Love and the Dream Come True (State of Grace) , livre ebook

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189 pages

English

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The Anticipated Series Finale to the 2021 Carol Award-Winning Novel, Love and a Little White LieTheir faith will face its toughest test yet.Four years after getting the biggest break of his life, Cameron Lee's music career has taken a nosedive, leaving him two options: become a sellout or give up on his lifelong dream. He reluctantly returns home for his sister's wedding, hoping to avoid his past and find his love for music again.Single mom Lexie Walters has suffered her fair share of tragedies and setbacks, but she has finally scraped together the money to achieve her dream of going into business with her cousin as an interior designer. When Lexie's life is at an all-time high, she runs into her teenage crush, Cameron Lee.Lost in the emotional turmoil of failure, Cameron is immediately drawn to Lexie and her infectious smile and optimistic spirit. Moreover, he adores her mouthy, no-holds-barred daughter. But fantasies only last so long, and soon Lexie and Cameron must face the real world, the one fraught with heartbreak, disappointment, and questions that sometimes can only be answered by a leap of faith.

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Love

Love (disambiguation)

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	02 août 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781493437252
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0000€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Half Title Page
Books by Tammy L. Gray
F ROM B ETHANY H OUSE P UBLISHERS
S TATE OF G RACE
Love and a Little White Lie
Love and the Silver Lining
Love and the Dream Come True
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2022 by Tammy L. Gray
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-3725-2
Scripture quotations are from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Susan Zucker
Author is represented by Jessica Kirkland, Kirkland Media Management.
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.
Dedication
For Tayler, Luke, and Lilli
Your family’s bravery, steadfast love, and unyielding perseverance inspire everyone who has the privilege of knowing you.
Thank you for allowing me to share a glimpse of your courage in this story.
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Tammy L. Gray
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
one
Cameron
M usic used to be my breath, my muse, my one sure-and-steady force. It never quieted. Even when the sound muted and the melody faded into the walls and ceilings, still it continued in my ears, vibrated down into my core. Driving me. Feeding me. A siren of notes dancing through the hum of air particles and calling out as pure and consuming as the mythical creatures of the sea.
But no more. Now there’s only a buzz, a low vibration whispering across my pores, carrying with it a concrete truth: the music, like everything else, has abandoned me.
I stare at my laptop screen. At the website of demos and the endless database of songs I neither wrote nor have any desire to perform. The label wants me to sell out. Wants a more current sound, generic, mass appeal—all key business phrases that make me feel nauseous.
My phone sits inches away from my fingers, and I grab it quickly, refusing to let Mark ignore me anymore. Rings blare from the speaker, and just when I think he’s going to force me to leave another message, he picks up.
“Cameron! Hey, buddy, I was just about to call you back.” His voice is the smooth silk of a master manipulator, which is probably why he’s one of the most sought-after agents in the music industry. “Tell me you picked ten fabulous singles and we can put this baby to rest once and for all.”
I press my lips together and try to keep my stomach from churning. “I’ve thought about their offer, Mark, and decided it’s not going to work.”
The pause on the other end of the line is deafening. I hear his chair squeak. Hear his tension sizzle through the invisible connection.
“I want to sing originals,” I say when he remains silent. “I have more I can send you. They’re more upbeat, catchy—”
“Cameron.” He sighs, exasperated, and the hiss slithers into my bones. “They don’t want original this time. They want hits. You had your shot at songwriting, and the album flopped. And hey, it happens, but this clinging to a fantasy is killing your career. The board nearly dropped you. The only reason they didn’t was because—”
“I know. You don’t have to remind me.” I press two fingers against my temples and rub away the sting. My most popular song, “A Decade of Love,” was used on the finale of an extremely successful reality singing show, sending it once again up the charts. An upward momentum my label has no intention of missing out on.
“Cam, I know you’re having a hard time accepting this new reality, but our hands are tied. And really, it’s not so bad. The label’s letting you pick ten of the twelve songs for your next release when contractually they could be picking all of them . . . which they will if you don’t give me something soon.”
