"Why Daddy wears a tie?"

Josh stood at the mirror, looping the silk fabric over itself in memorized sequence, and then sliding the knot up to his neck. He straightened his collar, smoothed a hand down each sleeve of his wool jacket, and then turned to Jack, perched in the middle of the bed, on his knees.

"Daddy has a meeting today. Do you know what a meeting is?"

"No," Jack answered plainly, bouncing to the beat of the music from the cartoon.

"A meeting is when people get together to talk about things. I have a meeting to talk about work."

"Drawing?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "Drawing." He picked up his wallet and cell phone, tucked them into his pockets and picked up his keys. "Do I look good, buddy?"

Jack answered without even really looking. "Yeah. Can we go now?"

"Yep. Vamonos!"

Josh hated these meetings. He didn't work in the corporate world for a reason-so many meetings, there was no time to work. Bureaucracy and politics and kissing up and glad-handing, all to get shaken down when it came to the cost of a design.

This better be worth putting on a tie, he thought, stepping out of the car, tucking his portfolio under his arm and rushing into the fancy building. Twenty floors of nothing but glass--an architectural nightmare.

"See, what I envision for this building is something not just edgy, but over the edge. Sort of an outer space kind of feel, but not weird, at least not weird for the sake of being weird. Classy, cool, liquid. Silvers and blacks and deep blues. Sharp angles, very uhm..."

"Sterile."

"Well, no. Not sterile, not quite. Just short of it."

Josh hesitated, watching Richard Drumland review the plans he'd painstakingly prepared for this meeting. Drumland owned several large corporations housed in beautifully designed buildings. To have the Chasez Designs name on one of his buildings would be a career maker. He was salivating over the opportunity, but he was also up against stiff competition with more years and experience and designs under their belts.

He wiped at a bead of sweat on his brow, and dove back in. "If there's anything you'd like to change, or add, I would be happy to make modifications, of course. I'm wide open. Nothing's set in stone, as they say."

Drumland glanced over at Josh briefly, then returned his gaze to the large scale, shaded, exacting mock-up. He paced back and forth, thumb over his bottom lip, bending to inspect a detail, mumbling to himself.

"Well, it's one of the more innovative designs I've seen, for sure. It's futuristic." He paused, clasped his hands behind his back, bent forward to closely inspect the drawing, and then nodded. "It's a science center, so that fits."

"Exactly," Josh said, his excitement returning, coming around the table to stand next to Drumland. "There's great potential with this design. It can expand or shrink easily, depending on any spec changes. There's nothing unnecessary here, Richard. Mr. Drumland."

Josh stepped back, cursing himself for getting so familiar. He'd known Richard Drumland for years-his granddaughter and Matilda attended the same school-but this was a formal presentation. He prayed he hadn't just flubbed his way out of a great opportunity.

Drumland didn't seem to notice. Either that or he didn't care. He bounced his fist off of the table as if he was stamping the design, then stuck his hand out and shook Josh's hand vigorously, his grip strong.

"I like it, Chasez. May need to scale down some of the steel if push comes to shove on the budget. The cost of steel is out of control, these days. We're reviewing about twenty designs that we'll narrow down to the final selection. Consider yourself on the short list. We'll be in touch."

With that, Drumland walked out of the conference room without so much as a second glance. On the outside, Josh was calm and collected, packing up his design into his portfolio, dropping off a set with the receptionist as requested, marching out to the car. On the inside, he was trembling with excitement. At the very least, he could now say that one of his designs had been considered by Drumland Enterprises. If he was actually chosen, he would consider it a miracle.

"So what, exactly, did he say?"

"He said, ‘consider yourself on the short list'. Cool huh, honey?"

Celeste washed greens and vegetables for a salad, keeping her eye on the sizzling pan on the stove. "It's great that you got a meeting with him. That I know of, there are no other independent firms being allowed to bid. I keep telling you," she said, pointing a carrot at him. "You're on the fast track. Chasez Designs is about to blow up."

Josh nervously chewed a thumbnail, deep in thought. "I hope so. I also hope the short list isn't all twenty designs they're looking at."

Celeste reached over and gently pulled at his hand. "Don't stress yourself out about it." He removed his thumb from his mouth and leaned into her hand, softly kissing her palm. "We're proud of you, no matter what happens."

"Thanks. So what's Palmer working on, lately?"

