Wishing You Were Here: A Young Adult Rock 'n' Roll Time Travel Romance: Soul Mates, #1

PROLOGUE

Here's Joey Tempo

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April 14, 1956

Joseph Temporelli's fingers raced over the guitar strings as the sweat rolled down his back. Even the weather was against him. The air in the tiny recording booth felt suffocating. Beyond the studio windows, ribbons of heat rose from the Memphis sidewalk. A hazy sun beat down on the passersby and bounced off the bumper of a blue Chevy convertible pulling up to the drive-in diner across the street. He wanted one of their frosty root beer floats so badly right now, he could almost feel the fizz on his tongue.

The neck of the black Gretsch guitar grew slick beneath Joey’s grip, and he paused to wipe his right hand against his jeans. This was worse than anything he’d had to endure back home in Boston, but so far the results had been the same. No one wanted to give his music a chance.

For an entire week he’d haunted Star Studios, where anyone willing to pay a couple bucks could make a record. But now he was out of money, out of patience, and nearly out of hope. His fingers stung. His forearms ached. His head throbbed. Today would be his last day in this hot, miserable town, and part of him was glad. He'd never imagined all his hard work would bring him nothing more than a handful of useless singles. How could he have come all this way and still have nothing to show for it? He’d been so sure the trip to Memphis was the break he needed—felt like destiny after all the failed attempts to get noticed in Boston—but now...

Everywhere he'd turned in this town, doors had slammed in his face. It would be easy to blame his age—teenagers don’t get respect and all that. But at nineteen, he was only a couple years younger than Elvis, and Elvis was getting plenty of respect. It had to be the music. He had to find the right sound—his sound. Then someone would notice. They had to. What would he do if they didn’t? Where could he go?

Desperation drove his fingers back to the strings, his attention back to the notes he’d scrawled on the back of the one-way bus ticket that had gotten him here. If he could just find the key to unlocking the magic. He had the talent—the guitar felt like a part of him. It was simply a matter of getting the right combination, the perfect sound to stand out in a sea of hopeful musicians who had come to Memphis to be discovered.

A quick glance at his watch sent his heart racing. His time was almost up. He’d only get one more run-through before the next musician came to use the booth. He looked at his arrangement again. Do or die, man, give it all you got.

No one ever played ‘Tutti Frutti’ like this, he said into the microphone with a chuckle. He took a deep breath and started the tape machine. Three minutes later, he stepped out of the soundproof box. Another masterpiece was about to be pressed—for all the good it would do him. At least he had that root beer to look forward to.

A stocky, dark-haired man in a tan suit entered the studio just as Joey closed his guitar case. The man stood out not only because he was middle-aged, but also because of his proud, confident stance. This wasn’t some hopeful bass slapper come in off the street. Why would someone like him want to hang out with a bunch of young guys who considered themselves the next Elvis Presley?

The stranger approached Joey, fanning himself every few seconds with a straw fedora. In his other hand he held what looked like the master copy of the song Joey had recorded the day before—and left in the trash. A little-known thirties tune called Moon Out Tonight to which Joey had added a modern rock and roll guitar arrangement.

What’s your name, boy? the man asked in a commanding voice with a strong Memphis accent.

Joey Tempor—

My associate Nick here tells me you did this song. That true?

Yes, sir. I was just fooling 'round in the studio, trying to get the feel of the equip—

It's great! Hey, Nick, get over here.

A lanky young man dressed in blue jeans and a short-sleeved, plaid shirt sauntered out of the recording booth the professional musicians used. Nick didn’t look much older than Joey. He'd seen him around the past few days, but they'd never spoken.

The older man waved his hat in Joey’s direction. Nick, this here's Joey Tempo. He’s the singer of this here song you sent me.

Temporelli, Joey corrected him, but Nick didn’t seem to hear.

Nick took the disc and looked it over, nodding. Then he held out his hand to Joey. Nick Graham. I like the way you play that Gretsch left-handed without restringin’. That’s a pretty hip style for a northern boy.

