Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Astrid
I glance up when I hear the bell over the door signal that someone has entered my store.
Hope blooms inside me that it’s Berk Morgan, but it’s only been fourteen hours since I last saw him. He told me he would give the records he bought a listen, and then he’ll be back to compare notes with me.
I spot a handsome man approaching me in a dark suit, but he doesn’t make my heart flip flop. Seeing him does put a smile on my face. We may have met during the most difficult time of my life, but we’ve become friends since then.
“Astrid Rehn,” he says my full name the way he always does.
“Mr. Garrett Ryan,” I teasingly say his.
A smile coasts over his lips. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I offer. “What about you?”
“I’m the happiest man in this city,” he answers with a wink. “Vanessa says hello.”
Vanessa is Garrett’s wife. I met her one night when I was trying to show off my culinary skills to Eloise. I went to grab one of the razor-sharp knives that my mom kept in a kitchen drawer, but my index finger landed on the blade and not the handle.
Twenty minutes later, we were in the Emergency Department of the closest hospital with a kitchen towel spotted in blood wrapped around my finger.
Vanessa was the nurse who tended to the wound before a doctor expertly bound it together with three stitches.
During my initial examination, Vanessa and I realized that I was one of her husband’s clients. She was in Vinyl Crush a week later, buying a few records for Garrett’s birthday.
She pops in at least once a month to add something new to their listening collection. Garrett does the same, but his visits almost always have an ulterior professional motive.
“Tell her hi from me.” I raise a hand in a wave as if I expect him to pass that along too.
He smiles. “Will do.”
I wait for him to tell me why he’s here, but his attention gets stolen away by a colorful album cover sitting on top of the checkout counter.
“What’s this?” he questions without tearing his gaze away from the album.
“Your next purchase,” I say with a laugh. “It’s a rare copy of Cupid Karma’s debut album.”
He finally glances in my direction. His green eyes lock on mine. “Cupid Karma? That sounds like the name of a song about a bad breakup.”
“It’s not.” I flash him a smile. “You consider yourself a musical connoisseur, yet you have no clue about Cupid Karma?”
One of his hands glides through his black hair. “Give it to me straight. Tell me who Cupid Karma is and whether I should invest my hard earned money in this album.”
“You should invest your money in it,” I state matter-of-factly. “If you do, I think you’ll be the second or third person to do so.”
He barks out a laugh. “You’re not presenting a compelling case here.”
“I don’t have to,” I argue back. “You’re the lawyer. I’m not.”
“Duly noted,” he says as he lifts a finger in the air. “Answer one question for me, and then we’ll put the subject of Cupid Karma to rest.”
“Ask away.”
He taps his palm on the album cover. “Do you like this album?”
“I adore it,” I answer honestly. “I met Cupid Karma at an open mic night in a bar in the East Village. They are phenomenal, Garrett. They’re three sisters who are all incredibly talented. They write their music and their vocals are out of this world.”
“Sold,” he announces before I can get another word in. “I’ll take it.”
I start toward the checkout counter to ring up his purchase. “Is there another reason for your unexpected visit?”
“Blood pressure meds.”
My gaze bolts up to meet his. “Blood pressure meds?”
I ask the question, even though I know what he’s referring to. As far as I know, Garrett doesn’t need blood pressure medication. The man is fit. He sprinted in here one Saturday morning during a run. Eloise could barely keep her eyes off his bare biceps.
“It’s a lucrative deal, Astrid,” he pauses before he goes on, “I asked to see the context of the ad. They’ll have that to me by day’s end, but from what I understand, snippets of the song will play during a commercial. It’ll appear on TV and in ads online.”
The song.
My mom’s song.
Sweet Night Sky was my mom’s one hit song.
It topped all the music charts when I was ten-years-old. I couldn’t turn a corner without hearing someone singing it.
Now, it’s become a staple in commercials, and bits, and pieces of it have been featured in many movies.
It’s one of those songs everyone knows the lyrics to, yet no one knows the story behind it or the woman who wrote and originally performed it.
Becky Byrd.
I glance at the small bird tattoo on my left wrist.
Commercializing the song was something my mom did in the years before she died. She had released it on her own, as an indie artist, but she saw the potential in allowing others to license it.
Not only did she take pride in that, but it also provided her with an ongoing income that allowed her to run Vinyl Crush without a monetary worry in the world.
Her estate was worth a few hundred thousand dollars when I inherited it. It’s grown since then, but I’ve barely touched any of that money. I won’t until I have a clear vision of how to use it to make an impact that will benefit more people than just me.
“What would my mom think?” I ask Garrett since he’s the one who had hours-long discussions with her about the song. He handled setting up her will and the administration of her estate after she passed.
He’s also the contact person listed for anyone who inquires about the rights to the song. My mom put that in place before her death so I wouldn’t have to constantly sift through emails or answer calls from people wanting to sample her song in their projects.
“Your mom would say you should spread her voice as far as you can.”
I lock eyes with him because that’s exactly what she said to me before she died.
“When should I stop by your office to see the materials about the ad campaign?”
He smiles. “How’s first thing tomorrow morning?”
I nod, wishing that it were my mom taking that meeting, but vowing that I’ll do right by her, the way I always try and do.