Page 21 of Perfect Composition
“To fruitful business relationships.” Our drinks come together as the music changes and, if I’m not mistaken, gets louder. I can only hope Austyn has her headphones on in the booth. When I say as much to Marco, he grins. “Definitely a mother. It’s attractive on you, Paige.”
I roll my eyes before turning to look over the railing at the people congregating on the dance floor. Then, before I can stop myself, I ask, “What level acoustic fabric do you use to reduce the sound to help with your patrons’ hearing?”
Marco barks out another quick laugh before joining me at the rail and walking me through the soundproofing procedures he and his partner—the enormously tall but softhearted Louie—undergo to ensure they retain their proper licenses. After a while, where I make a few suggestions for improvement, like adjusting the speaker location and installing a limiter on the amplifier, that he takes into consideration, he excuses himself to deal with a VIP at the door.
I lose myself in the club and the music for an untold amount of time.
It’s like a wicked fairy tale come to life, I think. Dark mulberry velvet—what I now know to be ridiculously expensive velvet acoustic fabric—drapes every available surface. What’s not covered in fabric twinkles. Every time the spotlights twist and turn on the crystals in the room, they glitter like shiny new diamonds.
The club is luxurious in a way I’ve never experienced in my entire life, and I grew up blessed by a father who showered me with love and provided our family with ample money. But in the end, we lived in a small town. I spin in a slow circle, catching sight of some exhibitionist dancers. This wasn’t available in the tiny town of Kensington.
Not by a long shot.
An old saw about not being in Kansas anymore floats in my head.Wrong state, Paigey, I can hear my father snap, his Texan pride leaping at me. No, I’m not.
Austyn begins laying her own tracks over Toto. My hips sway back and forth in time to the heavy thumping of beat of the drums. Then her powerful voice—prerecorded—comes out over the microphone, singing the popular song in French, just as guttural. Austyn’s alto rips down into the soul, somehow reminding the people listening to her there’s more out there. Her lilting tone layered on top of the original makes the crowd think the song’s about two lovers separated instead of what David Paich himself stated, which was that it was about a young man’s love of a continent.
But here, in this club where I’m drinking a cranberry vodka martini out of a glass I easily recognize as Waterford with a name that exudes sexuality, the crowd goes wild. Then again, ever since high school, they always have when my daughter plays.
My smile splits my face in two as the warmth of motherly pride washes over me. I can’t wait until Austyn’s break where I can tell her I’m so glad I flew here to be with her. But just as the song ends and the next one picks up, I hear from right behind me, “…Beckett Miller.”
And all the warmth I felt a moment ago crystalizes into absolute fear.
No. It’s not possible.
What the hell is he doing here? Tonight of all nights? Fury makes me whirl around to find two girls who are wearing almost identical sequined dresses. “I deeply apologize. But did you just say something about Beckett Miller?” I ask. I keep my voice pitched low, knowing I have less of a chance of being overheard.
“Oh, my God, yes. He’s coming through the VIP entrance,” one says dreamily.
“All that inked hotness…” The other begins to fan herself.
I want to fan myself, too, but to stop the nausea churning my stomach. Now, I really wish I’d stuck to water. But only one thought pulsates through my mind.
Get to Austyn.
“Right. Do you know how to find Marco?” I inquire politely.
“Talk about hotness,” Number One says.
“I think I see… Yeah, he’s down on the dance floor. You can’t miss him.” Number Two points past me.
I whirl around and find she’s right. Marco’s gliding across the dance floor like he’s made for it. Damn, I curse inwardly. It was too much to hope he’d be making a lap. “Thanks for your help.”
“Hey, no problem. Where are you from? Love your accent,” Number Two yells out as I scooch past them.
“Texas,” I call back. But I quickly forget about the two girls not much older than my daughter. I scan the top level for stairs and stride to them as quickly as I can. Making my way down them in the blasted sandals, I find myself on the fringes of the dance floor.
In what feels like forever but is actually seconds, Marco is in front of me. “Paige, what’s wrong?”
“I need to speak with Austyn.”
His eyes drift upward to the DJ booth. “She’s due for a break in a few moments. Come, dance with me, then I’ll take you up to her.”
“No, I’ll just…wait!” I’m tugged onto the dance floor just as Joan Jett comes blaring from the speakers.Oh Austyn, you have no idea how perfect this song is right now. But I don’t have much time to relish the soul-deep connection I have with my daughter because I’m too worried about the fact I need to get to her. Because my time just ran out here in a club while she’s working.
I’m not certain who I hate the most in this moment as I’m being whirled and twirled around the dance floor: the patrons of Redemption who stand back to watch the little show Marco’s putting on, Marco himself for not directly taking me to my daughter, or myself for sparing Austyn the name of her father all these years so she didn’t grow up with a festering bitterness I had no way to address despite the love we Kensingtons showed her.
It’s not her fault her father left town and never looked back. Not once.