Joey smiled. He’d taught himself the notes and chords by ear as a child, never realizing they were upside-down until he saw a guitar book later on.

Nick ran long, skinny fingers through a layer of wavy blond hair and glanced at the record again. Joey Tempo, eh? Nice name. He wagged the record back and forth. Great song, too. I heard it while you were recording it yesterday. I think it'll be a hit.

Really? Joey dared not read too much into Nick’s comment. He’d come so close too many times before to get his hopes up now.

Nick’s gaze fell to the older man.

Yes, sir-ee. The man stopped waving his hat and placed it on a nearby chair. My name's Walter Miles. He extended his hand to Joey. I own Milestone Records, a little outfit over there in Shelby Falls. You're just what my label's been looking for.

I am? Joey’s pulse broke into a lightning rhythm, despite his effort to play it cool.

See, over at Sun they had Elvis Presley—before they sold him off to RCA that is—and my label’s looking for its own star. The man whistled loudly. Wait 'til the world hears you. He chuckled. And wait'll the little gals get a look at ya. Walter reached into his jacket pocket. Joey Tempo, I want you to sign a contract right this very minute with Milestone Records.

A contract? Joey asked. Because of one song? This was too good to be true. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

You got more where this one came from, son, Walter said with a confident grin. Under the right guidance, boy, you’re gonna be a star.

Joey's head swam. He couldn’t be sure if it was the heat or his excitement muddling his thoughts. This whole time in Memphis not once had he been able to attract anyone’s attention but the bus driver’s. Yet here stood a man with a contract in one hand and a pen in the other.

Without a second thought, Joey scrawled his name on the form. He placed his future, and all his dreams, into the hands of Walter Miles and Milestone Records.

CHAPTER 1

Careful What You Wish For

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Present Day

Sherry, it's all set, Callie said into her cell phone as she paced in front of the box fan pulling tepid June air into her second-story bedroom. My dad's arranging a 60's music marathon that will broadcast during the party, and he said he can give us two hours commercial-free.

Wow, how'd he get the okay to do that?

Not sure. Probably because Sunday night is slow for radio. But isn't that awesome?  We'll have non-stop dancing from eight to ten at least. A bunch of the kids she'd just graduated high school with had planned a 60's-themed party down at the community pool for that evening, and she'd promised to deliver the music. He even let me pick most of the songs for the playlist, so I know they'll be perfect.

I knew we chose the right person for this job.

I'm just glad no one asked me to bake. You'd all be going hungry.

Sherry laughed. No worries. I've got that covered. I'll see you at the pool around six to set up, okay?

Sounds good. My grandmother also said she might have some old stuff in the attic here that we could use for decorations and stuff. If I find anything not hideously embarrassing, I'll bring it along.

Oh, that'll be great. We have a few things we got at the party store, but they're, you know, manufactured to look old. If you've got genuine old stuff, that'll be better.

A gentle knock sounded at her door.

Callie? Nana called. Did you want to look in the attic with me now?

Coming! Callie called out. I gotta go, Sherry. I'll see you at six.

Callie ended the call and followed her grandmother down the hall to the door that led to the attic. The 200-year-old staircase trembled as they proceeded up into the dimly lit roof space.

Wow, it's hot in here, Callie said. Her hair was already sticking to the back of her neck, and she'd barely moved more than a few feet. Are you sure you should be up here with me?

Nana laughed.  I've lived through plenty of summers in Massachusetts a lot hotter than this. I'll open the windows and it'll feel better.

Callie doubted that. She crossed the threshold into a smothering blanket of dead air that would take hours to clear out, if it ever did. Looking for 60's memorabilia in an attic in June was perhaps not the best idea she'd ever had. But Sherry and the others were counting on her to find something fabulous and authentically 60's, so she didn't want to disappoint.

Nana thrust open the dusty windows on either end of the attic space. A less than cool breeze wafted in. I'll check these boxes over here, she said in a cheery tone.

