by Leslie Leigh
Mom looked up. “I would think that that would suit you. You were always more of an observer than a participant. You never played any sports. Even as a little girl, you used to prefer your own company and activities. You weren’t very social.”
“You make me sound like a hermit,” I said, slightly defensive, but only slightly. After all, there was no denying that I still preferred solitary pursuits more productive and rewarding than group activities. If not for all those hours alone practicing the accordion, I’d have never known the pleasure of mastering an instrument and enjoying a greater depth of musical appreciation, and to be able to share that knowledge and technique with others was priceless.
“No, I never said that,” Mom said. “And I’m not criticizing you. I’d much prefer you the way you are than to have you turn out to be some bubbleheaded party girl. Our culture seems to encourage that more and more.”
“Maybe so,” I mused. For some reason, Mom’s comment reminded me that I needed to call Tiffany Ashcroft. I picked up my phone and, sure enough, Gary had sent a text message with her number. “Do you mind if I make a quick call?” I asked. “Or I can go in another part of the house.” Ordinarily, I’d have excused myself, but Mao, my tabby, was curled, sleeping, in my lap.
“I don’t mind; go right ahead,” Mom said, unfurling the newspaper to resume her reading. “I know it’s difficult for you young people to resist when your phone is always within reach.”
Her head disappeared behind the paper, preventing her from catching the rolling of my eyes. Yes, we youngsters were slaves to our gizmos and devices. If some solar disturbance or dystopian meltdown were to occur, we’d likely all curl up in a fetal position and lose the will to live.
“Hello, is this Ash…Tiffany?” I asked, almost biting my tongue. That’s what I get for goofing around with her name. “I’m Melody Reed. Gary Van Dyke asked me to call you about the music for your wedding. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied in a breathy voice. It was one of those voices adorned with the kind of inflections heard when speaking with a child. “Are you his secretary?”
“No,” I replied. “Actually, I’m one of the band members.”
“Oh! What do you play?”
“Accordion,” I said. Sure enough, a pause followed. She was probably trying to picture – or imagine hearing – an accordion fitting into the imagined ambience of her wedding reception. No doubt, the challenge to do so had proven difficult.
“Accordion,” she echoed. “Well, is this something we can just do over the phone? Gary said to let him know if there were some favorite songs that I wanted played. Could I send you a list? It’s just that it’s so busy one week before the big day.”
“Of course, I understand. Why don’t I give you my email address…?”
“Unless you were free to come over today,” she interrupted. “Actually, today would be perfect! I’m staying at my mother’s all week, and she’s available, too. Why don’t I give you directions? Would 1:00 be okay?”
I felt as if I’d been outmaneuvered. It could’ve been so simple. Oh, well, time to take one for the team. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to meet the bride-to-be, would it? Maybe I’d even like her….
“One o’clock is fine,” I said. “Go ahead with the directions.”
I hung up and waited for Mom’s commentary. One, two, three….
“Did I hear you say that you’re playing at a wedding?” Mom asked, her face concealed by the newspaper.
“Yup, next Saturday.” I sipped my coffee quickly, plotting my escape.
“Tiffany Ashcroft…I think I know some Ashcrofts out toward Crawford. Not in Crawford, but out in one of those tony little suburbs that’ve sprung up. What am I trying to say?”
“Like a gated community?” I suggested. “Like Wellsworth?”
“That’s it!” Mom was pleased that I’d been able to fill the temporary void in her vocabulary. Wellsworth, of course, would be my destination.
“Well, I’d better eat something and shower,” I said, getting up. “My skin reeks of stale smoke.”
“So now Zak Van Dyke has you working for him on a Sunday? Are you getting paid for this?”
“Mom, this is Gary’s project. Mr. Van Dyke has nothing to do with this, and I’m just helping Gary out.”
Mom was unrelenting in her quest for justice. “And were you compensated for the concerts you did on his behalf? I’ll bet that exposure translated into sales for him!”
