37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Laredo
A dam spilled the secrets he and I began working on after Betty told me about Miss Irene at the warehouse. I looped him in initially to provide him a distraction from the drama going on between him and Ariel. Once again, my instincts were rewarded: his default position is thinking of ways to help others. We chatted for hours, and not once did he mention Ariel.
This is his plan.
He’s grown so much during this trip, and as much as he doesn’t want to hear it, he owes it all to Ariel. He’s no longer sitting back of stage observing but is stepping into the much-deserved spotlight. Writing songs, stepping to Ariel, and now this—devising a complicated plan that will have every eye in the town on him.
Sitting at the table and watching him take command of the room is easily a top-five brotherly moment for me. The more he speaks, the more excited he becomes. A joy that has been absent since the argument with Ariel. Like a good leader, he engages with everyone at the table, doling out assignments and outlining what is at stake.
I took special pleasure in watching Betty bark out orders at her mom. I’ve picked up bits of the tension in their relationship and know this was her chance to flip the script from the usual dynamic of her mom micromanaging her life. Betty is a badass in all the best possible ways. And she’s mine.
“What’d you forget?” Adam says as we reach the studio. It’s past midnight. After dinner, he, Betty, and I met Olivia at Driftwood for a victory drink. Betty stayed at the bar to wait for Olivia to close, and I told them we were headed to the hotel to rest up for our big day tomorrow.
But I have one more secret that I’ve yet to reveal.
I reach into my pockets and pull out a set of keys, and Adam picks up on the first clue. “When did you get a set of keys to the studio? Are those Ariel’s?”
I pause with his second question. Maybe I hadn’t thought about this all the way through. Mr. Durant had given Ariel a set of keys to the studio when she rented it out for the week.
Adam takes a few steps back, his eyes lifting to the second floor. The lights of the studio shine bright through the midnight sky.
“Is she up there?” I hear the defensiveness of a man walking into a trap.
I shake my head. “No.” I can’t believe I didn’t weigh this possibility in his head. As much as he wants to leave Seaside and put a definite nail in his relationship, a large part of him wants a reconciliation. It’s the reason it took little to convince him to stay in town.
I take a step toward him, and guilt floods over me. Should I have intervened? Should I have dragged him and Ariel back together? Ariel doesn’t do apologies or believe in second chances.
Then I remembered my conversation with her. She asked me to do one thing. Keep him here through Sunday. The next move is hers. I won’t interfere.
“I have to show you something.” I wave my hand back to the studio. I try to ignore the disappointment in his eyes and hold open the door.
We take the steps, the only sound being the soft echo of our footsteps. With each step we take, anticipation grows stronger.
Reaching the second floor ahead of Adam, I hold the door open and quietly inform him, “We are here to meet someone.”
I quickly address the concern reflected in his arched brow, assuring him, “It’s not her.”
Mr. Durant is standing in the doorway to the console room, arm raised against its frame. “There he is. The new lead for my studio band.” I brush off his smug grin and the inadvertent giveaway of my surprise.
Adam turns to face me, a questioning look of disbelief on his face, seeking confirmation.
“It’s not like I could stay in Seaside with Betty without a job. You’ve met her mother,” I joke. This decision had nothing to do with Betty’s mother.
“You’re serious?” Adam asks. “I thought when you said you were staying, you would…” He struggles to find the right words, his kind heart attempting to find words that won’t insult me. “A job sounds permanent.”
Normally I’d get pleasure watching him twist himself into a pretzel, but there’s more I have to show him. “So not my brand. I know. I’m a changed man.”
He gives me a supportive fist bump, and I pull him into a side hug. “There’s more.” I turn and address Mr. Durant. “Is he here?”
He lifts a finger in our direction. Hold on. He disappears into the room, and we step into the doorway. Mr. Durant flips a switch on the console, and the speakers come alive.
Adam has no idea what’s coming, and I turn to face him, eager to catch every nuance of his reaction. If I ever had the choice of winning the lottery or reliving this moment, I’d choose this one hundred percent of the time.
