Page 45 of Falls From Grace
The first song to be recorded was Make Me Wonder. Neither Noah nor Brynn were required for the recording, but after being introduced to Greta McCafferty, Savannah’s producer, they were both allowed into the sound room to observe through the glass. Greta was intimidating as hell, a six foot white woman with a shaved head and hipster spectacles, and who, despite her surname, was extremely German. Brynn could not tell when she was joking or when she was serious because her tone stayed flat and her eyes unflinching. Mostly she just tried to stay out of her way, which was easy enough, since while Noah got a solid nod from her, Greta ignored Brynn’s existence in light of the nobody she was.
The band all took their places behind the glass with supreme comfort and confidence. Savannah stood in the middle of the room, an extremely large and overly technical looking microphone extending down before her. She looked at each member of her band to share a smile. Brynn remembered, all of a sudden, the nervous woman in the band room the first time she’d heard ever her sing. Savannah had a hell of a lot riding on these songs. Today, though, she looked transformed.
She stepped up to the mic, her face and body in profile to the sound room. For once, she held no instrument. The band was supplemented with additional recording musicians and right now it was all about her voice. Brynn had heard the demo of course, had even played and sung through the song herself, but when Travis stroked the first notes on his electric guitar, Jed strummed the bass and Coral kicked in the beat, she got chills. Savannah sang the opening lines and she found herself grabbing hold of Noah’s hand. They gripped onto each other and listened as the string section joined in and the whole thing soared.
The song was nothing like the stripped back sound of Savannah and Noah, and yet Brynn could still remember the feeling of hearing it for the first time. She watched Savannah, no longer barefoot in a basement in Vermont, but belting out the high notes in the very epicenter of Nashville. She looked beautiful and powerful and very much in her element.
The final notes faded and everyone broke into a cheer. It sounded incredible.
Greta pressed a button and spoke into her mic. “Again,” was her only comment. Without even blinking, the band took their places again. Savannah smiled into her mic. They played the track another twenty-three times.
The following morning, Brynn stood with her back against the wall in the recording studio hallway. For the second night in a row, she’d barely slept. She’d barely eaten breakfast. There was no room in her stomach since her pounding heart seemed to have taken up her whole body. Today was the longing song. Brynn’s turn had arrived to walk through those doors and perform in that hallowed, big league, professional recording studio, in front of Savannah, the band, the session musicians, the sound techs, Chester and the terrifying Greta.
Coral appeared beside her.
“You got this?” she asked.
Brynn could hardly turn her head to look at her, she was so focussed on not throwing up.
“Mm-hmm,” she replied, the sound barely exiting her lips. Her fingers felt a little numb. She felt Coral examine her more closely.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Cos… you know who that is, right?” She gestured to a tall white guy with an elaborate belt buckle around his middle who’d just entered the sound room. Brynn shook her head mutely. “Bryce Campbell,” Coral told her. “Head of the label.” Brynn let her head fall back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to slow her breath. Trying to remember how to breathe at all.
All of a sudden, the studio door flung open, and Savannah’s voice rang out, calling them in. Brynn moved on wobbly legs into the bright room, feeling like she was having an out-of-body experience. The band were all taking their places, while Savannah was over by the piano, giving the session musician some last-minute instructions. Brynn had been told ahead of time they were going to use a professional pianist to play her composition and she’d agreed in theory that it would be better for her just to have one job to focus on. Now, however, looking around at the room, all she wanted was a piano to stare down at. She felt insanely exposed as she took her place at the mic the sound tech directed her to.
To her horror, she realized the sound room was visible. From the other side she had imagined it was one-way glass. She could clearly see Greta’s serious face at the decks and more than one guy in a suit - including the fucking head of the label - standing behind her. She began to sweat. Her entire hands went numb. Savannah stepped up to her own mic about six feet away and looked up. She did a double take.
“Brynn,” she said. “You got this. We got this. Okay?”
Brynn nodded dumbly. Her thoughts were whirling. Savannah’s boss watching, the real musicians all around her, all about to see her unmasked as a fraud, Tucker’s new nanny replacing her, her mother’s voice telling her she had no talent, lying to Savannah, falling for Savannah, potentially ruining everything in the entire world for Savannah. Before she knew it, the opening chords were playing and Savannah was singing the first lines. The drum beat kicked in. Brynn missed her cue. The music petered out.
“Okay, let’s go again,” came Greta’s stern voice over the speaker.
“Don’t worry about it, Brynn,” Savannah reassured her, her voice calm. “Let’s start it again, nice and easy.”
This time, she made her cue, but her voice died two words in. She was struggling to breathe. The music cut out again.
“Are we doing this or what?” Greta’s disembodied voice snapped. Brynn saw her behind the glass, looking irritated. The label head had his arms folded across his chest. Brynn’s stomach lurched.
“Give her a fucking minute.” Savannah whirled around and glared at the sound room. Brynn had never seen her look this furious. “She’s new at this, but she is worth every second of your time.”
When silence rang out from the sound room, Savannah stepped back from her mic and walked all the way over to Brynn.
“I’m sorry,” Brynn croaked quietly. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I should go-” she turned, dying to get out of there, but Savannah grabbed both her cold numb hands.
“No,” Savannah stopped her, her voice soft. “Listen to me. Forget them,” she gestured toward the sound room, the band, the other musicians. “It’s just me and you.”
She stepped in closer until she was all Brynn could see. Her blue eyes were steady and her lips slightly parted. Her hair was up in some kind of complicated braided knot and soft loose strands fell around her face. Up this close, Brynn could see the gray swirls in her blue irises and the faint lines around her eyes. She was still holding both Brynn’s hands, but now she pulled them up and back towards her, so they were resting on her upper chest, clasped between her own warm fingers until Brynn could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath.
“Just me and you,” Savannah repeated. “We’re going to share this mic, and I’m going to sing to you and you’re going to sing to me. That’s all.”
Brynn sucked in short, hard breaths for a moment and Savannah kept holding her hands, breathing slowly with her.
“Is it always so hot in here?” Brynn managed after half a minute, her voice sounding almost normal.
“Take your shirt off?” Savannah suggested, and Brynn gaped at her. Savannah giggled at her response and gestured at her until Brynn saw the logic and unbuttoned her lucky plaid shirt and flung it aside, so she stood there in just her dark green tank top. “Can we get the lights down a bit?” Savannah called out and the blazing lights dimmed to a warm glow. “Better?” she asked, her eyes flickering down Brynn’s body, her bare shoulders and arms. Brynn nodded. “Mm. You look better.” Savannah let just enough innuendo into her voice that Brynn realized she was being flirted into feeling better.
“Greta, I’m on the mic with Brynn,” Savannah’s voice broached no argument, her eyes still on Brynn’s. There was a pause.
