Love Songs: Sweet Rose Landing Series, #1

CHAPTER 1

IN FRONT OF AN AUDIENCE, Michael Stone was a sight to behold.  Long, lean, and beyond handsome, he won Daniella the first time she heard his voice.  She was a sucker for a love song. Michael could melt the panties off a woman—a skill he mastered in no time.

One of Michael’s songs played through the many speakers he had installed throughout his house.  Daniella sang along as she scanned the dining room.  Everything was in place—the white linen tablecloth, fresh flowers in a crystal vase, tall tapers in silver candleholders, china, flatware, wine glasses with Daniella and Michael engraved on them. This was a special occasion that only happened once.

A small box wrapped in gold paper was on the table to the left and slightly above a place setting.  The watch was a generic gift.  Michael didn’t need it, but he would wear it because he liked shinny things.   Incredulously, Daniella didn’t know her husband’s gift preferences.  He never introduced her to family or friends who might shed some light on his likes and dislikes. They didn’t spend much time together, so they didn’t really know each other well. In truth, if he showed any appreciation for her effort, it might shock her into a coma. 

Michael’s concerts kept him away for months at a time.  Daniella didn’t dare complain.  He would turn the tables and make the issues between them her fault because she didn’t have a regular nine-to-five job either.  Their time together was to rare and precious to fight, so she tried to make it special. She was a terrible cook, so her efforts in the kitchen should count for something.  Reservations at a nice restaurant would have been wiser.

Daniella didn’t try to guess which Michael would step across the threshold later that evening.  Detached gentleman and total stranger were the two personalities she saw most often.  Occasionally, he was a kind man who actually acknowledged her existence and pretended to care when he didn’t, never had.

Satisfied with her work, she headed toward the guest bedroom.  Six months ago Michael suggested she move her things out of the master bedroom because of their conflicting work schedules. Since her wants never mattered and it was his house, she did as she was asked. 

As she passed Michael’s office, she noticed the door was ajar. The cleaning lady must have left it open. Michale never barred her from his space, yet an invisible barrier kept her out.  In her vivid imagination she saw herself touching the door, falling through and disappearing forever. 

Michael’s private phone rang.  An answering machine recorded his messages instead of the phone company’s service.  For the first time, Daniella wondered about that.  She filed that information away with other questions that would go unanswered.  A familiar voice on the recording made Daniella miss a step and fall to one knee. It wasn’t the caller but the words that made her falter.

Hi, Mike.  I couldn’t reach you on your cell.  I know I’m not supposed to call your house.  If whats-her-name, Deniece... Dana... whatever is as simple-minded as you say, I guess it doesn’t matter.  Why do you stay married to a woman who can’t have sex?  You can put her in a home, you know.  Does she even recognize you?  Anyway, I have some clubs lined up that we need to discuss.  And, I want your opinion on my new lacy, red thong.  Hurry, the chilly air is making my nipples hard.  They need your mouth to warm them.

Michael’s agent didn’t know her name.  That might have hurt if the woman hadn’t followed up with a few more quick punches to her chest.  Why would Michael call her simple-minded?  When did his sexual prowess improve?  Their sex life was so bad she never sought him out.  The question that might have the most devastating answer hit her the hardest.  Had he told his family and coworkers she was simple-minded and dependent on him?

With no concrete evidence of his philandering, Daniella had closed her eyes so she wouldn’t find any.  She also closed her ears to anyone who hinted she should take off her blinders.  Keeping up the pretense that she didn’t know he was sleeping with other women was by no means easy.  Michael wasn’t discreet.  The few times she went to his performance, he didn’t introduce her to anyone.  He barely acknowledged her presence, which explained why people thought her mentally challenged.  She stood by and watched women hand her husband their phone numbers and addresses.  With no regard or respect for her, he took the cards and napkins and stuffed them in his pockets. The numbers in the left pocket went straight to the trash.  The contents of the right pocket were possibilities.  Humiliated, she stopped going to his performances.

Michael didn’t love her and didn’t spend a single minute faking it.  Daniella prayed he would open his eyes and see how she yearned for him.  If he noticed, the moment came and went so fast she missed it.  For months, she told herself there wasn’t any tangible proof even when the evidence fell on her head.  The only thing Michael hadn’t done was look her in the eyes and tell her he cheated.

