I'm Glad I Did (9 page)

“Well, my mom always taught me to ask if I wanted to know something. Did you write those lyrics about a girl in your life?”

“No,” said Luke. “It wasn't about a girl.”

“A boy?” I asked with bated breath.

His face lit up with that magical smile. “It wasn't about a boy either.” He laughed. “And I'm not telling you any more than that today.”

I'd seen it. I'd seen the smile. I could go now.

“Bye,” I said.

“Bye, JJ.” He sat down at the desk and buried his nose back in his father's files.

I floated out of the office and grinned as I pushed the elevator button. When Nick pulled open the door, I almost hugged him.

“So?” Nick asked. “Who is he?”

“George Silver's son and a very good songwriter,” I replied. “And that's it for now.”

I DASHED INTO THE
office, dying to tell Dulcie everything and play her “I'm Glad I Did.” The office was empty, though. Clean and empty. Tacked to the door of my adopted cubicle was a note.

My friend Dulcie. My heart swelled. I folded the paper and put it in my pocket to save forever.

The next day would be a
woe is me
or
whoopee
Wednesday depending on the charts. As it turned out, it was both. A few Good Music songs took respectable jumps up the charts. That was the whoopee. The woe was that Bobby's pride and joy, a number-one record that had been riding in that slot for two weeks, fell. It really was seeing the glass half empty when you get depressed because your number one song is not number one anymore.

When he poked his head in the copy room for his weekly check-in, he was grumpier than usual.

“Got anything, JJ, babe?” he snapped.

“Workin' on it—”

He slammed the door. “Rona?” I heard him yell. “Why isn't she writing?”

“She is, Bobby,” Rona responded in a soothing voice. “She's a perfectionist. Give her time. I've got Quincy Jones on the phone.”

I could almost feel an imaginary rush of wind as I flew
out of Bobby's mind. Thanks to Rona, a list of songs for Quincy's recording artist, Leslie Gore, was flying in. I'd been all but forgotten. Rona was a pal. No doubt about it. The only other thing that got me through my drone day was thinking about hooking up with Dulcie after work.

WHEN THE LAST PERSON
had finally left the office, and I had rehearsed the song at least ten times, I stared at my watch until I heard that gentle knock at the door.

“I thought I'd be hearing you singing,” Dulcie said with a worried expression. “Don't tell me you didn't get the words.”

“I won't tell you that,” I answered, grinning.

“Then whatcha waiting for, girl?” she said, returning my smile. “Sing me that song.”

By now I knew the lyrics by heart, so when she was seated beside me, I closed my eyes even though I had the words propped up on the piano. Then I sang my heart out. When I was done, Dulcie drew in a breath and let out a long sigh.

“
That
is a song. A soulful, soulful song,” she said. “I could have used something like that back in my day. It's real special.” She took my hands off the keys and folded them in hers. “You're going to have a beautiful career, baby girl.”

She was looking at me with something I couldn't name, something I knew I had always wanted to see in my mother's eyes. I felt confused and sad and happy all at once. I took my hand back to wipe my eyelashes. “I think I'm allergic to compliments,” I whispered huskily. “I'm all teary an' stuff.”

“I know how it is,” Dulcie half-whispered. “Now how
about you play it and let me sing to show you a few possibilities? You don't have to use anything I sing, but you can if you want to.”

She riffed over the intro, just humming but setting up the emotion that was to come. Then while she was looking at the lyrics, she changed the opening line from
I have to go where my heart takes me/And believe what I believe
to
I'm gonna go where my heart takes me/Keep believin' what I believe
. Just by switching the words
have to
to
gonna
and changing the
and believe
to
keep believin'
, the song became more conversational, more powerful, more authentic. She sang through it, turning the melody in spots to make it more bluesy, occasionally replacing a word to make it more controversial. I was going crazy trying to remember everything she changed.

“Don't worry,” Dulcie said, when she had sung it down. “I remember everything I did. If you like it, we can go over all of it until you have it all down.”

And so we worked like that for the next hour. Lyrically and melodically, we took the song Luke and I had created and turned it into something better than I could have ever imagined. I learned as much from Dulcie Brown in that hour as I had from weeks of listening to the radio, eavesdropping outside the writers' room and immersing myself in the records Bernie had lent me. I also realized how much a great singer brought to a song. I drank in her performance. I think I absorbed some of her soul. When we were finally done, I turned to her.

“I have to ask you something,” I said. “But please feel free to say no if you're not comfortable doing it. I'm
recording the demo on Friday night at nine o'clock. Will you sing the vocal?”

Dulcie stood up. Even in her work clothes she was still so beautiful.

“I would be honored,” she whispered. She leaned over. With her hands cradling my face, she kissed the top of my head. Then Sweet Dulcie Brown exited with her own head held high, looking as proud and fulfilled as if she were leaving the stage.

THURSDAY DAWNED HOT AND
humid, but I bounded out of the apartment, ready to take on the day. I made it into the office early so I'd have time to play over “I'm Glad I Did” at least a hundred times. At eleven o'clock, I called Luke and told him I wanted to stop by for a few minutes at lunch to play him a few changes I'd made to the lyrics.

