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Their progress through the lobby was noted by several of the hotel staff.  It was just after four.  Dennis was finishing his shift and looked on with approval.  He liked Abby Fremont and he thought Nick seemed like a nice guy, even if he was horribly out of shape.  Dennis would like to take him in hand for a month or two.  A good diet plan and two or three hours of tennis every day would set Mr. Carter on the right road.

The concierge and the desk clerk exchanged glances of disapproval.  Mrs. Fremont would not be amused by Abigail’s dalliance with the pudgy popstar.  Not that either one of them would ever have the courage to tell her.  Sharon Fremont had called four times today.  She only left two messages, but she had been quite insistent that Abigail get them.  “She hasn’t been returning my calls,” said Sharon Fremont in a frosty tone.  That was obviously some underling’s fault.  The desk clerk explained gently but firmly that the messages had been personally placed in Abigail’s hand by the clerk himself.  A note of worry crept into Mrs. Fremont’s voice, the clerk had thought, or maybe it was just impatience.  “She’s fine,” he said.  “Relaxing and playing tennis.”  Mrs. Fremont had stiffened at the effrontery of a stranger to comment on her daughter and had rung off immediately with an imperious grunt of thanks.

Nick and Abby strolled down the lane to Rose Cottage.  Abby had asked Nick about his music as they had been climbing the patio stairs and his animated description of what it was like to be on tour carried them through the hotel and down the path.  He stopped talking as they reached the door.  Abby seemed to be tensing up.  What did she think he was going to do? he wondered.

“Abby, are you okay?  Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?” 

She shook her head to clear it.  “I used to come here when I was a child.  With my parents.  We stayed here.”

It had obviously not been a happy experience for her.  Weird, thought Nick.  Ronni would have given anything to spend her vacation here and Abby had got to do that, but hadn’t enjoyed it, apparently.  He guessed that was what ‘ironic’ meant.

“I have hated roses all my life because of this cottage,” she said with a grin.  “Is it still as bad?”

“It’s pretty…floral,” said Nick, after a moment’s search for the correct word to describe the interior of the cottage.

They stepped through the door.  “Oh, my Lord,” said Abby.  “It’s even worse than I remember.”  She ran her hand over the back of the love seat.  “Whatever made you choose this place?”  The look on his face said it all.  “Oh, sorry,” she said.

“Ro...my…she always wanted to stay here…when she was a kid…she stayed up in the Lodge and she always wanted to stay here.”

“That’s ironic,” said Abby.  “I always wanted to stay in the Lodge with everyone else.”  Nick was pleased that he did indeed know what ‘ironic’ meant.   Abby moved around the room, caressing the drapes and running her fingers over the pine table.  “You’re a very romantic man, Nick Carter,” said Abby.  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

“My guitar is in the other room,” said Nick, and he retreated to the bedroom.  Suddenly, he didn’t want to do this.  He didn’t want to lay his guts on the line by unveiling the song.  Terrific, he told himself.  She’ll think you invited her here for something else.  He picked up the guitar.  Suck it up and go on, he told himself, grimly and headed back out to face Abby.

“I’ve been working on a couple of them…but, uh…this one…I…I don’t know…it’s a little different…”  Nick took one of the pine chairs and turned it toward the loveseat.

Abby sat down and folded her hands primly in her lap.  Nick fiddled with the strings for a bit, tuning them and then picking at them.  He’s nervous, she thought.  He doesn’t want to play it.  She tried to think of a way to get them both out of the situation gracefully.  She wracked her brain but could come up with no solution that wouldn’t make him seem like a coward or a loser…or her a big scaredy-cat running from the scene.  She opened her mouth to say…well, she wasn’t really sure what, but it wasn’t necessary, because he opened his mouth and started singing.

He didn’t look at her.  He looked down at the guitar for the whole song.  He poured his pain out onto her and he broke her heart.  When he ran his fingers down the strings for the last time, he paused and then he looked up.  Abby was no longer sitting primly on the edge of the loveseat.  She was back against the cushions and she had her legs drawn up.  Her arms were wrapped around them and tears flowed from her eyes.

