Take A Note

By A.Y. Caluen

A romance novella about music, TV, and fairy tales.

When Scott Easton drove away from Las Vegas he knew he'd be back. The recording sessions with his old friend Gloria Louise had been a lot of fun, and the album release party even more so. But he had to get home to Los Angeles to deal with his business, and his mother. That turned out to be tougher than he expected.

Kathy Donovan was only at the release party because she was friendly with Gino Corsetti and his band. She certainly didn't expect to trip over the sexy trumpet player from L.A. And for all she knew, she'd never see him again. So she buckled down to deal with her business, including the possibility of writing a second season of 'Behind the Strip.'

Then Gloria Louise said 'come to our show, that friend of mine from L.A. will be here,' and Kathy thought 'why not.' After an evening with Scott, she thought, 'yes please.' He said he felt the same way. The morning after, they decided to deal with the possibility that what they had here was a fairy tale.

Adult situations, themes, and language; 31,000 words and a happy ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandra Caluen
• Release date: Oct 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223080954

A.Y. Caluen

A.Y. Caluen lives in a small purple house with her husband, a bottle of Laphroaig, a lot of books, and nine pairs of ballroom shoes. She is the author of over fifty contemporary romance novels and novellas featuring creative, diverse characters.

Book preview

Chapter 1

April 2016

All the way home from Las Vegas, on that long drive through mostly nothing and in the middle of the night, Scott was thinking about the launch party. Half of his preoccupation was because he’d had a good time, met some more nice people, and been asked back. The other half was so he wouldn’t think about everything else.

It was the same reason he kept himself so busy. Why he so rarely said ‘no’ to an offer, even if travel like this was involved. Travel he paid for himself, or otherwise managed himself, at hours when most people were asleep. He didn’t need to be home all the time. Being on the scene wasn’t going to change the outcome. Everything he could do, he was already doing. There were so many things he couldn’t do. His life had been on hold for going on seven years, since he turned thirty and contacted the lawyer and heard ‘we have bad news.’

He couldn’t think of that without being furious, so he tried not to think of it. The money was gone. Gone down the alcoholic throat and tossed away by the gambling-addicted fingers of his mother. The lawyer did not, in Scott’s opinion, have an adequate explanation for why Scott had never been notified of the way his trustee was destroying the trust. His father’s instructions to Scott had been clear: don’t call the lawyer a day early. But someone could have called him.

He could be angry with the man, dead eighteen years now, for writing a trust that kept the money locked away – from Scott – till he was thirty. Not twenty-one, not twenty-five, but thirty. He could be angry with the lawyer, for not paying attention or for assuming, despite all the evidence, that his mother meant well. He could be angry with his mother for being an addict, for being a drunk, for being a thief.

But what was the point. The money was gone. Over the past almost-seven years Scott had earned his own living, the way he had since he was eighteen, and had seen his mother only when he absolutely couldn’t avoid it. He lived in a guest house, a converted garage behind a big house in the Hollywood Hills. It was private, and relatively inexpensive because the big house belonged to a former friend of Scott’s father. One of the entertainment-industry hotshots who’d been drawn to the charming, media-friendly, prize-winning physicist who’d become the semi-official spokesman (some might say apologist) for nuclear power. That friend was one of few who knew about the trust, and the way Scott’s father screwed him over, because this friend also knew Scott’s mother. The best thing about the guest house wasn’t the below-market-rate rent, though that was a good thing. The best thing was that Scott could play the trumpet anytime he wanted, or any of his other horns.

It was usually the trumpet, the one he was best known for. He kept in practice with all the others so he could accept a job, or teach a lesson, or in some other way make money with them. They were all top-quality instruments. Each one of them had been a gift from his father, so using them was bittersweet. Even making his living as a musician was bittersweet, because his father had supported him so wholeheartedly. He’d never said, Scott, you should go into science. Or diplomacy. Or banking. He’d said, this is what you love and you’re good at it. Run with it. And then he’d written that trust.

Scott was probably never going to be rich and famous – there was only one Wynton Marsalis – but among musicians he was known. He was in demand. He was (though almost afraid to admit it) prosperous.

