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  I could feel my pulse racing a little. Tell me what's happened! Don't drag it out.

  “I sent one of your songs to California,” he continued. “ ‘Loss of Grace.’ The revision you showed me last week. Someone likes it out there. Wants to record it.”

  Impulsively, I ran and hugged him. I don't think I'd ever done that before. I know I hadn't.

  He smiled and gently pushed me away. He looked me squarely in the eye. “Now for the bad news. That ‘someone’ wants to sing it herself.”

  It was my song. “Tell her no,” I said. Suddenly, I was crestfallen. “No. Barry, please.”

  “Don't you want to know who that someone is? I had to agree she could sing it. That was the deal breaker.”

  I had a nightmarish vision of some third-rater, some other up-and-comer getting my song all wrong. “Of course I want to know who she is. But if she messes up, I'll murder her!” Bad choice of words, I know.

  “I think she'll get it right.” He grinned like the sweet person he could be sometimes. “It's Barbra Streisand. She wants to record ‘Loss Of Grace.’ And she wants you out there with her.”

  I hugged Barry again. I crushed him and kissed him on both cheeks. Good-bye to shlepping for coffee and pastrami sandwiches—hello to Hollywood!

  CHAPTER 11

  I BOOKED A flight to Los Angeles for Jennie and me. We deserved it; we'd earned it. Once we got out there, I found myself driving a rented Saab Turbo up to the Beverly Hills Hotel. It seemed as though we were a million miles from West Point.

  “It's pink!” Jennie exclaimed as we curled up the hotel driveway and stopped in front. “My favorite color. It's pink everywhere.”

  “I had it painted, just for you,” I told her. “I called ahead. I told them to think pink.”

  “Motormouths!” Jennie yelled as we sat in the impressive hotel carport.

  “Forever!”

  A handsome, beachboy-blond bellhop carried our beat-up overnighters as if they were Louis Vuitton. He led us to a lovely cottage tucked behind the main hotel— Bungalow Six, our own private pied-à-terre, all arranged by Barry (“so you and Jennie make exactly the right impression”). He would know about that—I sure didn't.

  “This is you, ma'am. And you too, little ma'am.” The bellhop smiled and swung open the door with a flourish.

  I had to take a quick step backwards. Dozens of American Beauty roses were waiting inside. “Jeez,” I whispered. The blush-red flowers were everywhere I looked.

  “Are there always this many flowers?” I joked. The humor sailed over the bellhop's shaggy blond mop. The lights are on, I realized, but there's nobody home at Hotel California.

  “Oh, no, ma'am. It's a gift. There's a card.”

  WELCOME TO TINSEL TOWN.

  I THINK YOU'RE ABOUT TO HIT IT VERY BIG.

  DON'T BE FOOLED BY ALL THE GLITTERY GOLD,

  THOUGH …

  OR A FEW DOZEN ROSES EITHER.

  LOVE YA AND JENNIE TOO,

  B.

  Love ya too, Barry. But I'll never bring you another cup of coffee for as long as I live.

  CHAPTER 12

  MAYBE YOU CAN imagine what I was feeling, or maybe nobody ever could.

  This was everything I had dreamed of. All my mind-breaking work, all of Barry's merciless bullying, all the voice lessons and the rewrites. Now, here I was, my stomach tied in sailor's knots, peeking down the semidarkened corridor leading to Recording Room A in the famous Devan Sound Studios.

  Famous songs are recorded here. My song could be famous too. Hooo boy.

  This was it, boom or bust; that one big shot everybody says they want, but that so many of us never get, and I sure never thought I would.

  I knew that different studios achieved a curious mystique, sometimes a superstitious reputation, within the tight clique of major musicians, superstar singers, and their managers. For years, Elton John would record only in an isolated chateau in the south of France. The Rolling Stones had recorded in a ticky-tacky houseboat in Jamaica to get a certain sound. A lot of country singers wanted a specific Nashville studio, and only Chet Atkins could produce their records.

  Devan was like that in L.A. I held Jennie's hand. We watched in a kind of dream as a Barry Kahn/Barbra Streisand recording session unfolded before our eyes.