“That’s exactly it,” she whispered.  “That’s exactly how it feels.”  She swiped at her eyes with her hand and looked around for a tissue box.  She knew she looked awful when she cried.  Her nose got all red and her eyes sunk into her head.  “What do you call it?” she asked, walking over to the sideboard where a box of tissues sat in a rose-covered holder.

“So far it’s just the Pain Song,” said Nick.  “I don’t really have a title.”

“The Pain Song,” said Abby, with a chuckle.  She blew her nose as quietly as she could and then turned back to him.  “It’s a perfect title, but I can’t see your producers going for it.”

“No, it’s a little too…”  Nick couldn’t think of the word.

“Yes, too…”  Neither could Abby.  “What about that line you repeat?  Or is it too long to be a title?”

“’Won’t somebody teach me how to breathe again?’” quoted Nick.  Abby nodded.  “It’s kind of long,” he said, “but the title doesn’t matter all that much.  Someone will figure that out.”  He paused.  “Did you like the song?” 

Abby hesitated, putting her thoughts together.  She wanted to say this right.  “It’s not a song that you would say that you ‘liked’,” she said slowly.  “That’s like someone asking you if you liked the movie Schindler’s List.  It was horrifying and gruesome and left marks on your soul, so you wouldn’t really say that you liked it.  But you could recognize that it’s an exquisitely-crafted work of art that will stand the test of time.”  She looked at Nick.  He was staring at her with an odd look on his face.  She soldiered on.  “So I can’t really say that I like the song.  But I can tell you that it is a searing description of a broken heart and anyone who has ever experienced it will recognize it immediately.  And the melody is haunting…it will stay with people, drifting around in the back of their head.”

Nick stared at her.  He’d been expecting a simple yes or no…or maybe a phrase or two.  But this had been…an interpretation.  There was a lot more to this woman than met the eye, that was for sure.

“Wow,” he said.  “Your description is even better than the song.”

Abby smiled.  “No.  It’s a beautiful song, Nick, but I’m afraid that if you release it, the suicide rate in the country will go up dramatically.”

“It’s that bad?” he asked.

“No, it’s that real.  What’s that line you have…about not being able to feel your body…?”

Nick grimaced and repeated the line for her.

“Play it again,” she said.  She moved back to the loveseat.  She listened very carefully this time.  He looked at her while he played it.  At the end, she nodded.  “Yes, you got it all right.”

“But it’s too painful?” he asked.

“Maybe you should put in a verse that says ‘suck it up and go on’,” suggested Abby.

“That’s a whole other song,” laughed Nick.  “I’ve only got bits of it done.”  He ran his fingers over the strings and started singing, a more up-tempo number about getting on with life.  He sang a whole verse and part of a second, before he stopped, with a shrug.  “That’s all I’ve got so far.”

“You should record them both and make it a rule that they have to play that one after the first…kind of like an antidote,” said Abby.  “To show that there’s light at the end…”

“Paper!” said Nick, setting down the guitar.  He looked around the room.  He’d used up all the hotel stationery the day before.  Abby looked around as well.  She didn’t see any paper anywhere.  “Ribbons of light,” he muttered to himself.  “God’s graces, ribbons of light…”

He had a look of panic on his face.  Abby strode to the sideboard and pulled open the drawer.  She drew out the leather binder that gave all the details about the hotel.  She opened it and tore out the title page.  “Here,” she said, turning it over. 

“But…”

“Write!” she insisted, handing him the pen from the drawer.

Nick took the pen and paper and sat down at the pine table.  He wrote words and then he read them.  He crossed them out and wrote more.  He hummed to himself.  He closed his eyes and tipped his head back.  Then he sang a word or two.  Abby watched the creative process with fascination.  She kept very still and silent.  She did not want to break his concentration.  She stood by the sideboard, unmoving. 

Suddenly, he stood up and moved to his guitar.  Abby took the opportunity to return to the loveseat.  She watched him fiddle with the melody and the words, singing to himself, starting, stopping, starting again.

