Jane's Harmony (Jane's Melody #2) (4 page)

She put her money back in her purse, left the young man playing, and headed home to make peace. She stopped along the way for a box of Caleb’s favorite doughnuts, just in case.

Jane was shocked when she walked into the apartment.

The first thing she noticed was how dark and cool it was inside. Then she noticed a loud popping noise coming from the bedroom. She set down the doughnuts and her purse, then went and opened the door to investigate. Caleb was standing on a stepladder, attaching empty egg cartons to the bedroom ceiling with a staple gun. More than half the ceiling was already covered, and it looked as though he had enough egg cartons stacked against the wall to finish the job.

“Oh, hi, baby,” he said, pausing with the staple gun in his hand and looking down at her.

“Hi,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“Well,” he said, looking at the egg cartons and scratching his head, “I was watching
Cool Hand Luke
, and I got inspired by
Paul Newman to see how many eggs I could eat. Now I’ve got to do something with all these empty cartons.”

Jane stood looking up at him, wondering if maybe he had finally lost his mind.

“I’m just kidding.”

He tossed the staple gun onto the bed and stepped down from the ladder. “Boy, you didn’t think I was serious, did you?”

“Of course not,” Jane said, laughing. “What would you know about
Cool Hand Luke
? You weren’t even born when it was made.”

Caleb bent and kissed the top of her head. “And neither were you. Come on and let me give you the tour.”

He walked her into the living room and swept his arms out to indicate the dark blue curtains he had hung. “These keep the sun out when it drops below the roofline in the afternoon.”

“It feels much cooler already,” Jane said.

Caleb smiled proudly. “That’s because of this,” he said, crossing to the main window and pulling back the curtain.

A window-mounted air-conditioning unit was installed, trimmed out and plugged in, and quietly pumping cool air into the room.

Jane threw her arms around Caleb. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Wait,” he said. “There’s more.”

He walked her back into the bedroom and pointed out the curtains there. “I made sure they were thick enough to block some of the noise. The egg cartons are ugly, I know, but Mr. Zigler had a pallet of them at the warehouse from some old Easter deal, and they really do help mute the sound in here. And then I got you this.”

He stepped over to her side of the bed and switched on a sound machine. The sound of ocean waves filled the room, and
Jane couldn’t have been happier if she were sitting with Caleb on a beach somewhere, sipping on a virgin piña colada.

“And if you get tired of waves,” he said, “there’s rain and birds and even a waterfall too.”

Caleb switched the sound machine off and looked at Jane with a hopeful expression on his face. She knew this was his way of apologizing and that he was waiting to see if she might accept it.

But it’s me who needs to be apologizing, she thought, even though her doughnuts now seemed wholly inadequate.

“Oh, Caleb, I love it. All of it. Thank you.”

He came to her and wrapped his strong arms around her and hugged her tight. When he pulled away and looked at her, his eyes were sad even though he was smiling.

“I’m sorry, Jane. I never want to yell at you like that ever again. I remind myself of my dad when I raise my voice, and I hate it. I promise to try and do better.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “it’s me who should be sorry. I never should have been so ungrateful about this place to begin with. And you’ve been so kind to not even charge me rent while I’m looking for work. But mostly, I’m sorry about meddling in your business and sending your tape to that silly show. I just wanted to do something for you, you know? I should have asked first. Can you forgive me?”

When she finished talking, he didn’t answer right away, but stood there instead, just looking deep into her eyes. Then he said, “I decided I’m going to do it.”

“The audition? Really? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said, nodding.

“What changed your mind?” she asked.

“Do you remember when you told me what your friend Grace had said? In Paris. She asked you what would you do if you weren’t afraid, or something like that.”

Jane nodded, remembering it clearly.

“Well, I asked myself that same question, and the answer is, if I weren’t afraid, I’d do the audition. You were right. I have nothing to lose. And being on a show, or being discovered or whatever, none of that has to change one thing about who I am or what I do with my music.”

Jane reached up and took Caleb’s cheeks in her hands, then planted a long, slow kiss on his lips. “I love you. You’re a wise and sexy man, and I love you.”

“Does this mean we get to have that makeup sex now?”

