Page 5 of That Weekend in Paris
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve read a good bit about him. He apparently has a gift for spotting talent.”
“In all honesty,” I said, “it’s not that hard to spot the talent. But maybe a little more difficult to know when someone has all the ingredients.”
“And what are those?” he asked, giving me a level look.
“A combination of things. A voice that stands out. Something to say. A vision of life that is both unique but layered with the things most people yearn for every day.”
“What else?”
“A hunger to be heard. And the drive to follow through on it.”
He considered what I’d said, glancing off past me for a moment at the front door of the Bluebird, where patrons were still streaming out at the end of the night. “You think I have those things?”
“The first three. The last one remains to be seen.”
“Did your husband see those things in you?” he asked, surprising me.
“I think so. Except I never really wanted to be a performer.”
“Why did you sign with him?”
“The answer might seem obvious, but we weren’t actually dating when he signed me. I went with Top Dog because I did my research. I felt sure, based on the other writers who had signed with him, that was where I would have the most opportunity to get my songs in front of artists I would be thrilled to have record them. If you are looking to write and perform, I still think Top Dog will open the most doors for you in this town.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“How old are you, Klein? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Twenty-three,” he says lightly. “How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
I’m surprised that he’s turned the question to me, but maybe I needed this dousing of comparison to squelch the fire of awareness zinging around me. “Twenty-nine.”
His gaze stayed centered on mine, and I could feel a dozen unspoken thoughts ignoring the obvious fact that he was barely out of college and I was married.
I reached inside my phone case, fumbling a bit, pulled out a card, and handed it to him. “If you’d like to talk further, give me a call, and I’ll set something up with Josh. Meanwhile, you should explore every option available to you, including meeting with Billy Sumner and anyone else who expresses interest in your work. I’ve found that’s one way to make sure you don’t have any regrets. To be honest, I’d love to sign you right now, but I don’t really think that would be fair to you because you don’t know what else is out there yet.”
I walked around to the driver’s side of the car, hit my remote key, and opened the door. I saw the surprise on his face and wondered for a moment if I had just done something incredibly stupid. Josh would almost certainly think so. But everything I’d just said to Klein Matthews was true. What was that old saying? If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it was meant to be.
Maybe that applied to discovering talent as well. And as I pulled out of the BluebirdCafé parking lot that night, glancing in the rearview mirror to see him standing exactly where I’d left him, watching me go, I had no way of knowing exactly how much of a crossroads in my life that night would end up being.
Klein
“We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.”
?Marcel Proust
WHEN YOU’VE GROWN up poor, it’s not likely that you’ll ever be completely comfortable with the kind of luxury found in places like the Ritz Paris hotel.
At least I don’t think I’ll ever be completely comfortable with it.
The South Carolina trailer park where I spent my years before foster care is about as far from the Ritz Paris as it is possible to be.
It’s way past dinnertime when I let myself inside the hotel room with its king-size bed, now turned down for sleep, its thick, satiny sheets beckoning me as if they are a magnet for the fatigue that permeates my bones.
I’d landed in the city this morning, checking into the hotel and then heading for rehearsals with the band. We’d skipped dinner, and I’m starving now, despite how much I just want to drop into bed and go to sleep. I grab a menu from the desk in the corner of the room, pick up the phone, and order a salad and a sandwich.
While I wait for the food, I head for the enormous bathroom with its gold fittings and walk-in shower. The label has definitely put me up in some beautiful places, but the opulence here is beyond anything I’ve stayed in before. This stay is courtesy of Josh Cummings, in return, I suppose, for the two number one songs I’d been lucky enough to chart this year. It was a very generous gesture, but I feel a little out of place staying here without the band.
When room service arrives, I answer the door in one of the hotel’s heavy white robes. The waiter, an older man with gray hair and an air of style that seems to be innate to the French, greets me a pleasant good evening. He carries the tray into the room and sets it on the corner of the king-size bed. He keeps his eyes politely averted in the way of staff trained not to let on their awareness of celebrity guests. It still surprises me to be treated like someone famous, always makes me uneasy, as if someone’s going to discover at some point that I’m actually an imposter. That my success has been a fluke.
