The Day After Yesterday by Kelly Cozy

Author:Kelly Cozy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary, fiction general, loss and acceptance, mainstream novel, mainstream fiction, loss and hope, loss and grief, fiction about music
Publisher: Kelly Cozy

Chapter Nineteen

“You have to admit, this looks rather compromising.”

“Just hold still.”

“But think of it! Someone walks in, gets an eyeful and the scandal gives me free publicity. Ow!”

“I told you to hold still.”

Daniel glanced at his watch. The signing would start in fifteen minutes, cause enough to make him nervous. But Rachel had noticed that the cuffs on the trousers of his sharkskin suit were rolled, not hemmed. Deeply offended, she’d bullied him into the bathroom of Blue Angel Records and now he stood on the toilet while she wielded needle and thread.

“I can’t believe you never had these hemmed.” Rachel bit off a thread, tied a knot, then went to work on the other cuff.

He started to shrug.

“Don’t move,” she said.

Daniel tried not to fidget. It wasn’t easy. He could hear the faint murmur of people. The indistinct noise was familiar: the sound of crowd. He’d caught a glimpse of the line already and was surprised at its length, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been.

He’d gotten the first email before the album was even released. The advance copies had gone out to radio stations and were getting airplay; he’d been startled the first time he’d tuned in to the college station, KLCU, and heard “Winter Roses (Part 1).” After that not a week went by that he didn’t hear one of his songs — usually on KLCU or internet radio, but more than once on the big L.A. and San Diego stations.

But it was the email that brought it all home to him. Theresa had set up a website for him. Very simple: just the album’s cover and credits, the list of the song titles and sample mp3s. There were only four links: one to Troubadour Records, one to a page with the song lyrics, one to a page with brief bios of the session musicians, and one to send email. That was how the message had come. It hadn’t been long, just a few lines, but they’d moved him all the same. Dear Mr. Whitman, the email said, I heard your song Winter Roses on the radio. I’ve been going through a bad time lately and your song really helped me. I play it all the time. Thank you so much.

There had been more like that, many more. And the album was selling better than he’d thought it would. It hadn’t really sunk in, though, until his publicist said she was arranging the signing here at Blue Angel. He’d agreed — partly to give his poor publicist something to do, and partly because he felt he owed it to the people who’d been buying his album, and who’d been writing to tell him how much they liked it and, more often than not, how much the songs meant to them.

Now that the time for the signing was at hand, his nerves were ajitter. He’d written those songs to keep from going crazy, because he didn’t have the answers then and still didn’t. What if people asked him for answers to their questions? He couldn’t find the answers to his own.

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