Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  I laughed, shrugging exaggeratedly. “Just two or three original pieces, that’s all. On instruments I don’t even play.”

  She waved her hand, unfazed by my anxiety. “You can play the piano, first of all. I’ve heard you. Secondly, your education is top notch. You know how to score music. Teach, too, if my research and your resume line up correctly.”

  “Stalker,” I muttered.

  “How’d you get two master’s degrees at the same time?”

  “I was intense. Lived, breathed, ate, slept music. And, mostly didn’t sleep. The first break I’d had since high school was the summer I met Bo and Ember.”

  I leaned forward, pressing my elbows into my knees as I bowed my head. She was right, of course. I was at that time the only classically trained musician under contract at GSE. That did not make me a better musician by any stretch of the imagination. GSE had some talented artists, not the least of which were Bo and Ember, who were representing the label on the east coast. But what it did mean was exactly what Yardley had said—I could score music in my sleep. My undergraduate degree was in classical studies, but my master’s was in composition, and I got another in education. All that was fancy talk for me being a workaholic whose passion and paycheck happened to align.

  After a long pause, during which Yardley didn’t flinch once, I sighed. “I’ll do two songs. One slow, one fast. If you like them, you pay someone to write you more.”

  She cheered, giving me a quick hug. “Regan you’ll be compensated handsomely for all of this. Don’t worry about that part.”

  I waved my hand. “I’ll do this as a favor.”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather not. I might need another favor from you at some point.”

  “What’s the deadline? I need one.” I grinned, feeling like this was more mafia than music.

  “Sunday?”

  My face fell. I could feel it. I knew I’d never have the all-the-time poker face like Yardley had, and I didn’t care. “Georgia’s coming today for the weekend.”

  “Oh …” Yardley’s face stayed still as her eyes wandered widely around the room as she tried to work out the problem.

  “You know what?” I cut in. “It’ll be good. Sunday will be fine. I’ve got some mostly-finished stuff I’ve been toying with that I can shuffle around and add some other instruments to anyway.”

  “No, no. I don’t want to impose on your personal life. You know we really try—”

  I cut her off again, standing. “I know you do. And you guys do a great job of treating us like family and not just saying it. You take care of all of us. But I want to do this. It’ll be great brain work, and if it’ll help the label that really helps all of us in the end, doesn’t it?”

  Almost certainly despite herself, Yardley grinned. “You’ve always been one hell of a team player, Regan. I don’t know what we did to deserve to get you or keep you.”

  “I had to be a team player to spend three years solid with Chris and Shaughn,” I joked of my Celtic Summer bandmates.

  She laughed. “I think it worked out to just under two years when we factor in the breaks you had.”

  I staggered back comically, as if I’d been shot. “Breaks? Breaks!?”

  Yardley and I fell into laughter about the insane tour schedule we’d been on. Celtic Summer headlined some shows, simply participated in others, and all told it did do great things to promote the label, and us as artists, so the breakneck pace was well worth it.

  “You’re a good sport, Regan. Anyway, I think that was the last practice of the day. I’m heading to the hotel.” When we didn’t have to stay on the buses, we didn’t. It gave all of us—the busses and drivers included—a much needed break. And a chance to be cleaned.

  I eyed the stage, picking my case up from the floor. “Mind if I stick around for a few minutes?”

  “Not at all,” she said with something bright in her eyes. “Enjoy your time with Georgia. And, Regan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t work too hard, okay? Early next week is fine for the score.”

  She turned on her heels and marched toward the exit without a look back. Once the door was closed, I bounded onto the stage and tuned my violin.

  Finally, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and brought bow and string together. The fingers of my left hand glided their way up and down the neck of the instrument as my right worked the strings with the bow in the opposite direction. I paced the stage, my steps far slower than the notes I was playing, but the playing in itself relaxed me, regardless of the tempo I was turning out.

