I.
Marco, Tony and Esteban stayed in New York several days longer than they had originally planned. They hadn't expected that Ricky would have a project for them to work on with him. In fact, Ricky didn't expect it, either. But once he had written the song and gotten started with the process of seeing it through to a final product, it had to be done and it demanded nothing less than Ricky's signature drive for perfection.
In just under forty-eight hours and with Rick's help, Ricky had written harmonies and arrangements of the song for the entire orchestra and a variety of instruments. He used his former bandmates to assist him in rehearsing Rick's musicians. He'd even written two parts of the music for two different pianos, allowing Marco to play in duet with Rick's pianist.
After an exhausting push to finish the writing and perfect the music, they parted ways at three o'clock in the morning the night before the recording session that Rick had scheduled at the studio which had signed him for his own work.
When Rick and his father arrived at the apartment, Rick ran a hand through his hair and tugged at his shirt collar in what was very much Ricky's way. "Are you going to bed, Dad? We have a really busy afternoon coming up."
Ricky nodded, tired. "Yes, but I wanna give you somethin' before I do." He went to his room, leaving Rick in the hall to wonder what he had for him.
When he returned, he carried some fresh sheets of music and handed them to Rick. Rick looked at them with wide eyes. "What's this?"
Ricky shrugged with a smirk. "I wrote a second guitar part. So you could play with me. You know, like I did with the piano for Marco."
Rick looked at his father. "Really?"
Ricky chuckled. "Of course!"
Rick looked back over the music. "Why didn't you show me before? We should rehearse it…"
Ricky shook his head. "I've been teachin' you for your whole life, you dun't need to rehearse. Besides me, no one is better at this than you."
Rick smiled. "Mom was right, you're a ham."
Ricky laughed and embraced his son.
II.
The next day, when Rick and Ricky arrived at the studio, they were met by the orchestra and a good number of studio technicians in a very large soundproof room. Rick moved about, seeing to different matters, largely unaffected by what went on around him. He had recorded here on several occasions.
But Ricky looked around in awe. It had been ten years since he'd formally recorded anything and in that time, much had changed about the business of making records.
Rick called to him with a smile. "Dad, come here, I want you to meet someone."
Ricky walked toward his son and another young man with long hair which was tied back; he was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, attire which was much different than the standard formality of days gone by.
Ricky shook the man's hand as Rick introduced him. "Dad, this is Jeff Collins. He produced my last record, he's very good."
Jeff grinned, shaking Ricky's hand eagerly. "Your son is VERY talented, so I jumped at the opportunity to work with you, Mr. Ricardo…"
For all the confidence Ricky had in his own talents, he was humbled by Jeff's compliment. "Well, thank you." He looked around again at the large room with its microphones hanging strategically from the ceiling and the dark colored foam-like material that coated the walls. "It's been so long since I recorded anythin'. Everythin's so different…"
Rick and Jeff grinned at each other before Rick turned back to his father. "Are you ready?"
Ricky took a breath. "Yes, I suppose I am."
"Let's get going!" Jeff was enthusiastic and headed through a nearby door and into a control room, where he could be seen through a large window along with several other technicians.
Rick turned to his orchestra and spoke quietly. "Guys, just like we rehearsed, alright?" He picked up his guitar and stood beside his father, sheets of music laid out in front of them. "You ok, Dad?"
Ricky looked at the microphone that was positioned above him. He had thrown himself into his work with this song over the last few days. So much so that until this moment, the reason that he'd written it had been somewhat lost. The gravity of what had prompted him to quietly sit in his son's empty apartment with only his guitar and a pencil descended upon him now. He had not anticipated that the simple act of writing the song would lead to a full orchestral arrangement and a professional recording.
Rick positioned his fingers on the strings of his guitar, his eyes fixed on his father, recognizing that he was about to give a signal to the orchestra to begin. In the corner of his eye, he saw the light near the control room illuminate, a sign that they had begun recording.
The room was still as Ricky raised his hand, the only thing to be heard was the nearly imperceptible sound of the instruments being raised along with it.
When Ricky lowered his hand to the beat that he'd been following in his mind, the room filled with the soft sound of strings in harmony with unmistakable brass and rich piano. Another layer of sound circled them when Ricky and his son added their guitars, in compliment to one another.
Rick's eyes remained focused on the music in front of him, occasionally glancing at Ricky as he followed his lead. But his smile widened, the sound of his father's voice filling him with the sort of happiness they hadn't experienced since Lucy's death; it was as powerful and smooth as it had always been.
The sun keeps rising in the morning
The stars keep shining in the night
The world keeps moving
And it's leaving me behind
Where will I be
Without those eyes
What will I do
Without your touch
How will I live
Without you
My heart keeps beating every day
The blood keeps running through my veins
And I wanted it to stop
So I could be with you
Where will I be
Without those eyes
What will I do
Without your touch
How will I live
Without you
But you keep going on with me
You keep speaking to my heart
You are in my dreams
And in the blue bird on my shoulder
Those eyes are still here
With me
I feel your warmth
On my skin
I will live on
Until I see you again
Ricky's voice faded, then the guitars, the brass and the pianos, until only the strings held one last, longing note. When Rick looked up into the control room, Jeff and the other technicians sat open mouthed, hypnotized by what they'd just heard. The light near them was still lit, indicating that Jeff hadn't even stopped recording yet.
Rick smiled, putting a hand on his father's shoulder. "How was that, Jeff?"
Jeff seemed to snap out of his stupor, moving his hands over the switches in front of him. "Uh..that's a print, Rick…"
III.
Ricky slipped into bed that night, feeling rejuvenated by the experience of creating music again. Jeff had said that it could be a platinum single many times over. But that wasn't why Ricky had written it or recorded it.
He lay on his back, his hands folded on his chest, looking at the ceiling which had, by now, become very familiar to him. "I hope you like it, my angel. It's still hard to live without seein' you and touchin' you ever day. But I still love you every day, like always. I think I'm ready to look for a place of my own nearby. There's a nice apartment building right up the block. I wanna stay near little Ricky. I know you loved the house, honey, but…I think it's right to sell it, dun't you? To a young family. Like we were…"
As he drifted to sleep, he thought he caught the scent of his wife's soft perfume near him.
And the blue jay was nestled amongst the shadows of the ledge overlooking the city.