Sofia and Leah King

"Hi, Grandpa!" Sofia my granddaughter, age six, said sprightly over the phone yesterday.

"Hi, sweetheart. What are you doing today?" I replied, with that little joyful heart flutter the her voice usually inspires in me.

"Listening to Leah King," she said happily. I could hear the CD in the background.

A little back story: Leah King is a singer/songwriter in Los Angeles. Smooth and silky as velvet. She also happens to be an acting student of mine who once gave me a CD of some of her songs. About a year ago, on one of Sofia's visits to Grammy and Grandpa, I pulled it out of my CD pile and thought Sofia, who loves music, might like to hear Leah King sing.

She did; and obviously charmed by Ms. King's voice played the CD over and over again.

When her Popi, ever the researcher, who was also visiting, asked her if she liked Leah King because she sounded like Nora Jones, another favorite of Sofia's, Sofia answered: "No. I like her because she sounds like Leah King."

Back to the present.

A year has passed. And Leah King has continued to be, along with Shakira, Sofia's favorite..

Another piece of other back story: I had also recently sent Sofia two autographed pictures of Leah King, which Sofia had requested long ago and I had been derelict, until recently, to request from Ms. King and send to Sofia. On one of the pictures Leah King explicitly promised to write a song for Sofia. "I promise," Ms. King graciously wrote.

Over the phone: "Thank you for the pictures of Leah King," Sofia said to me, even more chirpily. "You're welcome. Did you like them?"

"Yes. Grandpa," she said with heartfelt gratitude. "when I come out in August with Mommy and Popi, I want to go to Leah King's house."

"Well," I said, "I don't think that would be the proper thing to do. But I could invite Leah over to our house. That might be possible. Would you like that?"

I could hear the excitement and anticipation in Sofia's voice. "Oh, yes, Grandpa (underline yes)."

Our conversation went on to other things: school and swimming and friends.

"Grandpa, Mommy is going to take a work trip soon. She is going to Las Vegas."

"Yes, I know. Then she's going to come to Los Angeles to visit Grammy and me."

"Is she going to meet Leah King?"

"No. I don't think so."

After a long pause: "Don't let her meet Leah King," she said quickly and firm.

Another long pause: "She can't meet Leah King until I meet her in August. Okay, Grandpa?"

"Okay," I said.

She decided to believe me. "Okay. Love you, Grandpa. Want to talk to Mommy?" The question was more a goodbye than a legitimate seeking of my affirmation.

She handed the phone to Mommy Mishi, my lovely daughter.

Sofia was gone, Sofia, the vapor, gone as magically as she had arrived.

Just before I spoke to my daughter, I thought: of such stuff stalkers are made; it was all my fault. Mishi's laughter on the other end of the phone corroborated my fears: I better get Leah King to dinner in August or I will be the stalked.