  The violin was always a talisman for me. I remember the very first time I held one, when I was five at a music festival on Cape Cod. Most bands there that weekend had set up booths with information, tour dates, meet-the-band, etc. Some bands even let people—mostly children—try their hand at an instrument. My parents and CJ’s parents brought us—our moms are sisters—and it’s so vivid in my memory because he was only three then, but picked up drum sticks and never set them back down. It was “cute” at the time, but had quickly turned into a loud, sometimes maddening, obsession.

  When I’d wandered into the booth of an old-time bluegrass band, I remember staring, mesmerized by the old man with the impossibly long, grey and white beard swaying to and fro as he lazily played his violin. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was meditating. To my five-year-old self it looked like he was playing in his sleep. Despite being a pretty hyper kid, I remember standing so still my mom was certainly afraid to talk to me or anyone else in the booth out of fear that she might snap me out of my trance and I’d be off and running like the lunatic I usually was.

  Before long, the man finished, and when he opened the twinkling eyes set in his wrinkled and leathered face, he smiled at me. Really smiled. Then, he handed me his instrument. Just dangled it in front of me like it wasn’t his heart beating outside his chest. I know now that it’s because it was such a part of him that he was able to set it in the hands of a gawking kid.

  “Go ahead,” he’d said.

  My mom had interrupted, politely horrified. “Oh no. No, we couldn’t possibly …”

  He waved his hand. “If we don’t share music, it becomes extinct. Passing it down through the generations is the only way it survives. It’s the birth and death of the arts—the willingness to pass it down or forget about it.”

  He really said that. I don’t remember it from that day, but my mom repeated the lines so often that it became part of my reconstructed memory. Before I took hold of the instrument, I remember my mom getting down at eye-level with me and speaking softly, with a growl between clenched teeth and a smile.

  “Be gentle,” she’d said, before doling out her threat. “If you break this instrument I’m never taking you out in public again.”

  I remember nodding, taking it, and trying to hold it the way I’d seen him doing it. It was a full-sized violin, not designed for the short arms and stubby hands of a five-year-old, but I made it work, somehow. I closed my eyes, the way I’d seen him do it, took a breath, and slid the bow across the strings.

  It sounded terrible.

  Kind of like cats in a blender is the only way I can describe it, but I didn’t care. I’d just made music on my own for the first time. I moved my hands haphazardly up and down the neck of the old violin for a few seconds, producing one God-awful note after another, a huge smile forming on my face with each note. I wasn’t embarrassed in the least, because I’d had no idea how bad I’d sounded--I was just making music. When I finished and opened my eyes, the old man nodded at me with a wink, held out his hand, and when he took his instrument back he’d said, “Well done.”

  That was it for me. After several minutes of him talking with my mom, he became my first teacher.

  It was more than a decade before I could play “Flight of the Bumblebee” like I was today, on an empty stage in Oregon, but every single day of my life between the day I first held a violin until now felt the same. Awe. Wonder. Creation.
I made a vow to myself somewhere in high school, when I transferred to a private performing arts school to prep me for the Boston Conservatory, that if I ever stopped feeling that way, I’d lock the instrument away and never look back.

  So far, so good I’d say.

  Throughout my career, I taught little kids all the way through adults, performed with orchestras, small ensembles, and out here in the rock-n-roll world. I’ve taught at conservatory workshops and privately. I was always asked in interviews what my “favorite” thing to do is with music. The answer was always the same—play. It didn’t matter how, when, or where. I just had to play.

  Taking a deep breath at the end of just over a minute of exhausting playing—“Flight of the Bumblebee” is as much of a workout as going for a run—I set my arms down and rolled my neck side to side, ready to play again. Before I could raise my instrument back up to my shoulder, however, a soft clap came from the far back of the old opera house, commanding my attention.

  Because the stage lights were still on, I had to duck and squint to make out the figure now walking toward me.

  “Georgia?” I asked softly, not wanting to get my hopes up since she told me she was running late.