  I didn't like it! I hated it, actually. I wanted to scream at the two of them. Barbra's voice was not the one I'd had in my head when I composed “Loss of Grace.” Her style was too distinctive, too overpowering.

  “What do you think?” I asked Jennie. She had heard me sing the song hundreds of times at home. She knew my phrasing, the big emotion shifts.

  “Not as good as you,” Jennie said after a moment's deliberation, “but I like this one too. It's so pretty.” Traitor. Infiltrator.

  It got prettier as they worked on it though. Each take got better. I began to hear things in my own song I never knew existed. It was my song, but it became hers too. I realized it was a nearly perfect collaboration.

  I sat back and quietly ate some crow. Barry kept stopping by between takes. He was being so nice to Jennie and me, so supportive and encouraging suddenly.

  After a while, I imagined Barbra Streisand was singing only for me, the way I had sung to Jennie, and I felt transported to a place where the music and all my emotions came together. I was back at West Point, but in happier times, when I used to sing to Smooch the squirrel, and only occasionally let myself dream about moments like this.

  I began to feel numb all over, but nice-numb.

  There were at least a hundred different takes before Barbra and Barry pronounced themselves satisfied, and the tension in the control room dissolved into dumb jokes and contagious laughter. I felt a powerful surge of relief, as though I had done the actual singing. I bowed my tired head.

  I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I turned, and looked into the face of Barbra Streisand. She had snuck up on me.

  In real life (if this was real life) she was striking, but not conventionally beautiful. There was kindness in her eyes, and her smile was sympathetic. I'd already seen that she could be tough, but she had a soft, sweet side as well. Don't believe everything you read in the papers—trust me on that one.

  “I know what you must feel right now,” she said. “A little bit, anyhow. I remember my Broadway debut, my first recording session. Butterflies and the shakes, right?”

  “Just your basic out-of-body experience,” I said.

  She sat down next to Jennie and me. “Just remember that you earned this. All the sweat and the tears and the troubles before today give you a right to enjoy this tremendously. Your song would be a hit no matter who sang it. Because I did, it'll get the attention it deserves. I love your music, Maggie, and so will everyone else. Write more for me. Please?”

  Then she kissed me on the cheek, and gave me a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Your song is so true, and the truth inside you is staggering.”

  For a moment I was tongue-tied, then began to regain my composure. “Shoot, I'm trying not to say anything too stupid,” I whispered to her. “You can't imagine what this means to me, to Jennie and me.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I can definitely imagine. The first song is the best of them all.” Then she looked at Jennie. “Your mom is amazing.”

  Jennie smiled and nodded. “I know,” she said, “but sometimes, she doesn't.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I USED TO daydream all the time about stuff like this happening. Everybody does. So this had to be a crazy daydream, didn't it?

  I sold a lot of songs in a very short period of time. I was hotter than a ten-dollar pistol. I had the same thought every morning as I woke up in the tiny New York walk-up that I was still too insecure to give up: None of this can be happening.

  One night, Barry took me to a very ritzy New York restaurant to celebrate “Maggie's greatest hits,” as he called them. I continued to be a hot item. Stories about me had appeared in Rolling Stone, Spin, People. It was bizarre, unreal, not my s
tyle, but I didn't want it to stop. I felt like somebody, probably for the first time in my life.

  It was twilight when we arrived at Lutèce on Fiftieth Street in Manhattan. We were seated with a certain amount of pomp and circumstance in the garden room. Barry knew the chef, the owner, the busboys.

  “Is this a date?” I asked him. I was kidding—I think I was.

  “This is my way to make up, once and for all, for our very first interview,” he said and smiled. He was in a great mood. We both were. We ordered champagne cocktails, then I had foie gras, salmon with sorrel sauce, a plum soufflé. None of this can be happening.

  “I could have cooked all that,” I said as we finished and ordered brandy and coffee.

  “I believe that you could. You know,” Barry went on, “nothing has made me any happier than watching you—”

  “Come back to life?”

  “Blossom,” he said. “You know that it's hard for me to talk like this, but it's true. It's how I feel.”