And the new record was going to be a hit. Scott was sure of it. He was a featured guest artist on the second album from Gino Corsetti and The Desert Rogues. Their first album was nominated for a Grammy. The new one, ‘Hit Me,’ was an all-original song cycle about a down-on-his-luck guy who goes to Vegas and makes it big, makes mistakes, almost loses everything, then fixes it. A fairy tale, one the songwriter Gloria Louise said was based on the stories of several people she knew. Sung perfectly by Corsetti, who had a Sinatra tribute show on the Strip, and for whose voice the songs had been written. The Rogues were damn good. The songs were damn good. All it would take was the right review, the right appearance, the right clip, and they were all going to hit.

The Rogues wanted Scott back. The bass and drums had suggested the three of them could make a record. Those guys plus Gloria were writing and recording incidental music for a new streaming series, thirteen episodes of something called ‘Behind the Strip.’ Scott might get some work on that, too, if the project went anywhere. Because Corsetti liked him, and Corsetti was tight with some people on the production, including the head writer. Kathy Donovan.

Ah, Kathy. She’d reacted to Scott the way a lot of people did, male and female. He knew he had that thing, the thing the studios used to call ‘It.’ Sex appeal, with a little bit of mystery. He wasn’t obvious. A lot of people on the internet argued about his gender. There wasn’t much evidence either way, because he hadn’t tried to have a serious relationship for basically ever.

Before, that was because he thought there would be money. Anyone he got serious with would deserve to know, and he was afraid that would change things. Now it was because not only was there no money, there was his mother. Nobody deserved to get tangled up with that mess. It was going to be such a mess.

So, as usual, Scott had been friendly, charming, interested and involved, and had not even hinted at the fact that he would have liked to take Kathy down the hall in Corsetti’s house, or out to his car, or to a hotel, and do all the things her unguarded face said she wanted. She was average height, thin, wearing jeans and a Cirque du Soleil tee shirt at the pre-release party for the album. Her hair was well-cut and well-colored, a blend of reds and golds. She had wide-set blue-hazel eyes and wore no makeup. She looked about forty. He had wanted her with an almost shocking intensity. He wondered how much longer he could stand to live this half-life.

When he got home the message light was blinking on his phone. He had a landline because he refused to give his cell number to his mother’s lawyers. The last thing he wanted was to hear a message passing on some kind of complaint. Those were the only kind of messages he ever got. But not listening to it wouldn’t make it go away, so he played it.

Uh, Mr. Easton? This is Ruth Cohn at Cohn and Kessler. I’m sorry to tell you that Nicole Easton died this morning. We were notified because we were listed as first contact. You’ll know that we hold power of attorney. We need to speak with you as soon as possible. Please call at any time. Thank you.

The message was time-stamped at noon the day before, when he’d been on the road to Las Vegas. Scott sat down, suddenly exhausted, wondering how he should feel about this. Wondering if Ruth Cohn had rehearsed that, so she wouldn’t accidentally offer the usual condolences. Wondering how bad it was going to be.

It was six o’clock in the morning. He needed to sleep. Whatever was about to fall on his head could wait until after noon.

***

The initial call had been annoyingly uninformative. Please come in to the office, there is paperwork you need to see. Mrs. Easton’s trust will be wound up and there are some complications. Complications, Scott remembered, and said, Are you fucking kidding me?

Cohn and Kessler both flinched, blinking. Maybe people didn’t use the F word in this tasteful conference room. It was just about the only word Scott wanted to say, which was almost funny given that he hardly ever used the word in real life. It occurred to him that he liked the way it sounded. Ruth said, Um, I know this is unexpected.

Scott shoved a hand through his hair. You could say that. For the past six years I’ve been expecting that when she died I was going to have about a million dollars in debt and nothing else. Oh except probably a million-dollar lawsuit from the family of whoever she killed in a car accident. She’d had a dozen. She’d been driving without a license for years.

Nathan Kessler said tentatively, We hope this is good news.

Scott gave him a look that said ‘are you fucking kidding me’ all over again. Yes, it’s good news. Why didn’t your father know about this?

Nathan was a junior Kessler, who’d joined the practice two years ago, long after Scott’s last trip through the doors. The elder Kessler had died suddenly from a heart attack, leaving his son to carry on the practice. And, apparently, to read a few things the old man had overlooked. He couldn’t blame Easton for being angry. It hadn’t even been Kessler Senior’s case to begin with; it was the elder Cohn, also now deceased, who brought in the business. Who’d written that Dickensian trust, somehow burying the material