I woke up with the new song still stuck in my head, and Cora was immediately on my mind. She’d seen right through my attempt at a rock star life, and I thought she would have taken off after that. Once I failed to live up to my own hype or my father’s legend, most women just disappeared.
Cora had stayed. In fact, she seemed happier once we returned to the mansion. When we found each other barefoot after midnight, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
I flung off the covers and wished I could shed thoughts of Cora just as easily. She was a complete distraction just when I had finally decided to move on with my life. Asking her to stay had been a mistake and since she hadn’t left on her own, I knew I had to find a way to get rid of her. The easiest way was to just ignore her completely.
It was still painfully early in the morning, so I decided the kitchen would be safe. Tyson made the best coffee around mid-morning, but he always programmed the coffee maker just in case.
I found Cora pouring herself a steaming mug.
“Good morning,” she said.
I didn’t want to talk. I was still caught up in the chorus of the new song, and it was the only thing that was pushing thoughts of her out of my head. I nodded, hummed to myself in a graveled voice, and poured a cup of coffee so quickly I scalded the back of my hand.
Cora was politely quiet, but a small smile played around her lips. She was completely undeterred by any sort of artistic temper, and I tried not to let that be another reason to like her.
“Morning,” I mumbled and left the kitchen quickly.
About fifteen minutes later, I stumbled on her perusing the endless shelves of records in the main floor parlor. She’d pulled out my favorite concerto and was humming the intro to herself.
Later, I found her on the sunny stretch of back lawn where I sometimes indulged in yoga. She was admiring my father’s mansion and wanted to ask me questions but politely refrained.
We ran into each other again in the upper floor gallery, and something had to be said.
“So, what’s your connection to Murtaugh?” I asked.
“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk. I totally understand if you want to pretend I’m not here,” Cora said. “I’m just scoping out the best angles for photos.”
I couldn’t help but ask, “And what have you found so far?”
Cora grinned and motioned me to follow her down the hall. “See how if you stand here, you get the depth of the hallway but all the focus is on your father’s portrait?”
She took a few snapshots with her phone and showed me. I blinked in surprise at the wide gallery presented on her tiny screen. I’d walked that hallway so many times I had never noticed the long perspective.
“You must have a photographer or artist in your family. It seems like it’s in your blood,” I said.
Cora glanced at the shot and gave it a dismissive shrug. “My mother’s very creative. She claims to make a living as an artist. She always wanted me to do something like this.”
I caught Cora’s slight grimace. “Let me guess, that made you swear never to do it?”
She laughed. “Something like that. We’re just very different, my mother and I.”
“Is that why you chose journalism? More practical?” I asked.
Cora gave a pained look but answered my prying question. “I grew up watching her struggle, hearing her cry over having to sell her heart and soul just to make ends meet. It didn’t really make artistic pursuits seem fun.”
“My father just made everything seem so effortless. As soon as I discovered how hard music is to make, I got a little cynical myself.”
She was encouraged by my confession and flipped through her snapshots again. “Creating something can be so painful. I can’t imagine trying to do it for a living. Better to get a day job and have a savings account.”
“True.” I caught her hand and held up a particularly stunning photograph. “But then there’s this. You can’t tell me you don’t love photography. Look at all these, I bet you were taking dozens of photos every day despite a day job.”
Cora’s smile was a little sad. “Yeah, I guess I was, but that doesn’t mean I’m an artist.”
I held up her hand and the photograph again. “But this means you have talent. Take it from me, talent has a way of getting out whether you want it to or not.”
“Like when it comes out in the form of a one-hit wonder?” Cora joked.
Before I could answer, Tyson appeared at the end of the gallery with a large feather duster. He didn’t see us and attacked the nearest frames. Dust clouded the morning sunlight streaming through the windows, and Tyson was lost in a blur of activity.
“Please take a photo of that,” I begged Cora.
She grinned and captured such a phenomenal shot of my manager and his feather duster that we both collapsed in hysterics.
“All right, let me see,” Tyson demanded. He marched down the hallway with his hand outstretched.
Cora handed him her phone like a guilty child, and we giggled more as Tyson grumbled at his portrayal.
“She’s got talent, right?” I asked Tyson.
He nodded begrudgingly. “Yes, she does and if she took more photographs of the mansion and not me, I’d actually have an outlet we could sell them to.”
“You can’t sell art,” I said. The shot of him surrounded by a dust cloud made me smile again. “I think I might need this framed.”
Cora, on the other hand, was intrigued by Tyson’s suggestion. “You really think some media outlet would buy these?”
“And it would benefit us all,” Tyson said. He handed Cora back her phone and gave her the feather duster. “How about you take a break and let me convince my client about the particulars.”