To prove, if only to herself, that she wasn’t hopeless, Daniella lumbered to her bedroom to pack her things.  Her plan to leave right away changed after deep-rooted anger, a little hatred, and a newly developed devious streak took over.  She decided to write a letter detailing her plan to sever his favorite body part and bury it without a marker if she ever saw him again. 

For the first time, Daniella stepped into Michael’s office.  Nothing happened.  There weren’t any talismans, invisible webs, or alarms to ward her off.  In search of paper and pen, she ventured further into his domain.  It surprised her that his desk was unlocked.  Either he figured she would never enter his private space, or he didn’t care if she did.  Maybe he thought his simple-minded wife couldn’t read? 

Rummaging through Michael’s papers, gave her all the tangible proof she needed.  The bottom drawer was full of neat stacks of canceled checks made out to a woman named Teresa.  Hidden beneath the checks, she found letters from the same woman held together with a rubber band. 

Seated in Michael’s leather chair, that she hated, Daniella threw her legs over the arm and opened the first envelope.  She withdrew a letter and photographs of Michael at four or five years old. The pictures were six in a row like those taken by a school photographer. 

She assumed the pictures came from a relative she didn’t know.  The news sent another blow to her ego.  It hurt to know she didn’t warrant an introduction to his family.  Another injection of hate brought her out of that stupor. 

After unfolding the handwritten note, she stared at it like it was a nightmare come to life.  Nothing that happened in her terrible relationship with Michael prepared her for the first words that popped off the page.  Written in the large print of a young child were the words, Dear Daddy.

Daniella swung her legs around and put her feet flat on the floor.  Her fingers tightened around the letter, and her other hand gripped the chair until her knuckles turned white.  She struggled to inhale enough air to stay alive, but her brain wouldn’t tell her lungs to inhale.  The pain in her chest felt like she was going into cardiac arrest.  Then, quite suddenly, she felt her heart crack. 

The letter and the pictures of a young boy slipped from her trembling fingers and floated to the floor.  She wrapped her arms around her waist and bent forward until her head rested on her knees.  That didn’t help, so she curled up on the floor and cried until the streetlights cast ghostly shadows on the walls.  In the darkness, she prayed her tears would wash away the scars left by neglect and deceit.  The cuts and slashes were too deep.  Her misery bled into her very soul. 

She deserved the agony because ignoring the truth doesn’t make it go away.  Michael was an arrogant, shameless adulterer.  It was painfully clear that he never loved her. 

This moment was pivotal.  Never would another man play with her and then toss her aside.  The pain would stay with her forever and serve as a reminder that this was real life. 

As if she needed to punish herself, she pressed one on the speed dial and waited for her husband to answer.

What do you want, Danni?

Either she woke him or interrupted a meeting with his agent.  She chuckled at her joke.  Where are you? 

I’ll see you in a few days,  Michael answered as if she had no right to question her husband. 

No, you won’t. 

What does that mean? Michael snarled.  Because he didn’t care, he didn’t wait for an answer.  He ended the call without even a polite goodbye.

A minute later, Daniella got a text saying he would be home in two days.  Instead of getting angry, she laughed.  Poor Mandy was likely faking an orgasm.  Since she wouldn’t need it anymore, she deleted and blocked Michael’s number. 

Mr. Bang-anything-in-a-skirt forgot he gave her a credit card with an unlimited balance.  The few times they had dinner with an acquaintance, he made her pay for the meal with his card.  He bragged that his wife could buy whatever she wanted, but usually spent his money on little trinkets that caught her eye.  In truth, she used the card to run errands for him. 

Daniella laughed as ideas about how to use the card poured into her head.  Sex toys were at the top of the list, many of them.  Those she scheduled for next day delivery so she could take them with her.  Children’s books and game machines were next.  She sent them to the address on the letter from his son.  Still grinning, she ordered enough Italian, Mexican, Indian, and Chinese food for five people and four bottles of expensive champagne.  An assortment of cakes and pies to follow a great meal.  Finally, she downloaded ten movies that Michael hated.  She would watch them during her last days of solitude.  There wouldn’t be any peace or quiet after she moved back into the apartment she leased with her sister.  Most people terminated a lease when they moved out.  The intelligent part of Daniella’s subconscious knew she would need that apartment one day.