“Is that…?” Watching someone you love to come into their own is an incredible sight. Watching them realize that others see them and believe in them is monumental. “Ricco Hanlon is singing my song?” Adam squeals.
For the last day and a half, while I worked in the studio with Ariel preparing for the Sunday performance with her band, Adam was writing a new song. A special song for a special occasion.
He admitted to me on our walk to Betty’s house that he felt overwhelmed with the pressure of what he had signed up for and called Hailey to help him with the lyrics. Even two thousand miles away, Hailey is attuned to our needs. She didn’t give him any lyrics, just a pep talk to remind him that he already had everything he needed. Talent and a purpose.
After that call, he said, the song came together quickly.
Ricco looks up from his guitar, spots Adam, and waves his arm. “Get your genius butt in here.” His laughter is magnified through the Dolby speakers, and Adam races out of the control room, reappearing a second later in the studio room.
I stay in the control room next to Mr. Durant, not wanting to miss a single second. “How did you get a hold of my song? It’s not even completed yet.” Adam’s shock carries through the speakers, and Mr. Durant taps me on the elbow and whispers.
“You didn’t tell him?”
I cross my arms against my chest and shake my head. “Some people are born into greatness, and others have to be led there one small step at a time.”
I look up and spot Ricco pointing in my direction. I flip the switch on the console to silence the speakers and turn my attention to Mr. Durant.
“Olivia is emailing all the artists at the festival.” I explain where we are in our plan.
He laughs. “I know. My inbox has been exploding for the last thirty minutes. People are canceling flights, extending their hotel stays to participate.”
“Wait, what?” He scoops up his laptop and pulls up his email. I follow his finger, not believing what I’m seeing. “We’re going to need a bigger studio.”
His chuckle echoes off the walls. “Such a good problem to have.”
I continue to read the emails. “The Aztecs, Rory and Sam, The Dakotas.” All of them headliners. All agreeing sight unseen to participate without restriction. “When we came up with this crazy idea, all we thought we’d get was Ricco, Everett, and maybe one or two other artists.”
“You need to aim higher. This is going to be We Are the World part two.” Mr. Durant says the words my brain could never envision.
It was Adam’s suggestion to write a song to raise funds for the food pantry. We knew he and I would not be enough of a draw to have an impact. That’s when I recalled what Mr. Durant said. So many artists in one place looking to stay in town and record at the studio. That got me thinking.
What if we opened up the recording to an array of diverse artists, each with their own dedicated following and fan base, to contribute to the recording. It would be a force multiplier amplifying the impact of what we are attempting to do.
When I reached out to Ricco for his guidance, he questioned why we were cherry-picking from artists in our network. It was his suggestion to open it up to every artist at the festival and see who would join.
“I guess we’ll test your ability to manage a band right away,” Mr. Durant jokes about me taking the position he had been steering me toward since I arrived. He must read the doubt in my eyes. The concern of trying to wrangle not just a group of musicians that haven’t played together before, but the various egos and attitudes musicians carry. “You got this,” he says. “A very wise man once told me some people are born into greatness, while others must be led one song at a time.” He laughs at his twist on my words.
Sneaking a quick glance at my phone, I notice the time ticking away. It’s just past midnight. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be finishing up on the big stage, the Sunday night stage, playing alongside Ariel and Devil May Care. Two days ago, I thought that would be the biggest highlight of this weekend. Instead, twenty-four hours from now, most of the artists playing at the festival are going to cram their way into this studio. We’ll have less than five hours to get them to work together to learn and perform a song they’ve never heard before, written by a musician who had never written a song by himself before this week. And to be guided by a band leader who has zero experience leading a band.
And if I fail, the food pantry may close.
I should feel anxiety. I should feel fear. But all I can picture is Betty. I think of Margo, Olivia, and Miss Irene. I think of all the wonderful people of Seaside. I think of the beauty of this community and what is truly at stake.
We won’t fail.