Page 17 of Perfect Pitch

“Well, the person who heard you play is Brendan Blake.”

I choke on air. Wheezing, I manage, “Brendan... Blake?”

A sultry laugh reverberates in my ear. “He said he walked by you a few times to give you some kudos, but you were so into the music you didn’t notice him. Truth be told, that may have impressed him even more.”

I swallow hard before asking, “How many other people did you call before me, Ms. Freeman?”

“Make it Alison. And truth?”

“Yes. Please.” I brace myself for the answer.

“With Brendan Blake recommending you, do you think I’m foolish enough to waste my time? You were the only person on my list.” Even as I try to recover from that, Alison reminds me, “Read the contract, see if you have any issues. If you don’t, sign it. Then we’ll see you around three on Friday.”

“Consider it done. Thank you, Alison.”

“No, thank you.” With that, she disconnects the call.

And I let out a cry of joy so loud they may be able to hear back in Texas.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT

The most successful wedding is one you could never dream of because it’s all about making your intended happy.

—Beautiful Today

Mozart is playing at the bride’s request during dinner. In my earpiece, I hear Cassidy Freeman murmur, “It’s almost time for the first dance.”

I cue up Ed Sheeran and Beyoncé’s version of “Perfect.” Later, I’ll never know what made me do it. Maybe it’s the setting—the grey stone of the enormous French-style chateau. Maybe it is the food, the beverages, the little plates of cheese being massacred by the wait staff, but I wanted to give a small gift to the bride and groom who had something taken from them—a sense of tranquility maybe they were aiming to feel on their wedding day.

As Beyoncé’s voice is supposed to sing her part solo, I pull her voice out and begin to sing in French, “J’ai trouvé l’amour pour moi.”

The bride’s head snaps up at the first note. Then her lip begins to tremble as she realizes I’m singing every single word, matching the strumming of Ed Sheeran’s guitar. Her groom drops his mouth to whisper in her ear, and her head tips back while she aims the most glorious smile upward toward her husband.

He tugs her closer before bestowing a gentle kiss upon her lips.

I keep singing, even the duet portion, until the last note fades away. The guests go crazy, as do the Freeman siblings in my ear. “Incredible!” is shouted by Phillip. Holly murmurs, “These photos are going to be insane.”

Alison just laughs smugly.

The next song is for the father of the bride and the bride. A man with hawkish features joins his daughter on the dance floor. He rubs his thumbs across her cheeks. Meanwhile, the groom heads toward me. He stops in front of me and says something. I point to my earphones. He smiles sheepishly.

I slide them off. “I apologize if—”

He interrupts. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Learn the French words to our wedding song so quickly?”

“Je parle couramment le français.” At his confusion, I translate, “I speak French fluently.”

“Then how did you know to do it?” he presses.

“It just seemed to fit the setting.” I lift my hand to encompass the spectacular location.

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