The thought burns through my veins. “And what if I re fuse to make the next album? If we tell them it’s my music or nothing?”
“Listen, buddy. It’s been a rough year. I get it, so there’s no need to make an impassioned decision now. Holidays are coming up, and I’m sure I can stall them till early January. Go meet a girl, skydive in the desert, take a hike through the rain forest or whatever you young Millennial kids like to do before making a life-altering decision.”
He’s trying to scare me into doing what he wants. It’s been like this for years now. I’m just no longer willing to play the eager young artist. “You didn’t answer the question, Mark. Contractually, what happens if I refuse?”
“Well . . .” His voice hardens, no longer the Pied Piper trying to get me to follow the flute. “If you refuse, you better be ready to pay out your contract, because that’s where we’re at, kiddo. Play or pay. Your contract says the music must be ‘commercially acceptable.’ And after the last album, you and I both know your originals will not fall into that category. So yes, you can refuse and walk away, but considering the financial losses they took on with you this year, they’ll either sue or make sure no label ever touches you again. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” When I don’t respond, his voice presses in, tight and hard. “Your career will be over. Finished. The work we put into that last album, a waste. Your talent . . . a waste. And considering the history you shared with me when we first met, we both know you don’t exactly have a lot to run home to.”
A chill runs down my spine at his comment. I was naïve when I’d shared those things with him. Too young and sheltered to recognize this man was not a mentor like the ones I’d been raised with. Mark was out for himself, and I had to learn the hard way that I was only valuable if it meant he gained fame or money from my name.
Mark’s voice lightens, returns to the rich, satiny coo he’s known for. “So . . . take my seasoned advice and go away for the holidays. Rest. Regroup. Meanwhile, I’ll do what I can to buy you more time.”
I grind out an “okay” I don’t mean at all.
“One great album, Cam. That’s all it takes to get you back on top. Do it their way this time, make loads of money for both of us, and then we can go back and dust off those originals.” He mutters something that sounds like an I’ll check in with you later , and the screen on my phone goes black.
I shoot to my feet and walk away from my professionally decorated living room and the conversation that basically told me I have no options. Hardwood floors echo under my feet, a sound confirming that once upon a time, I’d arrived at greatness. I had the dream . . . all of it. A custom-built Nashville home far bigger than I needed. Interviews with talk-show hosts and entertainment anchors. A hit single that topped the charts. And a second album I was given full artistic freedom to produce.
What I never considered, even once, is what happens after the dream comes true. When the shiny Grammy starts to collect dust and its memory is slowly tarnished by unrecognized sales and irritated producers. When the agent who once stalked you stops returning phone calls, and suddenly you become the guy who’s forced to play the game all over again. That’s the part no one likes to talk about. The moment when you stare at the CDs and awards and framed magazine covers and wonder why any of it matters. Wonder how it’s possible to have it all and yet . . . feel completely empty.
I ease open the cabinet in the formal dining room I’ve never once eaten in. The containers inside are no longer old shoeboxes but canvased cartons my decorator insisted were essential. I shouldn’t be pulling them free. Not now. Not when I haven’t dared to in over a year. But the resurgence of that song . . . that haunting, awful song . . . seems to be a string I’m bound to follow. I know exactly which box to reach for, exactly how deep the picture lies, exactly how much looking at it is going to rip at the festering wound that has yet to heal.
And yet seconds later it’s in my hands and I’m staring at the five of us—Bryson, Darcy, Mason, Alison, and myself—arms interlaced, smiles warm, and hearts eager for the future ahead. We’d just graduated from high school a week prior and were heading out with our church for our final youth camp. The immediate pain that slices through my chest is worse than I expect. Worse than it was the last time I dared to look at their faces. Faces I haven’t spoken to in years. Faces that mark betrayals we’ve never recovered from. I brace my fingers on each side, ready to shred the photo in half. My hands tremble, my heart begging me to end the misery and destroy this last tether I have to my former best friends. But I can’t do it. Instead, I place the picture back inside, further down in the box this time, and slam the lid shut with a vengeance.
I scramble to my feet, my throat bone-dry, and head for the kitchen. Viciously, I open my massive stainless-steel fridge, filled with food only because I have a housekeeper who’s paid to keep