The expensive food and wine didn’t soothe her woes.  She couldn’t send anything to the apartment because Michael would track her.  Michael didn’t care about her, but he would care that she left him.  During a walk through the house to get ideas, she stopped at his office door again.  The gray walls,  mahogany furniture, and dark carpet depressed her even more.  The room needed color, so she ordered new furniture in warm beige and yellow.  She left instructions to leave the items outside if no one answered the door.

Michael’s reaction would be priceless, the absolute best fly-on-the-wall moment.  He wouldn’t appreciate her thoughtfulness, but he needed a little upheaval in his life.  Pleased with her ingenuity and newly found pension for revenge,  Daniella searched Amazon for more outrageous and expensive items.  Now was the perfect time to test whether Michael’s credit card was indeed unlimited.

Three hundred, sixty-five days ago, Daniella married a man she loved.  That man came home to furniture on his lawn, fancy dishes on his table, and spoiled food on the stove.  Daniella was gone.  She wouldn’t have to mark this day on a calendar to remember it.  After all, how often does a marriage end on the first anniversary? 

CHAPTER 2

EIGHT YEARS AGO, DANIELLA left home with big dreams and little else.  Since life doesn’t come with blueprints, she wasn’t disappointed with her first attempt at fame and fortune—no stardom, just wealth.  A low paying job as a receptionist at IP Records led to another low paying job as a production assistant.  She worked her way up to an agent that paid a bit more. 

Musicians don’t make money if their agents don’t find them work.  Agents assure club owners and managers that their clients will bring audiences to their venues.  Daniella couldn’t persuade a pig to run from a mountain lion and pigs are smart.  After a day with female divas and men with more hands than brains, her patience was as thin as paper.  She’d go home, cover her head with a pillow, and scream.  As hard as she tried, she knew her career in the music business teetered on the brink of death.  Each day she was a step closer to unemployment.  While she acted the part of an agent, she searched for other employment, but the prospects weren’t good.

Michael Stone was still a thorn in her side.  Tom Finn, her boss and the reason she walked a tightrope, was the thorn in her other side.  Finn knew she didn’t have the qualifications for an agent when he promoted her to the position.  As always, the big fart had ulterior motives.  He thought she would be grateful enough to turn off the lights, close her eyes, hold her breath, and crawl in his bed. 

In mid July the air conditioner took a holiday.  While she sweated over her keyboard and prayed for five o’clock, Tom’s fat face and balding head appeared above her computer.  The disgusting man sported a once white, now tan, shirt tucked inside baggy polyester pants.  A well-worn leather belt supported his lumpy belly and bulging love handles.  An orange, yellow, and green island print tie hung loosely around his neck.  Strands of hair combed across his head to hide his bald spot accentuated the obvious.  Daniella hated no one, not even her ex-husband.  The longer she worked for Tom, the closer she got to understanding that emotion.  Tom Finn was despicable. 

Got a gift for you.  Tom tossed a folder toward her, chuckled, and walked out.  Daniella exhaled the air from her lungs.  If harnessed, the odor Tom left behind could be used as nerve gas.  The door and window were already open.  There was nothing to do except to breathe and bare it.  With her head pressed against the window screen, she opened the folder.

If Daniella had thought it through, the day might have ended differently.  If she’d stayed in her office for two more minutes, or at the very least counted to ten, common sense might have prevailed.  She shot out of her chair, power walked down the hall and burst into Tom’s office.  Fire and daggers shot from her eyes as she held the papers over the food on his desk— there was always food on Tom’s desk.  For dramatic effect, she let the folder drop on a half-eaten roast beef on rye with mustard.  This is Michael Stone’s account.

Finn laughed so hard he snorted.  After his Jolly St. Nick impersonation, he leaned as far forward as his rotund middle allowed.  His arms rested on a stack of client folders, any of which he could have given her instead of Michael’s.  Mrs. Stone, I heard about your spat with your husband.  I’m not unsympathetic, but you have to see things from my perspective.  We run a business here, and I have a job to do.  Part of which involves assigning a client, i.e., Michael Stone, to an agent, i.e., you.  You never understood the chain of command.  Nor did you consider any of the other ways to make your life easier.

