Felicia Mason - Sweet Harmony

Upstairs, Nadira Wilson set a cup of green tea in front of Marcus and picked up her clipboard.

“This place is lovely, but it’s never going to work as an office for the next month.”

Marcus grunted. He’d come to that conclusion about three in the morning when, with his mind on Dr. Kara Spencer, he’d gotten up to head to the fridge for a snack, only to discover the kitchen door locked with a discreet little sign that said “Off-limits to guests.”

“Find me…”

“A house.” Nadira finished the thought and placed three sheets of paper in front of him.

He looked at the three houses for rent and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Radar O’Reilly.”

“Don’t call me that,” Nadira said. “The one on top comes furnished. The other two don’t. The furniture rental place can be here within three hours. The office equipment tomorrow. In addition to a large great room and several bedrooms that can be converted into office space, the middle one has a guest cottage on the property and a home theater with surround sound and a popcorn machine. The third house isn’t nearly as large. Just four bedrooms. But it’s located right next door to the woman you debated last night.”

Marcus perked up at that. “One more time?”

Nadira pulled out the sheet from the real estate company and placed it on top of the others. “This one is neighbor to Dr. Kara Spencer’s house. The real-estate agent made a point of letting me know that. He saw you two on the news last night.”

Marcus nodded. “Make it happen.”

Smiling, she placed a contract in front of him. “I figured that would be your choice.”

“Smarty-pants.” He glanced over the rental agreement, then thought of the man’s taunt last night. “Is there a pool?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I’ll show her some real-world living up close and personal.” He scrawled his name on the agreement. Then his mind jumped to something else, something he couldn’t live without. “See if there’s a fitness center here in town. If so, get a thirty-day pass. If not, see if some weight-lifting and workout equipment can be rented along with the furniture.”

She made a notation on the ever-present clipboard.

“And get me a couple of…”

Nadira placed two pain relievers on the table in front of him. He would have smiled if his head hadn’t been pounding so much.

Stress. That’s what the doctor said caused them. But there’d been no reason for one to develop now. He was here in Mayberry, R.F.D., also known as Wayside, Oregon, about to enjoy a month of what should amount to R and R. A month away from the press and call of Los Angeles and the nonstop flying across country for gigs. The only problem was that he had a backlog of business to tend to.

The good news was that the work he’d contracted to do for the music and film festival would take all of two weeks to complete even though it was spread out over the month. Theoretically, that left him with enough free time to settle down, get caught up on breathing lessons and to unwind a little.

Between studio time, touring dates and video and movie production schedules, Marcus rarely found time to just kick back.

Now when he’d been blessed with the time, the headaches were pounding his head again. He wanted to get a jump on the early applications for the foundation he headed. The deadline loomed, still a week away. That meant the bulk of applications would pour in on the very last day. Nadira had already arranged to have them overnighted to Wayside. They’d reviewed about ten already and still had a box to go through.

He rubbed his temples.

“Do you want me to call Dr. Heller?”

The concern in Nadira’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. He shook his head. “I’m fine. But just in case…”

“I’ll get the prescription filled.”

He nodded. “You should give yourself a raise while you’re at it.”

“You already pay me a sinfully large amount of money.”

“And you earn every penny of it. You anticipate every need before I even voice it.”

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss man. Now, as for the agenda today…”

He shook his head and rubbed his temples again, not really up for the task in front of him. But putting off the workload would simply make things snowball. “I need some time first.”

“All right.” She glanced at her to-do list. “Marcus, I know we’re pretty tied up here, but would it be all right if I swing down to L.A.? My dad’s not doing so well and I want to check on him.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’ll make sure someone’s here when I’m gone. Just a day on the weekends or when there aren’t any events.”

Absently, he nodded. “Tell him I said hello.”

“I will.” She put copies of the Los Angeles Times, Billboard, the Wall Street Journal and the Wayside Gazette on the table in front of him. Marcus made a habit of keeping up with the news from home when he was on the road, and he always liked to know the issues affecting the locals, whether he was in a large metropolitan city like Chicago or Dallas or in a one-stoplight place like some of the towns he’d been in while in Alabama and Mississippi.

“How much time do you need?”

Marcus glanced at the papers and at the breakfast Nadira had talked the innkeeper into letting him eat in his room. “Give me an hour.”

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Normally they worked through breakfast. When the door closed behind her, Marcus let out a weary sigh. He had sixty minutes of peace before Nadira brought in the files of requests they’d spend several hours reading and critiquing.

Despite his grousing, Marcus truly enjoyed giving back to the community through the JUMPstart activism grants he’d created. The first two donations had been anonymous ones to programs he’d heard about. Shortly thereafter, he’d developed a mechanism to provide funding to worthy community groups through a foundation he headed. But he took not a word of credit for it. For six years now he’d been playing Santa Claus, and he loved it. But the volume of applications to JUMP grew each year. If the early submissions were any indication, this year would set a record.

It seemed everyone wanted a piece of the action, whether they knew he was the backer or not. He got plenty of legitimate requests that had nothing to do with the JUMP program. Then there were the diatribes demanding that since to whom much is given much is required, he should therefore fork over considerable assets to whatever cause célèbre the requester named. Marcus liked to keep a handle on where his money went, even though staff weeded out the true crazies. That still meant he had a lot to wade through.

Then there were the résumés and pleas for work in his production company and the songwriters and musicians pitching projects.

Usually he loved it, but lately it all just seemed to wear on him in ways that made it difficult to remember what his purpose was supposed to be.

Last night Kara Spencer’s questions and issues had pricked his conscience. For a long time now, his public work had run far afield of his original intentions and plans. Every now and then someone like Kara or something he’d see or hear would remind him.

And the music she’d called him on, particularly the lyrics, no longer held the appeal it once had. On his past four releases he’d slipped in a track or two that only careful listeners might recognize as more than his usual fare.

Thinking about the project he worked on when he couldn’t sleep, he got up and put the cassette tape in a player. A moment later his own voice accompanied by nothing except the piano he also played rang out. These lyrics, about grace, restoration and redemption, didn’t fit with the unfinished studio project waiting for him back in L.A.