“It’s a fantastic start,” I said. “I really like it.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not,” I said. “What were you thinking of after this? Music or lyrics?”
“That’s kind of where I’m stuck. I’ve tried a lot of things, but nothing seems to be working. It’s like because I’m not sure of the lyrics, I’m not sure about the music, and vice versa.”
“That’s common in the early stages.”
“What do you do when it happens to you?”
“I start trying things, without editing or judging myself. I think it’s important to give every idea that comes to me a shot, no matter how weird,” I said. “So let’s do that, okay?”
I listened to the recording again, following along with the lyrics. I listened a third, then a fourth time, absently strumming my guitar. When I shut off the recording and played the music on my guitar alone, I let my instincts take over. Morgan stayed quiet as variations began to sprout and overlap in my head. I strung together a few new chords to follow the chorus, but they didn’t feel right—too generic. I tried again, but the next attempt felt awkward. I kept noodling and experimenting for a while, forgetting Morgan’s presence as I searched for those critical few bars. Eventually I found the chord progression that seemed to work, then tricked out the rhythm to give it more syncopation. I stopped and played it again and was suddenly sure that the song could be very commercial—maybe even a hit. I ran through it again with greater confidence, catching Morgan’s eye. Before I could ask what she thought, she clapped her hands, bouncing a little in her seat.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “That was amazing!”
“You like it?” I grinned.
“I love it, but watching you and your process was the best part. Hearing you experiment until you found what worked.”
“I only just started.”
“You’ve been playing for almost twenty minutes.”
As usual, time had stopped for me while I lost myself in the music. “But you’re sure you liked it?”
“Loved it. And it even gave me some new ideas for the lyrics.”
“Like what?” I asked.
She launched into the story she wanted to tell and the feeling she wanted to capture. She improvised a couple of catchy phrases that struck me as defiant yet upbeat with a definite hook, and I found myself wondering why I hadn’t gone in that direction. We also played around with the tempo and rhythm, and as we brainstormed I could tell she had far more of a gift than she gave herself credit for. Her instinct for commercial music was well honed, and when she broke down the lyrics and the melody for the first stanza, the floodgates opened and the song took on a momentum of its own. An hour passed, then another. As we worked, I could feel her excitement growing. “Yes!” she’d exclaim. “Just like that!” Or “Can you try something like this?” while humming a bar or two. Or “How about this for the lyrics?” And every now and then, she’d have me sing the song from the beginning. She sat close to me, her leg warm against my own as she scribbled lyrics in the notebook, crossing out rejected words or phrases. Little by little we worked our way to the finish, fading out in the same minor key in which the song opened. By the time we stopped, the sky beyond the sliding glass door had turned from blue to white, shot through with pink highlights. When she turned to me, she couldn’t hide her joy.
“I can’t believe it.”
“It went well,” I said, meaning it.
“I still want to hear it one more time from the beginning. I want to record the whole thing in one go, too, so I don’t forget.”
“You won’t forget.”
“You might not, but I’m taking no chances.” She snapped a photo of the lyrics, then readied the phone for a recording. “Okay,” she concluded, “let’s hear it from the top.”
“How about you sing this time, instead of me? It’s your song.”
“It’s our song,” she protested. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I shook my head. “That’s where you’re wrong. I might have clarified your thoughts, but it was your idea, your story, and, for the most part, your music. That song has been inside you for a while. All I did was help you allow it to come out.”
Her expression was skeptical. “I think you’re wrong.”
“Read the lyrics,” I insisted, tapping the page. “Show me one line that was all mine.”
She knew there weren’t any; I might have added a few words here and there, but that was more about editing than creating, and she’d come up with the hook and the easily remembered phrases.
“Okay, but the music was really yours.”
“You had it all, you just needed help breaking the logjam. Every phrase and key change, you led.” I pressed on. “Morgan, I’ve never written a country-pop song before. It’s not what I do. Trust me—this song is yours, not ours. We both know it’s a song I’d never be able to write, if only because I’m a guy.”
“That I do accept,” she said, laughing in agreement before growing quiet again. “I still can’t believe how fast it all came together,” she murmured. “I’ve been working on that song on and off for weeks. I’d almost given up, until today.”
“That happens to me, too,” I admitted, nodding. “I’ve finally accepted the idea that songs come only when they’re ready to come, never before that. I’m just glad I could be part of it.”
She smiled before placing a hand on my knee. “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky with—what? Gratitude? Wonder? “This was…the best learning experience I’ve ever had.”
“You’re welcome. And now I want to hear you sing it.”
“Me?”
“It’s your song. You should sing it.”
“It’s been a long day,” she demurred. “My voice will sound tired.”
“Stop making excuses.”
While she hesitated, her hand remained on my knee, its warmth spreading through me.
“Okay,” she relented, clearing her throat. Removing her hand, she reached for the notebook. “Just give me a little bit to get ready.”
I watched as she rose from the couch and moved to the center of the room. “Hit the record button when I’m ready, okay?” she directed.
She clasped her hands in front of her, as though steeling herself. When she finally raised the notebook and nodded, I pressed record on her phone, then set it on the coffee table between us.
At the sound of the opening bars, Morgan seemed to come alive. Her limbs suddenly loosened; her face glowed as if incandescent. Before she reached the end of the first stanza, I was electrified.
Adele, Taylor, or Mariah had nothing on the voice emerging from the petite young figure before me. Her range and control were incredible, and her sound was huge. I couldn’t believe that delicate frame could produce the deep, soulful sound of a diva in her prime. I was stunned. Forcing myself to concentrate on the accompaniment, I struggled to make sure I didn’t miss a cue. Morgan’s performance, on the other hand, appeared effortless, as though she’d been singing the song for years. She made adjustments on the fly, riffing on the lyrics and rounding out the chorus with trills and vibrato I hadn’t anticipated. Her presence filled the room—yet as she stared into my eyes, I felt as if she was singing just for me.
People wonder what it takes to be a star, and every successful musician has their own story. In that moment, however, I knew without a doubt that I was in the presence of a world-class talent.
“You’re incredible,” I finally said as her voice died away.
“You’re sweet,” she deflected. “I said the same thing about you, remember?”
“The difference is, I’m being honest. Your voice…It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before.”
She set her notebook on the table, then moved toward me. Bending over, she tipped my face toward hers and kissed me softly on the lips. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re going to be a star,” I murmured, believing it.
She smiled. “Are you hungry?”
The change in subject brought me back to earth. “I am.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where to get a good cheeseburger, would you?”
I watched her saunter around the coffee table, and the day we’d spent together came back in a rush—the kayak excursion, the sun in her hair, the feel of her lips at the picnic table, the sight of her eyes closing as she sang. When I stood from the couch, my legs felt curiously unsteady. I’m falling for her, I suddenly realized.
Or maybe, just maybe, I already had.
I cleared my throat, almost in disbelief. “I know just the place.”