Cora left us in the gallery and headed down the grand staircase. I watched her go and wondered how many angles had a price tag on them now.
“So, I guess she’s just in it for the money,” I said to Tyson.
“Wasn’t that the deal?” Tyson asked.
I frowned. “I don’t know. None of this was really planned.”
It was Tyson’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, falling for someone is rarely mapped out ahead of time.”
“I’m not falling for her. I just invited her to stay on as a houseguest to be polite.” My jaw clenched.
“Well, either way, she definitely has a flair for photography,” Tyson said. “And if you’re still thinking about selling the place, a fancy spread on social media would certainly help.”
“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t pimp out Ian’s home.” I reminded Tyson of why we’d kept the mansion so quiet the last few years.
He sighed. “It’s your home, too, Storm.”
And it was really Tyson’s, too.
I gave in. “Fine. You’re in charge of choosing what shots of Cora’s to sell.”
My manager’s eyes gleamed. Tyson had always loved wheeling and dealing. “And what cut does Cora get?”
I shrugged and headed for the staircase. Tyson caught up to me in the grand foyer. Cora waved from the front steps where she was getting a good angle of the entryway.
“Please tell me you don’t have some big plan up your sleeve,” I asked Tyson.
He tried to give me an innocent smile but couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t scheming. “I just thought she has such a great eye, why not see if she notices any spots that would be good for a music venue?”
“Again with this idea?” I threw my hands up to the crystal chandelier. “Maybe that’ll help convince a buyer, but I’m not turning my father’s home into a club.”
“Not the whole thing. Maybe just one wing,” Tyson said.
“Or you could build it in the back garden.” Cora offered her quiet suggestion from the doorway. “Sorry, just overheard you.”
I ground my teeth as Tyson grinned at Cora. “No. Don’t encourage him. He’s had this stupid idea in his head for way too long.”
“Because it’s so great,” Cora shot back.
Encouraged, Tyson piped up again. “It would only be for special appearances. You pick the line-up yourself.”
“And then perform myself like some sort of organ-grinder’s monkey?” I asked.
Cora giggled. “You might like having an actual performance spot, even if it’s just for your own practice.”
“Beats the old greenhouse,” Tyson said.
“I like the old greenhouse.” I lifted my chin a notch.
Cora’s cheeks warmed but she set aside our passionate night there and jumped on Tyson’s idea. “That would be a great place for a concert venue. The greenhouse could convert into a bandshell, and all you would need is amphitheater seating carved into that neglected patch behind it.”
Tyson nodded. “It would keep it separate from the mansion itself.”
“You really think that’s what Ian Morris would have wanted?” I asked.
“You don’t?” Cora challenged me.
Tyson hooted. “See? Everyone can see that a performance venue is exactly what Ian would have wanted. Especially if it gets you back up on stage.”
“I’m not playing that game anymore.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Cora gets that. Just because my talent lies in certain things doesn’t mean those are the most practical uses of my time.”
“What Cora’s got is vision,” Tyson said.
I groaned. If she was turning into Tyson’s ally, there was no way I’d get rid of her. While it was nice to have another voice butting into my eternal arguments with Tyson, I was sure Cora was the exact opposite of everything I needed. I wanted to be free, but Cora’s presence seemed to be rooting me to the Morris Mansion more than I had thought possible.
“Visions of dust and faded glory,” I spat out.
I left them in the grand foyer, but they hardly noticed. Within minutes, Tyson and Cora were out back by the old greenhouse, obviously discussing the angles. I watched from the front parlor and ground my teeth.
The song started up in my head again as I watched Cora laughing and taking photographs.
“You would have liked her,” I said to my deceased father. “Though she’s using her so-called vision for everything but her own life.”
I hummed the new song again, just to drown out the heavy silence. It felt like my father patiently waiting for me to loosen up. He used to sit quietly and stare at me until I babbled my way through whatever anger was in me.
“I know!” I admitted to the echoing old mansion.
Ian Morris would have loved the idea of his old house becoming a venue. He had always missed the old club days; just him and a few friends playing in a small space for a tight, dedicated group of listeners.
“That’s where music really lives,” my father had told me. “Not in big arenas or the recording studio. Just a small stage and a few people all hoping the magic will appear.”
The song played through in my head again, and I swore out loud. It didn’t matter what daydreams Tyson dug up or what an irresistible distraction Cora was becoming; the song dragged me off to find my old guitar.
That was the only lesson my father had ever truly taught me: if there’s a song in your head then play it.
Otherwise, I’d never find the peace I thought I wanted so badly.