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the bellhop's shaggy blond mop.
The lights are on
, I realized,
but there's nobody home at Hotel California
.
    “Oh, no, ma'am. It's a gift. There's a card.”
    WELCOME TO TINSEL TOWN
.
    I THINK YOU'RE ABOUT TO HIT IT VERY BIG
.
    DON'T BE FOOLED BY ALL THE GLITTERY GOLD
,
    THOUGH
…
    OR A FEW DOZEN ROSES EITHER
.
    LOVE YA AND JENNIE TOO
,
B
.
    Love ya too, Barry. But I'll never bring you another cup of coffee for as long as I live
.

CHAPTER 12
    M AYBE YOU CAN imagine what I was feeling, or maybe nobody ever could.
    This was everything I had dreamed of. All my mind-breaking work, all of Barry's merciless bullying, all the voice lessons and the rewrites. Now, here I was, my stomach tied in sailor's knots, peeking down the semidarkened corridor leading to Recording Room A in the famous Devan Sound Studios.
    Famous songs are recorded here. My song could be famous too. Hooo boy
.
    This was it, boom or bust; that one big shot everybody says they want, but that so many of us never get, and I sure never thought I would.
    I knew that different studios achieved a curious mystique, sometimes a superstitious reputation, within the tight clique of major musicians, superstar singers, and their managers. For years, Elton John would record only in an isolated chateau in the south of France. The Rolling Stones had recorded in a ticky-tacky houseboat in Jamaica to get a certain sound. A lot of country singers wanted a specific Nashville studio, and only Chet Atkins could produce their records.
    Devan was like that in L.A. I held Jennie's hand. We watched in a kind of dream as a Barry Kahn/Barbra Streisand recording session unfolded before our eyes.
    I didn't like it! I hated it, actually. I wanted to scream at the two of them. Barbra's voice was not the one I'd had in my head when I composed “Loss of Grace.” Her style was
too
distinctive, too overpowering.
    “What do you think?” I asked Jennie. She had heard me sing the song hundreds of times at home. She knew my phrasing, the big emotion shifts.
    “Not as good as you,” Jennie said after a moment's deliberation, “but I like this one too. It's so pretty.”
Traitor. Infiltrator
.
    It got prettier as they worked on it though. Each take got better. I began to hear things in my own song I never knew existed. It was my song, but it became hers too. I realized it was a nearly perfect collaboration.
    I sat back and quietly ate some crow. Barry kept stopping by between takes. He was being so nice to Jennie and me, so supportive and encouraging suddenly.
    After a while, I imagined Barbra Streisand was singing only for me, the way I had sung to Jennie, and I felt transported to a place where the music and all my emotions came together. I was back at West Point, but in happier times, when I used to sing to Smooch the squirrel, and only occasionally let myself dream about moments like this.
    I began to feel numb all over, but
nice
-numb.
    There were at least a hundred different takes before Barbra and Barry pronounced themselves satisfied, and the tension in the control room dissolved into dumb jokes and contagious laughter. I felt a powerful surge of relief, as though I had done the actual singing. I bowed my tired head.
    I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I turned, and looked into the face of Barbra Streisand. She had snuck up on me.
    In real life (
if this was real life
) she was striking, but not conventionally beautiful. There was kindness in her eyes, and her smile was sympathetic. I'd already seen that she could be tough, but she had a soft, sweet side as well. Don't believe everything you read in the papers—
trust me on that one
.
    “I know what you must feel right now,” she said. “A little bit, anyhow. I remember my Broadway debut,
my
first recording session. Butterflies and the shakes, right?”
    “Just your basic out-of-body experience,” I said.
    She sat down next to Jennie and me. “Just remember that you earned this. All the sweat and the tears and the