dead, baby girl. She ain't got no opinions.”

I couldn't help but burst out laughing, too. She opened her arms. I hugged her like an old friend, closing my eyes, enjoying the warmth of her embrace. I wished I could have shared this kind of moment with Janny. It was so natural, so spontaneous.

“I gotta get back to work,” Dulcie reminded both of us, standing up. “Don't let that lyric get away.”

“I won't,” I said. “I promise.”

“I'll check in with you.” She picked up her dust cloth and heading for the door. “Gotta make sure you nail down those words.”

As soon as the door closed, I got a scary feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was dreading facing Mr. Green Eyes. I began to wonder if it was possible to ignore someone who was talking directly to you. I had a feeling I'd find out.

The next morning, I ducked out of Rona's sight at 10:25. It was post-morning rush hour; pre-first coffee run. Elevator traffic would be light. I got doubly lucky. When I buzzed for the elevator, Nick opened the door, and the car was empty.

“I need info,” I told him.

“Come into my office,” he replied with a courtly gesture. I stepped in, and he closed the elevator door. “Whaddya need?”

“Do you know who the guy with the green eyes and the folders is? The one who dropped his stuff with me?”

“I don't know who he is, but I know where he is, which is almost as good,” Nick replied. “You gonna ask him for a date?”

“No, I am not,” I stated firmly. “I'm just returning something of his, so stop trying to be a matchmaker, please. Just tell me where he is.”

Nick smirked. “The number is seven seventeen. He's
working out of George Silver's office. Which is kinda strange.”

“Strange how?” I asked.

Nick shrugged. “George was a manager and publisher bigwig like your uncle, but he died about a month ago. Since then this kid's been coming in every day, spending all day at George's office. He leaves at about seven with a big stack of files.”

I turned this information over in my head. I wasn't sure what to make of it. Nick was right; it
was
strange. “I gotta get back to the office,” I said. “But I'll be back at six
P.M
. hoping for an express to seven.”

“It's only one floor down. I think I can arrange an express.” Nick grinned as he pulled the elevator door open. “See ya later, kiddo.”

I MADE IT BACK
before Rona even knew I was gone. The minutes dragged like hours for the rest of the day. All I could think about was finding some new way to make a fool of myself in front of Green Eyes. There was the tripping-over-my-own-feet scenario, the stammering and stuttering scenario and best of all, the staring-through-me-as-if-I-weren't-there scenario. By the time the last Good Music writer had left, and six o'clock had arrived, I was a nervous wreck. I had no idea what I was going to say.

When Nick deposited me on the seventh floor, I knew I had to pull myself together.
All he can tell me is no
, I told myself.
No big deal
.

But it was a big deal. Dulcie Brown was expecting me to deliver those lyrics.

Seven seventeen was almost opposite the elevator. The sign on the door read
GEORGE SILVER MUSIC
. I opened it without knocking. There was no reception area, just a large room that was a real mess. Folders and papers were piled everywhere: on the couch, chairs and tabletops. The walls were covered with photographs, BMI awards, and gold records. There were more stacked in cartons on the floor. In a corner was an upright piano with piles of sheet music and lead sheets on top of it. And seated at a huge desk in front of the window was Green Eyes himself, totally engrossed in a file.

I coughed a fake cough to let him know that I'd entered.

He looked up. I knew it was impossible, but it seemed his eyes had gotten greener. Maybe it was the pale green shirt he was wearing that brought out those cat eyes of his. They contrasted perfectly with his olive skin and black curly hair. He was ridiculously handsome. So much so that all my scenarios chased one another through my mind.

“Yes,” he said, as if he had never seen me before. “Can I help you?”

“I'm the girl from the elevator,” I said, regaining my composure. “We dropped our folders. I think someone accidentally returned something of yours to me.” I handed him the paper with the words on it.

He gave it a quick scan. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “This is mine. Thanks.” He went right back to whatever he was doing. He didn't even offer a smile.

I stood there for a moment and fake-coughed again. “Look, I don't mean to be pushy. But I'm working at Good
Music, and those words and a melody I wrote are kind of made for each other. Did you write them?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking up.

“Well, what I'm getting at is that I'd really like to play what I have for you. I set your first verse and chorus.”

He stood, even though he didn't look particularly happy about making the effort. “Sure, play me what you've got,” he answered. “Sorry if I seem kind of distracted. There's a lot of work to be done here.” Seeing my questioning look, he went on, waving around at the mess. “This was my dad's office. He was sick, and he wasn't able to come in for a long time. He passed away recently. So I've been cleaning things up and putting them in order.”

