There was a long silence before he answered. “I just don’t sing. I don’t have a good voice.”
Grace was about to press him on this, remembering what he’d said several days ago when he’d first told her about what he did for a living. She was sure she remembered him saying something about once being a singer and a performer.
Still, if he didn’t want to sing, that was his right. He seemed cagey enough about letting her hear the music he’d composed and which his grandmother had encouraged him to play. One step at a time, Grace reasoned.
While Ryan went to fetch his guitar and notes, Grace got comfortable on the sofa in the seating area across from the kitchen. Stanley scampered after her and curled up on the new plush bed they’d purchased at the high street pet shop before they’d left for the beach that morning. The dog smiled up at her from the cosy upholstery, clearly enjoying his home comforts.
Ryan returned with his guitar and sat on the opposite sofa. After spending a few moments tuning the instrument, he looked up and gave her a cautious smile.
“This is just the first iteration of the song,” he said. “And I haven’t even recorded it yet to listen back and hear how it sounds, and…”
“Don’t worry about any of that,” Grace interrupted. “I’m excited to hear it.”
Ryan gave her another wary smile and then flicked open the notebook he’d carried through with him, before turning to a page scrawled in what Grace thought looked like musical notation. There were no words or lyrics to be seen, just indecipherable symbols and annotated codes.
Grace also noticed it was the elegant blue leather notebook his grandmother had given him yesterday, and it made her like him even more to know he’d chosen to use it, which would surely make Miriam happy.
Remembering the gift Miriam had given her too, Grace lifted her hand and touched the silvery stars she wore at her ears. Ryan looked up and smiled.
“Those earrings suit you.”
“Thank you.”
“They really catch the light.”
“I know. They’re very pretty. Now stop procrastinating and play your song for me.”
He laughed and nodded in acknowledgement that she’d sussed him out perfectly. After strumming the guitar strings a few times with his plectrum, he tapped his palm against the honey-coloured wood of the body to count himself into the song.
And then he began to play.
Grace listened in wonder as the music filled the room, the notes sweet and tender before shifting into a richer tone and tempo that made her heart soar in time with the soul-stirring melody. The transition between the chorus and the bridge—if that’s what it was called, Grace wasn’t quite sure—brought tears to her eyes on account of the beautiful music and the way it made her feel.
When Ryan finished playing, completing the rendition with a soft flourish across the guitar strings, Grace was in awe of his skill and talent.
“Ryan, that was so beautiful,” she said. “I’m completely amazed. I don’t know what to say.”
Dipping his head, he gave an easy shrug. “Like I said, it needs more work.”
“It sounded perfect to me. I loved it. Can I see the lyrics? I’d love to know how they go.”
“Er, I think the lyrics definitely need more work,” he said, and flipped closed the notebook in which the musical notes were written.
Grace was aware that not all creative types were keen on sharing the products of their imagination, but as Ryan wrote songs for other people for a living, she was surprised at his unwillingness to divulge any more of this piece with her. The music was so beautiful, she could only imagine how lovely the lyrics must be.
“Well, maybe you could play the song again and, er, hum the lyrics for me?” she said with a laugh. “I’d love to know how the vocal part goes. Please?”
She hoped her deliberately pleading expression would amuse him, but it only seemed to make him more uncomfortable.
“It’s okay, you can trust me, Ryan,” she said, and meant it.
“I know,” he said, and met her gaze. “It’s just that…”
The conversation only seemed to be getting more awkward by the minute.
“Tell me what’s on your mind, Ryan,” Grace said. “There’s something troubling you. I wish you’d tell me what it is. Maybe I can help?”
“It’s nothing. It’s just something inside my head. Some stupid thing.”
