Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
There’s a pause… maybe Mazzy checking the time, but I hear the delight in her voice. “Sure. Let me see the guitar.”
I hang back, leaning against the wall and sliding my hands into my pockets. I want to listen and not interrupt the connection they’re continuing to forge.
Mazzy plucks a few strings, the sound sometimes going higher, sometimes lower.
Tuning, I believe.
Then she starts and I’m thrown completely off guard by the fact that she doesn’t start strumming the guitar but rather plucks at the strings to create a melody. I’m not a musician but I’ve observed others play and I know the precision, dexterity and talent one must have to create such beautiful music.
It only takes me a few seconds before I recognize the song “Someone Like You” by Adele. Even though that song is played on the piano, Mazzy’s rendition is clearly recognizable. She plays it at a much slower speed though.
When she sings the first line, a flush of magical wonder rises within me. Her voice is hauntingly beautiful.
Utterly captivating.
The more she sings, the more I hear a slight grit of rock ’n’ roll in her tone, but it’s also soulful and intimate. I creep forward along the hallway and peek around the edge to see Mazzy sitting on the edge of the ottoman, facing Bowie Jane. Her fingers on both hands work fluidly, driven by pure talent and I imagine years of practice. I had expected with such a beautiful song that maybe her eyes were closed, but instead she stares right at Bowie Jane with a smile on her face, as if she’s performing to a massive crowd at Wembley Stadium.
My daughter is enraptured, her mouth open in wonder at the pure art Mazzy delivers in the form of song. I absolutely understand that feeling because with every line Mazzy belts out, the further I fall under the spell of her rendition of an already heart-stopping ballad.
Mazzy rocks side to side as she sings with such emotional depth, my throat tightens. Her vocal range is incredible. Her lower register is rich and sultry, hinting at a bit of huskiness that makes the words seem raw in their delivery. Her upper register is sweet and bright, the notes so clear and perfect that it’s hard to believe the sounds are real. There is no struggle in the way she flows back and forth between them, the pitches and her guitar playing impeccable.
But it’s her voice. It belongs to the angels.
I back down the hall so I’m not seen as I don’t want to interrupt or ruin this moment. I close my eyes and listen as she continues to sing, perhaps forever ruining Adele’s version for me.
When the last notes fade, Bowie Jane’s voice is so earnest and genuine. “That was the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. I want to learn to play like that, but I don’t think I can sing like that.”
Mazzy is effusive in her affirmation. “You have a lovely voice. But for the guitar, it takes a lot of practice. We’ll work on both together, okay?”
“Awesome,” Bowie Jane says, and I envision her pumping her fist.
I take a deep breath, try to clear the hazy spell that song put me under and walk into the living room as if my life hadn’t been radically different three minutes ago.
Smiling brightly, I say, “Ready to go, kiddo?”
Mazzy and Bowie Jane both look my way, but it’s my daughter who bounds up from the couch with excitement. “I’m ready.”
“You two get out of here,” Mazzy says as she places the guitar in its case. “I have to fold the clothes in the dryer first.”
“Okay,” I reply, taking Bowie Jane’s hand. “I guess we’ll see you on Monday.”
“I’ll be here bright and early,” she chirps as she stands from her perch on the ottoman.
“Have a good weekend,” I tell her.
Bowie Jane pulls free and runs to Mazzy, throwing her arms around her waist. “I’ll miss you.”
My heart squeezes painfully over the deepening affection my daughter has for her nanny. I wonder if some of it is transference from the lack of what she’s receiving from her mother.
Mazzy wraps her arm around Bowie Jane’s shoulder, bends down and kisses her on the head. “I’ll miss you too, munchkin.”
CHAPTER 12
Mazzy
I love playing at Sola because it garners big crowds on the weekend. I wasn’t lying to Foster when I told him I do this because I enjoy performing. It’s really the only reason I do it. Looking out over the crowd, seeing faces lit up with appreciation—that is the validation I crave. After all the years I put into my music, this is worth something far more valuable than money, especially since I’ve chosen not to make it my career.
This isn’t work for me, but play.
Leo and I set up on the stage efficiently, having done this many times before. We each have a stool and a microphone stand in front of us. Although Leo prefers the electric guitar, that’s reserved for nighttime performances, so today we’re strictly on acoustics.