“I think he did well,” I said. “When he sells the accordions, I’ll be the one giving lessons, so it all works out.”
She sniffed. “Sounds like trickle-down economics to me. He’ll probably want a percentage off the lessons.”
“Mom, it’s not all about the money,” I protested. “They’re friends, and that project helped me prove something to myself. I researched material, arranged it and came up with a lovely program of music. And I had help, collaborating with Gary. Now that I’m part of his group of players, Gary’s lining up jobs for us, we’re making money and I’m having fun. If all I cared about was money, I could probably work the polka circuit this summer, but I’d rather not.”
“Just like your grandmother did,” Mom cackled. “I don’t remember her getting rich from the polka circuit.”
“No, but she enjoyed her life, Mom. It made her feel special, traveling and getting up on stage. Not everyone who plays music gets rich from doing it. We do it because we love playing!”
“All I’m saying is don’t let anyone take advantage of you. Maybe you’re too nice to be in that business.”
“Well, maybe you should be my manager,” I countered. “Seriously, I can play and be nice, and you…can make us rich.”
“I have a job, thank you,” Mom replied, rattling her paper to signal the end of our conversation was near. “I have plenty to do at the store. I just offered some advice; you’re free to take it or leave it.”
I knew she meant well, but I wished that she could offer encouragement without disparaging the character of others. I thought the world of Mr. Van Dyke; that’s why compensation never even entered my mind when he suggested the promotional concerts. And Gary…well, the jury was still out on exactly how Gary’s and my relationship would evolve, but he was certainly a good friend.
I tried to block out Mom’s insinuations. Distrust is like a poison; once it gets in your system, nothing is ever the same.
Chapter 3
Mom was right about the tony trappings of Wellsworth. It wasn’t intimidatingly upscale by any means, but the entrance to the community did feature a barrier and the man in the guardhouse asked for the name and address of the residence I planned to visit. I drove past a golf course and clubhouse, but once I entered the housing area, it wasn’t all that impressive. The houses were new, each slightly different from the other, yet similar in many ways, particularly the prominence of the driveway and double garage doors. The trees were planted at evenly spaced intervals and most were relatively young; they wouldn’t offer any substantial shade for years to come.
I was greeted at the door by a fortyish, well-tanned woman. “Hi, Melody. I’m Sylvia, Tiff’s mother. Come on in.” She ushered me into the living room. There, lounging on a white leather sofa, a bridal magazine on her lap, was Tiffany.
“I’ll leave you two to hash out the details. I’m off to the mall. Oh, and Gary Van Dyke was very clear that his quote was provisional, so once you firm things up, just have him email me an update, okay? Nice to meet you, Melody.”
I sat on the sofa. Tiffany gave me a weak smile as she looked me up and down.
“That’s a nice blouse,” she said, finally.
“So is yours,” I replied. There was no doubt as to whose was the more expensive. Tiffany’s was a long-sleeved, silky white blouse with billowy sleeves. Her sandals revealed a perfect pedicure with lavender toenails lined like jewels. Her long, blond hair slid along her shoulders as she moved her head.
“Are you married, Melody
?”
“No.”
“Have you ever played at a wedding?”
“Yes, I have, both at the ceremonies themselves and at the receptions afterwards. Why do you ask?”
An amused grin slid across your face. “I was just curious. I mean, I know you can play. My kid brother told us about the concert you played at the community center. He was very impressed.” She leaned in closer. “But you’re not going to play any ethnic music at our reception, are you?”
She made it sound like a dirty word. It seemed as if her every glance, smile and word from her lips contained tiny daggers designed to provoke or test me. Perhaps I was being over-sensitive, but usually my instincts served me well. Alas, it didn’t appear that Tiff and I would ever become the best of friends.
“We can play a pretty broad range of styles,” I said. “Generally, we don’t play any ethnic music unless it’s specifically requested.”
A loud, fast, disco-ish ditty blasted from Tiffany’s telephone on the glass table. She leaned forward to check the caller display.