  Suddenly, I was a little nervous and uncomfortable. I wondered if this really was a date. I didn't think I was ready for it yet. I was also afraid of spoiling the friendship that Barry and I had.

  Barry winked at me then. He must have sensed my discomfort. “More and more, people are going to want to hear you, Maggie. Your words, your music, your special voice. That sultry contralto of yours. There isn't going to be any stopping you, Maggie. There are no limits to where you can go.”

  I started to cry. In the garden room of Lutèce. I didn't really care who saw me. I was so goddamn happy, so absolutely thrilled.

  Barry used his napkin to dab at my cheeks. We both started to laugh.

  “So tell me about yourself. Who the hell are you, Maggie? You're not ‘blondie in the coat’ anymore. That's for sure.”

  I had kept everything bottled up inside, but that night I let some of it out. Barry was my friend and I trusted him, which was a big step too.

  “There's a small town about twenty miles above West Point. Newburgh,” I began.

  “Been there. No desire to go back,” he said and made a face. “The main street looks like Beirut. That Newburgh?”

  “It used to be a beautiful city, Barry. Sits right over the Hudson River. Small town America, that's me.”

  “I hear some of that in your songs, Maggie. Honest, sincere, not too much cynicism. Corny, but what the hell.” He grinned mischievously.

  I was feeling very self-conscious. “You sure you want to hear this?”

  “Stop putting yourself down. Pleez. You're going to be a big star now. Everything you say will be considered interesting. You were interesting the first day you came to my office.”

  I punched Barry in the arm—hard—for that one. I shut my eyes, opened them again. This was hard for me. I didn't like to talk about it, not even to Barry.

  Finally, I took a deep breath, and began:

  “My parents drank too much. Slight understatement there. They were both alcoholics. My father was wild, ran around. He left us when I was four. My pop. I developed this horrible stutter that used to embarrass me to tears. I buh-buh-beat it though. Mom died when I was in the eighth grade. My two sisters and I stayed with my Aunt Irene. I moved out when I graduated from high school. My sisters both married and moved upstate.

  “Teachers all wanted me to go to college. I just couldn't see myself there. I got a job at a fancy restaurant near West Point. Met Phillip. He loved me. Said he did, acted like it. I really needed for somebody to love me. I mean—really needed it.”

  Barry frowned. “Phillip was your pop all over again, Maggie. We have a tendency to repeat our worst mistakes, don't we?”

  “I guess so. He was a mathematician in the new army. Repressed. Vulnerable. Even needier than I was. Phillip turned out to be a drinker too. Just like Daddy. I wanted to save him, of course. Thought I could.”

  “He hit you, beat you up?” Barry said and lightly touched my cheek. It was just the right thing to do. My friend.

  “I didn't know how to get out of it. Not back then. I didn't know where I could go, how I could possibly bring up Jennie. I used to escape to the attic of our house and write songs all the time. I'd sing them for Jennie. Both of us up in the attic.”

  “You never performed them around West Point?”

  I shook my head. “Forget it! I was much too afraid for that.”

  “You lied to me during your job interview. You're fired.”

  “That's okay,” I said. I touched Barry's cheek. “I can take care of myself and Jennie now. Thanks for helping me.”

  “I did nothing. I just watched it happen. You're an amazing person, Maggie. I hope you realize that yourself someday.”

  I leaned across the table and gave Barry the gentlest kiss. We were such good friends and I loved him. I could think that—I just couldn't say it.

  “You're the best,” I whispered.

  “No. Only the second best. I mean that, Maggie. Remember where you heard it first.”

  CHAPTER 14

  JULY SECOND OF my year of years, the best time in my life by about ten thousand percent. I was at the Meadowlands sports stadium outside New York City. I was there with Jennie and Barry.

  I will never forget this. No one can take this part away.

  A few minutes after eight-thirty the outrageous New York disc jockey, Bret Wolfe, came prancing out onto the Meadowlands' concert stage. He was dressed like a naughty teenager who shouldn't have been let out of the house by his parents.

