CH25

"Rufus! Come here!" Amelia ordered, and grinned at me. She shrugged her shoulders and tossed the cone over the couch. "I'll keep an eye on him. He doesn't like the cone."

I kept my opinion to myself.

Late morning, as I worked on the script, the sound of piano music meandered out to me. I stopped working and listened, not recognizing the piece.

It concerned me; mournful notes floated in the air, lingering only long enough to be shadowed by a slow, dark, melody full of anguish. I was too sensitive to Amelia's music selections.

They matched her mood and forewarned me of her feelings. This one bothered me, as beautiful as it was.

Leaving my study, I went to the living room. Amelia was playing gently, eyes closed, her head slightly bent forward, fingers caressing the keys.

"Amelia?"

She stopped and looked at me. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yup," she answered brightly. "Do you like it?"

Relieved at her smile, I said, "I do. It's quite exquisite. But I don't recognize the piece."

"Do you really like it?"

I nodded.

Her smile broadened into radiance. "It's mine. I wrote it. Want to hear the whole song?"

I nodded. "Sure."

She turned to the piano. Her eyes closed. Fingers touched the keys in a caress. Music started, slow and mournful, the music rolling like distant thunder into darker notes, full of pain, sharp notes like flashing lightening adding depth and feeling.

Lighter notes emerged to dance with the thunder and gradually took over, soaring up into the heavens in a complex, beautiful melody, bright, full of light.

As brightness faded, she plunged down into the precipice, darkness and sadness, only to be lifted up again into intricate beauty. It was, without doubt, one of the finest, most emotional pieces of music I'd heard in years.

I was floored, stunned. It wasn't fair! Didn't she have enough talent for ten people already?

She looked at me expectantly.

"I'm not much good with words. You are. I was hoping you'd write the lyrics for me," she said.

"Me?"

"Uh-huh. I read your script for Even Angels Cry. You can express things I'd never be able to. So will you?"

"What's the song about?"

She turned on the piano bench to face me. "It's a song for Mom and Dad, to tell them how I wish I could have had just five more minutes with them so I could tell them how much I love them, and ask if they're happy, and are they proud of me, do they miss me as much as I miss them?

I want to tell them I'm okay, and how happy I am, and how I found you, and how much I love you, and that they don't have to worry anymore."

Weak in my knees, I dropped into the armchair. My throat closed. How could she be so achingly beautiful at fourteen years old?

Smoky gray eyes watched me, waiting for my response. I cleared my throat. "Amelia, you don't need any help with lyrics."

She disagreed. "The words have to be perfect. Mine don't have the right cadence and the syllables are all wrong. I need your way with words. So will you?"

I didn't agree with her. I could never improve on her words. "I'll write them," I said, seeing how important it was to her.

She jumped up, smiling brightly, walked over to me, and hugged me. "Mom and Dad are going to be so happy when they hear it," she said.

Had I understood how those three simple words, "I'll write them," would affect our lives, I would have given it much more sober consideration.

It took me ten days to craft the lyrics. If it was important to Amelia, it was important to me. Amelia bugged me daily asking if I'd finished and wanting to look at what I'd written.

However, her constant pestering wasn't curiosity. She was very serious about it. I refused to show her my draft, which only made her more curious, so I took to locking the draft in the desk drawer.

But, on an early Thursday afternoon, as Amelia played the piano, I finished the lyrics to my satisfaction, and took them to her.

"Here ya go," I said, handing it over.

Amelia's eyes were bright with excitement. She became absorbed in reading the lyrics, so I parked myself in the armchair.

Rufus arrived, tail wagging and sat in front of me. In his mouth he had my new Smartphone. Where had he gotten it? I thought I'd put it out of reach on the kitchen counter!

Grabbing it, I stroked the soft fur on his head. It looked like he grinned at me before standing and walking over to Amelia. He flopped down next to her, head resting on his paws, eyes upturned to Amelia.

Amelia was still reading the lyrics.

"They aren't that long," I commented.

Without looking at me she responded, "I'm memorizing them. Don't distract me."

Properly chastised, I shrugged and played with the Smartphone. One icon caught my eye. That would be fun. Pressing the icon, a video app started. I fiddled with it, recording my feet. Satisfied I could operate it, I waited.

Amelia, bent and reading the music sheet with my lyrics, nodded, sat up straight, and closed her eyes. She caressed the keys. Music started.

I started recording, just for the heck of it.

The now familiar song filled the living room. Then Amelia began to sing. She sang with angst I didn't know my words had, with the pain of loss, with sorrow, a heart-rending lament to her mother and father.

The Smartphone shook as I listened to the exquisiteness of her talent. Then a lighter musical melody emerged, her voice soaring, louder, joy and brightness filling the living room, only to pass and plunge into angst again.

A chill passed down my spine when I noticed tears slowly rolling down Amelia's cheeks, her head tilted slightly, and then her voice soared into the heavens again in a final, powerful goodbye.

I actually had tears in my eyes when silence arrived. She'd shaken me deeply. I'd never seen anything so moving, so heartfelt, so emotional. And then she opened her eyes and looked at me.

"The lyrics are perfect, Mike. I think Mom and Dad will like it."

I nodded. My throat was choked up.

Two days later, sitting in our production office, a small bungalow on the Warner Bros studio lot, I waited for Peter to get off the phone.

My three months off work was a Hollywood vacation. Actors and directors measured their self-worth in publicity and attention, unable to accept being out of the spotlight, the center of attention, their egos too big and fragile.

My vacation was four days a week away from the office, two calls every day from Peter, and a coterie of sycophants whining for my attention, for validation.

Media called, hoping for a delicious tidbit of gossip, driving Peter, and thus me, to distraction.

We had two projects in development, not counting my latest screenplay. Each required shepherding, nurturing, or it would die a silent death. Each was scheduled for production in the new year. It promised to be a busy year.

"That was TMZ," Peter informed me, ending the call. "They heard a rumor Liana Liberato had been picked to play the lead in your new screenplay."

It infuriated me. "I told you to stop handing out copies of the script, Peter!" Then I paused. She was excellent in Erased. She'd make a perfect Mia. Maybe we should consider her.

Peter looked hurt. "I didn't. They didn't know the name of the movie, just rumors. Relax."

"Sorry."

He studied me. "I thought this vacation was supposed to relax you. Is everything okay?"

I leaned back in the chair and smiled. "Yeah, everything is fine. Better than fine, actually. I just don't like this constant interruption with work."

Peter looked at me, his expression serious. Finally he spoke. "She loves you."

"I know."

"I didn't express myself correctly. Amelia's in love with you. You better not hurt her, Mike."

"How the Hell would you know that?" I asked forcefully.

He smiled. "We talk all the time."

"You do? When?"

Peter chuckled. "When I take her shopping. Do you think those clothes she has just magically appear?"

I was flabbergasted. "When?" I thought I knew every minute of her days.

Peter laughed at me. "When you work, you're oblivious to everything. Amelia calls me and I take her shopping. She's back before you ever emerge from your study. She's a real clothes horse," he added.