One song could change her mood or reflect it. The phrase played through her mind as she listened to the latest crop of music messaged to her office. Each artist, each band, hoping to be chosen by her, to watch her spin their hopes and dreams into gold, all wanting to be the next Mia Catalono.
The funny thing was she could make so many people's dreams come true – everyone's but hers. Oh, she had her shot, the fairytale ending, riding off into the sunset. Everything was in her grasp, and then darkness, like it so often did in her life, found her and destroyed that small semblance of happiness she found.
It always happened this time of day. Morning was quickly moving to mid-afternoon, the time when she was alone with herself in her office. Those were the times when she would think of him, of what he was missing, what she was missing. It was then she would let the sorrow seep over her, wash over her like a tide finding its way to a young child's sand castle, built precariously near the water's edge. The heavy violent waves would tear down all the dreams of the builder, leaving nothing but a hope of what it was meant to be.
She had a meant to be, but now it was what she wished it could have been. Life wasn't always darkness and sorrow, there was a light in her life, and it was that light that kept her from ending hers.
She was just about to load another CD into her computer and listen to the next band when there was a noise near her office door. The door swung open and a man came charging through, his face tight, expression serious. He was wearing a pair of worn jeans, a tear right below the right pocket, and a blue T-shirt that clung to his torso.
He didn't stop until he was standing right before her. His face grew dark and he thrust out his right hand, his finger pointing accusingly at her.
"You're Peyton Sawyer aren't you?" He leaned a little closer to her desk as he said it.
Peyton Sawyer. Peyton let her mind wander. She hadn't been Peyton Sawyer in three years, she was Peyton Scott. It may have been three years since she had taken that last name but she had been Peyton Scott in her heart for much longer. So, to hear someone use the name she carried for the first 25 years of her life seemed a bit foreign to her.
"Peyton Scott, yes," she emphasized the Scott. "What can I do for you? Did I turn down a band you just knew was going to make it big?"
Peyton didn't know how many managers, or parents, had stormed into her office claiming she had crushed an artist's dreams by turning them down. It was old news to her, she was used to it. She was used to the confrontations, the hate mail, the threatening emails, it was part of her job.
"Just the opposite Ms. Scott," the man began.
"Mrs. Scott," Peyton corrected him.
"What?" He asked scrunching his brow as if she was speaking a foreign language.
"I am Mrs. Scott," she corrected him again.
"Whatever," he waved her comment away with his hand. "My name Tom Catalono and I want to know where my daughter is?"