Page 53 of Stolen Harmony
Chapter 13
Distractions
Elias
Isat across from Jake Dollworth, watching him flip through sheet music with the methodical attention of someone who understood that every note mattered. Sarah had her laptop open, pulling up contract templates while David scribbled notes in the margins of the agreement we'd been hammering out for the past two hours.
Jake was good. Better than good, actually. His voice had the kind of raw honesty that couldn't be manufactured, and his songs cut straight to the bone without apology. The demo he'd played for us earlier still echoed in my head: a track about his father's funeral that had made Sarah reach for tissues she pretended not to need.
“The studio time breakdown looks fair,” Jake said, his weathered fingers tracing the numbers on the page. He was older than most of our artists, maybe forty-five, with calloused hands that spoke of years playing dive bars for tips and promises. “But I want creative control over the final mix.”
“That's standard for us,” Sarah replied, adjusting her glasses as she scrolled through the digital contract. “We're notin the business of making artists sound like someone they're not.”
David nodded, pen clicking against his teeth in a rhythm that matched the coffee shop music bleeding through the thin walls. “The goal is to capture what makes you unique, not sand off the rough edges that make you interesting.”
I found myself only half-listening, my attention drifting to the window that looked out over Harbor's End's main street. The late afternoon light painted everything in shades of gold and amber, making even the weathered storefronts look almost romantic.
“Elias?” Sarah's voice cut through my distraction. “You okay with the timeline?”
I pulled my focus back to the room, to the contract spread across the table like a roadmap to Jake's future. “Six weeks is reasonable,” I said, though I'd missed whatever timeline she was referring to. “Gives us room to experiment without rushing the process.”
Jake smiled. “I appreciate you guys taking a chance on me. Most labels would've written me off as too old, too set in my ways.”
“Age isn't the enemy of good music,” I said, meaning it. “Sometimes it's the only thing that gives you enough perspective to say what needs saying.”
We wrapped up the details with handshakes and promises to reconnect next week when Jake's schedule cleared up. He gathered his sheet music with the reverent care of someone who'd learned not to take opportunities for granted, and I found myself hoping we could capture even half of what made him special.
After Jake left, Sarah leaned back in her chair with the satisfied expression of someone who'd just closed a deal that mattered. “That went well.”
“Better than well,” David agreed, already pulling up calendar apps to block out studio time. “His voice is going to sound incredible in the space. Natural reverb, no digital manipulation needed.”
It should have felt satisfying. Instead, I felt restless, like my skin didn't fit properly. The walls of the conference room seemed to press closer with each passing minute.
“You look like someone stole your lunch money,” Sarah observed, shutting her laptop with a decisive click. “Bad day?”
“Long day,” I corrected, which wasn't exactly a lie. Time had been moving like molasses lately, each hour stretching into something that felt more like endurance than living.
David gathered his notes with the methodical precision that made him invaluable in the studio. “You know what you need? A drink. Several drinks, actually.”
“I'm fine.”
“That's exactly what someone who needs several drinks would say,” Sarah chimed in, already reaching for her coat. “When's the last time you did something just because it sounded fun?”
I tried to remember and came up empty. Fun had become a foreign concept somewhere between the funeral and the gradual realization that Elaine's death had left me fundamentally altered, like a song played in the wrong key.
“Come on, Eli,” David pressed, using the nickname that only my oldest friends were allowed. “One night. A few beers, some terrible bar food, maybe even human conversation that doesn't involve contract negotiations.”
Sarah nodded enthusiastically. “The bar has that new whiskey selection she keeps bragging about. And it's Tuesday, so it won't be packed with tourists trying to take selfies with authentic local atmosphere.”
The idea of sitting in a noisy bar held more appeal than Iwanted to admit. For months, I'd been moving through Harbor's End like a ghost, present but not really participating. Maybe it was time to rejoin the world of the living, even if it was just for a few hours.
“One drink,” I said finally.
“That's the spirit,” Sarah grinned. “Though we both know it won't be one drink once Anna starts pouring.”
Anna looked up from behind the bar as we walked in, her smile genuine and uncomplicated in a way that reminded me why small towns could be gifts instead of just limitations.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she called out, already reaching for glasses. “Elias Grant, out after dark. Mark your calendars, people.”
