Chapter 3

Music and Mysteries

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The building was spacious inside, each level seeming to be two stories if the soaring ceilings on both floors were to be believed. A curved metal balcony glided along polished light oak floors, and everywhere that Christine looked, she found pricey art of the strangest variety.

As for Erik Remondet himself, he was nowhere to be seen.

"Go past the staircase down the hall. Third door on the right."

Christine spun around, certain he had been right beside her, but there was nothing but bare brick walls and windows. Thinking he must have some sort of intercom system within his house as well, she took a step forward. "Where are you?"

"Don't concern yourself with that. Just go into the studio. We're going to work on your voice this afternoon."

"But...."

Erik's exasperated voice cut through her protests. "I am a busy man, Miss Davis. Either you do as I ask, or you may leave now."

Christine hiked her purse onto her shoulder and moved determinedly down the hall, opening the third door. To her surprise it was a studio like any other, except she could not see into the control booth. There was a keyboard near one wall and another smaller room off to the side that was filled with guitars and violins. After listening a moment though, she heard a door close from inside the other room.

"Now," Erik said through the speaker, "are there any instruments you can play?"

"Piano and guitar mostly," Christine replied. "My father could play any instrument, but he died before he could teach me all that he knew."

"There is a Fender in the music room. Go get it."

Christine sent an irritated glance into the booth but obeyed, sliding the strap over her neck as she stopped before the microphone.

"What is your preferred style of music, Miss Davis?"

"I'm extremely versatile, Mr. Remondet. I can sing anything from blues to rap, if that's what you want."

Erik's laughter echoed through the room. "That won't be necessary. Can you sing opera?"

"Opera? N-no," she stammered, giving a nervous laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

"No. But if you don't have a background in it, then it's to late to start now. I've something else in mind for you anyway."

Christine searched the expanse of glass, piqued that she did not know what he looked like. He had a magnificent voice, with a beautiful tone and modulation, which managed to be both stern and intimate at the same time. Seldom had she had that sort of reaction to a man – and never just by listening to him speak.

Making up her mind, Christine decided that if he was going to give her the opportunity, then she would do whatever was necessary to earn a place in his company. "Tell me what to do, Mr. Remondet. I trust your judgment – musically speaking, of course."

"Of course," he replied somewhat brusquely. "Just sing for now. Whatever comes from the heart. I'd like to explore your range and versatility."

For the next two hours she sang every song she could think of from Etta James to the Black Eyed Peas, as well as some of her own music, nervously wondering what he liked and if she was making the right choices. He never interrupted her, but at some point the light came on that indicated he was recording her.

She hadn't been lying when she said she was versatile. Her parents had introduced her to more genres of music than she cared to remember, and if someone browsed through her music collection then they would probably be surprised to find Waylon's Wurlitzer Prize right next to Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2. Her father had been a quintessential hippie, a man with big dreams and no direction, until he'd met her mother in the Summer of Love, and she'd become the guiding force behind his music until she died. Then he had died as well, leaving his daughter with a soul of music and an empty heart.

Christine finally ended the impromptu audition with a classic Joan Baez song, setting the instrument aside and looking at the glass wall expectantly.

"How did I do?"

"You have potential, but you're going to have to abandon the folksy tunes. If you want to do those types of songs, find another label."

"I don't want back in something like Atria. It was a disaster."

Erik smiled, watching her expression of self contempt. "It didn't work because you were born to be a solo artist. Atria already had it's three members. You can't replace someone like Natalia Muntz in her own group and expect success. She's one of a kind."

"Yeah," Christine said softly. "She is."

"How would you feel about exploring a different genre? I think you would do really well with a symphonic metal sound backing your voice." Christine looked puzzled. "Think heavy metal clashes with orchestra. An operatic style all your own. It's a growing trend coming from Northern Europe right now."

"I don't know...."

"I'll have my butler Teo get you some examples. How long will you be in Toronto?"

"A couple of weeks."

Erik frowned at this. A couple of weeks did not begin to cover everything that she would need to do if he were to undertake her transformation into any kind of successful artist. She would have to commit to staying longer to at least give him time to work on a few songs and music arrangements with her. He would also have to attempt to find her not only a regular band, but a small orchestra to back her powerful vocals in that short time. "That won't be enough time. Rearrange your schedule to stay longer. You'll be here every day at ten until you return to New York - if I think you've made enough progress to merit leaving."

"I must get back. I have some personal things I'm taking care of right now. A friend is very ill and..."

"Just make sure you are here every day for as long as I think necessary, and I'll consider drawing up a contract, provided we can find the right music."

Christine stared at the booth a moment longer, then nodded. "Do I...I mean...is that all?"

"Yes, you may leave now," he said dismissively. "Lock the door on your way out."

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"So what does he look like?"

Christine twirled the phone cord around her finger, chuckling softly. "He stays in the booth the entire time. I never see him."

"You should watch him, Christine. He's very strange. I can't believe you stole his address from me and flew all the way to Toronto just to meet him."

"Hey, you said he was the best producer for indie music, and I've tried everyone else I can think of. I couldn't even get in the door at most places."

Natalia made a sympathetic sound. "Yeah, well remind me when I get out of this dump, and I'll show you something strange that I have on him. It's really weird."

Christine sat up, knocking aside the pile of CD's that Teo, Mr. Remondet's recalcitrant butler had given her. "What is it?"

"Just some weird video of him. Oh, I've got to go! That dragon nurse has been pointing at her watch for the last five minutes, and now she's coming over! Bye Christine!"

Christine didn't get another word out before the phone clicked in her ear. Bored, she turned the volume up on the radio and sang along. It had been three days since her first session with him, and during that time she had not seen Erik Remondet at all. Teo opened the door for her, she went into the studio, and at the end of the day, she left without ever seeing him. The first few days, it hadn't done more than annoy her, but today had been different. Erik had left the booth for a few moments, telling her that he would return, and she'd tried to open the door between the rooms, finding it locked. She hadn't asked him about it because she'd been afraid it was nothing, that he simply kept the door locked to protect his equipment, not for any other reason. She hadn't wanted to appear foolish, but at the same time, it was almost too perfect the way that he avoided meeting her face to face.

Raoul had been asleep when she called earlier, which also had her worried. It wasn't like him to go to bed before midnight, and certainly not on a weekend. He had sent her another three emails though, congratulating her on getting past Mr. Remondet's bulldog, and telling her that he felt fine.

Christine wished that Raoul could be near her now, comforting her with his quirky sense of humor and teasing smiles. She missed him. The day they had found out about the cancer, she'd given herself to him completely. Not that he hadn't already owned her heart. With tenderness she hadn't expected, they had made love well into morning, crying and laughing, both of them shattered with grief. He hadn't begun to pull away from her yet, and at that early point after the diagnosis, there had been a small spark of hope remaining that he might live.

It was all but gone now. Part of her was relieved Raoul had given her this opportunity to break away for a little while, to lose herself and begin to heal in music, even as the inevitable occurred. But part of her grieved at losing any of the remaining time with him.

A band called Epica from The Netherlands played in the background, and Christine was surprised to find she liked the music Erik had given her. Christine took one of Raoul's shirts out of the suitcase and curled up beneath the covers with it, inhaling against the soft cotton. She drifted off into an uneasy sleep, filled with dreams of tawny eyes and a haunting melody.