When I opened the door this time, his desk was much neater. Two sandwiches and two Cokes were set on paper-towel placemats.

He stood up. “Hope you haven't eaten. And that you like BLTs on whole wheat.”

Of course I loved BLTs on whole wheat. If he'd gotten me peanut butter and pickle on pumpernickel, I would have loved that. The idea that he brought in lunch for me made my heart soar and my stomach rumble.

“Yes to both,” I answered. “I'd really like to get the work part out of the way, though. I'll digest better if I know how you feel about the song now.”

“Let's hear it,” he replied as we both moved to the piano bench.

I played and sang with every bit of soul I could muster. I was no Dulcie Brown, but I was better than I had been when I last sang it for Luke.

When I was finished, he took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don't know what to say,” he murmured. “It's so much better now. It's more real, more natural. Did you make these fixes?”

“No, Dulcie Brown did. When she sang it down, she made all these adjustments naturally.”

“Maybe she should be our co-writer,” Luke suggested. “She took it to another level.”

I nodded eagerly. “I felt the same way, but she insists that she doesn't want a writing credit. She says she's just showing us what we have. And she's willing to sing on the demo.”

“Damn, I wish I could be there.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I'm scared I'll screw it up somehow.”

He rolled those green eyes. “If I thought that, I'd ask you to postpone it until I could be there. You know this song inside out. You'll be fine. Now let's eat, okay?”

“I guess,” I mumbled, “but let me pay you for the sandwich.”

“JJ, has anyone ever told you that you can be a pain?”

“Pretty much everyone,” I confessed.

Only then did he smile for the first time since I'd walked in. I had to admit to myself, it was a big part of what I'd come for.

The next morning, I couldn't wait to see the “Artists Looking for Songs” list. If there was anyone there who could sing “I'm Glad I Did,” I would finally be in the competition. And if someone recorded it, I would have accomplished my goal. I'd have proven Bernie right and Janny wrong. I'd be a real songwriter, and my family would have to recognize that.

My fantasies were off and running. This song would climb the charts. Luke and I would become a team professionally and romantically. We'd write every day and go to the writers' parties at Good Music. Bobby would love us. We'd be inside the magic circle …

The list was filled with girls groups like The Chiffons and The Ronettes. My heart sank. There wasn't a single person there who was right for our song. I was hoping to see Ray Charles's name. He had the vocal chops to handle it. But he wasn't looking for songs this week.

In the meantime, Rona took it upon herself to help me
book the musicians for the demo. “I'm getting you the best guys,” she said. “So you can look to them for advice. If you get stuck, don't be ashamed to admit it. They'll guide you.”

“Thanks, Ro,” I replied. I picked up the enormous pile of lead sheets on her desk and headed for the copy room. “You're the best, you know that?”

“Abso-elvis-lutely, JJ,” Rona replied. “All I ask is that you play it for Bobby ASAP so he'll get off my back about you delivering.”

I scurried away. I had no intention of playing it for anyone until the right singer was about to record.

BY SIX THIRTY, I
was exhausted. If I hadn't had Dulcie to look forward to, I would have gone home. I left my cubicle door open and noodled around with some arrangement ideas until she finally arrived.

“Brought you a little something to listen to, baby girl,” she announced, setting a stack of 78 RPM records down on the piano. “This is just a small part of my collection. These are the ladies who taught me everything I know. I thought you might like to listen to them.”

I stood up and flipped through the pile. I had read about these women, but I had never heard some of them sing. Dulcie's idols ranged from Bessie Smith to Alberta Hunter, from Blue Lu Barker to Billie Holiday, from Sister Rosetta Tharpe to Ruth Brown.

“I can't thank you enough,” I gasped. “You know, I've always been fascinated by Rosetta Tharpe. I think it's 'cause I love her name. It's so poetic.”

A shadow passed over Dulcie's face. “That's what I
named my little girl … Rosetta.” Her voice caught. “I felt the same way. Rosetta is a beautiful name.”

“Does your Rosetta live with you?” I asked, wondering what was wrong.

“My Rosetta's all grown up now, older than you. She's a grown woman. She lives here in New York, but it hasn't been right between us for a long time. We don't talk, but I know where she works, and maybe someday …” Her voice trailed off.

Her eyes clouded, and I took her hand.

“I'm so sorry I brought it up,” I said.

“No worries,” Dulcie assured me. She sniffed and straightened. “It is what it is, and it will be what it will be. Now let's get into my rehearsal. It ain't gonna take long.”

“Why is that?”

“ 'Cause here's what I do. I sing the song down three times. After that it's in my bones, and it just gets stale. Got it?”

“I got it,” I said, and that's what we did. I played, and Dulcie sang “I'm Glad I Did” three times. Each time better than the last.

“You happy with the way I sang it?” she asked.

“It's kind of perfect,” I told her. “Now what?”

“Bobby got a record player in his office?”