Nearly exploding from anger, Daniella wondered how much prison time she’d get for cracking Tom’s egg head.  With measured pauses, she said, I... won’t... work...with... Michael.  She turned and stormed out of his office.

Tom sighed.  The comment about making her life easier went right over Daniella’s head.  Michael’s account had been a ploy.  He’d hoped to get brownie points when he pretended to sympathize with her plight.  The moment she burst through his door, he changed his mind.  The pursuit of Daniella Christopher was a lost cause.  She wouldn’t think a night in his bed a fair trade for keeping her job.  It was no secret that she despised him. 

Daniella kept his heart beating every day.  She was a bright star in a dark sky.  Too bad things didn’t work out.  Allowing her to stay and torture him didn’t make sense, so he woke up his computer and sent an email to Human Resources. 

Hindsight is useless, Daniella thought.  Foresight would have saved her the embarrassment of being escorted to the rear exit by security.  The error of her ways became obvious while walking two city blocks to get to back to the front of the building and the garage. 

Three months after being tossed out of IP Records, Daniella’s finances ran on fumes.  After countless interviews, she was ready to pack up and go home to Maryland—maybe work in the bakery or wait tables in Silver Saddle Saloon.  Options were few.

Through the window of a coffee shop, she watched people entering and leaving the building where her next interview would take place.  Landing another position as an agent was the same as a snowball’s chance in hell.  A wistful sigh floated out on a soft breath.  Feeling sorry for herself was the new normal. 

In college, Daniella majored in music and journalism, curriculums as different as rock and water.  Journalism was her passion, but she had no experience.  She loved music but had no talent.  The skills and expertise on her resumé were impressive.  It had been her job to represent her client.  Had she done that?  No.  Was she capable of doing that?  Heck no.  In truth, she couldn’t give away air conditioning in Arizona.

As she searched her bottomless purse for lip gloss and a mirror, a shadow fell over the table.  A tall, handsome college-aged male who was closer to elementary school than her age sat down at her table.  The wide grin meant he was about to do or say something stupid.

His first mistake was to touch her hand.  Then he spoke in young people language—most of which she needed an interpreter to translate.  She understood enough to know he was out of his league.  After pulling her hand free, she used two fingers to rub the spot where swords and knives stabbed inside her head.

Silence gave the man-child a boost to his ego.  The confidence blinded him to reality.  He spoke of his attributes and pretended to comfort her because she looked distraught.  When in fact, his foot was on a land mine. 

Unable to take his gibberish for more than a minute, Daniella put her hand up to stop him.  Another time, she would have sent him on his way with his pride intact.  These days no one described Daniella as friendly, kind, tolerant, or even sufferable.  Cobwebs and dust bunnies were all over her happy place.  Her patience fought like hell to keep biting sarcasm at bay.  It didn’t work.  Find a girl your age who hasn’t been knocked around so much she doesn’t feel the pain.  You’ll never get through armor as thick as mine.  Go away, little boy.

People nearby snickered.  A group of his peers laughed.  Anger flashed across the young man’s face as all six foot, five inches or more jumped to his feet.  With a hint of fear trickling in, Daniella drew back.  The young man huffed and puffed for a few seconds and then stormed out of the restaurant. 

With her head hung low, Daniella admitted to mishandling the situation.  She didn’t have time for a playdate, but she could have behaved better.  Did people act this way during the first stages of unemployment madness?  If this interview went as bad as she expected, she was going home to Maryland to regroup, maybe get professional help. Or, hunt Tom Finn down, drag him into a dark alley and bludgeon him to death.

Daniella turned her head to the sky and spoke to her mother as she often did when the folks on Earth got on her nerves.  Mae, you said good things come to those who wait.  I hate to tell you, but it doesn’t matter whether you wait or not.  I’m speaking from experience.

Chilly winds whipped around Daniella’s unprotected legs and fluttered the hem of her navy skirt.  Instead of dressing for the weather, she’d dressed to impress.  She mumbled some rarely used expletives to blame men for the unwritten rule that suits with skirts were proper interview attire.  There definitely weren’t any women in the room.  With her face tucked in the collar of the thin jacket, she hurried along.