“Okay!” he said, finally.  “Tell me what you think.”  He played the song again, only it was completely different.  The theme was the same – life goes on.  But the words were different, all about looking for the sun behind the clouds, looking for ribbons of light.  Her words.  He had taken her words and made them into a song.  Abby folded her arms across her chest to stop her body from shaking.

“Well?”  Nick finished the song and looked at her.  Abby smiled and nodded.  She didn’t trust herself to speak.  “Okay, now that one goes into the freezer for awhile,” said Nick, setting his guitar aside.  He laughed at the look on Abby’s face and explained his habit of leaving a song for a bit and then coming back to it.  “Things look a lot different in the daylight,” he said with a smile.

“That’s true,” exclaimed Abby.  “Do you have another one?” 

Nick played bits of the third song for her.  He didn’t really have any idea for lyrics, he told her.  So far, he just had the tune.  The lyrics hadn’t revealed themselves to him yet.  Abby smiled at his choice of words.  She knew exactly what he meant.

Nick enjoyed having an appreciative audience and he played a couple of other songs for her, songs that were for the group album.  They discussed what she liked and what she didn’t.  He thought he’d use some of her opinions next week in his meetings with the guys.

Suddenly, Nick realized that it was dark outside.  He looked at his watch.  “Would you like to go get dinner?” he asked.

Abby didn’t want to go.  She wanted to stay right here.  She was having a great time.  This was a special moment, she knew, one that didn’t come along all that often and she didn’t want to break the spell.  And she knew that stepping out the door would break the spell.

Nick didn’t really want to go.  “We could order some room service here,” he suggested, noticing her hesitation.  “Dinner and some wine…would you like a glass of wine?”

“That would be lovely,” said Abby and then realized that she had used the word she hated.  “I mean, great…white, please.”

Nick picked up the now vandalized leather binder.  “Room service…or cottage service…”  He flipped it open to the correct section.  “It doesn’t actually say what kinds of wine…”

“We can get what we want,” said Abby, brushing her hand through the air.  “Do you like red or white?”

Nick wasn’t going near red wine for a long, long time.  “I’d have beer if I had a choice, but white wine works for me.  What about food?”

Abby wasn’t all that hungry.  She shrugged.  “What do you feel like?”

“I’m kind of in the mood for pizza, if you want to know the truth,” said Nick.  “But I guess that’s a no go…”

“Anything’s a go, if you want it,” said Abby.  She didn’t understand why he didn’t know that.  He’d traveled all over the world.  He was a star.  Surely, he was used to snapping his fingers and having his every wish granted.  But not here, she realized suddenly.  He hadn’t had his wish granted here, and he was lost.  “What do you like on your pizza?” she asked, picking up the phone.

Nick watched her turn into Abigail Fremont, Chicago-society-whatever and former family affiliation with this hotel.  She didn’t phone room service.  She phoned the concierge.

“James?  This is Abigail Fremont.  I would like to have a pizza delivered to Rose Cottage…from Vesuvio’s.  Yes…I know, James…but if you can tell me the last time you ate hotel food over Vesuvio’s pizza, I will retract my request.”  There was a pause, and then she laughed.  “Exactly!  Pepperoni, green peppers and mushrooms please…and while I have you on the line, could we also please have a bottle of Pinot Grigio?  The Bolla.”

Nick watched her listen to the concierge’s response.

“Oh, really James!! If you think I’d ever drink domestic wine…oh, and while we’re at it, how about a six-pack of…”  She looked over at Nick, who shrugged.  “…Beck’s,” she finished.  Another pause.  “Jamesssss,” she drew out the name in a sing-song voice.  “…are you going to make me come up there?”

Yes, thought James, come up here right now, argue with me all night long, please don’t stay there with the popstar playboy.  He’ll break your heart.  “It’s fine, Miss Fremont, I’ll take care of everything.  A pizza from Vesuvio’s with pepperoni, green peppers and mushrooms, a six-pack…” his voice shuddered at the phrase, “…of Beck’s and a bottle of the Bolla Pinot Grigio.  Will there be anything else, Miss Fremont?”

Abby could sense the disapproval emanating over the phone line.  “No, that will be all for now, James.  Thank you very much.”

“Done!” said Abby, turning back to Nick.  “So tell me more about this new album…”