I fall into them.
“My Winter,” he says. “Welcome home.”
The tears come so fast I’m not expecting them.
“Now, now.” Les reaches for the box of tissues on his desk. “Here you go.”
I take a tissue and wipe my eyes.
Les leads me over to the two hard-backed chairs by the window. “Let’s sit and talk.”
I wasn’t planning on telling him everything.
But I do.
I think it’s why I waited so long to come see him. In the back of my mind, I knew I couldn’t see Les without sharing my whole story.
Because Les Anderson has always been my surrogate grandfather. He was the man who helped me get up the courage to move to New York City. He said it would be hard but assured me I had what it took. And even though I made good on his faith in me, I’m ashamed I haven’t gotten any roles since the assault. It makes me feel weak.
“You’re the opposite of weak, my dear.” Les takes my chin in his hand. “Remember that. Sometimes, things happen, and our priorities change as a result. That’s not weakness. That’s listening to our hearts.”
I reach into my bag. “You always seemed to know where I was going with something before I actually told you. 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.”
* * *
Les and 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 his 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.
