Lady Sunshine

by Amy Mason Doan

  I think for a minute. “You’re saying he’s stalling?”

  “She’s got it now.” Bree stretches, her bare arms, shining with coconut oil, intertwined above her head. She’s got one of Angela’s old royal-blue kilims twisted in a turban, covering her hair.

  “Then you think the album’s going to be good? It’s coming together?”

  Bree looks at me sideways. “Awfully curious for someone who’s insisted for weeks that she has less than zero interest in it. Or in the person producing it.”

  She’s got me, and I say, knowing how lame it sounds, “I just don’t want the summer to be a waste, that’s all.”

  “It won’t be.”

  But Mat and Shane are really getting into it now. They’ve come near us again, apparently unconcerned about everyone listening.

  “Brother, you’ve got to get a grip,” Mat says. “Better yet, get your ears tested.” For good-natured Mat, this is the height of rudeness.

  “We tried, buddy. We tried and we failed.” Shane’s grandiose summing-up of months of work, and a lifetime of fantasizing about his dream project, would be funny if he didn’t sound so pitiful.

  “What’s with the we?” Mat says.

  “Okay, I! I’ve blown it! I’m stuck!”

  “Go for a swim, buddy. Run down to the beach. You need to cool off.”

  Bree groans. “This is getting ti-yer-some.”

  “He respects your opinion,” I whisper. “If you convince him the work’s good, maybe he’ll see reason.”

  “I have a better idea. A little dose of just the right medicine for what ails him. Pretty boy!” she bellows up at Shane on the porch. “Mat! Pipes! All of you fools! Get over here!”

  They obey. Bree’s chef, Martin, comes out from the kitchen. Even the kids swim over.

  When everyone’s assembled in front of our lawn chairs, Mat and Shane pointedly standing at either end, Piper still dripping from the pool, Bree orders, “Pack a bag and be ready in an hour.”

  Seven p.m., four hours later

  Shoreline Amphitheatre

  Mountain View, California

  No big deal. This is what it means to be Bree Lang. One phone call and she can whisk people into the air on a friend’s private ten-seater Cessna, leaving the earth’s petty arguments and frustrations six thousand feet below. By the time we start our descent, Shane and Mat have hugged and Shane has told everyone he’s sorry for acting like an ass. When we’re backstage getting bracelets around our wrists, he apologizes to me directly.

  “I’m sorry about my little...outburst. You took a risk for me, opening up the place. I guess the pressure got to me.”

  “It’s okay. Bree says it’d be abnormal if you didn’t have a freak-out. She says it means the work’s going well.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. So, have you been to this show before? I tried to get tickets for the Great Woods Center in Mansfield last summer but it was sold out. I really wanted to see Patty Griffin.” Lesbo-Palooza, some idiot had chortled to his buddy, passing the nearly all-female ticket-buying line. We’d booed him.

  “Actually, this’ll be my third. I saw it in Pasadena last year and Irvine two summers ago.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Lilith Fair: named for the legendary first, wanton wife of Adam in Jewish folklore. Conceived because Sarah McLachlan was sick of Lollapalooza’s macho vibe, of hearing that festivals could have only one token female act, that radio stations couldn’t possibly play songs by women back-to-back. I can’t believe Bree initially turned down a guest appearance because she was committed to our little project.

  Bree leads us into a VIP tent, and I can see her transform into performance mode. She’s still herself, talking to people warmly, extricating herself, signing autographs with a smile, extricating herself.

  But there’s a shield up, a desire to keep moving that I’ve never seen in her, during our long, lazy talks in the field. It must keep her sane, keep her feeling in control, like herself, doing this all the time. It must keep her from feeling that all of these people who want something from her are picking away at what makes her Bree.

  “I saw Bree giving you quite the talking-to on the plane,” I murmur to Shane, as we watch her in action, giving an impromptu interview to some reporter.

  “The upshot is she said I was acting like a damn fool. Which I have been. Don’t argue—you know I have.”