“Oh, I have to get this! If you want, you can look over the list of songs I came up with. It’s there on my iPad.”
I leaned over and paged through the titles of several songs with titles like “You Are the Reason I Breathe” and “Hot Hot (Can’t Get Enuff). Then I noticed that the list ran on for 27 pages!
“Hello, darling. I’m fine, of course,” Tiffany purred. I was tempted to pick up the iPad and walk around the room, the farther the better, but Tiffany didn’t seem to mind my presence.
“Well, sure, I’m nervous, but Mom’s a big help. She hired this planner so it’s not too frantic. Oh, I’m so bored staying with her, though. I can’t wait till my friends start arriving so I’ll have someone to talk with. But you’re the one I’m really dying to see. I know, sweetheart; it’s sort of bittersweet, isn’t it? Now, don’t be naughty! You had your chance. Okay, I’ll see you Thursday. I love you.”
Tiffany sighed and stared at the floor, a smile on her face.
“Was that the groom?” I asked.
“I wish!” she laughed. “No, that was the one that got away, as they say. Raymond. We were an item up until a year ago, when I went to work for Charlie. Charlie’s my fiancé. He’s a good man. He owns properties all along Lake Michigan – condos, apartment complexes, lots of things. I went to work for him and moved right up the ladder. Now I oversee the other property managers. I’m not sure whether I’ll still work once we’re married. Charlie says it’s my decision, but I don’t know what I’d do all day if I wasn’t working. Maybe I’ll cut down to a three-day workweek. That wouldn’t be too bad.”
“Well, it’s nice to have that option,” I said. And is Raymond attending the wedding?”
She giggled. “I think so. He says he’s going to kidnap me the day before and run off together. He’s so full of it, but it’s a sweet thing to say. Raymond’s not the marrying type.”
I decided it would be better if I stuck with the musical program. “I was looking over these songs….”
“I mean, I know that Charlie’s a lot older than me, but when an opportunity like this comes along, you can’t pass it up. Love has to take a backseat to your future, you know? Life isn’t like the fairy tales. It just isn’t. A woman has to capitalize on her assets, you know? Get it while the getting’s good, that’s what they say.
“I don’t care what people say. I haven’t stayed in touch with a lot of the people I used to know here, but I invited them anyway. Let them talk and gossip. Sure, Charlie had me sign a prenup. He’d have been a fool not to, right? So we have an understanding. I know what to expect. I’m realistic. Let those other girls swoon and dream about romance. See how long that lasts. See how much interest they accumulate with romance.”
Well, she was certainly pragmatic. I wasn’t going to argue with her, and I wasn’t going to ask why she felt the need to legitimize her and Charlie’s relationship by marriage; why not just sign a contract for services rendered at X number of dollars for X number of years? But I didn’t really care, because Tiffany herself didn’t seem to care. All I wanted was to get the heck out of there.
“There are a lot of songs here,” I pointed out. “Is there anything that really stands out here for you? Or Charlie?”
“Nah, not really. You decide. Those are just songs I like, or used to like, or used to listen to. Seriously? I just want the music to be kind of classy and fun. I want people to be able to talk or get up and dance once in a while, y’know?” She pulled the thumb drive and handed it to me. “If you have time to learn some of these, fine. If not, that’s okay.”
“What about the first dance at the reception? It should be something special for the two of you.”
Tiffany stared as if she didn’t understand my words.
“Is there a slower song that has some significance for you? Something romantic? Something you can look back on and say, ‘That was the song Charlie and I danced to at my reception.’”
She shook her head. “Not that I can think of. I like a lot of songs, but I don’t remember the titles or who sings them. I’ll ask Charlie. I’ll let you know if he thinks of something, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, backing off. “Just let Gary or me know.”
An expression of uncertainty darkened Tiffany’s face. She looked vulnerable, almost as if she were going to cry.
“I just want to have a nice wedding, that’s all,” she sniffed.
