Hide & Seek - James Patterson [6]
I stuffed “Cornflower” back in the briefcase and chose another song—”Loss of Grace.” Yes. This was a better choice. I had written it recently, since I had come to New York.
One song.
I could feel Barry Kahn's eyes on me, feel his growing impatience. The room felt hot. I didn't look at him. Just at the music for “Loss of Grace.”
The song was about my marriage to Phillip. It was deeply personal. The initial ecstasy, the love I'd felt, or thought that I did. Then the mounting terror. The horror of that first fall from grace … and never being able to stop falling.
One song.
I turned to the piano, took one deep breath, and began to play.
I sang very softly at first, then with mounting passion as the song gripped me and I remembered exactly what had inspired it. Phillip, Jennie, myself, our house near West Point.
I could sense something new in the room as I sang, a kinship and understanding I had longed for in my letters, a bond between me and the man sitting silently at the other side of the room.
I finished, and waited for what seemed like forever for him to say something. Finally, I turned around. His eyes were closed. He looked as though he had a headache. Barry Kahn opened his eyes.
“You shouldn't rhyme ‘time’ with ‘mine,’“ he said. “It's a false rhyme, and while you might get away with it in a country song it's distracting when you're trying something serious.”
I began to cry. I couldn't help it. It was the last thing in the universe I wanted to do. I was furious at myself.
“Hey,” he said, but I had already jammed the song into my briefcase and was heading for the door. I almost started to run. I wouldn't run though.
“Hey,” he repeated. “Stop crying. Hold on a minute.”
I turned to him. “I'm sorry I took up so much of your precious, valuable time. But if all you can talk about is one lousy rhyme, when I've just sung my heart out, then there's no way we can work together. And don't worry. I won't bother you again.”
I rushed out the door, past an astonished Lynn Need-ham, and took the fancy Deco elevator to the lobby. Screw him. Screw Barry Kahn.
I was tough enough to deal with this—I had to be. I had a little girl to take care of, not to mention myself to look out for. That was why I had written to half a dozen music companies besides Barry Kahn's from West Point Hospital. Tomorrow I would see one of the others. And then another. And another after that if I needed to.
Somebody was going to like my music, my songs. They were too good, too true, for somebody not to listen, and to feel something.
It's your loss, Barry Kahn, Mr. Big Shot. Mr. My-Time-Is-So-Precious!
You missed out on Maggie Bradford!
CHAPTER 4
DID YOU EVER want to say, even to shout out loud, Hey, I'm smart. I'm an okay person. I have some talent.
I shouted those very words in Times Square. No problem. Nobody even noticed. I fit right in with the rest of the loony-birds there.
I wandered for a couple of hours, oblivious to the falling snow, then went to pick up Jennie at her school on West Seventy-third. I felt like absolute crap and hoped I didn't look it. Sheesh, what a day.
“Let's celebrate,” I said. “Tomorrow starts the Christmas holiday. Give your favorite mom a big hug, and we'll go to some fancy New York restaurant. Just the two of us. Where do you want to eat? Lutèce? Windows On The World? Rumpelmayer's?”
Jennie carefully thought the offer over, wrinkling her forehead and pulling on her chin, as she always does when she has to make an important decision. “How ’bout McDonald's. Then we can go see a flick.”
“Quarter Pounders it is!” I laughed, and took her small hand. “My sweet bunny rabbit, you're what's important. And you like my songs.”
“I love your songs, Mommy.”
The two of us began to babble at each other—just like always. We were “best friends,” “girlfriends,” “the original motormouths,” “soul sisters,” “the odd couple.” We would “never be alone, because we would always have each other.”
“How was your day, Sweetie? Boy, you've