Love Songs (2 page)

He hadn’t come inside. Perhaps he’d given up. All the same, she had her cell phone in her pocket. The theater had once been gutted by fire because of a psycho man. She didn’t care to see that repeated.

On the stage was a small ensemble waiting for her arrival. Behind them, the set to West Side Story was being repositioned for the weekend’s production.

“Thought you gave up on us,” Duke shouted from the piano. “You only have four shows left. Don’t give up now,” he laughed.

“The only reason I wouldn’t show up is because it’s too damn hot in here,” she said as she made it to the side of the stage. She walked up the stairs and joined the others.

Duke gave her a nod. “Let’s just take it from the top and work the songs. Arianna wants these last four shows to be sharp.”

They had only started the first song when the door opened and Warner walked into the theater. Why she thought he might be a threat she didn’t know because looking at him now she thought he looked like the biggest nerd she’d ever seen.

His jeans were worn, his shirt was untucked, and his thick blond hair was messed up something awful. More than likely he’d been driving all day with his windows down.

He’d helped himself to a seat in the back and just listened as they practiced. Well, she thought, if he liked what he heard in the car wait till he heard her sing as Maria.

Warner wondered how long he’d sat in that theater, alone. He was familiar with the musical—very familiar. They’d just finished the number
Somewhere.
Damn, he’d listened to nearly the entire musical. But that voice. She had the goods!

“She’s something, huh?”

Warner jumped in his seat and looked at the man next to him. Quickly he got to his feet. “Um, yes. She’s amazing.”

“That’s my niece.”

“She has a fantastic voice.” Warner turned to the man and held out his hand. He didn’t want this man to think he was crazy. “I’m Warner Wright. I’m a song writer. I heard her sing in the street and wanted to talk to her.”

The man nodded. “John Forrester.” He turned and looked at the woman he’d followed into the theater. “She doesn’t know you?”

“No, sir. But I’m not stalking her. I just wanted to talk to her about singing.”

John nodded slowly again and pulled his hand back. “She’s trained with a gun.”

Warner swallowed hard. “Most women in Tennessee are, sir.”

That made John laugh. “True enough.” He patted Warner on the shoulder. “She’s almost through.”

He gave him a smile and then looked toward the stage and gave his niece a glance. A million words were said between them in that moment, he wondered what they were.

Warner sat back down in his seat and listened as they finished the rest of the show.

To say he was moved would be an understatement. A piano and a dozen voices could do amazing things.

When the group stood up they all began to talk. This was a family, a musical family. One brought together by a common love and the current show they produced together.

It had been years since Warner was in musical theater, but you never forgot the feeling.

The woman he’d followed walked away from the group and was headed toward him. Her thumbs were tucked into the front pockets of her cutoff jeans.

The eyes which had hid behind the shiny aviators, which were now hung from the front of her tank top, were dark brown.

Warner quickly stood.

“You followed me all the way in here and listened to rehearsal?” Her accent was drawn out.

“Yes. I have to say, you’re amazing.”

The woman nodded slowly, just as her uncle had done. “You’ve said that, but thank you.” She looked down at her bare toes in the sandals she wore and wiggled them. The middle ones had rings on them. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes. No. I—is there somewhere we can talk?”

She looked around. “What’s wrong with here?”

“Right. Listen, I’m a song writer and I’m looking for a voice to demo my work.”

“And you’re looking for lessons?”

Warner raked his fingers through his hair. It was getting much too long. He looked down at his attire.
God, she must think I’m a hobo.

“No. I’m not looking for lessons. I’m looking for someone to do the vocals.”

“And you want me to do that?”

He smiled. Finally they were on the same page. “Yes.”

“I see. Mr. Wright, I’m very busy with the theater right now. I just don’t…”

“Would you just look at them?” He was so desperate he was hunting down strangers to sing his songs. This was embarrassing. “Please. Maybe just a few hours with me and you could see what you think.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

He dropped his shoulders. He was desperate.