It was awkward, but I reached over and patted the back of her hand. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll turn out great, and we’ll try to make it fun. And classy. And you can always suggest something – a mood, or change of pace – once we get things underway. We’re there to help. After all, it’s your big day.”
Tiffany made a choking sound and rose. “Thank you. That’s all for now.” She scurried out of the room and I heard a door slam.
I looked down at the thumb drive in my hand. It was useless. Maybe Gary could glean some logic or pattern from her list and come up with something suitable, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.
I showed myself out of the spacious, suburban residence. Despite the tasteful furnishings, it now seemed empty and abandoned.
Chapter 4
At band practice that night, Gary was incredulous as he viewed the contents of Tiffany’s thumb drive. “And she couldn’t pick out any particular songs she wanted us to play?”
“Nope. Not a one.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do with this?” he asked, exasperated. “Play them all?”
“Maybe you could gather them up and create the longest medley known to man. We could contact the folks at the Guinness World Records. Think of the publicity!” Tommy Blaine looked up from his guitar noodling, as if he were up for the challenge. “Seriously, Gary, our bride-to-be couldn’t care less, but if you want to throw a dart at any of that mess, we can knock one of ‘em out, though I’d be willing to bet she wouldn’t even realize that we had.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Let’s just continue what we’re doing. Here are a couple of tunes I’d like to try.”
As Gary passed out the sheet music, his father came down the steps to the basement. “Hello, all,” he called out. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Oh, a couple of Jimmy Giuffre tunes,” Gary said, picking up his clarinet.
“Jimmy Giuffre!” Mr. Van Dyke repeated in an excited voice. “Say, someone must have raised you right. You know, Giuffre made his mark during the big band era with Woody Herman, but he was a hard guy to pigeonhole. His trio with Paul Bley was so far ahead of its time, it’s still unique.”
“I like the stuff he did with Bob Brookmeyer and Jim Hall, personally,” Gary said.
“’Time and the River,’ sure,” Mr. Van Dyke nodded, slipping into a recliner. “Well, don’t mind me, kids. I want to hear this!”
“Okay,” Gary said, “Tommy and I are going to play the intro, then Melody and Tommy will play rhythm while I solo, then Tommy, then
Melody. When we get back to the head, all three of us will play the intro theme. Just before that, though, you’ll see where we stop while the drummer gets to throw down some flash. Since we don’t have our drummer tonight, we’ll see if we can hold it together during the pauses. Ready? One, two, one, two, three, four….”
Gary and Tommy locked into a nice harmony as they played through the intro. Again, I was amazed by Tommy’s reading and playing abilities. A fourteen-year-old monster, he was. No matter what Gary threw at him, he managed to not only navigate the notes, but to provide just the right shade of tone and volume, whether soloing or comping behind us. What can I say? He was a natural!
It was a peppy little piece, but the blend of clarinet, electric guitar and accordion had a light, airy blend that I guessed would work as either background music or a focal point for the wedding guests. The best of both worlds. When my turn to solo came around, I just tried to maintain the bounciness of the piece, playing variations on the melody and concluding by leading back to where the other instruments would pick up.
Mr. Van Dyke nodded approvingly at the end of my solo. His feet wiggled back and forth on the footrest of the recliner. That was the true measure of our playing: if the toes are tapping, you’re doing something right. When the drum fill breaks came, we came to an abrupt halt, counting the beats until we came in again. Then there was another break and more counting, although this time, looking around at the others, I couldn’t help giggling. Were they, like me, imagining the rhythmic flailing of our phantom drummer? Again, we started with one more break to go, and this time the others chuckled along with me. Then, the three of us blew through the intro one more time, pretty much flawlessly, and ended.
“Bravo!” Mr. Van Dyke shouted, clapping his hands. Gary looked first at Tommy, as if to ask, ‘Did that sound okay with you? Are you comfortable with the song now?’ Tommy nodded, and slugged down a can of Red Bull. Gary looked at me.
