Authors: Terri Blackstock
Parker sat in the music room in her mother’s house, playing the piano, trying to decide what her new title song would be, and which one would replace the one she’d given Serene. She almost ignored the phone when it rang, but curiosity forced her to pull it out of her purse.
Daniel Walker’s name flashed up. Her heart caught, and she slid her thumb across the screen, answering it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Parker. I wanted to check on you after I heard about the song. We had a rehearsal of ‘Ambient’ tonight. I couldn’t believe you gave that to Serene.”
“What else could I do? It’s my fault the song was stolen.”
“No, it wasn’t. Look, I work for Serene, but she shouldn’t have taken your title song. There are others that would have worked for her.”
“I knew she liked that one.”
“Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re an artist just like she is. You’re the one taking the greatest loss in this deal, and you can’t afford it. Besides, you’ve written other songs Serene has already licensed but not recorded. She could have chosen one of those.”
“Too late now.”
“I know.” He paused for a moment. “It’s just like you, Parker, to put Serene before yourself.”
His glowing words reminded Parker of what he’d said that day at the youth concert, when he thought she’d left before the applause, so God would get the glory. She started to come clean, but he spoke first.
“If you’re trying to decide what your title track should be,” he said, “I have a few ideas.”
“Yeah? I’d love to hear them.”
“Well, that night when we recorded, I was really drawn to ‘Inscribed.’I thought it was brilliant.”
She smiled. “Really? You think it’s good enough to name the album after?”
“It’s every bit as good as ‘Ambient.’ I’m guessing Serene hasn’t heard it yet.”
“She hasn’t.”
“Then don’t let her. She’ll snatch it up, too.”
The thought had occurred to Parker.
“Listen, Parker, I’m really sorry all this has happened to you. But remember Isaiah 43:2: ‘When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned. The flames will not set you ablaze.’”
The verse dripped through her like warm honey, sweet to the taste, invigorating. “Thank you, Daniel.”
“Sure. Call me if you want to talk. Anytime. I keep late hours. Whenever you’re ready to record, I’m there. And Parker?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be praying for you.”
She hung up and sat a moment, basking in the afterglow of Daniel’sconcern. No one else could have called her and made her feel better tonight. He’d done so much for her in that one short call.
Now she felt up to her tasks. She would pray about the songs, and if Daniel was right, if God wanted ‘Inscribed’ to be her new title song, he would give her a peace about it.
After praying, she went through each of her songs that she’d decided not to include on her album. She had hoped to sell them later, especially now that Serene’s songs were hitting the
Billboard
charts. Her contract with Serene gave her first option to buy Parker’s songs. But any that Serene turned away could be sold to others, if Parker didn’t use them herself.
But these songs just weren’t good enough for her album. She played a riff on the keyboard, hesitated, then tried again.
She heard a sound, then stopped, listening.
Her mother had gone to bed long ago, and LesPaul hadn’t come in yet. Was that sound the wind against the house or someone prowling around? She was sick of being afraid, sick of trying to puzzle together the pieces of this murder that had come, unwel-comed, into her life. But wasn’t that how it always went? Tragedies came uninvited, and the evidence left behind was often sketchy and incomplete. God wasn’t one for explaining himself.
Maybe that was it. Maybe she could write about puzzle pieces, scattered and lost. She started to play again, humming along with the lilt of the lyrics coming to her mind. “Pieces … nothing more than pieces.” Then she realized she was playing the tune for that old seventies song “Feelings.”
How many songs had she written to that tune before she realized what she was doing? She banged her hand on the keyboard and dropped her forehead against the music rack.
Think. Write. Don’t just sit here
.
She had to get out of this room, away from the instruments and the pressure. She walked through the living room and into the dining room where her mother’s Bible sat. She looked up the passage Daniel had quoted to her. Her mother had highlighted much of the chapter.
Though God was speaking of Israel in these verses, the chapter contained much about God’s nature and his great love and care of those who were his. She dwelt on it, savoring it, then read the next chapter and the next. Though the prophecies were glum for Israel, she clung to what she learned about God’s sovereign power. Underlying it all was the grace that was so redemptive, bringing sunshine through the ashes, promising his people that he would not forsake them forever. Then she came to Isaiah 49, from which “Inscribed” had come.
But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me, And the Lord has forgotten me.”
Can a woman forget her nursing child, and have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, but I will not forget you. Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands.
