Love Songs
Page 17
Warner caressed her face. “You went though some serious trauma. I don’t blame you for freaking out. I don’t think you ever get over that moment when your life flashes before your eyes.”
Clara smiled and rested her head against his chest. “You’re right. You never do.”
He pulled her closer to him. She rested her head against his chest and he held her. A week ago he didn’t know what he was doing with his life. Now he wondered if music was his calling at all? Or had it just been the force that brought him to Clara Keller? He kissed the top of her head.
This was what he wanted more than to hear his song on the radio. How could his dreams have changed so quickly?
The next morning Warner drove Clara back to the theater and went on his way home. He had the urge to clean house because after holding Clara all night in his arms, he wanted to make that a normal occurrence.
As Warner pulled up in front of the small building which looked like a house with four small apartments, he saw a black BMW pull away. He parked in the spot the car had occupied, turned off the overworked engine, and climbed out of the truck.
Warner rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. He was tired. He shouldn’t be, he’d gotten a full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. At least his current unemployment offered him time for a nap.
He climbed the steps to the second level of the quad-plex and walked to the dull red door with the number two nailed to it. A bright yellow piece of paper hung there adhered with a piece of tape.
Warner thumbed through his keys until he found the right one. He jiggled it in the lock and finally pushed open the door. As he walked through he tore off the paper and carried it inside.
For a moment he stood there and then kicked the door shut behind him. What a horrible little hell he’d created for himself in that little apartment.
Pizza boxes and two liter bottles littered the table where he wrote music. His keyboard had no less than three stale mugs of coffee balanced on it. As if he could afford for one of those to spill—he’d paid an outrageous fortune for that damn thing. And did he have a cat? No, but it smelled like he did.
He threw down the piece of paper he’d collected from the door along with his keys onto the cluttered coffee table and let out a long breath. No napping. He needed to clean this place up.
Three hours later Warner fell onto the couch, kicked his feet up, and closed his eyes. Six bags of trash had been taken to the dumpster. Four baskets of laundry had been carried to his truck so he could make a trip to the Laundromat.
His cupboards were now filled with clean dishes and he’d thrown out the rotten strawberries in his refrigerator and made a grocery list. Other than condiments, he had no food.
Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand he laughed at himself. He was a slob. Clara’s cluttered little bedroom was a haven compared to the hell hole he’d been living in. But maybe that needed to change.
Warner tapped his hand against his leg and a beat generated at his fingertips. The hell I’ve created…that would need to change.
He sat up and tapped the same beat on the coffee table. The hell we’ve created…it was time for a change.
The words danced in his head and beat now tapped his foot.
He stood and walked over to the newly dusted keyboard and began the workings of the song that now played in his head.
***
Clara sat at the kitchen table and bit into the sandwich she’d made for dinner. It was nearly nine o’clock and she’d been calling Warner since she’d left the theater. He’d never answered.
She was setting herself up for disappointment. He had a wanderer’s soul and she was just a stop on his route to wherever he was going to land.
The house was too quiet. Tyler was gone and the basement was void of everything but the furniture that stayed. Christian was at Tori’s. It seemed as though she’d decided he was worth having over at night. And now Clara sat alone in her kitchen with a piece of bologna between bread and she was calling it dinner time. She was pathetic.
Well, it was only one night. She knew she shouldn’t feel bad for herself. Tomorrow night would start the final run of West Side Story. Her days as Maria were numbered. And then there was the gig Randy had set up for them, though it was going to have to be all Warner now. There was no way she could commit to performing with him.
As she bit into her sandwich there was a pounding on the front door. She yelped as she bit down on her cheek.
Who could possibly be at the door this late?
The pounding continued and Clara quickly stood, hurried to the cupboard, and reached for her gun. She’d hated Christian leaving it there, but now she was glad it was in reach.
“Clara, are you home?” She heard Warner’s voice call out.
Her adrenaline had kicked in and she laid the gun back on the shelf. Her hand was shaky and even holding it in her hand wasn’t safe.
She took a deep breath and hurried to the door.
As she pulled open the door she narrowed her eyes on him. He was a wreck. Were those the same clothes he’d had on when he left her off at the theater?
“What are you doing?”
His eyes were open and bright. “You have to listen to this.” He moved past her with his guitar in his hand, not even in its case.
Warner propped his foot up on the coffee table, raked his fingers through his already mussed up hair, and then he began to play.
Clara smiled as Warner dove into the song. The dark cords, his deep voice, the haunting lyrics of a love on the mend. The man was a musical genius.
The song and his voice echoed through the house which only moments earlier had been so quiet. This was where he’d been all day she realized. The creative mind had shut off from the world and this masterpiece had been written.
As the last chord of the song resonated through the air he finally looked up at her. His eyes were wide and he was waiting for her approval.
“You wrote that today didn’t you?” She asked.
He only nodded, his foot still propped up on the table. His guitar still balanced on his knee.
“Warner Wright, I think you’re a genius.”
“You do?”
Clara nodded. “That was one of the most amazing songs I’ve ever heard.”
His eyes darkened and narrowed. “Let’s record it.”
Clara laughed. “Now?”
