“Oh really,” I reply. My mom has never been one to make a conversation awkward or unpleasant voluntarily, outside of the courtroom. On this particular occasion, her lack of forthrightness is a blessing.
“Certainly, the tulips are in full bloom and the climbing roses, on the arch of the walkway, bloomed for the second time this year.”
“That’s right. You’ve been trying to get those roses to bloom for a while.”
“It’s been a challenge, especially with the heat waves we’ve experienced recently. If you have a chance, you really ought to come out and see it.”
“Okay, maybe I will. Do you have giant marigolds?” I ask, going along with the chosen line of chit-chat. When I was a child, giant marigolds were the first flower I grew from seed. They were so successful, we filled an entire flowerbed.
“Not this year. Clive and I decided to replace that flower bed with shrubs.”
I can’t help but grimace as she refers to her new husband. “Oh, those were my favorite,” I say disappointedly.
“I remember … perhaps you could come around one of these days and plant more. You have quite a knack for that flower. I’ve never had the success with giant marigolds that you have.”
“Perhaps,” I reply.
“You know, you missed our Fourth of July party. Both of your sisters came to visit along with Grandma and your aunts and uncles. It would have been nice to have you there too.”
I can’t help but smile. I’ve missed five other Fourth of July’s as well. But it would be very unlike my mom to mention the fact. “I’ll try to make it to the next one.”
“We also have a family reunion coming up in August. We’re all going to Santa Barbara. It’d be good if I could include you in the planning.”
“Sure, I’ll give you my information.”
“Wonderful! I’m so happy to hear that. Your sisters will be ecstatic. And Clive has been very curious to get to know you. He hasn’t seen you since you were in college.”
“I know,” I reply glibly.
“So dear, is there any particular reason that you’re calling?”
“No, not really. I’m just calling to say hi.”
“Well, you know I’m always pleased to take your call. I hope everything is going well in your life.”
“It is. I have a job in Seattle that I’ve been at for a while, and I’m doing well.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m glad to know you’re doing well.”
“Is everything going well at your law firm?”
“I guess you haven’t heard. I’ve been a judge for the past five years.”
“That’s great. Good for you.”
“Yes, the hours are much more to my liking.”
“Good, good. So um, I have to go mom, but we should talk some other time. Maybe we can have lunch together or something.”
“I would like that. And feel free to call me anytime. I’m always happy to hear from you.”
“Okay, I will. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Goodbye, dear.”
I relax into my desk chair, from my tense upright position, as I hang up the phone. I suppose that conversation went as well as I could expect. It would be shocking if, after six years of avoiding her, it would be anything other than terribly awkward to strike up a conversation out of the blue. Whether I’ll do any of the things I’d promised on the phone is still a question mark. The important thing is that I want to. I’m just not sure that I’m ready. Given time, I think I will be.
I suddenly perk up and open my laptop, realizing there’s one more thing on my bucket list that I need to accomplish. Browsing a vintage vinyl store, I add a Chet Baker album to my shopping cart. Upon checkout, I select to gift wrap it with a note that reads:
You were right. Jazz is more than a bunch of random notes playing without a melody. I get it now.
And with that, I add a Texas shipping address and hit submit. I don’t expect that Blake will respond. It’s just something that I needed to do.
28
A Hollywood Ending
Late one evening, after an exhausting day of meetings and project deadlines, I sit comfortably ensconced on my sofa, losing myself in a jazz tune as I sip on a cup of mint tea. I’d quickly given up on the bourbon. Who was I kidding? My mind might be open to new experiences, but my taste buds are not. As I stare out the window, thinking of nothing in particular, I’m suddenly snapped out of my semi-meditative state when a knock sounds at my door.