That was the theme God was working out in her own life, the message he wanted her to fold between the chords and lyrics of her album. A new story for Lola began to birth in her mind, coming to her in bits and pieces … chorus before verses.
Several hours later, after starting and stopping, succeeding and failing, she had the song just as she wanted it. When she was sure she had it down, she plugged her keyboard into her computer, fired up her recording software, and began to record. It was a crude demo, nothing more than a record of what she had written so that she could play it for her brothers, her father, and Daniel, and reproduceit in the studio. But she liked it, maybe even better than “Double Minds,” and even better than “Ambient.”
It went along with the theme set by “Inscribed,” bringing cohesion to her album.
She could do this. God was with her.
Exhausted and satisfied, she closed her computer, unplugged it from the keyboard and took it with her to bed. If some thief came in during the night to steal more of her songs, they wouldn’t get this one.
Parker woke up the next morning to find her mother gone. But she had left a note on the kitchen counter with the name of a local mediator and a phone number. Parker waited until she got to work, then called the number. The company was made up of retired Christian attorneys who believed in keeping biblical principles regarding lawsuits between Christians. The one who took her call was named Howard Leland. His voice made her miss her grandpop, who’d died a few years ago.
She explained her situation.
“So what you have here is not just grounds for a lawsuit,” he said, “but grounds for an arrest. To get that song, they had to break into your computer and steal the digital file of the song.”
“Basically.” Parker lowered her voice and glanced down Colgate’shallway to see if any stray musicians might be in earshot. “But how do you press charges against a dead girl?”
“Good point. You can’t. So I agree that your approach is the best one.”
“I have an approach?”
“Calling us was an approach, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I was really just calling to see what you recommend.”
“Well, Parker, what you have to decide is what you want from them. Do you want Mr. Evans and his wife to compensate you for the hours Miss Stevens spent recording ‘Double Minds,’ so that you can compensate her?”
“Maybe. Along with the studio time and the cost for musicians. And if I could get something back for the time I spent in the studio, though it didn’t cost me anything.”
“Yes, of course. Also, you’re entitled to songwriter credit and royalties on that song.”
“That would be good, too.”
“How about punitive damages?”
Parker thought about that for a moment. “I don’t want to be greedy. I just don’t think it’s right that they should do this without any consequences.”
“No, it isn’t. We abide by biblical principles, Parker. The Bible says that we’re not to sue brothers and sisters in the world’s court. But if businesses were allowed to get away with theft and fraud by hiding behind the veil of Chris Christianity, then few Christians could stay in business. They’d be walked on like doormats and all of them would go bankrupt.”
Howard told her he would fax her an agreement to sign, then contact Nathan Evans today and talk to him about the claims being made against them. If he could get Evans to commit to mediation, then Parker would have a chance of getting compensated for the songs.
She didn’t hear back from Howard until later that morning.
“I’m sorry, Parker. We got in touch with Nathan Evans and he refused to even speak to us about it. He claims that you made the whole thing up, and he said there’s no way he’s going into any kind of mediation over a lie.”
“Did you tell him that the police have evidence that Brenna stole the songs from me?”
“I did,” Howard said. “His response was rather heated and emotional. I won’t burden you with the details.”
Parker let out a heavy breath. “Thank you.”
“There’s still a chance he’ll change his mind after he’s had time to think about it. But if he doesn’t agree to mediation, I recommend that you go ahead with filing the lawsuit, just to let him know you’re serious. That may encourage him to come to mediation.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then you’ll have to decide whether to proceed with the lawsuit.”
She was getting a headache, and she massaged her temple. “The Bible tells us we should prefer to be wronged than to drag a fight like this into the public courts.”
“Yes, but God set up the governmental system so that those who break the law would be punished. If a brother or sister refuses to commit to Christian mediation, and you have the possibility of being sued by Miss Stevens’s label, then I think you have no choice but to sue.”
She rubbed her eyes. “What if I try to talk to Tiffany?”
“Nathan wouldn’t let me speak to her. I don’t recommend that you talk to her with a suit pending.”
Parker felt no better as she hung up the phone. She heard voices in the hallway. It sounded like some of Serene’s group, moving from the studio to the lounge. She rounded her desk and went down the hall, peeked in the open door of Studio C.
Serene was sitting at the sound board talking to her engineer. Parker knocked and stepped inside. “Serene?”