Callie surveyed the silhouettes of worn cardboard boxes scattered across the floor. Even with the windows wide open and two bare bulbs cascading a yellow hue throughout the space, it felt dark and dreary. She turned in a circle, searching for a place to start. At least the attic had enough headroom to stand, but the loose insulation on the walls and roof made her skin itchy. Her face must've betrayed her discomfort because seconds later her grandmother's surprisingly sturdy arm encircled her waist.

Don't worry, Callie. This won't take long. I know exactly where to look. Nana gestured at the darkened loft with an adventurous gleam in her eye. "But think of all the long forgotten treasures just waiting for you to find them."

Riiiiight. Callie forced a smile. Sure, there was bound to be plenty of old things in her grandmother’s attic, some might even be interesting, but she wasn't on a sightseeing trip. She just wanted to find some cool decorations and get in the shower. Her hands instinctively rubbed at her clammy arms.

Nana shuffled over to a large box by the window and started looking inside.

Callie headed to the opposite corner, her nose tickling as cobwebs brushed against her face. She pushed them away with a shudder, then knelt down before a stack of boxes near the eaves. The scent of sawdust and old cardboard wafted toward her.

Box after box, she and Nana worked their way into the middle of the attic floor. So far the only treasures they’d uncovered were an old transistor radio, a John F. Kennedy campaign sign and a couple appliances with chrome edges and avocado accents. The Kennedy sign would certainly add a nice touch to the party décor, but the other things she wasn't sure about.

She rubbed at the dirt on the back of her neck after finishing with another box. Outdoor Christmas lights...an old dog dish... She couldn’t remember her grandmother ever having a dog. Perspiration coated her skin, and she prickled all over. She really wanted that shower now.

She eyed her grandmother, who continued to remove items from boxes with zest, saying something about having a yard sale. Probably a good idea, Callie thought, sinking back on her heels with a heavy sigh. She wondered about the memories going through Nana's mind, seeing all these things again after so many years. Part of her wanted to keep going so her grandmother could continue to reminisce. Another part of her kept glancing at her watch. The afternoon was ticking away and she hadn't even decided on an outfit for the party yet.

Okay, one more box, she decided, then she would tell her grandmother they'd die of dehydration if they stayed another minute. Surely her grandmother would agree this was not the right time of year for a thorough inventory.

She lifted the lid to an old leather and brass footlocker that had been buried under stacks of boxes. Inside cheerleader pom-poms, class pictures and yearbooks tumbled over one another. She pinched her nose to hold back a sneeze and took a closer look. Her pulse quickened.

Now things are getting interesting, she murmured. She’d unearthed her grandmother’s box of school mementos. Should be plenty of things from the 60's in here. She’d often wondered what it must’ve been like for her grandmother to grow up in this house, to go to the same high school Callie had just graduated from, but in a completely different era. Nana told her once she'd considered going to teaching college, but with two boys in the family all her parents could afford was a business course that taught her how to work in an office. Callie couldn't imagine not being able to go to college. She'd been thinking of little else since receiving her acceptance letter from Boston University. Their broadcast journalism program would bring her one step closer to a career in radio, just like her dad's.

She thumbed through a yearbook for Sacred Heart’s class of 1960 and chuckled at her grandmother’s flip-curl hairdo. She ran her fingers through her own shoulder-length, dark hair. Thank God she hadn’t lived back then. There was no way she could’ve pulled that off. How much hairspray did that take anyway? And Nana's glasses! Looked like something you'd wear if you wanted to double as Cat Woman.

Then something far more appealing caught her eye. She set the yearbook aside. From the bottom of the trunk, she lifted a worn record sleeve. By its weight, it still contained the LP. She carefully slid the disc out to check its condition—practically mint! A miracle it hadn't warped in the heat. A rush of excitement spread through her. She loved finding vintage records. The sleeve art alone was fascinating, but better still was finding an original LP of some famous, or maybe not-so-famous, band. She might find some 60's groups in here to show off at the party.