She nodded. “That’s exactly what it means.” Then she saw Caleb’s eyes widen at something he saw over her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, “are those Gourdough’s doughnuts?”

“Yes. They were going to be my peace offering.”

“Did you get a Funky Monkey?”

“Three. And a Fat Elvis and a Mother Clucker too.”

“Oh, this is on,” he said, stepping past her.

“Oh my God,” Jane said, shaking her head and following him from the bedroom. “We’re not even married and the honeymoon is officially over, I guess.”

“Why would you say that?” he asked, lifting the lid on the box of doughnuts.

“Because you just passed up sex with me for doughnuts.”

“No, not for doughnuts, baby. For Gourdough’s doughnuts.”

Jane laughed, then flopped down on the couch and switched on their small TV.

“Well, bring them on over here so we can get fat together. Maybe
Cool Hand Luke
is still on, and we’ll see how many doughnuts we can eat without puking.”

Chapter 4

J
ane hadn’t expected a line of people stretched around the block. And judging by the disappointed look on Caleb’s face, he hadn’t either.

The convention center had been turned into a circus—thirty-foot banners had been draped from the roof advertising the show, media trucks lined the street with satellite dishes extended, and men in yellow “Crew Member” shirts hustled in and out of service doors with cartloads of equipment off-loaded from idling trucks. Several off-duty cops stood in the street, blowing whistles and directing traffic, even though it was at a complete standstill. Jane stood next to Caleb on the faded outdoor red carpet that marked the entry line, fanning herself with the printed e-mail that was their ticket inside.

“What’s that thing say my call time is again?”

Jane unfurled the e-mail. “Says ten fifty-five.”

“Why do you suppose they do that?”

“Do what?” Jane asked.

“They always make it a really specific number, and then they just make you wait anyway. It’s like the doctor’s office. Why can’t it just be eleven?”

The line inched forward and Jane inched with it. Caleb slid his guitar case up with his foot, sighing. “What time is it now?” he asked.

Jane glanced at her phone. “Eleven twenty.”

“Maybe we should just go,” Caleb said.

Jane turned to look at him and saw that he was frowning. “Oh, baby,” she said. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

“I’m not nervous. I just don’t have all day to stand here and wait on these clowns.”

“Is Mr. Zigler expecting you at the warehouse later?”

His shoulders slumped and he looked at his feet. “No.”

Jane reached and pushed a strand of hair away from his face and tucked it back behind his ear. For just a moment, she could see the boy he had once been.

“You’ll be fine. They’ll love you. Everyone loves you.”

The people in front of them fell quiet, and Jane looked up as a fat man with a clipboard emerged from the building and began walking up and down the line, checking call tickets while shouting instructions like a carnival barker.

“Running a little behind, people,” he called, “so have your tickets and your ID ready when you get to the door. They’ll have a waiver for you to sign at the desk—nothing special, just says that any part of your audition today can and may be edited in any way and broadcast on national or international television, cable, Internet, or via any other means, whether you’re selected to participate in the show or not. But that’s why you’re all here anyway, right? No biggie. Standard waiver. Nothing special. If you need to read it before signing, please step off to the side so that others can go ahead. I’ll say it again, if you don’t want to be passed up, have your call tickets and ID ready . . .”

It was thirty more minutes before they made it into the convention center, where they were sorted and grouped and given a colored lanyard. Then they had to wait another thirty minutes before being herded along with the others into a large room. They took seats in front of an enormous projection screen, and a woman told them to pay close attention to the video, then she dimmed the lights. The screen blinked on and a sheet of music appeared and caught on fire. When the paper had burned away, these flaming words remained:

SINGER-SONGWRITER SUPERSTAR

The video went on to explain the show.

Today they were filming acoustic or a cappella auditions in front of their panel of five music industry executives. The judges would vote with thumbs-up or thumbs-down, and each artist needed a perfect score of five thumbs-up to advance. The winning artists from each city would then be flown to Los Angeles the following month to participate in the show, where they would compete against the other acts for America’s votes and a half-million-dollar recording contract. The acts could be solo artists or duos but had to perform only original material.