I stubbornly remain seated, wondering who would bother me at 11 o’clock in the evening. Perhaps if I don’t answer, whoever it is will take the hint and leave. For all I know, it could be my next door neighbor wanting to know if she can buy another onion off me. It was an odd request, since I’ve never seen or talked to her before, and there’s a perfectly good market located conveniently down the street. But Seattle is the sort of place where I’ve learned to expect all manner of randomness from its inhabitants. As it is, I would rather not have a repeat of that strange conversation when I should be winding down for bed. But to my consternation, the knock comes again. This time, louder and with more force, as though I’ve irritated whoever is behind the door by not answering.
With a reluctant sigh, I finally pull myself off the sofa, closing my robe, before lazily plodding to the door. On the off chance the urgency in the knock is reflective of an actual emergency, like the maintenance man warning of a gas leak, I would probably regret not answering the call. Still, I can’t find it in me to match my expediency with the exigency of the mystery knocker. When I finally do open the door, it’s with a nonchalant air of a person prepared to take whatever news she’s greeted with in stride. If only I had displayed slightly more rigidity in my mannerism from the onset, the alarm that I felt shoot through me wouldn’t have been as readily apparent in my visage, upon seeing the very last person I expected.
“Hi Bridget,” Blake says, unfazed by my rash display of bewilderment. He stands before me, looking handsome as ever, with one hand casually placed in his pocket, while he holds a bouquet of a dozen pink roses upside-down in the other.
“Hi, Blake,” I reply, slowly. I’m sure the confusion in my tone speaks for its self. Of course, I’m curious to know why he’s here. That’s a pretty obvious question; one I’m sure he’ll answer given time. Rather than bombard him with abrupt unpleasantries, I opt for a more civil approach. “Would you like to come in?” I ask, opening the door and motioning him inside.
Blake steps into my entryway, without so much as a word. Once inside, he stares at me, his expression guarded, I can’t even guess what he’s thinking. “Are those for me?” I ask, pointing to the roses in his hand.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like them,” Blake says evenly as he hands them to me.
I look back at him, equally as guarded. I still can’t get a read on him. It’s unclear whether the flowers are a romantic, or friendly, gesture. It’s odd looking at Blake as I would a stranger. I’m not certain the correct thing to say. There always seems an uncomfortable undertone that often exists when in the company of an unfamiliar acquaintance, to maintain a trivial conversation that is as severely lacking in depth as possible.
“Thanks, I do like them. That was very kind of you. I’ll find something to put them in,” I reply, placing the flowers on my counter.
Blake becomes instantly relaxed, and I see a hint of amusement in his eyes. “What is it?” I ask, trying to discern the meaning behind his sudden change in countenance.
“That’s some nice music you’ve got playing. Chet Baker, ain’t it?”
I can feel a warmth rush through me at the sound of Blake’s familiar Texas twang. I’m suddenly filled with bittersweet sentiment that seems out of place. For years I’ve been closer to Blake than anyone else, but it feels like a lifetime since I’ve seen him — even though only nine months have passed. I’ve changed so much. I can’t take for granted that he probably has too.
“Yes, it is. I remember you told me about him and you were
right. He is good. That’s why I chose this album to send you. I assume you received it?” I reply, realizing that’s probably the reason he’s here.
“I got it last Friday, thanks. That was a nice surprise. Yeah … I think it’s great you’re taking an interest in jazz. And Baker is a good one to start with. His music follows more of a traditional melody than most jazz music. You know, Chet Baker is my favorite jazz musician, I listen to him all the time.”
“I didn’t know that,” I reply, with a light laugh. “I enjoy his kind of sultry, pained sound. I also got a John Coltrane record I like. I tried Myles Davis, but he was a little out there for me. Probably because his music doesn’t follow a melody, like you said.”
“Yeah, Myles Davis is more artistic. He’s favored by the hardcore jazz enthusiasts. I enjoy his music, but I understand why he wouldn’t be your style.”
“Well, you know I’ve never been overly fond of the artsy stuff. I like my music to sound like music and my art to look like art.” I joke.