  “Regan Kane?” she answered back, putting on her best fangirl impression.

  Carefully, I set the violin on the stage, then leapt the four feet down, grinning like the love-struck fool I was as I jogged toward her.

  “The one and only,” I finally answered, wrapping my arms around her waist.

  She squealed for a split second as I lifted her off the ground, circling once with her pressed close to my body before setting her down and planting one hell of a road-weary kiss on her full, painted red lips. Cadillac red, as always.

  “Miss me?” she questioned, trying to sound sarcastic, but I could hear slight relief in her voice. It didn’t startle me—she always sounded that way. Surprised that I might actually miss the love of my life.

  She still wasn’t used to being loved unconditionally. Not all the time, though are any of us ever prepared to receive that?

  I surprised her again, lifting her up and setting her on the stage in front of me before I lowered my forehead, resting it on the warm, soft tops of her thighs.

  “You have no idea,” I sighed through my answer.

  Her hands touched the top of my head, soft as she gently raked her short, black-painted fingernails down my scalp a few times, as if coaxing a feral cat. There’s a bit of stray in every road musician, and Georgia always recognized when mine needed to be nurtured.

  Nine

  Regan

  Georgia and I only swung by the hotel for a minute so I could deposit my violin and Georgia could change before meeting CJ for dinner. We’d have plenty of time to catch up physically later—which killed me to convince myself—but it was important to me that I didn’t turn into one of those guys that went MIA when his girlfriend or wife showed up. Life on the road is always about maintaining balance when able.

  “How’d you manage to con your way into getting your own room?” Georgia asked as we entered the hibachi grill restaurant.

  While it was fairly common for me to have my own room when on longer tours with Celtic Summer, because our budget was nearly bottomless, it was much less common on smaller tours, regardless of our label’s income. Yardley was smart with money, and while she didn’t cut unnecessary corners, wasting money gave her anxiety.

  “I paid the difference,” I admitted. “Yardley said she didn’t mind, but I don’t want to turn into that guy, either,” I said of the prima donna’s that reveal themselves on every tour, no matter how big or small.

  “Regan,” Georgia chuckled, “I don’t think it’s possible for you to ever become that guy.”

  I stared down at my wife, looking succulent in a black, 50s-style dress that highlighted her ample cleavage and flared out over her incredible hips.

  Perhaps going to dinner before doing anything else was a shortsighted decision on my part.

  “What?” she playfully snapped. “Stop looking at me like I’m on the menu.”

  I leaned in close to her ear as we worked our way to the private area reserved for us. “Oh,” I whispered against her earlobe, “but you are.” I grinned in satisfaction as goose bumps popped up along the slope of her neck.

  “There you guys are!” CJ announced as we entered the tucked-away area with its own, private grill. “We got worried you decided to hammer it out before dinner, and we’re starving.”

  He grinned like a sixteen-year-old as he stood and walked to Georgia, lifting her off the ground in a bear hug that nearly swallowed her inside his broad body.

  “How you doin’, kid?” he asked when he set her down.

  She smiled at him like he was her big brother, which in some ways, was quite true. “Fine. You? Behaving yourself on this tour?”

  “Never,” he teased, returning to his seat.

  I took a few seconds to introduce Georgia to a couple of the guys from the other bands she didn’t know yet. There were eight of us in all—myself, Georgia, CJ, then five members of The Brewers, including Nessa, who Georgia had met on a few occasions before.

  As we settled into our seats and placed our drink orders, Georgia leaned in, whispering. “What’s up over there?” she asked of CJ sitting next to Nessa, engaged in what appeared to be normal, pleasant conversation.

  “I hope nothing,” I answered back, keeping my tone low. “But, I’m not anyone’s caretaker, so …”

  “Oy,” answered Georgia. “Frankie’s a mess.”

  “What?” I said of CJ’s sort-of ex-girlfriend back in Massachusetts, a little louder than intended.

