Mister Dick

“Your dad’s issues are his to deal with. I don’t know where he stands with you guys, but it’s obvious he’s done damage, and it’s damage that will either bury you or make you stronger.”

I leaned closer still. “You’ve got a gift that needs to be shared. And if you’re afraid to toss the basket and let your light shine because of how your dad will react or what he’ll say, then he’s won. And the thing is, Echo? We don’t know how he’s going to react or what he’s going to say, so to assume you doing nothing means he’s won?” My voice dropped to a whisper. “He could have fucking lost everything. He might be your biggest champion, but you have no idea because the two of you don’t know how to connect or communicate. And that’s okay. That’s what life is, figuring this shit out. But remember one thing. At the end of the day, there’s only one person you need to answer to, and that’s yourself. So listen to your heart and do what’s right for you. It’s scary, I know. Getting up on stage and opening up your heart and soul to strangers. There’ll be people who love you, and there’ll be those who want to tear you down. But man, when you’re in the moment and your fingers are picking out melodies full of love and lust and passion and softness and weakness and anger and surrender, there’s nothing like it. Remember that.

“I love you, Echo. I love everything about you. And I want to make music with you. I want your face to be the first one I see in the morning. I want you in my bed and on stage. I want to commit to you. I want us to spread that magic we felt in the studio to anyone who’ll listen. Because it’s more than good. Because it’s a piece of you and me.”

Her expression was unreadable, and I was scared. I had no idea if anything I’d just said made sense. And if it had, I didn’t know if she’d listened. I only knew this was something she needed to do on her own. But she also had to know I had her back.

“I’ve got you. No matter what you decide. I’m here for you.” I got to my feet and brushed a kiss across her forehead. “But right now, I gotta go. There’s someplace I’ve need to be, because if I don’t show, Lyric will kick my ass from here to the damn moon. I hit the stage at eight. I hope you’ll be there with me.”

I turned and left the bar, hopped into the waiting taxi, and headed back to the hotel. My stomach was in knots, and I thought that maybe I should have done more. Maybe I’d played this wrong.

As the snow continued to fall, I realized that either way, I’d find out soon enough.

27

Echo

When I was six, I decided I wanted to play the fiddle. I had a bit of a crush on Benjy, a fiddle guy my dad knew from when he was young. Benjy was at our house a lot. He was like a teddy bear with a smile as big as his belly and a beard I thought was magical. It was the way it moved when he talked, and when he laughed, it was like the damn thing was alive.

Benjy didn’t ignore me like the other guys in Dad’s band. He listened to me and told me jokes and said I looked like a little princess. I suppose it’s why I developed a crush on him, and one of the reasons I wanted to play the fiddle. I wanted to impress Benjy because he made me feel good about myself. But more than that, I wanted to impress my father.

The problem with a kid wanting to play an instrument like the fiddle is that it takes a lot more time and perseverance to master it than, say, a guitar. There are no frets, so notes are pulled by knowledge and feel. You need to know where to place your fingers on the strings. You need to know how to use your bow correctly. You need to listen to the instrument and let it your emotion sing through it.

But how can you listen when you don’t know how?

And thing was that at that age, I knew none of this. In my little six-year-old mind, learning this instrument would bring me into my dad’s orbit and it would make Benjy’s beard laugh and smile. So one night, I snuck out of my room and went down to the parlor where Dad used to practice. It was before he built the studio, and he’d always liked the acoustics of the room, with its high ceilings and wooden floors.

Benjy’s fiddle was there in its case, and I grabbed it before heading outside to the secret place by the edge of the pond. I remember the moon was full and that fireflies lit up the bushes that crept along the bank. There was a log there, a big old thing that had fallen the year before. I sat on it and placed the fiddle under my chin the way I’d seen Benjy do. I took the bow and ran it across the strings, wincing at the godawful sound it made. And then I tried it again, using my fingers as well. I had no idea what I was doing, but I kept at, and after a good, long while, I didn’t sound as bad as when I first started.

I was feeling pretty damn good and got up onto the log. In my head, I was an adult and Benjy was my prince, my father the king. I danced along that log, whirling in circles as the fantasy played out in my head.

So when I lost my footing and fell into the pond, fear wasn’t the first thing I felt. It was confusion. In my head, I was still up on that log. I was still dancing and playing and singing. But in reality, my boots were heavy and my long nightgown tangled around my legs. I began to panic. I didn’t care about the fiddle anymore. I cared about breathing. About keeping my head above water because the pond was deep and I was only six and I couldn’t touch the bottom. My teeth chattered, and my voice grew weak, and the water was everywhere.

I don’t remember much else from that night except it was Marta who found me. I remember her carrying me into the house. I remember the relief in Benjy’s eyes when he saw me and the disappointment when he realized his prized fiddle, an instrument handed down from his grandfather, was at the bottom of the pond, most likely ruined forever.

I remember my father coming into my bedroom and staring down at me. He said nothing of my near drowning. Nothing about the fact that in the blink of an eye, he’d almost gone from three daughters to two. I stared up at him through my tears, wanting his forgiveness and craving his love. But all he did was shake his head and say that it was a damn shame about the fiddle. And before he left, he told me never to touch another instrument again. Ever.

I shook off the memories and walked into the hotel via the back entrance. Tim was amazing. He listened to me ramble on the drive back from the pub. He called ahead and cleared the way for security to meet me out back. He even gave me a hug, and though he had no way of understanding my situation, he told me things would be okay.

I don’t know if it was the tone of his voice or the look in his eyes, but I believed him.

I got my key card and rode the elevator up to the fifteenth floor, tucked back in the corner to avoid eye contact with the elderly couple who’d gotten on with me. I didn’t have to worry. It was obvious they had no clue who I was. When I got to my suite, I let myself inside, tossed my Gucci bags onto the bed, and took exactly three steps before I realized I wasn’t alone.

I stared at the shadow, there by the windows, and felt that sick feeling come back. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t even close.

“How did you get in?” I asked, trying my best to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Girl at the desk is a fan.”

His voice was low, the Southern drawl he’d never been able to get rid of rolling underneath his words. I hadn’t seen my father in months, maybe close to a year, but he never changed. His features were well defined, with soft dark eyes, a strong jaw, and wide forehead. His hair was on the long side, just touching the top of his black collared shirt. I wasn’t sure if it was the lighting or not, but I saw a few strands of silver. His long, lean legs were jeans covered and boot clad, and in his hand was a tumbler of what I assumed was whiskey.

He spoke first, and I nearly jumped out of my Fendi’s.

“You know, I was thinking on my way over here about that time when you dropped Benjy’s fiddle into the pond.”

I think I might have laughed. Or choked. Or something, because how ironic and how sad that this was the memory we both reached for when things were so unsettled. He took a step forward, and I was able to see him clearly. He looked…broken.

My heart squeezed so tightly, it hurt, and I concentrated on breathing, because no way was I going to faint or do something equally stupid in front of my father. I had to be stronger than that.