Page 3 of The Voice We Find

“I’m sure that’s true,” he readily agrees. “California wine country is certainly not Hollywood.” We’re only steps away from Maverick when I sense him hesitating. “I’m also sure you’ve had more outgoing expenses than what you’ve let on for a while now.” I don’t confirm his suspicions, but Chip continues, undeterred. “I know you don’t like talking about Gabby’s prognosis, but I’m not ignorant enough to believe insurance has covered the bulk of her medical bills.” He lowers his voice. “I know what you did to pay for her special hearing aids. And while that’s commendable, there’s only so many vintage guitars you can sell when it comes to—”

“Where is this going, Chip?” I can feel my defenses rising, and I’m certain Chip can, too. I grip my board and prepare to secure it to the roof of the Bronco.

“Audiobooks,” he replies triumphantly.

I pause mid-lift and stare at him blankly. “Audiobooks.”

“Yes.” He holds out his hands. “Hear me out.”

I say nothing as I swipe the damp hair from my eyes and hop onto the back bumper to tie down my board.

“Fog Harbor Books just gave me the green light to spearhead our first audiobook imprint, and you’re my top pick for a producer.I can do all the preproduction legwork—vetting the narrators and sending you demos so you can check the quality of their home studio equipment, and then once you approve them, I’d send you the raw cut recordings so you can do what you do best: produce a killer product.”

After tightening the last strap, I drop down to the pavement and open the back of the Bronco. All I want is to peel this wet suit off, pull on my dry clothes, and drive to food. But first, I need to address Chip’s random request. “While I appreciate the thought, Chip, I’m a sound engineer. I work with bands. Singers. Musicians. Wannabe rappers with too much disposable income. I don’t do read-a-thons.”

“Listen, I get that you’re overqualified,” he challenges. “But that’s what makes it so perfect. You’re already set up with everything you could possibly need. Depending on the length of the book and the edits you might require, you could crank out several projects a month. It would be flexible hours you could work around your current studio clients and Gabby’s schedule.”

“I don’t know the first thing about books.”

“You don’t have to know anything about books. Some of these narrators are award-winning actors—their talent is incredible. I’m telling you, this gig is custom-built for you. And the pay is pretty great, too.”

“How much is ‘pretty great’?”

I swear his left eye twitches as he tells me the cut I’d make per finished book. It’s decent. Maybe even a tad better than decent. And by his grin, he knows I know it, too.

“What kind of commitment are we talking about here?”

Chip laughs. “How did I know that would be your next question?”

I toss my stack of dry clothes onto the bumper and yank the extended zipper pull on the back of my wet suit until it reaches the top of my swim trunks, then work to break the fabric’s suction on my arms and chest.

Chip leans his back against the Bronco, facing the water as he speaks. “I could start you off with a ten-book contract. That’s theminimum I can offer as there’s a good size list of bay-area producers who wouldn’t turn this opportunity down. Once you complete the first contract, we can renegotiate terms.”

Ten books.I multiply the number Chip gave me earlier by ten. That would go a long way in recovering some of our savings.

Just the thought eases something tight in my chest. When I became my sister’s legal guardian overnight, I didn’t have a clue how fast we’d burn through my life savings and the majority of the insurance policies our parents left to us. But between my relocation costs, funeral expenses, medical bills, and the home studio I was certain would take off just as soon as the dust settled on my renovations to our parents’ detached garage ... we’re running dangerously low.

It’s tempting to recall the cushy paychecks I left behind in Los Angeles and the recording studio that was more like a glorified amusement park for music and tech geeks everywhere, but I can’t afford to linger there for long.

The few highlights of that life had cost me so much more than they ever gave.

And that life never could have included Gabby.

A sixteen-year-old girl mourning the loss of her parents needs security: a real home in a good neighborhood with familiar friends at a familiar school. Not to mention the world-renowned medical care she’s received at Stanford Children’s in the wake of everything else the accident stole from her.

I pause my undressing and peer at the back of Chip’s head. “Is there really a market for people too lazy to read for themselves? I mean, I’m no expert here, but reading a book versus listening to one seem like two completely different experiences. Does it even count as reading?”

Chip whistles low. “I’d highly recommend never repeating that question, especially in the presence of a reader. Brawls have broken out over lesser aspersions in the publishing world. But to put it mildly, yes, audiobooks do count as reading. It’s been proven multiple times over in multiple studies. The brain responds similarly to the power of a good book whether it’s listened to with the ears orread with the eyes. Plus, think about what an audiobook provides for a reader with a vision impairment.”

The wordimpairmentthumps at my shame.

Inch by slow inch, I peel down the thick layer of neoprene suctioned to my quads and calves until I can finally step out of my suit. I’m standing in nothing but my swim trunks when a convertible of college-age girls drives by. I reach for my T-shirt, but not quickly enough. The car reverses until it stops on the street near my Bronco. The driver honks her horn, followed by the waves and catcalls of her passengers. A scrap of paper is tossed in our direction. It flutters to the ground.

In two quick moves, I yank on my shirt and reach for a towel to dry my sun-bleached hair. Thebeep beepof an oncoming car causes the convertible to squeal forward.

“Well, that was exciting.” Chip jogs around the front of the Bronco and picks up the paper from the road. He opens it.

“Samantha says to call her.” He shows me the scribbled phone number next to a blotted lipstick mark. He tries to hand it off to me, but I give him a stare that has him wadding it up in his fist. “You’re not interested. Got it.”

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