  “Who was arguing?”

  “She said one more thing. That this would remind me why I started the project in the first place. Not this this...” He indicates the VIP tent. “That this.” Meaning the real concertgoers outside the tent.

  We look at this. Thousands of people, dancing, lolling on blankets, strolling, or crowding the stages.

  A jumpy woman across the tent makes a beeline for Bree the second she finishes with the reporter. Her press pass says Hailey Allen, Rolling Stone.

  “Look,” I say to Shane. “Our friend from the many voice mails.”

  We eavesdrop. “I understand that you canceled your summer performances to work on the Graham Kingston tribute album. Care to comment?”

  “Write that this album is important,” she says, with a wink at me. “And that it has some surprises on it. Shane and Jackie here can fill you in on the rest. If they want to.” She slips away.

  “Wait, you’re Jacqueline Pierce, the new owner of the Sandcastle?” the reporter says, flipping to a new page in her notebook as if we’ve already agreed to an interview. “I’ve tried reaching you a bunch of times through your attorney.”

  “Oh, really? I’m sorry. This summer’s been pretty hectic.”

  “And Mr. Ingram, this is your baby, of course. Nice to meet you both, finally.”

  I’m happy to see that they clearly haven’t spoken before.

  “What kind of release date are you looking at?” she asks Shane.

  “Most likely June 2000,” he says. He throws her a few bones about the recording process, shaping the album. Not giving away too much. Just enough to make her feel like she’s getting a scoop. Like Bree, he’s good at this, in control. It’s attractive, seeing him in work mode. What did Bree say by the pool? Gorgeous, of course.

  The reporter swivels to me. “Ms. Pierce, just fact-checking a few things...”

  I tense, but say, “Oh, sure.” Just a few answers, I can do that. I owe it to Shane, to the group. Piper and Mat and the rest—this album could be a huge career moment for them.

  “So, you were Graham Kingston’s niece on your mother’s side, and you’ve inherited the property and his catalog. Have I got that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re the only one involved with the project who’s actually a family member. That must be meaningful.”

  “I’m not really a family member.” Why am I so quick to insist on this, to quibble? I’m throwing blood in the water for the journalist.

  “Oh? I thought—”

  “I mean, not a close one. But, yes. It’s meaningful.”

  She nods, her eyes warm with understanding and compassion. But her pen never stops moving.

  “How are you liking what you’ve heard so far?”

  “I... What I’ve heard so far is brilliant. They’ve all been working so hard, really pouring themselves into it. This is a rare break, this show today.”

  “I’m sure...” She scribbles, checks her notes. I begin to relax. Observing Bree and Shane has given me some crash media training. It’s not so hard. Give them something, anything, steer the questions where you want them to go. And, in a pinch, just lie.

  “So, do you think the deceased relatives would approve of what you’re doing?”

  Her big brown eyes are impossible to read.

  It’s okay. Be like Bree, with an invisible shield...

  “I think they’d appro
ve,” I say. “I’m trying to do what they would’ve wanted.”

  “Though your uncle was fastidious, quite controlling about his work, correct?”

  “Yes. The group here has been true to his style. It’s respectful, a loving tribute.” I look at Shane and he nods, comes close, gives me a secret, reassuring hand-squeeze.

  “Great, great... So, I understand that you lived at the Sandcastle in...” She flips through her notebook. “1979. Right before your uncle’s death.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s quite a valuable property now, and I understand it’s going on the market, that you’re listing it with a real estate agent up there?”

  “I—That’s correct.”

  “So, the studio will likely be demolished soon. How do you think your uncle would’ve felt about that?”

  “Not great, of course. But it’s a difficult situation.”

  “Yes, his death was such a tragedy,” she says. “Such a loss.”

  “It was.”

  Scribble scribble. Way more scribbles than the words It was would require.

  I feel queasy. The tent’s unbearably crowded with bodies, smelling of sweat and ambition. Hailey Allen’s concerned look feels inescapable. Endless.