But it wouldn’t be this album. She pushed the disc back inside. The smiling, handsome man on the cover looked so alive he practically jumped off the cardboard, but he was from the wrong decade. The Elvis-esque hairdo a dead giveaway.

Still, Callie couldn't put the album down. She traced her finger across the name, then flipped it over to read the back. Nana, who’s Joey Tempo? Kind of a corny name, really. Probably a novelty record. It would make a nice addition to her vintage album collection, though, even if it weren't right for the party.

A singer from the 50's, her grandmother answered without pausing in her work. Like Elvis Presley.

Like Elvis? Yeah, but I've heard of Elvis. How come I've never heard of this Joey guy? Was his music any good?

Her grandmother stopped what she was doing and turned in Callie's direction. A wistful smile crossed her face. You know, I haven’t thought about him in a long, long time.

Callie rolled her eyes. She couldn’t see herself ever feeling that nostalgic over a pop star. In fact, she couldn't stand today's manufactured pop music at all. It had no substance. Too electronic. She much preferred music from the 60's and early 70's. Something about it felt more real, like you could grab the songs with your hands and hold on to them, especially around the time of Vietnam. Now that was music with substance. It meant something. When she ran a radio station, it would definitely feature those classic tunes.

Joey Tempo was fabulous, her grandmother whispered, like it was some great secret, which apparently it was because Callie had never heard of him. I had such a crush on him. Nana giggled. My girlfriends and I played his records every night.

Then how come he's not as famous as Elvis? Although she preferred the 60's, she’d absorbed a few facts about the 50's music scene as well. Strange how someone popular enough to have Nana and her friends going all crazy could slip under her musical radar like this.

Her grandmother resumed sifting through the open box in front of her. Lots of singers in those days had only one or two hit records. Teenagers could be so fickle. One minute Buddy Knox was all the rage, the next it was Bobby Day. Elvis was very lucky.

Or talented. I think I have enough things for the party. Do you mind if I take this record to listen to later on?

Oh goodness, no. Go ahead. It's yours. Take it to the party if you want.

Callie shook her head. I don't think so, she muttered. It's a 60's party, Nana, she said in a louder voice. 50s music is completely different.

I suppose you're right. Me, I don’t care what decade it comes from. If it sounds good, I'll listen to it.

Callie smiled. Her Nana was nothing if not practical. She collected the album, the Kennedy sign and a couple pennants featuring her high school mascot, still a jaguar, that she'd found in the trunk. On her way to the stairs she picked up the box of old appliances as well.

Wait. Her grandmother stopped her at the top step. I think I have a book about Joey Tempo in there somewhere. She rummaged through the contents of the trunk, removing old jackets and ballet shoes. Finally she lifted out a thin, crumpled fan magazine.

Here it is. After a longing glance at the cover picture, she showed it to Callie. "It’s like those Rolling Stone magazines all over your bedroom. I think you’ll find his story interesting."

Watching over her grandmother's shoulder as the older woman thumbed through the pages quickly, she started to understand Nana's fascination with this singer. Forget his story—look at that face! The airbrushed, plastic pose on the album cover hardly did him justice. The more casual shots that accompanied the text showed Joey Tempo in a completely different way. He had a smile that lit up the page and captivatingly sad eyes like Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day, framed with killer lashes long enough to make her jealous.

His dark hair and sexy sideburns were pure Elvis, but he didn’t look like he could snarl if he tried. He seemed too darn happy. Like life was one big party, and he was bringing the tunes. Sort of like what she was doing tonight. He looked about her age in the photos. If he were around today, female fans would eat him alive. So, where was he now?

Nana tucked the magazine into the box alongside the toaster. Have fun. I'm just going to tidy up here a bit and then come down.

Don't stay too long, Nana. It's a billion degrees.

Nana waved her off. You're so used to air conditioning these days, you don't know what hot is.

What air conditioning? Dad promised he'd install it a year ago when he bought the house from you, but hasn't done a thing.