Celeste gave him the brief version of the projects assigned to the firm where she was working her way to Lead Project Manager. Palmer& Wilson started as a small three-man venture, but slowly gained reputation in the Orlando area and was now a force to be reckoned with when it came to innovative Health Care Facility design. It was a nice niche to be in, and Celeste seemed to not only really enjoy the job, but excelled at it. The position sort of fell into her lap, just as Josh had left his former firm and hung out a shingle. Someone had to pay the mortgage while he released himself from the constraints of status quo and ‘same building, different shape' syndrome, as he liked to call it.

"That reminds me," she said, closing the refrigerator door, her smile growing brighter. "I have a ribbon cutting next week."

"Oh yeah, on the uh..." Josh snapped his fingers, trying to remember. "Nursing home, right? That building went up fast."

"I know!" She paused, and frowned a little. "It's in the middle of the morning, though. I wish you guys could come."

"Who says we can't? I'll just keep Jack and Till, attend your ceremony, take mommy to lunch."

"Maybe I'll take a half day, and we can take the kids to school, after." She smiled, slowly, and hinted with her eyebrows and a teasing glance at him.

"Why would we...oh." Josh glanced into the living room, making sure the two were still watching their usual afternoon cartoons, then stepped into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Celeste, drawing her close, pressing his lips against hers. "That's a good idea," he mumbled against them. "That's why I married you, you know. Smart girl."

"You're such a suck up. I'm really looking forward to it now, though."

"Mmmm," he hummed. "Me too." They stood together in the kitchen, swaying a little, as if there wasn't dinner simmering on the stove and a salad to finish and children to peel away from the TV. For that brief moment, it was just the two of them.  

"Mom? After dinner I have to do my spelling words, can you help me?"

"It's like they have radar or something," Celeste whispered, before leaning around Josh to answer her. "Yep, but right now, could you help Daddy set the table for me?" She pulled away from him and he gave her a look, one that said he'd be helping her clean up that night.

Another sleepless night was upon him. It was the dream again, always the dream. It was so real, sometimes. Disturbingly real. He tried to watch a little TV but nothing was on but infomercials and music videos, and those were a little too close for comfort.

Josh wandered quietly in the dark, stood at the blinds swaying lightly from the central air blowing through the house, staring out into the backyard and beyond, up into the night sky.

Why couldn't he let it go? Why wouldn't this dream leave him alone?

His eyes moved across the yard, to the swing set that he and his dad had built in the backyard, for the kids. Sturdy. Colorful. Fun. They'd spent all summer on that thing, couldn't get them into the house. Sunday afternoon barbecues with the family were spent basically watching Jack and Till climb the stairs and slide down the slide and swing on the swings and crawl through the tubes, while he played Grill Master and exchanged barbs with his brother and sister. This was his life. He was happy with it.

So why won't the dream go away?

"Josh?" Again, Celeste broke the trance, the endless train of thought. He felt her behind him, her arms reaching around him, her chin on his back. "Dream again?"

He nodded, patting her hands clasped at his belly. "I'm alright."

"Except you're not. You're up every other night with this. Maybe you should see someone."

He snorted, a short bitter tone. "I was just thinking that maybe I'm crazy or something."

"Not crazy," she said with a squeeze. "Tortured, for some reason, but not crazy."

"I don't know, honey. I can't get this to go away."

Celeste came around to his side and fit herself against him, where she fit so well. "Well, maybe your subconscious wants you to do something about it."

"Like, see someone? I don't think therapy is for me."

"No, Josh," she said, frustration at the edge of her voice. "I mean write something. And sing it. I mean actually touch the piano that you spent so much money on and rarely play."

He knew she was right. He should. He could. Just... "I don't know."

"You don't know what? Come here." She pulled him away from the window and led him to the couch. He laid his head on her lap and stared up at her, while she ran her fingers through his hair, her nails scratching his scalp. He was already getting sleepy, again.

"Tell me," she whispered down to him. "Tell me what's going on with you?"

He reached up, curled a finger around a lock her hair, then uncurled it, and curled it again.

"I just keep feeling like...like maybe I could have made it. I moved to Florida to go to school, so I could graduate, here. Then my parents didn't have to pay out of state tuition. But... the other reason is because there's a pretty cool music scene here. I had friends who were doing it, working at Universal and singing in clubs. I thought I could maybe make the music thing work. But I just keep going back to that day when I couldn't even sing in a room full of random people, let alone in front of a crowd."