“I know,” Blake replies, looking at me with a glint of humor in his eyes.
“I also got a turntable and speakers, so I’m listening to jazz the right way. I can turn up the volume if you’d like to hear it better.” I say, hoping to steer the confusing tension between us in a more amenable direction.
“I’d like to see that for myself. Isn’t the sound quality so much better?” Blake asks.
“Yes!” I laugh. “It’s like I have a band in my apartment,” I joke as I lead Blake to my living room, to the console, where my turntable is set up.”
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Blake says, picking up my bottle of bourbon.
“It was just something I tried,” I reply with a sheepish grin.
“Hudson Baby ain’t a bad choice for a beginner.”
“I just chose one off the shelf in the grocery store. I had no idea what I was doing.”
“Grocery store? That’s right. I forgot you could get liquor at the grocery store in Washington.”
“Can you imagine if I went into a liquor store. I’d be so lost,” I reply.
“Yeah … So, how did your bourbon experiment go?”
“Not great, as you can see. I’ve barely made a dent in it. I would say the bourbon’s going the way of Myles Davis. It’s just not for me.”
“Fair enough,” Blake replies, placing the bottle back on the console.
As it would happen, we both stop speaking at the precise moment the record switches tracks. If not for the light crackling noise the stylus makes in the groove of the vinyl, the room would resound with an uncomfortable silence. It’s odd to think of anything as uncomfortable when it comes to Blake. How many nights did I stay on the phone with him, with neither of us talking, until I fell asleep? Now here we are, talking about jazz and bourbon, as though we’re continuing a conversation right where we left off all those months ago. What am I supposed to think?
“Ah, The Touch of Your Lips,” Blake says fondly as the next track plays. He holds his hands out to me, his eyes sparkling.
“Dance?” I ask, my eyes wide with confusion.
“I always wanted to dance with you to this song,” Blake says, tenderly.
I flush as I remember the night at the Canlis restaurant. That’s when Blake first told me he wanted us to dance together. I didn’t take him seriously. I couldn’t imagine he’d ever really want to do anything so romantic. And yet, here he is, asking. It’s oddly surreal.
I take his hand and instantly feel a spark as he pulls me to his chest. With my arms around his neck, we sway, slowly, back and forth to the music — gazing into each other’s eyes the entire time. When the song finishes, Blake and I continue dancing as the next song begins, and a thought pops into my head. “Blake?”
“Yes,” he asks.
“Why roses?”
“Huh?”
“You always bring me roses. I’m just wondering why.”
“I don’t know. It seems like the thing for a guy to do. I guess I thought you’d like them.”
“Oh,” I say disappointedly. “That’s what I figured.”
“And, when we first met, you were wearing a blouse with roses all over it. I thought you looked beautiful covered with roses. I like to think of you as my rose gal.”
“Oh,” I say, smiling. “I forgot I had that blouse. I remember I used to wear it all the time. It was a favorite of mine.”
“Don’t you don’t like roses?” Blake asks.
“I love them. They’re perfect.” We finally stop swaying, and I look up at him. “I know I haven’t always been the best to you. I mean the last several months I…”
Blake stops me with a kiss. “The only thing I want to do right now is dance.”
“But the record’s almost finished.”
“That’s okay. We’ll start it over when it’s done,” he says softly.
As I lay my head on Blake’s shoulder, melting into his familiar embrace, I’m struck by the realization that I might have changed, but Blake hasn’t. And that’s a good thing.
Thank you!
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The Dilemma (Book 2)
Secrets (Book 3)
Confessions (Book 4)
Guilty As Sin (Book 5)
Surrender (Book 6)
The Fallacy (Book 7)
29
Unfinished Business
“Jason, my man. Long time no see, brother.”
“Nate, it’s been too long.” Jason stood up from his stool as they clasped hands together, pulling each other in for a one armed hug and a hearty pat on the back.
