Dreamland(68)

“I heard an extraordinary singer the other day and asked if she’d be willing to perform a song for you tonight. She has yet to give me an answer, but if you’d like to hear what I heard, let Morgan Lee know how much you want her to come up and join me right now.”

The crowd whooped and hollered, just as I’d expected; after registering her embarrassment, I held out my hand to her, urging her forward, while Holly, Stacy, and Maria cheered and excitably nudged her in my direction. Despite her hesitation, it seemed she was less bothered than simply nervous. As she eventually began making her way toward me, the crowd’s enthusiasm built to a roar. Her friends followed, already grabbing for their phones and moving closer to the low stage, no doubt so they could film. I helped Morgan onto the platform, stepping back as she finally reached for the microphone. I moved my stool to the side, then retrieved a music stand from the back corner. Morgan pulled up her photos, zeroing in on the one with the lyrics that she’d taken while at the condo.

“Give me a minute to make sure I know all the words, okay?” she whispered, her hand over the mike.

“Of course,” I said. “Take your time.”

I watched as she went through the words, and it was immediately clear to me that a long review wouldn’t be necessary. “For now, why don’t I play through the opening stanza and the chorus, and I’ll just repeat it until you signal that you’re ready, okay?”

She nodded, her eyes still on the screen as she continued to mouth the words. Somehow, her nervousness only seemed to heighten the audience’s anticipation.

I started the song’s opening stanza, watching for my cue. As I came to the end of the chorus, I saw her nod at me, her body swaying ever so slightly as she raised her eyes toward the crowd. I circled back, repeating the opening, and as soon as she hit the very first notes, I wasn’t the only one who was mesmerized. Silence reigned as her throaty voice filled the bar, people paralyzed by its clarity and power. But as she began to dance, her steps taking her from one end of the stage to the other, they erupted, cheering and clapping in time. This was a Morgan I’d never seen before—no trace of the self-conscious girl standing in my living room. Her friends were filming with intense concentration, but I could tell that it was all they could do to keep from jumping up and down.

The song was infectious, inspiring shouts and whistles by the second refrain, and the more the crowd got into it, the more Morgan responded.

There was an operatic quality to her voice, and as she launched into a powerful vibrato toward the end of the song, the audience rose to their feet as one. When she landed the final high note with total confidence, the applause was explosive. She was a sensation, and everyone there knew it.

People immediately called for an encore, but Morgan declined with a shake of her head as she placed the microphone back into the stand. She stepped off the platform, only to be swarmed by her friends, who were almost giddy with excitement.

Because I still had a few minutes left to play—and knowing it would be foolish to follow Morgan with anything I’d written—I picked a perennial crowd favorite, “American Pie.” As soon as I embarked on the opening chords, the attention of the crowd swung back to me, and soon everyone was singing along, just as I knew they would. Meanwhile, the girls retreated to their original spot in the back, flushed and buzzing.

When I finished, I spotted the next act waiting in the wings. I set my guitar off to the side to make room for them to set up, then pushed through the crowd to reach Morgan and her friends. By the time I reached them and took Morgan’s hand, she seemed strangely subdued.

“You’re incredible,” I said. “Everyone loved you.”

She kissed me softly.

“I still think you’re better.”





After a celebratory dinner, we all went dancing at a club in St. Petersburg. It wasn’t the size of a weekend crowd but not bad for a Thursday night, and the five of us danced in a circle to the high-energy techno beats. Or, rather, they danced while I mainly shifted my weight from one foot to the other and did my best not to call attention to myself.

It ended up being a late night, with Morgan riding back to the condo with me while the others hopped in an Uber. On the way, she confessed that Holly and Stacy were already pressing her to post the videos they’d made of her singing.

“What do you think?” she asked, uncertain. “Do you think it would be a mistake?”

“How could it be a mistake?”

“I don’t know…. Do you think it’s good enough? What if, like, some A&R exec comes across the video? It’s not exactly studio quality, and my throat has been kinda scratchy lately. I didn’t have a chance to warm up and I didn’t even know all the words perfectly—”

“Morgan.” I took one hand off the steering wheel and laid it firmly over hers. “Stop.”

When she turned toward me, I went on. “You were fantastic,” I said. “If anyone sees that video, they’ll see that you have superstar written all over you.”

Morgan covered her face with her hands in embarrassment, but I could see the smile peeking out between her fingers.

The following morning, I drove her back to the Don. The conversation in the truck was muted, and though we made plans to meet by the pool in a few hours, she was quieter than usual, her expression preoccupied.