When the video finished, they were hustled through another door just as a new group was being ushered in behind them. It reminded Jane of livestock being moved at the fair. Next, they were corralled into a windowless room and asked to sit and wait again. Caleb leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin resting on his hands, an unnatural pose for him. Jane sat beside him and gently rubbed his back. She wanted to encourage him somehow, if she could only find the right words, but she decided that maybe it was best to just let him feel whatever he was feeling.

Jane looked around the room. You could tell the musicians from their families because the musicians were all nervous. Some had their heads bowed. Others were silently mouthing their lyrics, as if worried they might forget them. A few cocky ones were bouncing around and jabbering on about how they couldn’t wait to get to the live show. One nervous punk rock girl with a black lace dress and sparkly red shoes had a large plastic clock hanging around her neck, and she kept holding it up in front of her face and closing one eye and looking at it, as if she might be late for something.

Everyone froze when the door opened.

An energetic man entered and called for all the musicians to come with him. Caleb stood and picked up his guitar.

Jane threw her arms around him. “I’m proud of you.”

“But I haven’t done anything yet,” he replied, kissing the top of her head.

She pulled back and looked into his green eyes. “Yes, you have.”

Caleb smiled at her and she knew that he would be just fine. He glanced back before leaving, and Jane gave him two thumbs up. He grinned and walked through the door.

Several minutes later, a woman came and took the family and friends out to an area not far from the soundstage marked off with yellow ropes. She ordered them to silence their cell phones and be quiet. Several LCD monitors showed what the stage looked like on camera, and Jane had to admit that it was a slick set—the panel of judges sitting in an elevated and ornate theater box looking down on the polished and gleaming stage backed by a wall of old-fashioned bulb lights that spelled out the show’s name. But when Jane looked away from the monitor, the perfectly framed camera shot disappeared and she saw it for the illusion that it was—the walls propped up by ugly metal stands, the flimsy false ceiling hung from wires, the makeup artists standing just off camera with their powder and brushes ready. So this was what you didn’t see on TV.

“Everyone quiet on the set! Three, two, one, rolling.”

Even though they could see the actual stage from where they were standing, Jane and everyone else turned to watch the screens. The young girl with the clock around her neck trotted out onto the stage first. Jane couldn’t believe it, but she was actually chewing bubble gum.

“Well, hello,” one of the judges said. “What’s your name, young lady?”

“Amanda,” she said meekly. “But people call me Panda.”

“Okay, Panda,” the judge said. “You don’t happen to have the time, do you, dear?”

She shook her head no, and all the judges laughed. Her cheeks turned as red as her shoes, and she looked down at her clock and then at the stage. She was obviously nervous.

“Where are you from, Panda?”

“Selma, Texas.”

“And you’re going to sing a cappella for us today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you’ve got five pairs of ears here dying to hear it.”

The girl was still looking down at the stage as she took the gum from her mouth and wedged it behind her ear. Then she began to quietly hum. When she finally looked up, her mouth opened wider than any mouth Jane had ever seen, and she let loose a note that shook the house. The song she sang was almost operatic, and Jane could hardly understand a word, but the emotion of it was unmistakably beautiful. While she was singing, her crazy clothes and her clock seemed to fade away with her shyness and she was transformed into something else entirely, as if she belonged to her voice rather than it belonging to her, just a red pair of shoes to carry it around and a clock to tell it when to sing.

As soon as she finished her song, she looked down at the stage again, so she didn’t even see the five thumbs that turned up. The judges held them there until she did finally lift her head, and when she saw them, both hands leaped to cover her mouth, and she looked as if she might cry.

“Congratulations, young lady,” a judge said. “You’re going to the City of Angels, where that voice of yours belongs.”

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, her grin so big she looked to be all teeth. “I can’t believe I’m going through.” Then she turned and left the stage, and only her wad of pink gum that had
fallen from her ear while she was singing remained. A stagehand scurried out and collected the gum, then carried it off cradled in his hands as if it might be precious.

When the judges had finished chattering about her, and after the handler had called again for quiet, an awkward pair of twins stepped out onto the stage with matching ukuleles.

Jane wondered how she had missed them in the other room. They were each at least six and a half feet tall and as thin as fence posts, their hair thick and as blond as straw. They gave their names as Buford and Billy-Ray, and their accent was so thick Jane could hardly understand them. One of the judges asked them where they were from, and they answered in unison.