His gaze floated around the room, looking at anything but Celeste. It was hard to admit that he didn't have what it took, especially to someone who seemed to believe he was almost superhuman, capable of anything.

"You need, like, a big ego. Need to think of yourself as a superstar to even stand out.  Not to mention the talent-there's a guitarist on every block, a keyboardist on every corner, a singer in waiting on tables in every Italian restaurant. I never even really tried, and then you know, I always wanted to design buildings, and I knew I could do that, so..."

His voice trailed off and he released the silky strands, his hands falling to his chest. "I guess I never really tried, so I don't know if I could have made it or not."

"Well maybe your brain doesn't want you to let it go. You have the dream for a reason, Josh. You should really give it a shot."

He frowned in frustration, so severely that his forehead seemed to have permanent lines drawn in the skin. "How, Celeste? I'm too old to be out there, peddling myself. I don't even know how or where to start. And I can't be some crazy musician all night, out there like a fool, and still work a day job, and still take Jack to school and still pick up our kids every afternoon." He smiled, then reached up and brushed her cheek with his hand.  "And when I'm out there, trying to be some kind of singer guy, who will be here to give you all that good lovin'?"  

Her head tipped back as she laughed softly. "I think we'll manage somehow. We did it before, we can do it again." It wasn't ideal, but they had done it before. Arranging schedules and paying out the nose for daycare, just so they could both work their fingers to the bone, sun up to sun down for nothing, it seemed. They were getting nowhere. Well, Josh was getting nowhere except frustrated.

"So, start slow. Write something. Play something." She took his hand and held it close to her chest, feeling her heartbeat underneath their hands. Her eyes seemed to be pleading with him to take the one step he was most afraid of taking. "You have a talent that is wasting away and not only that, but it's eating at you from the inside, trying to get out. You have to share it. There is a reason this tortures you. Please, don't deny it anymore. Your mind isn't going to let you, anyway."

He sat up, and then stood and extended a hand to her. Without a word they climbed the stairs hand in hand, tiptoed past the kids' bedrooms and entered their own, closing the door softly behind them.

It was a bright, beautiful Sunday afternoon. The usual clan was lounging around the house-- Heather's fiancé Philip and Roy were in the living room watching Sports Center and debating their fantasy football rosters. Celeste, Heather, and Karen sat around the kitchen table, leafing through bridal magazines. Philip had proposed at Christmas, and though the wedding was still a year off, it was never too early to start planning. Tyler and Josh sat out on the deck, enjoying a beer in the warm afternoon sun. Till and Jack were making the rounds from the backyard to the living room to the kitchen and around again.

"So, Celeste said you had something you wanted to talk to me about."

"Did she, now?" Josh took a long pull off of the bottle of cheap domestic beer, frowning at the taste, letting it slide down his throat anyway. "Who let you buy the beer, Ty? Shit."

"What, you're cultured, now?" Tyler let out a snort and took a swig off of his own bottle. "You just earned yourself beer duty next weekend. What'd you want to talk about?"

Josh raised himself from a reclining position in the chair and sat forward. "I'm still having that dream," he said plainly. "You know?"

Tyler nodded. Josh had been having the same dream for a very long time. "Gonna do something about it? Need me to drive you to the shrink?"

"No. No, I just..." He stared down at the bottle in his hands, twisting it over and over between them, watching the amber liquid swish and froth in the bottom of the bottle.

"You just..."

Maybe if he just spit it out, then it would be out there and Tyler could point and laugh and then the conversation would be over. And then he could go to a therapist or something and talk about this ridiculous dream that wouldn't leave him alone, but there was no way he was leaving a family he worked so hard for, that he'd dreamt about from the moment he met his wife. 

Or maybe, if he just ignored it some more, it would only haunt him for the rest of his life.

"I just was thinking that maybe I could write something. And you guys-the band-could take a look at it? And maybe do the song?"

Josh stared at the bottle some more, drained it, watched the sunlight reflect off of the color, avoiding Tyler's stare. It was bad enough that he was humbling himself to ask if he could write a song for his brother's band, comprised of mostly young Associates at the law firm. They weren't very serious at all, they only really played for fun, but they had a standing gig at the Warehouse every Friday night. It was always a very casual set, but the band had a strong local following. Tyler's band doing his song would mean at least a few hundred people would hear it, would be honest about it, and then he'd know if he really had any talent or if he was just indulging some deeply rooted wish.