Nana laughed. I know, I know. Well, probably takes a lot of rewiring to get this old place up to code for something like that. I’m sure he'll get around to it when he's not off spinning those records of his.

Callie smiled. "I don't think he handles too many records anymore, Nana." Which was a shame, she thought, glancing at the Joey Tempo album perched on top of the box. She trotted down the stairs and dropped the box just inside the door to her room.

Just as she stepped into the hall to hit the shower, Typhoon Leah rounded the corner, her legs covered in dirt and grass stains from her soccer game that morning.

I call the shower! Leah barreled toward the bathroom, but Callie got there first.

Sorry. Taken.

No way. At only five-foot-three, Leah looked small, but Callie knew better. Her fifteen-year-old sister was built like a brick wall and famous for her ability to break through any team’s defense. Still, she stood her ground. She'd gotten here first and her skin felt like the outside of a tennis ball. She needed a shower more than Leah did.

Yes way. Leah seemed to consider forcing her way past Callie, but then took a step back and smirked. Fine. You go first. I'll just wait...in your room until you're done. And with that she rushed into Callie's room and took a flying leap onto the bed, smearing dirt and bits of grass across Callie's peace sign comforter.

You—! Callie bit her lip to stop saying something that would only get her grounded from the party tonight. Leah knew exactly how to irritate her and get away with it. They used to be best friends and do everything together, which was how Leah knew her so well. But it was that closeness that eventually drove them apart.

When Callie quit the basketball team last year, Leah took it personally. It was true Callie had grown tired of Leah and her competitive streak constantly upstaging her in every game, but the real reason she'd left was to spend more time at the radio station with her father. With college just a year away, she wanted more hands-on experience in the profession she hoped to pursue after graduation.

You should've let me have the shower, Leah said. I called it first.

While Callie stared at her in dismay, Leah rocked back and forth on the bed, daring her to do something about it. Callie refused to take the bait. A loofa with her name on it beckoned from behind a plastic curtain of water lilies, and she fully intended to answer that call. Dust and insulation particles felt ground into her pores. She swore some spots might require pumice.

Twenty minutes later, delightfully exfoliated and her damp hair in a ponytail, she returned to her bedroom. Leah had thankfully vacated it, but not before apparently using the bed as a trampoline. Callie ripped off the comforter and stuffed it in the back of her closet. In this heat it was only decoration anyway. The box fan continued to buzz quietly in the window, churning the heavy air. She put her damp face in front of the fan to catch a few seconds of cool. Having one bathroom in a house with Leah was annoying. No A/C during a New England summer was pure torture.

After making a few calls to touch base with her dad and to check on the party progress, she cleaned and bagged the appliances. When she came back to her room to change for the party, her gaze jumped to the Joey Tempo LP staring at her from the bed. Or rather, his face on the cover was doing the staring. She had to hand it to the jacket artist. Something in Joey's eyes was so life-like it felt like he was right there in the room with her.

Intrigued, she put the LP on her turntable and adjusted the tone and volume knobs to get perfect sound quality. Only her DJ friends still had turntables now the whole world had gone digital, but she had no choice. The best vinyl in her collection hadn’t yet found its way to the digital age.

She crawled up onto her bed and listened as a catchy dance rhythm and lively voice filled the room. Her fingers tapped to the beat instinctively. This guy was good. She turned the album over in her hands again. How had he faded into obscurity so quickly?

Maybe he was like her grandmother said, some crazy one-hit wonder. But when the next song started it became clear he had more than one good song to his name. What in the world happened to him?

She glanced at her computer, probably could find the answer there, but she didn't have time right now for Internet searches. She grabbed the magazine her grandmother had given her and flipped through a few pages on her way to the closet. In the center, a two-page spread from a stage performance gave her pause. Brilliant blue eyes stared out at her. Seemed to be reaching for her. The whole thing sent a shiver of recognition through her that made no sense.

Joey Tempo, she whispered. His name seemed to flow off her lips as if she’d known it all her life. How crazy was that?

Suddenly Callie’s bedroom door burst open with a bang. She jumped and