I reach into my bag. “You always seemed to know where I was going with something before I actually told you. And along those lines, I’ve been working on something.”
Les takes a look at the musical book on my iPad. “This is a good start,” he says. “You’ve got something good here.”
I flip through the pages on the screen so I can show him the score I’ve been working on. “Will you help me with the parts I’m stuck on?” I ask him. “I’ll credit you as the primary songwriter.”
“Absolutely not. You’re over halfway along already.”
“I’m crediting you,” I say stubbornly. “I won’t let you help me otherwise.”
Les’s blue eyes twinkle. “As obstinate as always, Winter. I knew that trait would get you far in Manhattan.” He stands up. “Let’s go sit by the piano together and get to work.”
* * *
Lesand I play and write for hours. We work until it’s dark outside and I’ve forgotten about anything but what I’m doing inside this little music studio.
When we’re done, Les is as excited as I am.
“I’m going to send this to my manager,” I tell him. “See what he thinks.”
“Just remember Broadway can be wonderful, but it’s not the only way,” Les says as he walks me to the door.
“What do you mean?” I ask him.
“Maybe you want to figure out how to make your own path here.”
I stare at him. “Here as in New Orleans?”
Les smiles. “We’ve got a lot of talented residents in the Big Easy. You could do something with that musical right here.”
“But shouldn’t I use the connections I have on Broadway?” I ask him.
“If you’d like to, of course,” he says. “I’m not steering you away from your dreams. I’m letting you know you’re not stuck.”
I hug him goodbye and grab a taxi to take me home. The French Quarter isn’t safe at night, and no matter how short of a walk it is, I know I’m safer to be driven home than to walk alone.
I scroll through my phone from the backseat of the taxi. Hunter left me a voicemail, saying they landed in Houston and I can call him back whenever.
I’m smiling from hearing Hunter’s voice when my phone rings.
Pat Buckman, my manager.
Butterflies shoot through my tummy. This would be the first time I’ve heard from Pat since I left.
He has no reason to be calling from Manhattan.Not unless…
I answer the call. Before he can say anything, I say, “Hi Pat. I have some exciting news.”
“Me, too,” he says in response.
Wanting to get my news out first, I start to tell him about the musical I’ve been writing.
“And I know the industry prefers adaptations, but this story is fresh and contemporary,” I say quickly. “It’s a romance and has all the elements of a love story, but the heroine has a redemptive storyline, and she survives a physical attack. I think it will play well on Broadway or Off-Broadway.”
“Forget that for now.” Pat’s voice is brisk but it can’t hide the excitement beneath the surface. “I’ve got something better.”
“What is it?”
“How does landing an audition for your dream role sound?”
