James read Olivia’s tear-smudged letter over and over. It had moved him, but also made him question his decision to quit. He didn’t focus on her words of love; reading the last paragraph hurt him even deeper. Instead, he turned his attention to the second one, where Olivia wrote:

“I just hope you continue to write songs like the one you guys played last night.”

These exact words had acted like a wakeup call. Should James quit, he would let her and thousands of people down; people who had loved and respected his work over the years. On top of that, he would lose the one and only thing he had always loved to do: writing lyrics. It wasn’t a matter of survival: he had made a lot of money as a writer; either way, he wasn’t doing this for the money. James had become a writer simply because it was the best way for him to express himself.

The following afternoon, he visited Howard Peterson’s office to announce to him his decision. His secretary Gwen tried to prevent him from barging in, but her words passed by him unheard. To his disappointment though, his boss wasn’t there.

“Mr. Farrell, I told you Mr. Peterson is not here!” Gwen spoke in her squeaky voice. “He’s at a meeting downstairs!”

“Then I’ll wait for him.” James said, looking down at her over his right shoulder. “He and I need to talk.”

The wait gave him some time to scan Howard’s office. The picture-lined walls brought back happy memories of the singers he had worked with in the past: Gold records, millions of sales and award nominations. Amazingly, Howard still kept his picture on his desk.

“I guess you’re not such a greedy prick after all. Damn it, James. You made a rush decision. Just how in the hell could you walk away from all this?”

“Well, well, well…” Howard’s aging voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “The prodigal son returns. Gwen said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yeah,” James said with a nod. “I’m staying. Quitting was a terrible call.”

James expected him to smile or at least give him a cordial hug. But, he did no such thing. Howard sucked in a deep breath and dropped his eyes to the floor.

“It wouldn’t hurt to show some enthusiasm,” James sarcastically remarked.

“I’m happy, son.” Howard claimed. “I’m really glad to have you back; but what about Michelle? Can you work with her? If you can’t, I’m going to have to break her contract. She doesn’t want to work with anyone else but you.”

The mere mention of Michelle’s name made his heart sink. In an instant, moments from the long days they had worked together and the night of the concert returned to his mind. Along with them though, came the horrifying memory of his abduction: Maureen’s angry face and the time when he found himself staring death in the eye were enough to give him chills. Nonetheless, his ordeal was over. Maureen was safely behind bars and he had survived. With Helen’s words about forgiveness ringing in his ears, James decided to put everything behind him.

“I believe Freddy Mercury put it very eloquently.” James said, a small smile spreading across his face.

“What’s that?”

“The show must go on.” James’ smile widened. “Tell her I’ll do it.”

“That’s the spirit.” Peterson’s brown eyes sparkled with happiness, as he approached him. The two men exchanged a cordial hug, before the CEO picked up his phone.

“Gwen, send her in.” He said. James was about to ask who he was referring to, but a simple look through the glass wall gave him the answer. Michelle was hurtling towards him, with a huge, blissful smile on her face. She pulled the door open and lunged towards James, knocking him off balance. He landed flat and hard on his back.

“Thank you,” she whimpered, her hands on his chest as she laid short kisses all over his right cheek. “Thank you so much.”

“This calls for a celebration.” Howard suggested, smiling down at them.

“First, you have to get her off of me.” James complained.

“Sorry.” She grinned, leaning back. “You’ve just made me the happiest woman on Earth.”

“What do you have in mind?” He asked, rising to his impressive, 6’3” height. “Don’t tell me it’s going to be another one of those boring dinners.”

“Nah; hell no,” Howard rejected that notion. “This isn’t some ‘PR’ crap. What’s the best bar in Shandaken?”

“The Brown Oak,” James replied. “Why?”

“We’ll go there, have a couple of drinks and then you two can entertain the locals.” Howard explained. “It’ll be warm and cozy, nothing like a New York venue.”

“Should I mention why I don’t like that idea?” James responded sarcastically once again.

“I’m sure the locals know you play the guitar and the piano. Rick’s told me he’s seen a 100-Watt amplifier in your cabin. That thing is loud enough to wake the dead, for God’s sake. You don’t have to tell them what you do. All you have to do is play the piano.” Howard’s idea sounded appealing. There was no risk of exposure whatsoever and he would be in a familiar place. Still, “Brown Oak” was not a live music bar.

“There’s no piano in that bar,” James pointed out.

“That’s just a technicality,” Peterson laughed. “We’ll bring one. So, you’re in?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It would be better if I played the guitar and Michelle played the piano, though. The sound’s much richer. Should we practice anything or…?”

“Just play whatever comes to mind.” Howard interjected. “Ten songs should do.”