  She fiddles with her earring, casual: “And of course, your cousin’s death, a few years later. Such a tragedy.”

  She wants me to sob. To give her something I don’t want to give, to spice up her article with my tears about the tragic Kingston branch of my family.

  I won’t show her how much her questions hurt. Won’t give her the satisfaction of explaining that the Kingstons weren’t simply tragic. That there was so much beauty there, before.

  We’re trying to save a tiny bit of it. Aren’t we? But now I’m not sure. Maybe she’s going to convince everyone that the album is in poor taste. I don’t know what I can say that will end the interview so I can get fresh air, get away from that scribbling pen and notebook.

  “Look, Ms. Allen,” Shane says. “I’ve got another quote for you. Can you write this down? Ready?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Here you go—‘Everyone on the project is beyond grateful and humbled that Ms. Pierce has generously welcomed us into the studio for the summer.’ And you can call her publicist, Melva Peachtree, to set another interview time with her. But right now, we really don’t want to miss the show because Bree’s going on soon. You understand that, I’m sure.”

  “Of course. Ms. Peachtree’s number?” she asks me.

  “617-555-4646,” I say.

  Shane and I shake her hand goodbye, all smiles, and bolt outside.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Melva Peachtree?”

  “My first-grade teacher. What’s the phone number you gave her?”

  “My burrito take-out place in Boston.”

  He hoots in delight. “You were great. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. But you’ll have to do press and stuff to promote the album next year, right? I don’t want to piss her off.”

  “Believe me, it’ll make them want more. I’ll keep the beast fed. Want to get out of here?”

  “Yeah.”

  We work our way to the side of the main stage, and then, edging and slithering around bodies, to the front. Until we’re only a few people back from the stage. Bree is coming on soon, but we’ve lost the others.

  “Better?” he shouts.

  “Yes!”

  I can breathe here, packed in with tens of thousands, more than in that tent of thirty. Someone passes me a joint and I take a couple of drags, pass it to Shane, who refrains.

  “Bree said this was medicine for what ails you,” I shout. “Is it working?”

  “So far!” he shouts back.

  I’m thinking about the other teachers at school. How they think I’m so removed, so antisocial. Paul and I never joined them for happy hour karaoke, though they asked all the time; they think we’re stiffs. They imagine I’m home with a cup of chamomile tea, a classical record playing, Toby a still, furry spiral on my lap. When I’m dancing with strangers.

  “What’s funny?” Shane asks.

  “I’m home drinking chamomile tea!” I say, laughing, but he can’t hear me.

  Hot from dancing, I take off the jean jacket he loaned me and tie it around my waist.

  “You’re a weird girl!” he shouts.

  “I know.” I close my eyes.

  Then Lhasa de Sela introduces Bree, who jumps right into two songs before stopping for a little patter.

  “And I’d like a special guest to join me now,” Bree says. She sounds as relaxed as if she’s only talking to a single old friend across the lunch table. “A good friend of mine, a new friend. She’s flown here all the way from Boston to play for us... Where are you, lady?” She searches, finds me, locks on me like a radar gun.

  “She’s not,” I say to Shane, backing away. “She wouldn’t.”

  “She would. She is.”

  Oh, sweet fancy Jesus... No, Bree.

  I scowl at her, which only makes her go on more enthusiastically. “She thinks we hit thirty and nothing new happens. Hell, I’m fifty-four and something new happens to me every day. We don’t agree with her, do we?”

  “No!!!”

  “We can give her a good welcome, right?”

  “Yes!!!”

  “Ms. Jacqueline Pierce, accompanying me in her West Coast debut. She’s going to help me out with a little piano backing on an old favorite of hers by Donna Summer.” There’s a roar—for Donna, of course. Not for me.

  Phew. At least she doesn’t expect me to sing. Twenty thousand strangers encourage me, probably convinced that this is all planned. I’m hoisted up to the proscenium by unseen strong, friendly hands, hauled up onstage by a roadie.

