*****
Her performance earned her a standing ovation, and she treated the audience to Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 21 as an encore, which earned her an even longer ovation, which led to a second encore—her souped-up version of “Flight of the Bumblebee.” And they loved it. By the time she was escorted to the green room, her initial exhilaration had waned, leaving her exhausted. She spoke to a few local fans—could she call them fans?—who showered her with compliments in a mix of English and Czech. Well, she assumed they were being complimentary by their grins and nervous twittering. They could have called her a twisted goat herder and she’d have smiled and thanked them anyway. She was given several bouquets of roses, champagne—which she planned to drink straight from the bottle—and even more compliments. Wes stood off to the side of the room, talking to a manager or agent or some other bigwig in the music industry. He’s lovely wife, Corrine, stood at his side. Wes spared Dawn the occasional glance and proud smile. He was the type of man she’d wished for in her father, and maybe that was why she adored him so much. Wes was only fifteen years her senior, though, so while it was biologically possible for him to have a daughter her age, she didn’t think he held a paternal affection for her. Not exactly.
When the dressing room finally cleared out, it was quite late. Only early evening, stateside, however. Dawn was wiped out, her fingers stiff, her back and shoulders achy.
Wes shared a few words with Corrine, and after she kissed her husband’s cheek and gave Dawn’s arm a squeeze punctuated with heartfelt congratulations, she left the green room and closed the door behind her.
“I wouldn’t mind if she stayed,” Dawn said, feeling bad for sending Corrine out on her own in a foreign place.
“She wanted to go stand on the stage. She misses it.”
Dawn had forgotten that Corrine had once been a pop singer in a girl band. At least as a classical musician Dawn wouldn’t be kicked to the curb for having the audacity to age.
“I spoke to Everlong. Steinberg was unreachable.”
“And?”
“He wants you in Venice. So bad he can taste it.”
Dawn laughed, wondering what that would taste like.
“He wants me to keep pressuring you to sign, and my every instinct wants to do exactly that. Dawn, you aren’t going to get an opportunity like this ever again. I don’t understand why you’re even hesitating.”
“Let’s sit,” she said, nodding toward a small plum-colored settee. She carefully laid her roses on a coffee table and set her bottle of champagne aside.
“Let me explain my hesitation. I know it’s your job to help me make the best career decisions, but hear me out.”
“You already explained this in L.A.,” he said, sitting next to her. “I know you’re afraid that you’ll be trapped as a ghostwriter and never be able to succeed on your own, but I don’t think that’s going to happen, kiddo. I won’t let that happen. This opportunity will be your step up.”
His assertion made her feel marginally better, but she knew there were no guarantees in life. “That’s some of my hesitation,” she said. “There’s more.”
Wes sighed. “This is about your new guy, isn’t it?”
Was she that transparent? She chuckled. “He is part of the puzzle, but not what I wanted to discuss. My ultimate goal—that’s what I need to tell you about.”
“Writing scores for Steinberg movies isn’t your ultimate goal?”
“No.”
Wes blinked at her. “You want to work for a different director, is that it? Do you have an ethical aversion to fantasy and science fiction or something?”
Now she was laughing; it was fun to listen to his guesses. It proved to her that he really didn’t see past the Hollywood sign. “No.”
“Well, don’t keep me guessing. We’ll be here all night.”
“I want . . .” She licked her lips and folded her hands in her lap. She’d never told anyone—except Kellen and Pierre—about this dream of hers, and only Kellen had taken her seriously. She doubted Wes would be impressed. “I want to compose the kind of timeless symphonies that orchestras play.”
Wes cringed. “There’s no money in that.”
“It’s not about the money, it’s about a legacy. My legacy.” She flushed. Damn, that had sounded cheesy. She wasn’t even thirty years old and she was talking about legacies. “I don’t mind being known as a Hollywood composer, but it’s not what I dream about.”
Wes gnawed on his lip as he looked at her. “I don’t know how to help you with that, kiddo. I wish I did.”
“I know,” she said. “I don’t really expect you to, but I’m afraid if I take this wide open road set before me, I’ll never try that scary, twisted path that probably leads to nowhere. But how can I know where it goes if I don’t take a step in that direction? Maybe the scary, twisted path leads to the realization of my perfect dream.”
“Sometimes,” Wes said, holding up his hands—palms facing one another in front of him. “Sometimes the road and the path run alongside each other, so you can keep that path in sight as you confidently take the road.” He curved his left hand back and forth, but shook the right—the straight and steady path—up and down for emphasis. “Take the road, Dawn.”
She should take the road. Why was she so hesitant?
“Why don’t you write the symphonies of your heart in your free time?”
Dawn hadn’t realized that Corrine had returned until she asked her question.
“I won’t have much free time,” Dawn said.
“You will after the movies are finished.”
“And when will that be?”
Wes smiled at his wife before turning back to Dawn. “We can limit the contract to a year with a chance at renewal. Will that make you feel less skittish?”
“A year?” That wasn’t long. She could give her all to this project for a year and if it didn’t work out, she could walk away. Reach for her next star, a star she was unlikely to ever hold in her hand. But she wanted to at least try to capture it. “I think I can handle a year.”
She’d expected that making her decision would offer some relief, but she still felt off, felt unsure. Wes, who instantly crumpled into the sofa and covered his eyes with both hands, obviously didn’t hold her reservations.
“Kid, you are going to be the death of me,” he said. “I honestly thought you might turn this offer down flat out. I was prepared to forge your signature.”
She knew he was joking, so she laughed.
“Thanks to my brilliant wife for her eavesdropping.”
“They wouldn’t let me on the stage,” Corrine said. “They were cleaning it.”
“It’s not really your kind of stage anyway.” Wes pulled a folded contract out of the inner pocket of his tux and smoothed it on his knee. “Let’s hammer out your demands so I can negotiate for you,” he said to Dawn. “Besides needing a few days to get your affairs in order before you start and limiting the term to a year, what else do you want?”
“Equal billing with Everlong. I want to be a co-writer, not a ghostwriter.”