The Pages We Forget by Anthony Lamarr Page A

studio?”
    â€œShe’s been shut up in there all morning.”
    Alex looked at the clock. It was eleven-thirty. “Damn.” Alex jumped up. “Why did you let me sleep this late?”
    â€œJunie told me not to wake you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShe said you needed to rest.”
    â€œTell Bernard I’ll be right down.” Alex walked into the bathroom to freshen up before meeting with Bernard.
    Bernard was sitting at the desk in the library talking on the phone when Alex walked in. “What’s up, B?”
    Bernard signaled for Alex to wait while he finished talking to his assistant, Cheryl. “Pick us up here at six. And be on time. Our flight leaves at eight.”
    Alex sat on the edge of the desk and stared at the television. A show forecasting Oscar night was on E! Television. “Are you watching this?” Alex asked Bernard.
    â€œIt’s a repeat. I saw it this morning,” he answered. “According to E! and a poll on CBS’s The Early Show, we’re still the front-runner.” He paused. “Cheryl, I’ll check in with you later.” He pressed the phone’s end call button and then turned to Alex. “What happened this morning?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, what happened?”
    â€œJunie and Leatrice were supposed to meet with Chip so she could pick the gown she’s going to wear Sunday, but Junie called and left a message canceling the appointment. I called here, but Junie told Mrs. Freda to hold all calls. I paged Leatrice to see if she knew why Junie canceled, but she hasn’t called me back yet.”
    â€œI haven’t talked with her this morning, so I don’t know,” Alex said and started toward the door. “She’s been in the studio all morning.”
    â€œReally?” Like Alex, Bernard was a bit surprised to hear June was in the studio. Unless she was recording, she rarely went in the studio. Even when Alex was working at home with other well-known artists, she hardly ever sat in on their recording sessions. The studio belonged to Alex. Bernard asked, “What’s she doing?”
    â€œI have no idea.”
    Unbeknownst to Alex and Bernard, June wasn’t alone in the studio, as Mrs. Freda suggested. Torrence Clarke, one of the hottest young producers and recording engineers in the business, was in the studio with her. After meeting Torrence at a local talent showcase three years ago, Alex took the then seventeen-year-old from Detroit’s Eastside under his wing. He debuted professionally the next year when Alex allowed him to produce two songs on June’s third CD. Both songs were huge hits.
    While Alex slept, June had called Torrence around five-thirty that morning and asked him to come over. “I wouldn’t call and bother you this time of morning if it wasn’t urgent,” she told him. “I’m working on a song and I need your help. Can you come to the house?” Torrence’s money-green Jag pulled into the driveway a few minutes after sunrise. They had been locked in the studio ever since.
    He was working the huge audio mixing board while June was in the recording booth, preparing to do a take, when Alex and Bernard walked in the studio. June glanced at Alex and Bernard through the big glass window separating the control room and the recording booth. Unfazed by their presence, June adjusted the headphones over her ears then closed her eyes as Torrence cued the music.
    â€œThe years have healed the pain.” Her achingly beautiful voice wafted through the studio. “We’ve learned to love again. Until that moment in time, when again we feel the rhythm, we hear the rhyme. It slowly starts to beat. Then those chapters of our lives start to repeat.”
    Bernard sat down next to Torrence, awestruck by the power of the lyrics. “Did you write this?”
    â€œNo. She did.”
    â€œWhat?” Bernard turned to Alex. “This is