Deep in thought, Daniella didn’t brace herself against the sudden gust of wind that forced her backward.  She landed against a broad chest cushioned by a wool coat.  Warm hands on her arms steadied her.  Daniella looked over her shoulder into brown eyes that heated her all the way to her soul and some other places.  The scent of him took her breath away.

The gentleman released her immediately.  As if he couldn’t help himself, his lips turned up at the ends and exposed straight white teeth.  He smiled like he invented and perfected the concept. 

Daniella recovered, apologized, and hurried away.  It didn’t take long before her fantasies took over.  She pretty much lived in a happy fantasy world she dubbed Never Ever Land.  It’s called that because she would never have what she dreamed.  From this day forward, the prince of Never Ever Land had a new face.  Oh, mustn’t forget the body.

She chanced a look back and saw him climb into a cab.  There goes my prince.

An older lady passing by raised a brow.

Daniella was embarrassed but not surprised.  I said that out loud, didn’t I?

With an understanding that only comes with age, the lady nodded, smiled, and walked away.

Daniella didn’t feel the cold so much anymore.  As she stood in front of the modern high-rise building, she imagined herself facing a firing squad.  She shoved that and all other thoughts that squashed her confidence out of her head.

Mitchell Clark, the security guard, gave her a visitor’s pass and directions to the elevator.  She reached the twelfth floor still rubbing her aching forehead.  A detour into the restroom to glance in the mirror showed that the fender bender with the prince hadn’t dislodged anything.  However, she had suffered considerable wind damage.  Her hair was a mess.  She patted it down as best she could and lathered on lipstick to draw attention away from the bird’s nest. Turning away from her reflection, she wondered if she could use wind damage as an excuse for a do-over.

The waiting room wasn’t small and dreary like she expected.  Large plants basked in the sunlight that poured through the floor to ceiling windows.  Artwork depicting scenic places adorned the walls. Vibrant jewel tones energized artistic minds.  The area was a playground for artist and daydreamers like herself.

A pleasant young lady welcomed Daniella as she approached a waist-high, semicircular polished teak desk.  She held the strap of her purse with her left hand and extended the other in greeting.  Good afternoon, I’m Danni Christopher.  I have an appointment with Brent Drysdale.

The receptionist led her to a small, well-appointed office.  Brenda Hudson, according to the nameplate, stood and held out her hand.  She appeared to be in her late forties but was probably older.  Her infectious smile made Daniella relax a bit.  She hoped Ms. Hudson was a reflection of her boss.

The receptionist wished her luck and retreated. Daniella acknowledged the good wishes with a smile and turned her attention to Ms. Hudson.

Hello, Ms. Christopher.  Follow me, please.  Brenda Hudson knocked twice on the doorjamb of the open door and gestured for Daniella to enter.  After offering a beverage, she nodded when Daniella declined and closed the door on her way out.

The President of Coral Myst Records said, Have a seat, Ms. Christopher.  Are you sure you wouldn’t like a beverage? 

No, thank you.

Well, let’s get to it.  I should tell you that it’s rare that I do the initial interview of prospective employees.  Somehow your paperwork ended up on Brenda’s desk.  She saw it as a sign.  I trust her intuition.

Daniella believed in fate.  Most optimist and dreamers do.  They accept the premise that invisible forces influence the course of their lives.  Fate hadn’t visited her, but she figured she was due.  The possibility of it choosing today didn’t stop her from breaking out in a cold sweat. 

As if her unease wasn’t enough, Brent Drysdale began the interview with a name she never wanted to hear again.

Tom Finn piqued my curiosity so much I had to meet you. 

Daniella’s scowl made him chuckle.  This is a direct quote from Finn. ‘That woman is incompetent, the worst agent I’ve ever met.’  The man ticked off your shortcomings as if he read them from a list.  He stated quite convincingly that hiring you would be a waste of money and office space.

An unladylike snort slipped out.  Embarrassed, Daniella flinched.  Could this day get any worse?  She sat up straight, raised her chin, and opened her eyes so she could see the ax fall.  Aside from clerical work, promotion was the only experience she had, but she shouldn’t have applied for that position.  Finn was right; she wasn’t any good.  High school students have better resumés.  If she ever got around to writing her life story the title of this chapter would be Interview Suicide.

"I scheduled this meeting for three reasons.  First, anyone Finn