Page 4 of That Weekend in Paris
I turned on my phone recorder halfway through the first song, knowing I would send the recording to Josh as soon as Klein finished. I listened, rapt, lifted up and carried away by every word that gave me an instant visual into a small-town South Carolina life that no doubt had made him who he was.
The words to that song made me, like every other female in the audience, wish to be the girl in the back of that truck with him on a summer night. Before the last note of the song faded away, I had texted the recording to Josh. It wasn’t five minutes later that he replied back, “Did he write that?”
I tapped back a quick, “Yes.”
Two seconds later: “Sign him.”
I took an empty seat at the table closest to the front to give me the advantage of speaking to him as soon as the round was over. I knew without a doubt, there were other scouts for competing houses and labels in the room that night. And that I would not be the only one wanting to sign Klein Matthews.
Almost two hours later, the round ended, and I quickly stood, weaving my way to the front. Out of the corner of my eye, I recognized my competition and their equal intent to reach him first. Anyone in the know would have found the scene a little ridiculous, all of us scurrying toward him as fast as we could without outright sprinting. But if I knew one thing, it was that opportunity didn’t present itself very often. The ability not only to recognize it, but to act on it was what made the difference between winners and losers.
I made it to him first, sticking out my hand and saying, “Hi, Klein. That was amazing.Trulyamazing. I’m Dillon Blake. Do you have a couple of minutes to talk?”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my approach. “Hey. Yeah. I know who you are. You’ve written some amazing songs.”
“Thank you,” I said, a little taken aback by the recognition. But then I’d never gotten used to that part of it, people actually knowing my songs. “Do you think we could go outside where it’s a little quieter?”
“Sure,” he said.
Billy Sumner, an exec at Pinnacle Records, stepped up next to me and handed Klein a card. “Love to have a conversation with you, man,” he said, ignoring me. “You got a minute?”
Klein glanced from me to Billy. Lucky for me, his polite, Southern manners took precedence. “The lady here asked for a few minutes, but I’m free after that.”
“My number’s on the card. Just give me a shout when y’all are done.”
“Sure,” Klein said.
Billy turned then and walked off, but not without first giving me a glare of disapproval. He wasn’t used to being bested by anyone in this town, least of all someone who had previously rejected his advances.
“After you, ma’am,” Klein said, waving a hand for me to lead the way through the still-crowded bar.
I walked with a deliberately measured pace, striving to appear less eager now that I had his attention. I’d learned from Josh that negotiating involved a skill set that wasn’t natural to me. I wasn’t very good at hiding my excitement when it came to discovering someone with talent.
In the parking lot, I came to a stop next to the black 911 I drove with equal appreciation and awareness that some part of it wasn’t actually me. Josh had given it to me when I won songwriter of the year. I still felt more comfortable in the old Ford F-150 I’d driven into Nashville for the first time ten years ago. Still kept it parked in the garage. Still had it detailed once a month.
“Nice,” Klein said, eyeing the car.
“Ah, thanks,” I said, refusing the urge to apologize for the extravagance, another aspect of my past I still struggled with. It wasn’t that long ago that I was still putting five dollars’ worth of gas in my truck at a time and leaving my rent check at the landlord’s door at 11:59 P.M. when it was due at midnight. “Well, that was truly incredible in there. How long have you been performing?”
He leaned against the side of the car, folding his arms across his chest. “Not that long, actually. I played baseball in college and actually got recruited to play for the Braves.” He raised his right arm, bent at the elbow, and said, “Blew out my shoulder, and that changed all that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He shrugged. “I figure there’s a reason why I’m not supposed to be doing that. I’ve been writing songs for years but never dared to play any of them in front of a crowd.”
“That would be why you haven’t already been snatched up,” I said, even as I realized I wasn’t keeping my cards close to my chest.
Again, I’d surprised him. I realized he wasn’t fully aware of his own talent. A better businessperson would have taken advantage of that insight. But I usually identified from the artist’s point of view, and if I couldn’t win him over with a fair offer, I didn’t want to win him over.
He studied me with those intense eyes of his, as if he were trying to read my thoughts. I dropped my gaze, cleared my throat, and then looked at him directly. “My husband started Top Dog Publishing here in Nashville.”
Recognition of the name flashed across his face, something like disappointment close behind it. “Some of my favorite writers are with Top Dog,” he said. “You, of course, being one of them.”
He named three other writers, and I realized he’d done his homework before coming to Nashville. “They’re all great,” I said. “We’re lucky to have them.”
“I never made the connection that you were married to?”
He broke off there, and I finished the sentence for him. “Josh. Josh Cummings.”