  Georgia rolled her eyes. “She didn’t break up with him because she wanted to.”

  I paused, waiting for Georgia to explain it.

  “Well, she wanted to, but she didn’t want to want to, you know?”

  “Barely.”

  Georgia leaned in closer. “Look. CJ didn’t tell us all the details. And Frankie hasn’t been explicit except to say that she was done hoping for more. She thought he’d really bought into their relationship.”

  “I think we all did,” I admitted.

  “But what fucking choice did he leave her? He manages to be faithful on home turf but needs to run around like a cock in heat when he’s on the road? What shit is that? Anyway, she’s a crying mess.”

  “Did she say that? Has he cheated on her before?”

  Georgia shrugged. “He can’t keep secrets for shit, so I doubt it.”

  “Yikes,” I replied, not even knowing where to go with this conversation.

  “What?” CJ broke in. “Telling secrets?”

  Georgia silenced him with a wry grin. “Nah, I was just telling Regan I’d chatted with Frankie today,” she said casually, perusing the menu.

  CJ’s jaw tightened and damn if he didn’t do his best to unclench. But it didn’t work.

  “So,” he replied.

  “Ohh,” Nessa entered, interested with devilish eyes. “Who’s Frankie?”

  “No one,” CJ answered, clipped.

  “Someone,” Nessa concluded with raised eyebrows.

  Georgia waved her hand. “Yes, someone. But no one you have to worry about, Nessa. She’s out on a date tonight three-thousand miles away.”

  At this, CJ pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m grabbing a smoke. If the waiter comes, I’ll have the number eight. And ten.”

  The waiter did come, shortly after CJ left, rescuing us from awkward silence. While the rest of the group placed their orders, I whispered to Georgia once more.

  “You didn’t tell me about Frankie.”

  Georgia smiled, looking quite pleased with herself. “That’s because it’s bullshit,” she whispered back. “Guess we found out how he really feels about being free from Frankie, huh?”

  “You’re evil,” I replied, only half kidding. She didn’t meddle much anymore, but when she did, Georgia could go to the mat with the best of them.

 
CJ soon returned to the table, looking a little less homicidal than when he’d left, but only slightly so. The group eased into conversation about our upcoming shows, set lists, and our favorite foods, leaving all conversation of CJ and Frankie in the dust.

  “Don’t tell CJ,” was the last thing Georgia whispered to me before our drinks arrived and we carried on with dinner with our friends.

  ***

  Inevitably, dinner led to a discussion of where we’d go drinking and dancing next. At that point, I was itching to get my girl back to the hotel room, but she seemed to be enjoying the night out, so when she went along with plans for “part 2” of our evening, I did, too.

  Soon, we found ourselves at a club that looked like an old movie theater from the front—it very well may have been once—but was wide open on the inside, and packed wall-to-wall with hot, grinding bodies. And, because luck in these places is rarely on my side, the bar was smack dab in the middle of it all.

  “Well,” Georgia sighed, sounding playfully resigned as we scanned the crowd, “let’s go get sweaty.”

  She took my hand and led me through the writhing crowd that was twerking along to PitBull and Jennifer Lopez. Despite her generally loathsome attitude toward club life, Georgia was able to make herself at home fast. Balancing on fairly high shiny red heels, she swayed her hips back and forth in time with the music, weaving us masterfully through the crowd. Not only did I have the best view in the house from behind her, but I got to watch as nearly every man in the crowd, some probably ten years younger than us, gawked at her as she walked by. Almost every one of them. Some for a second, some for far longer—enough to earn swift elbows to the side from their girlfriends.

  It would bother the hell out of some guys to have a wife that garnered this much attention—and it does bother G when the roles are reversed and I’m ever the center of lewd glances—but it doesn’t upset me one bit. She’s stunning. Beautiful, sexy, and masterfully in control of it all. She knows it and works it, even if she doesn’t always believe it deep down. And, she’s mine.