Hide & Seek - James Patterson [4]
Single, I deduced, and living alone. I wasn't interested in him that way, but I noticed anyway. I'm good with details. I always notice things, especially about people.
Lynn returned with coffee in a china cup, and I took it from her, splashing it on my wrist. Not very relaxed. Indeed, kind of an ass. That's how I felt at the time anyway.
Petrified! As in wood—that never, ever moves.
Barry stood to offer assistance, but I waved him away. “I'm fine.” I'm in control. I'm cool. Pay no attention to the scarlet M.
Barry sat back down. “You're quite a letter writer,” he said. I guess it was a compliment.
In the hospital, as my recuperation progressed and I began composing song after song, I had planned to write only one letter to him, telling him that I admired him and hoped I could audition for him someday. But the one letter gave rise to another, and by April, I was writing him nearly every week, letters from deep inside my heart, to a person I had never met. Hooo boy!
Weird, I know, but that's what I'd done. I sure couldn't take the letters back now.
He didn't answer any of them, and I wasn't even sure he read them. I only knew they were never sent back unopened. But I continued to write the letters. Actually, the letters kept me going. Talking to somebody, even if the person didn't talk back.
In a way, I think writing the letters helped me recover. I gradually got stronger, began to believe that one day I would be all right again. I knew Jennie would be okay, or at least as okay as you can be if, at age three, you've witnessed horrible mayhem in your own house.
My sisters traveled from upstate New York, and took turns watching her. The hospital let Jennie visit as often as they could bring her. She was fascinated by my wheelchair and the electric bed. And she could thrill me whenever she hugged me and pleaded, “Sing me a song, Mommy. No. Make up a new song, and sing it.”
I sang to Jennie often. I sang for both of us. I wrote a new song a day.
Then, an amazing thing happened. A miracle. A letter arrived for me at West Point Hospital.
Dear Maggie, the letter said.
Okay, okay, you win. I've no idea why I'm answering you, but I guess I'm an easy mark even though I don't like to think so and if you tell anybody else, that'll be it for us forever.
In fact, your letters moved me. I get lots of mail, most of which my secretary throws away without showing to me. And the letters she does give me I throw away.
But you—you're different. You remind me that there are real people out there, not just sycophants wanting to get into my studio. I feel I've actually come to know you a little bit, and that says a whole lot about what you've written so far.
I was impressed with some of the lyrics you sent me. Amateur stuff—you need a songwriting education—but powerful all the same because they say something. None of this means that (a) the education will do you any good; or (b) you can write music for a living, but okay, okay. I'll give you the half hour of my time you asked for “to find out once and for all if I've got a talent for songwriting or not.”
When you get out of the hospital, call Lynn Needham, my secretary, to set up an appointment. But in the meantime, please don't write me any more letters. You've taken up enough of my time already. Don't write to me—write more songs!
CHAPTER 3
HE SIGNED THE letter “Barry,” and now here I was and he was looking at me, and I felt hopelessly out of place, one of those “sycophants” he had grumbled about. I definitely hadn't overdressed—that wasn't my style. I had on a white peasant's blouse, pink camisole, a long black skirt, flat shoes.
But at least I was