Serene looked up at her, her eyes brighter than they’d been when she came in this morning. “‘Ambient’ is great, Parker. The tracks you laid are good. We’re only having to add a couple more. I think I like it even better than ‘Double Minds.’”
Parker smiled to hide the fact that she was on the verge of tears. “Good. I’m glad it worked for you.”
“We need you to rewrite the lyrics, of course.”
Parker hadn’t even considered that. The tears waiting to ambush her finally spilled over. “I don’t have ideas for new lyrics, Serene.”
Serene got up then and asked her engineer to step out for a minute. She closed the door and pulled Parker into a hug. “It’s all going to work out, Parker. You’ll see.”
“For you, maybe.” Horrified that she’d lost it like this, when she was supposed to be the strong one, she wiped her tears.
Serene gave her a tissue and waited as she blew her nose. “I love the song just like it is, but Butch and Jeff Standard and all the powers that be are blaming you for the theft of ‘Double Minds.’”
“Of course they are.”
“And they’re rumbling about a lawsuit. I’m trying my best to hold them off. They want new lyrics, and if you give them to us, maybe I can appease them.”
Parker swallowed. “So if I rewrite ‘Ambient’ and give it to you, I’m still on the tour? They won’t sue me?”
“I can’t promise that. They’re in terrible moods today. Phone calls have been flying. Everyone’s upset. But if you do it, if we can get it recorded and they can see that it’s better, they might keep you on. I’m fighting for you, Parker.”
She had no choice. “All right.”
“Make it a love song. I want couples everywhere to remember this as the song they fell in love to.”
Tall order. She didn’t know if Lola had it in her. “Listen,” she said, dabbing at her tears. “Against my mediator’s advice, I’ve decided to confront Tiffany about the theft of my song. But I might have trouble getting past Nathan Evans. Didn’t you tell me once that she gets her hair and nails done in the salon you use?”
“She’s there every Tuesday afternoon at two o’clock, without fail.”
Parker opened the door and stepped out into the hall. “Do you think I could get close to her if I went in acting like I belonged there?”
“Probably. They do have security, but you’d have a few minutes before they called them.”
Parker took a late lunch hour, drove to Green Hills Mall, and parked within sight of the front door. She sat frozen behind the wheel as Tiffany’s limo brought her to the door of the salon. She watched as the star was ushered inside.
Parker wasn’t fond of herself right now. Why was she just sitting here, staring through the window? She needed to fish or cut bait. Sitting here like an idiot was just wasting time. She felt the tightness of a panic attack across her chest, her lungs constricting.
Get out of the car. Go inside!
She tried to use some of the deep-breathing exercises she used when she had butterflies before performing.
Slow inhalation … hold it … hold it … out, nice and slow
… As she breathed, she watched through the glass as the massage therapist came to get Tiffany. Parker knew her because she’d met her once when she was here with Serene. She had a streak of hot pink hair, which she wore in a ponytail sticking like a horn out of one side of her head. Funny that her job was to help people relax, when her hair color inspired headaches.
She saw Tiffany get up and follow her back, presumably to the massage room.
Parker forced herself to move. She got out of the car, locked it, and looked around the parking lot. Carrying herself like someone who could actually afford an appointment here, she walked into the salon. The therapist, waiting for Tiffany to change clothes, hadn’t gone into the massage room yet. Parker went right to the door and knocked on it.
“Come in.”
She looked around. Satisfied that no one had noticed her, she opened the door and slipped inside. Tiffany lay face-up under the sheet on the massage table. She glanced at Parker as she came in, and a frown worked at her botoxed forehead. “You’re not …”
Parker kept her voice soft. “Miss Teniere, I’m Parker James. I need to talk to you.”
Tiffany clutched the sheet to her chest and sat up. She didn’t appear to be sedated anymore, but shadows dragged circles under her eyes. “Parker … Brenna’s friend.”
“Yes, I want to talk to you about Brenna.”
Tears rimmed Tiffany’s eyes. “It’s horrible what he did to her. Just because she didn’t love him.”
Parker frowned. “Who?”
“Chase. I thought we could trust him. I thought he really loved her.”
“Miss Teniere—”
“Tiffany, honey. Call me Tiffany.”
It was as if no song theft had ever taken place. Tiffany seemed unaware that Parker would have anything against her. “Okay, Tiffany. I need to talk to you about the stolen song.”
Tiffany’s face registered her confusion. “What?”
“The song you recorded. ‘Altar Ego.’”
“What about it?” Her bewilderment seemed sincere.