“Sir,” they said, “we’re from L.A.”

The judge laughed. “Come on, if you two are from Los Angeles, then I’m from Mars.”

“Not Los Angeles,” the one drawled. “The other L.A. You know, Lower Alabama.”

“That’s right,” the other added. “Down around Mobile.”

Jane couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Okay, boys,” one of the judges said. “Let’s hear it.”

They had hardly begun playing their ukuleles and singing before the judges all turned aside and shook their heads, squinting as if they were in pain. And Jane could understand why. The twins were terrible. So terrible, in fact, that she wondered if they hadn’t come with hopes of their audition making it into the show just for the shock value of it. The judges all stuck out their thumbs, pointing down, of course, but the boys kept on playing anyway.

“Enough, enough!” the main judge cried. “Stop already.”

They stopped and blinked up at the judges as if stupefied. “We could play somethin’ else,” one of them said.

“I think not,” the judge replied. “We’ve heard too much.”

“Maybe jus’ a little gospel piece we wrote together?”

The judges all shook their heads, but the boys began plucking their ukuleles and humming anyway.

“Will someone get them off the stage, please?”

Two handlers appeared and took the twins by their bony elbows and led them off. They never did stop playing, and Jane could hear the sound of their ukuleles fading across the auditorium until a door slammed somewhere and shut the sound out. When Jane looked back to the screen, Caleb was already out in front of the judges. He was standing center stage with the guitar she had bought for him in his hand, and he looked so at home and perfectly made for the setting that she would have sworn he’d always been standing there, and that they’d designed and built the entire set around him.

“Tell us your name and where you’re from, fella.”

“Caleb Cummings,” he said simply. “Seattle.”

“Seattle? We were just up there.”

“Well, I’m here in Austin now.”

The woman next to Jane nudged her with an elbow. “This one’s really cute,” she said.

“I know,” Jane replied. “And he’s all mine.”

“And how old are you, Caleb?” the judge asked.

“Twenty-four,” Caleb answered. Then he cocked his head and scrunched his brow as if he were thinking. “Wait. Today’s the thirty-first, isn’t it? Today’s my birthday. I’m twenty-five.”

Jane almost had a heart attack. How had she forgotten his birthday? She had even made a note of it back in the spring, when she had signed him up for his health insurance.

“Happy birthday, then,” the judge said, chuckling. “I like a guy who doesn’t take himself so seriously. And it says here in the bio you sent us that you’re a synesthete.”

When Caleb nodded but didn’t say anything, Jane was a lit
tle worried that maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned that part in the bio she wrote for him. That maybe it was private. She silently scolded herself for writing something so personal but then forgetting his birthday.

“Did you know Billy Joel has synesthesia?”

“No, sir, I didn’t know that.”

“He does. And so did Duke Ellington, I believe. How did you learn about your condition?”

“I think of it as a gift,” Caleb said. “Not a condition.”

“Okay. And how did you learn about your gift then?”

“I told my fourth-grade teacher that I hadn’t been doing my homework because I’d been up at night writing music. She didn’t believe I knew how to write music, so she asked me to bring it in and show her, so I did.”

“And how did she know from your music that you had synesthesia?”

“She didn’t, but the counselor she sent me to did.”

“And how did the counselor know?”

“He had an uncle with it. He guessed it because my music was all written out in crayon lines of color instead of notes.”

A female judge at the end of the panel was staring at Caleb through narrowed eyes as he spoke, as if he might be lying. “And are you seeing any color now?” she asked. “As we sit here and talk to you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “I’m seeing yellow.”

“And why are you seeing yellow?”

“Because that’s the color of this giant light you’ve got pointing in my face.”

All the judges laughed except her.

“Well, then, young man,” the middle judge said, “let’s hear what you’ve got for us.”

Caleb draped the guitar strap over his head, took the pick
from the frets, and began playing. It was a catchy melody that Jane hadn’t heard before, and it built layer on layer until it was ringing loud from his guitar to fill the set with sound. Then he fell to strumming and began to sing. His voice was crisp and clear, and it resonated through the auditorium in a way that was hard to describe. Not nasal at all, but somehow throaty and rich and pure. And then he hit the chorus and broke into a falsetto that made Jane shiver, it was so beautiful.