"I could. We could." Tyler nodded, tipping the bottle back for a swig. He swallowed, and then focused his eyes on his brother. Narrowing. Staring. Searching. "Something wrong with your fingers though? Your voice? You always have an open invitation to step up there, man. You know we only do Law and Order during the day."

Well, he'd be damned if he was going to really admit, out loud, that he was afraid to step on the stage and sing in front of people. He sang for Celeste and for his kids-bedtime songs and Christmas carols. Anymore than a few people in the room and he would freeze. No words would come out of his mouth-- and then he'd just be standing there, looking stupid, feeling stupid, and it'd be that failed audition all over again. He wasn't about to live that again.

"I know," he finally said, his voice quiet with fear, so low that Tyler could barely hear him over Till's shrieks of laughter. "I don't know if I'm ready for that. Not just yet. But I'd like to write something and see what kind of reaction it gets."

"We could try it. Just this once. If it goes well, and the song is good?  No excuses. I want your ass on that stage with us. I won't take no for an answer."

Josh laughed, the sound covered by Jack yelling at Till. "If it goes well, we'll see."

He tossed the bottle into the recycling bin, the glass making a high pitched 'clink' against the rest of the bottles, and rose from his comfortable position to lean over the deck railing. Soon, Tyler stood next to him, saying nothing as they watched the kids run from one end of the lawn to the other, their shadows growing longer as the sun began its descent. Jack, realizing he was the center of attention, began to shriek at the top of his voice. Maybe Jack had decent singing voice. He definitely had the volume.

Josh glanced at Tyler, who was laughing hysterically at his nephew, and bent over the railing. "Jackson Roy," he said loudly. Jack stopped shrieking and froze in his spot, looking up at his dad. Josh shook his head. "Stop acting like your uncle."

He couldn't believe he was really doing it. It was 11am, and Josh was at the piano and not at the drafting table. He wasn't creating lines and corners and shapes, mimicking reflections off of lakes, inserting needless fountains and other aesthetic fodder for owners and builders to ooh and ahh over. He was at the piano, staring, licking his lips, notepad and pen in his hand, poised for...whatever came out, he guessed.

The sound, the melody that haunted him, the soundtrack to the thoughts in his head that had been rolling around for such a long time finally found an outlet.  And after having been held at bay for so long, it was like turning on a spigot. The words and the harmony and the notes were coming faster than he could write them down, and he'd had to go over and over each section, adding ideas and thoughts until it was... tolerable. In his opinion.

They say a person is his own worst critic. With Josh this was an understatement, and the same thing that had stopped him before, when he'd steal away and try to write, was on the verge of stopping him, now. He thought it was surface-not very deep, and not particularly introspective or revealing or even inviting. The more he wrote and read and thought and worried, the more frustrated he became, until the pencil had been tossed across the room and the notepad had been flung behind him and his elbows leaned against the edge of the piano. He blinked away the tears that threatened and stared at the keys through the blur.

The ebony and the ivory-- weren't they supposed to create the perfect harmony or some shit like that? Whatever. He checked the time-- almost 2:30.

Time to get back to real life, Chasez.

He made it a point to arrive at Jack's classroom a little late, so they'd be sure to be wrapping up. Then he could just sign Jack out without having to beat Ms. Menke off with a stick. On a good day, she made him uncomfortable. On a day like today she might drive him downright mad and he wasn't in the mood. He was afraid that he'd be rude to her, and he didn't want to do that. He just needed some peace-- and some personal space.

Josh was in and out of the pre-school building in record time, Jack on his arm babbling away, his heart lightening with each step. Not that he played favorites, because Matilda had that "daddy's girl" grip on him, but Jack was just about his most favorite person in the world, outside of his wife. Jack seemed to be everything he wasn't-- outgoing and gregarious, talkative and open, confident and fearless. Jack really thought he could be a fireman-police officer-cowboy-racecar driver and no one could tell him any different. Josh envied that.

Oh, to be a child, to be blissfully unaware that sometimes the one thing you want is unattainable, that you can't do everything you set your mind to, and sometimes the Universe looks at your hopes and dreams and says, "no."