  The first warm-up act was scheduled to begin soon. Everybody in the audience knew that the headliners— R.S.V.P.—wouldn't make their grand appearance until at least ten, probably even later than that.

  They were in for a shock though.

  Bret Wolfe could barely be heard over the noise of the crowd: “It is my distinct pleasure to introduce …” The orchestra struck up a familiar melody. Glowing fluorescent flying objects flickered up toward the bland-faced quarter moon sitting over the stadium roof.

  “… My distinct pleasure to introduce to you—Ladies and Gentlemen … R.S.V.P.!”

  Stunned silence followed, then there was chaos in the audience that was still lazily milling into the stadium.

  “I can't believe it's them. They shouldn't be on for hours!”

  “Jesus, what's going on? What is this shit?”

  From backstage, I watched as long paper streamers and electric blue fireworks rocketed high above the stage. Billowing smoke and gold lamé sparks erupted and drifted east toward New York. The R.S.V.P. lead singer, Andrew Tone, lithe and very sexy, stepped to the microphone and held it like a live snake. He ran a hand through his long, sandy-brown hair.

  “We're Alive and Kicking!” He raised his fist. The band hit its trademark downbeat. R.S.V.P. began to sing the song that was currently number one just about everywhere in the world.

  Next came “Champion of Myself.”

  Then the ballad “Loving a Woman of Character.”

  The audience was in an absolute frenzy. No one could understand what was happening. Tens of thousands of fans wouldn't come until nine-thirty, when, ordinarily, the local bands and warm-up groups would just be finishing.

  The music finally stopped. Andrew Tone stepped to the microphone. He held up his hands for silence.

  “Don't worry,” he said. “We'll sing those songs over again when everybody's here. You early birds deserved a treat though. You're the real music lovers, right?”

  Cheers. Some laughter. But the baffling mystery continued for the audience. What was R.S.V.P. doing onstage already?

  “We sang those songs for a special reason. ‘Alive.’ ‘Champion.’ ‘Woman.’ I know they're three of our best songs. You know they are.”

  Loud applause confirmed Andrew Tone's opinion of their opinion.

  “The thing of it is, these three songs were all written by our first—and only—warm-up act tonight. And this is the best warm-up act we've ever had.”

  Some in the audience might have known my na
me. Few could have realized I was a singer. Behind Andrew Tone, a bevy of stagehands wheeled out a piano. The stagelights went off and a spotlight hit the keys.

  There was a murmur in the crowd, expectant but wary. Everybody's curiosity was up.

  “She is a real woman of character,” Tone went on, speaking softly, away from the light. “It's her first live concert appearance—which is why we came out early. We wanted to introduce her. It's our way of thanking her for her songs.

  “I guarantee you one thing! This is the last time the lady will be opening for anyone. So listen. Hold on to your heads. Hold on to your hearts. THIS IS THE MIND-BLOWING, HEART-STOPPING MAGGIE BRAD-FORD!”

  CHAPTER 15

  I LISTENED TO Andrew go on and on. Too much, I thought. He was raising their expectations way too high. He made it sound as though some scintillating world-class singer were coming onstage.

  He wasn't talking about me. He couldn't be. The building pressure put a steel band around my chest. I had a contralto voice anyway, and had trouble hitting the real high notes.

  I thought I wouldn't be able to play, much less sing. Not only didn't I feel like “a woman of character,” I felt I had absolutely no spine.

  I could barely breathe.

  I made myself walk onto the massive concert stage. There was applause, sincere but scattered.

  I remembered Andrew Tone's words: “It's her first live appearance.”

  I got my first full look at the slow-rising mountain of faces; the brightly colored, ragtag quilt of clothes; the streaming spotlight that made the piano look huge and frightening and self-important.

  Oh, God, I can't possibly do this. There's an entire city out there watching me.

  A wave of panic suddenly swept over me. I felt exactly as I did when I used to stutter and stammer in school.

  I knew many of the orchestra players from recording sessions in New York. They were standing now and clapping for me too.

  “Cut it out, guys,” I yelled to them. “It's only me. Stop, stop, stop!”