“Oh, I'm really sorry.” I backed toward the door. “If this is a bad time …”

“No, I apologize,” he interrupted. “I'm annoyed at myself for dropping what you found. I was bringing it in to the office to try to write a melody on my dad's funky piano. I'm not much of a melody writer, though.” He moved around to the front of the desk, still holding the lyrics, and extended his hand. “I'm Luke Silver,” he said.

“JJ Green,” I replied, shaking his hand—which felt impersonal, warm, and strangely familiar, as if all of those qualities could even go together. “I'm really sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks. It was a long time coming.” Luke glanced at the piano. “Come on, have a seat. It'll be good for me to get my mind off what I'm doing here for a few minutes.”

I sat, and he settled on the bench next to me. I was
conscious of his closeness, but he didn't seem to notice. I focused and played him what I had, trying to bring some of Dulcie's passion for the words to my performance. But my vocals were amateur compared to hers. In the spots where I didn't have enough words I just sang
la-la
s. By the time I finished, I felt like a jerk. I couldn't even look at him.

“That's kind of amazing,” he said softly.

I jerked around, meeting his eyes. “Really?”

He nodded. “Play it again. A few more times.”

As I started in again, he grabbed a pen from the top of the piano and jotted notes. By the third time around, he had produced another paper with a second verse. We went over that a few times. Then he began to sing what he'd added, looking at me with a questioning look whenever he tweaked my melody in the slightest. His voice wasn't great, but it was in tune. I just nodded. What he was doing made my melody even better.

“I'm not usually this fast, but it's all been in my head for a long time,” he said with a fleeting grin, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“I've got the bridge,” I told him. “Can you write to it?”

I played it for him, and he scribbled away without a word.

We went over it until it felt comfortable. The words and music began to feel like they had been born at the same
moment. When I sang it through the last time, he joined me in harmony on the final chorus.

The last chord died away. We looked into each other's eyes.

“I think we have a song,” I said. I was trying not to smile like a fool, but it was impossible. I tried to keep my voice businesslike. “What do you think?”

“I think we nailed it.” His eyes glittered. It was the first time I'd seen him look really alive.

“So if it's okay with you, I'd like to cut a demo,” I said.

“Sure. You planning to do the vocal?”

I almost laughed. “No! Not on this. I'm just a songwriter-type singer. I have a very unlikely but very good vocalist I'd like to use. Have you ever heard of Sweet Dulcie Brown?”

His eyes widened. “Heard of her? My dad and his ex-partner used to manage Dulcie when I was little. How do you know her?”

“She's working as a custodian here in this building.”

“Here in this building?” he echoed incredulously.

I nodded. “I met her last week when she was cleaning the office. She helped me shape the melody. When she sang some of it, I couldn't believe how good she sounded.”

“I can't believe my dad never told me she worked here,” he said, half to himself. “Maybe he didn't know. Or maybe she started after he got sick. She should have had a great career according to him. She just had a bad run-in with drugs, and after a while he and his partner, Bernie Rubin, had to drop her.”

I almost fell off the piano bench. “Bernie Rubin?”

Luke nodded absently. “Yeah, he was my dad's partner years ago.”

“Bernie's my uncle. That makes us kind of related … but not really,” I added.

He smiled at that. A real honest-to-goodness smile. I'd made it happen. It was a first, and I hoped not a last.

“Listen, I gotta go,” I told him. “Here's the thing: I'm working as an assistant and songwriter in training at Good Music. But I don't want to play this for Bobby just yet. I want to have the demo in my pocket and wait until just the right artist is coming up to record.”

He nodded. “I get it. And you want Dulcie to sing lead.”

“Yeah, I haven't asked her yet, but I plan to. I know it's a little crazy, so I can pay for the demo myself. I've got some birthday money saved.”

“No way,” Luke countered. “Co-writers share demo costs. How many musicians do you want to use?”

“Just bass, guitar, drums, and me on piano. It shouldn't be more than fifty bucks. I'd like to record at Dick Charles Studio Friday evening. Do you want to come?”

“I can't,” Luke said, pulling two tens and a five out of his pocket and handing them to me. “I'm selling the apartment my dad and I lived in. There are potential buyers
coming every night this week. But come by any time after you're done and play it for me. I really like what we did together today.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Thanks for letting me use your lyrics.”

“Thank you for making it sound so good. This is my first song.”

“It's my first collaboration,” I admitted. I didn't want to leave, but I knew I had to get back to the office if I wanted to catch Dulcie. Still, I was dying to see him smile again. I turned before heading out the office door. “Could I ask you something personal?”

“I have a feeling that it doesn't matter what I say. You'll find a way to ask it,” Luke answered, but his tone was good-natured.