It wasn't the dream that woke him, this time. In fact, he'd been sleeping peacefully all night, falling asleep a few minutes after Celeste had snuggled up against him and her breathing had slowed to a steady pace. It woke him out of a deep sleep, haunting and flirting and swirling in his head. His eyes cracked open slowly, one at a time and he looked around the silent room in the pre-dawn light. A sound, a familiar sound was in his ear, but not in the room.

It was in his head. It was the song.

Gently, quietly, he slid out from behind Celeste and pulled the sheet up and around her again before tip toeing out of the room and down the stairs. The notepad and pencil had mysteriously been picked up from where he'd flung them and laid on top of the piano. He pulled out the seat, slid onto it, picked up the pad and pencil and found a clean page.

And then started writing. And drawing, but not squares and rectangles. Notes. Lines and lines of them.  He couldn't play the piano because it was still early, but he could draw the notes, the tunes that were in concert in his head over and over. Relentless and no longer soft and lilting but loud and brash and forceful, almost fighting their way out. He hummed the tune to himself, whispered the words as the sun rose, bathing the first floor in a bright yellow light.

There was stirring upstairs. It would be time to start the day, soon.

"Daddy." The voice startled him, interrupted his concentration. Brought him back to life. His real life. He whipped around in the direction of the voice to find Matilda peeking shyly around the doorway. He extended an arm to her, twisting around on the bench.

"Good morning," he said softly. "Are you supposed to be down here?"

She shook her head no, and then giggled in that cute little voice of hers that tickled his heart, and came around the corner, running to him with arms up and out. He scooped her up and hugged her tight, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head.

"So, what are you doing down here? You have to get ready for school. You don't want to make mom late."

She leaned against him, settling into a familiar spot on his lap. "I went to your room, but you weren't there. Mommy said you were down here. Are you playing the piano?"  A hand reached out to stroke the keys, and a single note rang out, loud and clear.

"No, but I might, later. You need to head back upstairs, little girl. We're on a schedule." He set her down and gave her soft pat on the bottom, smiling as he watched her tiny feet pitter-patter across the floor.

"Josh, can you send Till back up here? I'm sending Jack down to you!"

He sighed, more content than resigned, and stood, pushing the bench under the piano with his knee and heading to the staircase where a laughing, loud, wriggling, babbling three year old came running at him, jumping into arms that opened just in time to catch him.

At 10am Josh settled in at the drafting table, a mug of steaming hot coffee at his elbow, his pencils and eraser and rulers and protractors and other tools all lined up in a row, just within arm's reach. Lots of architects were using CAD, and that was all well and good, and it wasn't as if he wasn't as technologically savvy as the next designer. He just preferred to draw it first, to create it on paper before entering dimensions and values into a computer program and spitting out something mechanically generated. It seemed cold and one dimensional and not innovative and artistic.

The use of the web and computers to draw and design buildings was strong impetus toward leaving his last job.  When every new design looks like your last four, work loses its excitement and creating something new loses its appeal and soon, the job is just a job and not something you do because you love. He had already given up one dream. He couldn't give up the dream of being a world renowned architect and designer, too.

He worked steadily, perfecting the second level of the Performing Arts Center, studying his notes from the progress meeting the day before. The design was due in a week. He was on schedule to start plotting the skeleton into his design program and would have a digital replica of his drawings in a few days.

He found himself humming a familiar melody, at first not paying attention to himself, and then slowly realizing he was humming the song. It didn't even have a name and wasn't finished yet-it barely had a first verse and no chorus or bridge, yet--but it was clearly rolling around in his mind and trying to come out. Amused, and a little surprised, he kept working and kept humming.

He took a break at 12:30 and hummed his way to the kitchen. He stood in front of the refrigerator, looking for something quick and easy he could eat and a few words tumbled out. Warmed up a dish of leftover noodle stir fry from the night before, and a few more words came to him. By the time lunch was over, the elusive second verse seemed to have completed itself.

Maybe I should write this down, he thought, rinsing his plate and setting it into the dishwasher. Tentative, he slowly made his way down the hall to the formal sitting room, with the piano in the corner, his notepad and pencil where he'd left them.

He stepped over the threshold of the room and stopped. If he started working on the song again, it would consume him, and he had a lot of work to do before it was time to pick up Jack. Halfway to the piano, he turned on his heel, and walked out of the room.