“I wrote it. Your recording of it is copyright infringement. Serene Stevens recorded it first, for her new album. Then all of a sudden it’s playing on K-Love, and you’re singing it. I have proof that Brenna stole it off my computer.”
“What?” Tiffany kept the sheet clutched to her chest as her feet slid off the table. “Are you accusing my dead daughter?”
Parker almost couldn’t breathe, but she forced herself to go on. “All I know is that I wrote the song and now it’s on the radio with your voice. I don’t want to hire a lawyer and drag you through the mud, damaging your career and mine, and letting all the world think of us Christians as hypocrites.”
“You’re out of your mind!”
Parker struggled not to cry. “No, I’m not. If you didn’t steal it, then how did you get it?”
“My husband bought the rights to it like he does all the others.” “But you’re credited as the songwriter.”
Tiffany looked confused. “I don’t know. I don’t handle those details.”
“He didn’t
buy
the rights to that song, Miss Teniere.” She stopped for a second, tried to pull herself together. “I just came here to ask you if you would consent to Christian mediation so we can get this worked out. Your husband doesn’t want to talk about this, but somebody’s going to have to.”
“My husband? You talked to him about this?”
“No, I didn’t, but the people from the mediation firm did.”
Tiffany gaped at her with her mouth open. “What did he say?” “He denied stealing the song and said that I was crazy.”
Tiffany stared at the wall, as if replaying scenes in her mind. Parker got the intense feeling that reality was dawning on her. “You said you had proof?”
“The police found my songs on Brenna’s computer.”
Tiffany’s voice was a whisper now. “That doesn’t mean she stole them.”
“They were my demos. The only place she could have gotten them was from my computer.” She hesitated as she saw tears filling Tiffany’s eyes. “Maybe you didn’t know where the song came from. Maybe it’s not your fault. I’m not accusing you. But I might be sued, so we need to settle this. Serene’s label wants the money they spent on recording the song—”
Serene’s name seemed to summon Tiffany’s anger again. “You’re accusing my daughter. Brenna was not a thief. She was a victim.”
The door came open, and the massage therapist stared at Parker.
Parker lifted her hand. “If you could just give us a minute.”
“No,” Tiffany said. “Get out.”
Parker hesitated. “Please! I just want us to talk to mediators. I don’t want to get lawyers involved.”
Tiffany’s teeth clamped together. “I want her out of here, now!” The therapist leaned into the hall and yelled, “Security!”
Just what she needed. “No need, I’m finished,” Parker said. She pushed past the masseuse, into the hall, and to the front door. Her face was hot, blood pounding into her head.
She slipped back inside her bug. Adjusting her mirror, she looked at her reflection. Her face was blotched with what looked like pink hand prints. No, Tiffany hadn’t slapped her, but she might as well have.
She started her car and backed out of her parking space. As she put it in Drive, she saw a man sitting in a white Corolla a little farther down, in the second row from the shops. She glanced in at him as she passed—it was the man she’d seen at McDonald’s a few days ago. Same car, long brown hair, and a Volunteers baseball cap.
She looked away as she passed him, then glanced in her rearview mirror. He was pulling out behind her.
She told herself to calm down. Nashville wasn’t a huge city. You tended to see the same people over and over again. Maybe he lived in this area, as she did. Maybe it was a coincidence.
She wasn’t thinking clearly. She tried to compose herself, to focus. Her stomach felt sick. She needed a bathroom.
She pulled out into traffic, glancing in her mirror to see if he followed. A couple of cars were between them. She decided to turn right, onto an equally busy street. A block down the road, she saw in her mirror that he turned too.
That was it. She wasn’t imagining it. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounded, and her hands shook as she reached into her purse, feeling for her cell phone. The car in front of her stopped, and she slammed on the brakes, knocking her purse off the seat. Her phone slid to the passenger door.
She forced herself to calm down and think. Somehow, she had to get the guy’s tag number. That was impossible as long as she was in front of him. But if she could get behind him …
She drove slower, and the cars between them passed her in the left lane. She saw him coming up behind her. With his cap and sunglasses, she couldn’t see his face. He could be anybody.
She saw a small parking lot up ahead. Breathing hard, she swerved into it. He didn’t have time to follow, so he passed. Quickly, she grabbed her phone off the floor and pulled back into traffic. A horn blasted behind her, but she ignored it and sped up, getting close enough behind the man to read his tag.