“No kidding. What’s it been now, five years? When did you get back into New York?”
“Six months ago. I would have called you sooner, but you know how it is with moving.”
“Yeah man, I know,” Nate said, seating himself next to Jason at the bar. “So, what brought you back to the Big Apple? Last I heard, you were living it up in California. Did all that sun finally start chafing?”
“Yeah, two years ago. I just left Seattle.”
“Seattle, nice. Are you here for good?”
“I don’t know. That depends on Amber.”
“Oh man. I heard about her. I didn’t know you two were involved. How is she?”
Jason shook his head, “Honestly, not good. She’s under 24-hour psychiatric care. She tried to slit her wrists two weeks ago. They put her on a heavy sedative, so she’ll stop harming herself.”
“It’s crazy to think about Amber that way. The last time I saw her was 13 years ago at a Pearl Jam concert. She disappeared backstage into a dressing room, with two of the roadies, after jacking $200 and the stash of weed from my backpack. When I went after her, one of those dickheads blocked the doorway and threatened to bash my face in if I tried to go any further. I yelled to get her attention, but she was too busy snorting coke lines off a guitar case. I ended up leaving her there, along with my money and the weed. I remember thinking that day, after what she did to me, I was done with her. At the time, I had no idea how right I was.”
“Yep, that was Amber,” Jason replied curtly, clearing his throat.
“It’s depressing, but kind of inevitable, when you think about it. Amber was into a lot of hardcore stuff. Most of us graduated and moved on with our lives. With Amber, there was no moving on. She was always destined to self-destruct. But even she didn’t deserve what happened to her. How are you holding up?”
“I’m alright,” Jason said evenly, wringing his hands together as he rested his elbows on the bar. “Amber and I were done with each other a long time ago. Right now, my primary concern is to get her sober and lucid. You see, the thing is, we have a son together. He doesn’t know the extent of her illness, and I’d like to keep him ignorant of how sick she is for as long as possible.”
“Wow!” Nate
exclaimed with a high pitched whistle. “Now that’s a real bombshell. Yeah … I heard she had a kid; I didn’t know it was yours. Did you know she was in a coma all these years?”
“I only found out a year ago, around the same time I learned about my son. Brent called me. I wasn’t surprised about the coma though; I was the one who took her to the hospital. I never knew what happened to her after I left. I assumed, when I didn't hear from her all these years, that she woke up from her coma and moved on,” Jason replied, purposefully leaving out one crucial detail — that he was the one responsible for inducing her coma. Fortunately, Nate wasn’t the type to ask too many questions; a fact which suited Jason nicely, since he wasn’t the type to divulge unnecessary detail.
“Man, five years suddenly feels like another lifetime. So much has changed. Are you still in AA?”
“No, not for a long time now; it's been years since I’ve needed that. Although, given our history, maybe a sports bar isn't the most prudent meeting venue. How about you?”
“Nah, this place has the best burgers around. Besides, I haven’t had a drink in years. I fell off the wagon a few times a while back, but I’ve been clean since I married Jennifer.”
“I’m happy to hear it. Those were dark days for both of us, better to leave them behind,” Jason said with a friendly smile.”
“Well, this is some depressing shit,” Nate sighed.
“Yeah, maybe we should order,” Jason agreed. He hailed the waitress — a pretty brunette, no older than 19, dressed in mini shorts and a t-shirt tight enough to be a second skin. Jason smiled knowingly at Nate, watching his friend’s eyes light up as they zeroed in on her well-endowed breasts — which in all fairness would be difficult for a gay priest to ignore. Except that Nate had the tendency to linger. Same old Nate.
The waitress approached them with a light bounce in her step, undoubtedly enjoying being the center of focus for two good looking, young men. Nate always was an ideal partner for picking up women. “Hey guys, ready to order?” she asked, shooting them each a flirtatious smile — her ordering pad and pen ready in her hand.
Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1) Page 20