He held out his hand to shake hers. “Again, I’m Warner Wright.”

She smiled and took his hand. Her grip was firm. There was no messing around with this one. “Clara Keller.”

“Ms. Keller, I would appreciate a moment of your time to show you my work.”

She pulled her hand back, tucked it into her back pocket and gave him a regarding look.

“Do you know where the Riverside Building is?”

He raised his eyebrow. “Doesn’t everyone? This is Nashville.”

She chuckled. “There is a Starbucks on the main floor. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at ten.”

“Tomorrow at ten. Starbucks. Riverside Building.”

“Will that work?”

He nodded. “Thank you. Can I take you out for a drink tonight? No business, just get to know you?”

Clara pulled her phone out of her back pocket. “Thanks, but I have one guilty pleasure and it’s on TV tonight.”

A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He forced a smile. “What might that be?”

“Reality TV at its worse. Ever heard of Nashville Ex-wives Club?”

He knew the blood had just drained out of his head. Damn if he fainted this would be over.

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Never miss a one. That Little woman is such trash she makes me laugh. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Ten.”

He only nodded as Clara left the theater.

Well, this was over. Once Clara found out about his connection with Patricia Little, she too would exit stage left.

Warner left the theater just in time to see a tow truck drive away with his pickup.

It was official—Nashville hated him.

Warner had been in the Riverside Building numerous times. When one was a courier, every building in downtown was familiar. Those days seemed much easier now as he walked through revolving doors.

He knew it was hot, but he was sweating more than normal. It was stupid. He’d sat in front of music execs that could make or break him. So why did this woman, whom he didn’t know, make him so nervous?

A glance at his watch and he realized it was ten o’clock straight up. He’d hoped to have been there a few minutes early, but then again, that wouldn’t be his style. He was just lucky he wasn’t late.

Clara was already there seated by the front bank of windows. There was an iced coffee drink in front of her and she was looking at her iPhone.

When he approached the table she looked up at him and gave him a grin. It wasn’t a smile—it was a grin and that did something funny to his stomach.

“Mornin’,” she drawled out.

“Mornin’.”

“I got here early with my brother, so I already have had two coffees. Hope you don’t mind I started without you.”

He shook his head. “No, that’s fine. I don’t drink coffee. Your brother works in the building?”

She sat back in her seat and the grin turned into a smile. He was humoring her with his sporadic talking in circles.

“He works in a corner office upstairs.”

“Corner office?” He sat his bag on an empty chair. “He must be important.”

Clara shrugged. “I suppose. So what did you want to show me?”

That was more like it. Get down to business and stop trying to make small talk. So far she hadn’t said anything about his picture prominently displayed on the mantel of Patricia Little’s home during last night’s episode of that trashy show, so maybe she hadn’t noticed, or maybe she’d missed it. Could he be so lucky? After all, he’d caught it and it hadn’t helped that Patricia mentioned him by name and called him untalented.

Warner pulled out the chair and sat down. It wasn’t but a split second later he realized he still had his sling bag over him and it was choking him. He tried to finesse his way from under the strap and pull it over his head, but the strap caught his sunglasses, which were now stuck in his hair.

There was the great possibility that he was going to hang himself before he got to show her any of his work. This was so stupid.

He managed the bag over his head and he was sure he heard his glasses crack. The bag fell to the floor with a grand thud. There were probably a few cracked CDs in there now. Great!

Warner reached for his sunglasses and tried to pull them from his hair without leaving a huge hole from the number of strands he could feel himself pull out.

Finally, he was free of his captor and the torture device—his sunglasses—which looked only slightly bent out of shape.

Now he had to make eye contact with this beautiful woman across from him and hope she wasn’t laughing.

Her gaze was out the window. She hadn’t seen him at all.

Thank God!

She turned her head back toward him. “So, show me your work.”

