Page 45 of On the Power Play

Jack nodded, but Delia winced. "How much is that going to cost?"

Mary looked between her and Jack. "Probably something we should discuss later?"

Jack thought back to their conversation in her dressing room after the concert. How Delia needed the money to earn out her advance and retire her mom. That had definitely tugged at his heartstrings.

Delia nodded and gave Mary a hug. "Later. Thanks so much for figuring all that out. I can't believe how much this is ramping up."

"Exciting, though, right? Have you seen your streaming numbers?"

Jack was intruding on a moment, so he turned and looked for the washroom. There was a hallway off to the left. He figured that was his best bet.

He strode forward, and sure enough, there one was. He reached out for the door handle just as it turned. The door opened into the hall, and Jack stepped back as a man with dark, wavy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a V-neck black T-shirt appeared in front of him.

“Sorry, mate. I . . .” The man frowned, looked him up and down, then glanced past him into the hall. His eyes lit up. “Delia, love! I wasn’t aware you’d already arrived.” He didn’t look back or introduce himself, and Jack fought the urge to mutter something about how it was nice to meet him, too.

Jack stepped into the washroom and unzipped his slacks. Who was that guy? Someone who knew Delia well. His jaw tightened. The dude was Irish. He probably called everyone “love.”

Jack had never known someone in the music business, and that meant he knew nothing about what was going to happen there at the studio. His childhood music career had been short lived, punctuated by a year and a half stint of forced piano lessons at age six.

The few things he knew about music came from that teacher, Mrs. Montgomery. He technically had a music teacher at school, but she was mousy and dull. Mrs. Montgomery, on the other hand, had worn sleeveless silk blouses and high heels inside the house. She had art on her walls, fresh flowers on the table, and she always sucked on tiny, perfectly round mints. She was a sophisticated fish out of water in Moose Jaw, and Jack might’ve had the tiniest crush on her. It didn’t mean he practised, but he did listen with rapt attention whenever she leaned over and put her hands next to his on the keys. He still knew a C major scale because of her.

Jack zipped up and washed his hands, then pulled out a small tube of petroleum jelly from his pocket. He pulled up his shirt sleeve and applied the ointment to his still-healing skin, then put it away, wiped his fingers on a paper towel, and walked back into the lobby. Only Mary was left standing in the hall.

“Hey, Jack.”

“Mary.”

“Do you want to come back and watch the recording session or hang out here?”

Jack scanned the tiny meeting room. There was an armchair that looked like it could’ve only held him until he hit a growth spurt in grade ten and a water cooler with paper ice cream cone cups. “Does Delia not want me there?”

Mary shook her head. “No, she just went back to the staff lounge to brush her teeth. She told me to ask you.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah. I’ll come back and watch, then.” Jack followed Mary down the dark hallway and into a small, narrow room bathed in a soft, ambient light. Mary took a seat next to the man he’d run into in front of the washroom.

“Jack, this is Finn Gallagher. He’s producing the album.” Mary leaned back so Finn could put out a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Jack. I thought we could get a picture after, if that’s okay.” Finn shook his hand, then grinned and looked past the left side of his head. “Happy with your teeth, Dels?”

Jack turned and barely caught Delia rolling her eyes. “Don’t pretend you aren’t thrilled I’m only breathing minty fresh air onto your pet mic.”

Finn laughed. “I don’t believe food breath sticks.”

Delia swept her hair behind her ears. “Any fixes from the other day or are we moving straight into ‘Choose Me’?” They spoke so smoothly to each other, like they were fluent in a different variation of English.

“I have a bit more blending to do on the splices, but all in all, it’s a good cut. I’ll send it over to both of you this weekend.” Finn put on his headphones as Delia entered the studio, and for a few seconds, Jack could only see Delia’s lips moving. Then Finn flipped a switch and turned on the speakers.

“—assuming you want more of a breathy feel there,” Delia finished.

Finn nodded. “Yes, exactly. I want it breathy and sexy. Like a ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’ moment, then we’ll punch it on the bridge.”

Delia nodded, then put her own headphones on and set her tablet on the stand. Finn started the backing track and his hands roamed over the control panel in front of him, adjusting dials and pushing sliders until he was satisfied with whatever was showing on his computer screen.

Then Delia began to sing, and just like in the club in Calgary, Jack’s world narrowed to that sound. This time there weren’t conversations and clinking glasses or fans shouting out her lyrics to dilute the sound of her voice. It was raw, floating over the slow guitar. Jack couldn’t categorize the song, but it made him think of speakeasies in the forties with red lights and cigarette smoke.

Whatever Finn had said earlier, Delia didn’t have to do anything to make her voice sexy. Every word that came out of her mouth was a marriage between Norah Jones’s rasp and Adele’s soul.

“Pick me, let me be the one,

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