“Yeah. I have my computer in the truck.” He set his foot down and held the guitar by its neck.
Clara smiled and rested her head against his chest. “You’re right. You never do.”
He pulled her closer to him. She rested her head against his chest and he held her. A week ago he didn’t know what he was doing with his life. Now he wondered if music was his calling at all? Or had it just been the force that brought him to Clara Keller? He kissed the top of her head.
This was what he wanted more than to hear his song on the radio. How could his dreams have changed so quickly?
The next morning Warner drove Clara back to the theater and went on his way home. He had the urge to clean house because after holding Clara all night in his arms, he wanted to make that a normal occurrence.
As Warner pulled up in front of the small building which looked like a house with four small apartments, he saw a black BMW pull away. He parked in the spot the car had occupied, turned off the overworked engine, and climbed out of the truck.
Warner rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. He was tired. He shouldn’t be, he’d gotten a full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. At least his current unemployment offered him time for a nap.
He climbed the steps to the second level of the quad-plex and walked to the dull red door with the number two nailed to it. A bright yellow piece of paper hung there adhered with a piece of tape.
Warner thumbed through his keys until he found the right one. He jiggled it in the lock and finally pushed open the door. As he walked through he tore off the paper and carried it inside.
For a moment he stood there and then kicked the door shut behind him. What a horrible little hell he’d created for himself in that little apartment.
Pizza boxes and two liter bottles littered the table where he wrote music. His keyboard had no less than three stale mugs of coffee balanced on it. As if he could afford for one of those to spill—he’d paid an outrageous fortune for that damn thing. And did he have a cat? No, but it smelled like he did.
He threw down the piece of paper he’d collected from the door along with his keys onto the cluttered coffee table and let out a long breath. No napping. He needed to clean this place up.
Three hours later Warner fell onto the couch, kicked his feet up, and closed his eyes. Six bags of trash had been taken to the dumpster. Four baskets of laundry had been carried to his truck so he could make a trip to the Laundromat.
His cupboards were now filled with clean dishes and he’d thrown out the rotten strawberries in his refrigerator and made a grocery list. Other than condiments, he had no food.
Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand he laughed at himself. He was a slob. Clara’s cluttered little bedroom was a haven compared to the hell hole he’d been living in. But maybe that needed to change.
Warner tapped his hand against his leg and a beat generated at his fingertips. The hell I’ve created…that would need to change.
He sat up and tapped the same beat on the coffee table. The hell we’ve created…it was time for a change.
The words danced in his head and beat now tapped his foot.
He stood and walked over to the newly dusted keyboard and began the workings of the song that now played in his head.
***
Clara sat at the kitchen table and bit into the sandwich she’d made for dinner. It was nearly nine o’clock and she’d been calling Warner since she’d left the theater. He’d never answered.
She was setting herself up for disappointment. He had a wanderer’s soul and she was just a stop on his route to wherever he was going to land.
The house was too quiet. Tyler was gone and the basement was void of everything but the furniture that stayed. Christian was at Tori’s. It seemed as though she’d decided he was worth having over at night. And now Clara sat alone in her kitchen with a piece of bologna between bread and she was calling it dinner time. She was pathetic.
Well, it was only one night. She knew she shouldn’t feel bad for herself. Tomorrow night would start the final run of West Side Story. Her days as Maria were numbered. And then there was the gig Randy had set up for them, though it was going to have to be all Warner now. There was no way she could commit to performing with him.
As she bit into her sandwich there was a pounding on the front door. She yelped as she bit down on her cheek.
Who could possibly be at the door this late?
The pounding continued and Clara quickly stood, hurried to the cupboard, and reached for her gun. She’d hated Christian leaving it there, but now she was glad it was in reach.
“Clara, are you home?” She heard Warner’s voice call out.
Her adrenaline had kicked in and she laid the gun back on the shelf. Her hand was shaky and even holding it in her hand wasn’t safe.
She took a deep breath and hurried to the door.
As she pulled open the door she narrowed her eyes on him. He was a wreck. Were those the same clothes he’d had on when he left her off at the theater?
“What are you doing?”
His eyes were open and bright. “You have to listen to this.” He moved past her with his guitar in his hand, not even in its case.
Warner propped his foot up on the coffee table, raked his fingers through his already mussed up hair, and then he began to play.
Clara smiled as Warner dove into the song. The dark cords, his deep voice, the haunting lyrics of a love on the mend. The man was a musical genius.
The song and his voice echoed through the house which only moments earlier had been so quiet. This was where he’d been all day she realized. The creative mind had shut off from the world and this masterpiece had been written.
As the last chord of the song resonated through the air he finally looked up at her. His eyes were wide and he was waiting for her approval.
“You wrote that today didn’t you?” She asked.
He only nodded, his foot still propped up on the table. His guitar still balanced on his knee.
“Warner Wright, I think you’re a genius.”
“You do?”
Clara nodded. “That was one of the most amazing songs I’ve ever heard.”
His eyes darkened and narrowed. “Let’s record it.”
Clara laughed. “Now?”
“Yeah. I have my computer in the truck.” He set his foot down and held the guitar by its neck.