  I shake my head at Bree, but I turn to face the crowd and wave. This, this right here, right now, is what Willa didn’t want. What she found so unappealing that she kept her gift of a voice to herself.

  I sit, trill a few notes, then nod at Bree and start the bassline of “I Feel Love.” A racing pulse, like lovemaking. Bree’s gorgeous mezzo voice winds around it, finding lovely new highs and lows and sideways trips, detours. Her voice romps, then slows, then flies free again.

  I glimpse Shane for a second before I lose his smile in the crowd and myself in the music.

  I wish I could bottle this air, this atmosphere, and breathe it in when the world seems too cruel for me to get out of bed. I wish I could share it with my kids, so they could breathe it in, too.

  As we finish, and sweat’s rolling down my temples from the hot lights, I close my eyes and think of Willa. This is for you, Wills. I know you hated crowds, but I sure wish you were alive so I could come home and tell you about it.

  * * *

  On the way home, everyone else sleeps, lulled by the plane’s buzz. I curl against the cold window, stare out at the fog. As exciting as it was, being onstage, it’s also a relief to be away from the packed-in bodies and applause, to return to our tranquil hideout in the woods. I wonder what it feels like to do this all the time. To go from strutting to dreaming, and back again. Over and over. Graham was bitter about what he called “the circus”—at least when it lost interest in him. Willa never wanted any part of it.

  “May I?” Shane. He has two drinks, and hands me one as he sits in the aisle seat next to me. “Ginger ale spiked with honey. The perfect cocktail to protect your voice after a performance. It’s a little post-show ritual that I read Nina Simone swears by.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip. “It’s tasty. Of course, I didn’t sing. The reason we know that is I’m not scrubbing tomato stains out of my shirt right now.”

  He laughs, then reaches high, his fingertips touching the cabin roof, and pivots his spine back and forth in a stretch. “Your voice isn’t so bad. I heard you in the studio
, remember?”

  “I do. Spy.”

  “Guilty. But really. You were a good sport tonight. And you were beautiful up there.”

  I circle my cup rim with my index finger, around and around. “Thank you.”

  He starts to speak, pauses. “You are beautiful.”

  I have no answer for this. I’m too drained to come up with a change of subject, too happy to shoot his compliment down with another joke, an eye roll. I turn to face him, rest my cheek on the seat cushion. You, too, I mouth.

  * * *

  It’s nearly two and we linger in the hall. Everyone else has gone to bed but we’ve been standing here for ages, dawdling.

  “Well,” he says. “Remember the little people, now that you’re famous.”

  “Of course I will. Shawn.”

  He smiles, brushing at a nail hole in the wall where I’ve taken down a painting. “I’ve heard toothpaste works on these. White toothpaste. Not Crest.”

  “I have putty.”

  “Ah, good. Well. You’re probably exhausted.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to crash.”

  “Me, too.” He stretches, circling his arms as if to demonstrate how tired he is, but it’s the gesture of an early-morning swimmer standing on a starting block, ready to race a thousand meters. Not someone about to dive into bed.

  And neither of us moves.

  “Well,” I say.

  “Well. Fun night!” He reaches his arms around me, wide, a too-careful hug.

  “Yeah!” I pat him on the back—’Night, bud!

  One gesture, one word from either of us to acknowledge what we really want. That’s all it would take. A finger. A syllable. But we separate and go inside our rooms on opposite ends of the hall.

  I scratch Toby, who’s asleep on the parlor floor, hoping some quality mystery-massage action from below is imminent.

  I change into my souvenir Lilith Fair T-shirt. I pace.

  The look Shane gave me in the field, as everyone else hugged and called out their good-nights and dispersed for bed. He looked at me that way again as we stalled and small-talked in the hall. I can’t stop seeing that look. Remembering it sends my thoughts to places I don’t want them to go. To his warm lips, his skin, his smell. His long arms and skillful, fast-moving fingers.