The Color of Home: A Novel by Rich Marcello Read Free Book Online Page A

of vanilla. Sitting back, he eyed the ceiling fan.
    “I love being around Sassa no matter what we’re doing.” Long silent walks with her through the Village, where they did little more than hold hands. Relaxing opposite her on the sofa, barefoot with their legs interlaced, reading a good book. Encouraging her to model outfits for him as they rambled through boutique shops. Saturday morning laundromat dates. Sometimes after they made love, he watched her brush her hair as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve never been even close to this in the past.”
    “Nick, who are you talking to?” one of his employees shouted from the studio office.
    “No one, Chris. Just myself. I’m done.”
    He swigged his soda. “I’m in love with her.” There. The first time out loud. What were the guarantees? He would love her openly. He would stay wired to her. Would she do the same? “I’d do almost anything for her, but I need to know.”
    “I thought you said you were done,” Chris said, still in the office.
    “I am now.' He picked up his acoustic guitar and started strumming a few simple chords. “I’m just happy being around you,' he sang repeatedly. He waited for repetition to bubble something up. Zilch. Different chords. “Your beauty is like a drug.' Zilch. Different chords. “You’re too sexy for your shirt.' He smiled. Finally, over the riff for “Layla,' he simply sang, “I love you.”
    “Hey Nick, Eric Clapton would be proud,' Chris said.
    “Right.' Almost as an afterthought, he stumbled across an Americana riff that walked down a series of notes, first on the G string, then the A string. Nodding in time, he whistled a seed melody. He pulled his feet off the console and sat upright in his chair, slightly hunched over his guitar. An idea darted, which he struggled to land. Songwriting had always come as a hit-or-miss thing for him and, before Sassa, he’d lost many of his best ideas in the ether.
    Not this time. He hit three chords in a row with a single strum each and returned to his original riff to hear how those chords sounded appended to the riff. Damn good. He played both parts together, humming a trial melody over top. After a few passes, he liked the part enough to propel himself on his chair toward his desk. Placing his guitar on the floor, he reached into the bottom drawer, and pulled out a deep honey-brown, leatherbound journal, a gift from his mother that contained most of the original drafts of his lyrics and poems. He opened the journal to a fresh page and scribbled down “Hold You.' Jotting down a few fragments, he sang them in his head to different melodies. Listen to the undercurrent. We’re riding it. Words are messengers. With his guitar in hand, he joined words with music, working nonstop until he had three full verses.
    A quick break to snatch a Diet Pepsi out of the refrigerator. His sixth of the night.
    The chorus. The main musical hook had to coincide with the title of the song, and had to resolve back to the verse riff. He played around with a few different melodies until he found one that resolved with enough drama.
    Happy with the basic building blocks, he stitched together the song: first verse, chorus, second verse, chorus, final verse. Not quite. Not enough lyrical and musical tension in the middle. A bridge would do. He bounced around bridge chords and melodies until he found a combination that clicked, then penned the lyrics for the bridge in one pass.
    Wheeling back over to the recording gear, he set up a couple of microphones. Balancing his guitar on his knee, he placed his headphones over his ears. “Check. Check. Check.” Good to go. The metronome sounded. Tick. Tick. Tick.
    I know you so well
    There are times when I just can tell
    What you’re thinking
    How you feel
    What you need
    Oh come to me now
    Bring all your problems
    And we’ll knock them down
    Oh come to me now
    Show me everything
    I will hold you
    Hold you
    Listen now
    To the undercurrent
    We’re