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.
Chapter Thirteen
Berk
Another day, another man chatting with Astrid Rehn.
That’s what I spot the moment I walk into Vinyl Crush with a full report of every song on each of the albums she sold to me two days ago.
Initially, I thought I’d make it back here last night, but Stevie’s teacher had other plans.
She requested an impromptu parent teacher conference.
It seems that fourth grade teachers have changed remarkably since the days I sat in the second row of Mrs. Hosek’s class.
Miss Casto, Stevie’s homeroom teacher, is young, attractive, and not shy when it comes to mentioning the fact that she’s single.
She dropped that tidbit on me moments after I arrived in her classroom. She followed that up with a reminder when she reached out to shake my hand at the end of our meeting.
Her touch lingered. Mine didn’t.
She’s lovely, but seeing that she’s my daughter’s teacher and I find Astrid Rehn captivating at the moment, I left with a smile and a recommendation that I speak to my daughter about her penchant for talking in class.
I handled that as soon as I got home last night.
Stevie promised me that she’d limit her storytelling to recess and lunch breaks.
She never misses an opportunity to gift me with one of her stories. Before I left home to come to Vinyl Crush, Stevie kept me entertained for almost an hour with a made-up tale about an Orca whale and a girl with brown hair who befriended it.
After Stevie was done telling me her pre-bedtime story, I kissed her goodnight, reminded my sister to make sure my daughter was in bed by nine, and I set out to see my favorite musician.
I’m staring at her now as the bell above the door signals my arrival sending her gaze in my direction.
I interrupted a conversation she was having with a brown-haired guy wearing jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball cap.
I’m still wearing the suit I put on this morning because Astrid didn’t seem to mind the one I wore the other day.
“Berk!” Astrid’s voice carries over the soft tones of a jazz song playing in the background. “I’ll be right with you.”
“No rush,” I call out to her as I take stock of the guy who just inched closer to her.
She turns her attention back to him.
That affords me a clear view of her back.
Long blonde hair cascades around her shoulders in soft curls. My gaze trails down to a perfect heart shaped ass beneath dark wash jeans.
I already know that she’s wearing a Vinyl Crush T-shirt.
I’m not complaining.
It suits her and fits her in just the right way.
The guy next to her says something that sends her hand to his forearm. They laugh in unison.
He pats her hand giving me a straight shooter view of his left hand, and the thick silver band wrapped around his ring finger.
I wore a similar ring once. I slid it off fourteen months after my wife’s death. It was moments before I met up with a woman I’d connected with on an app.
I had every intention of putting the ring back on after the encounter, but I made a conscious decision not to. My body had moved on, and even though my heart wasn’t invested in what happened in the hotel room I’d chosen for that first one-night stand, I knew it was time to put the past to rest.