“Right.” He tucked the bent glasses into the front of his shirt and reached for his bag. He unzipped it carefully, hoping the contents wouldn’t spill out all over the floor, as that seemed to be how things in his life were going.

The sheets of music he’d brought with him had taken the form of the folder, which had curled up in the bag. Well, it was just paper.

He slid them across the table to her.

Clara picked them up as she tucked her leg under her. She liked things casual, this came across loud and clear. There was no diva mentality built into her. She was very comfortable in her skin and he wished he was equally as comfortable in his.

She tapped her fingers on the table as she looked over the music. It was playing in her head, he knew what that looked like. No one had to tell him she was musically inclined. It radiated from her like the confidence she exuded.

Her lips twitched as she read, as if she were singing the song. The mangled CDs might be worthless—she didn’t need them.

Clara flipped to the next page and went through the same motions, but then she tilted her head as if something didn’t make sense. But she kept going, her head bobbing to the beat she obviously heard in her head.

Warner had his hands clasped tightly under the table as he watched her. It had been almost five minutes and she hadn’t said a word.

Again she flipped to the next song and this time she smiled.

“Someone jade you? This one screams revenge.”

He gritted his teeth. “Ex-stepmother. She’s wicked.”

The smile on her lips grew and then she bit down on her lip and nodded. “These are amazing,” she said as she lay down the papers.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah. The melodies are great. The music is fluid. I like them.”

“Will you record them—for demo?”

Clara tilted her head and gave him a long look of consideration. Then she picked up her drink and took a small sip before setting it back down. “You really haven’t heard me perform.”

“I listened to your entire rehearsal.”

“That is totally different.” She picked up the music again and sorted through it. She pulled out one piece and looked it over before laying it atop the rest. “I like this one the best.”

“
Love Song
? Why?”

She laughed. “Because it isn’t your normal love song. The guy is a bumbling idiot, but all because he’s in love with a girl. I like that.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. She just might be the most perfect woman in the world. The girl he’d written the song about didn’t care for his bumbling idiot ways.

“Do you have plans tomorrow night?” she asked.

Warner shook his head.

“I’m playing at The Stage with a friend. Come see me really sing.”

He hadn’t actually thought she was a performer, not like that. He’d been so mesmerized by her voice in the truck he’d forgotten that she might actually be someone who was just like everyone else and wanted fame and fortune in Nashville. Why would she want to help him?

He nodded his acceptance to the invitation.

A man came up to the window behind her and tapped on it. She turned, smiled, and gave him a wave.

He gave Warner a nod and though he tried to smile, Warner was sure he smirked at the man. There was a case at the man’s feet. It looked like a banjo.

Wow, he could pick them. Beautiful woman with an amazing voice, who was already a performer with some boyfriend who wore his hair long and a bandanna like a rock star. Warner might as well go find a bicycle and become a courier again. With any luck he could be hit by a delivery truck the first week.

Clara held up a finger to the man and he nodded. “I have to go.”

“Sure. Sure.”

She looked down at the song. “You’ll come and listen to us tomorrow?”

“Us?”

“Me and Randy. Randy Sayner—heard of him?”

That was a name going around Nashville like a wild fire. “Sure, I’ve heard of him.”

She nodded to the man who had turned to watch the people in the plaza. “He’s got the goods.”

Warner felt his stomach tighten.

Clara swung her bag over her shoulder. “Can I borrow this?” She picked up the piece of music and looked it over again. “I’ll give it back, I promise.”

Oh, hell. What did he have to lose? This beautiful woman was going to steal his song and he was going to get run over by a delivery truck. No fretting there.

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” She picked up her drink and took another sip. “I like you. You’re cute.”

Certainly that hadn’t been what he thought she’d say. “Thank you,” the words choked out.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. We start at seven-thirty.”

“Okay.”

She turned to walk away and then turned back. “Hey, Warner, just for the record. I don’t think you’re a talentless moron. I think that title belongs to Patricia Little.”