by Donna Hill
She moved slowly toward him, patted his thigh. “You’ll work it out. Whatever it is.”
He watched her enter the house and wondered if she was as right as she always had been.
“Got some errands for you to run,” she called out from the doorway, figuring why not? “Seeing as that you apparently ain’t got nothing to do.”
Quinn chuckled and slowly shook his head. “Be there in a minute, Mrs. Finch.”
After cleaning up Mrs. Finch’s basement and going to the fish market, the vegetable stand, and the cleaners, Quinn was determined to get out of the house before she found something else for him to do.
He took a long leisurely shower, decided on his black dress pants and matching shirt, and picked up his cream-colored leather jacket as an afterthought on his way out. Although the early days of fall were still relatively warm, the evenings had grown chilly.
He decided to visit his old haunts up in Harlem, check out Shugs Fish Fry, and maybe pay a surprise visit to his old mentor and surrogate father Remy. As usual, the streets of Harlem were jumping on Saturday night. Cars were double-and triple-parked in front of the clubs and knots of people stood outside the Lenox Lounge, where portions of the movie Shaft had been filmed.
He drove on and pulled up in front of Shugs. The line ran from the front door to the corner. Quinn laughed. Some things never change. He rolled down his windows, and kept driving, letting the night breeze and the sounds of life and laughter join him for the ride. This had all been a part of who he was—still was, somewhere.
Music from boom boxes blared from corners. Transactions exchanged hands from behind tinted car windows and down long, dim alleyways. Tight-knit groups of young wannabes draped themselves over cars and around one another.
Quinn turned on the Jeep’s stereo and Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue” filled the air, Miles’s lyrical horn sailing above the expert rhythm section. He bobbed his head to the beat. Miles is the man, he thought, feeling the music.
Sometimes he missed playing, missed the thrill of walking on stage, the spotlight hitting him, and the applause of the audience, the energy that came from working in the studio, feeling the satisfaction of having your creation come to life. That old familiar longing, which he never seemed able to completely rid himself of, settled in the pit of his belly. Then the melody smoothly segued and for some reason the pianist’s touch sounded familiar, a light and gentle touch to the ivories that evoked a sensation of water moving swiftly yet easily along a country stream or even the subtle touch of wind upon autumn leaves. And then he recognized himself in the music from the time when change and challenge forged the ideas, character, and style of his music. “Tumbling,” his last album, playing now along the column of his spine, had come from that very place in him. It had come from that part of him, that part that he missed. He was a chameleon then, an artist, ever evolving, who refused to sit still or to settle into any rut just because it was commercial. He missed that. He missed the artist part of himself. Shaken, he eased the Jeep to the curb and parked. For several moments he sat there, eyes closed, letting the music, the memories grab hold of him.
He saw himself as if in a movie, sitting at the piano his sister Lacy had given him, working through the notes, perfecting every line, every bar, all through the night until the sun burst gold and orange above the horizon. Everyone said it was the most brilliant piece he’d done, and that he was destined to take his rightful place among the likes of Herbie Hancock, McCoy Tyner, Bill Evans, and Ahmad Jamal—those who had raised the bar of finger play to another level.
The ballad drew to a soulful close, followed by the easy-listening intonations of Johnnie C, the jazz station’s host. “That was the mellow sounds of Quinn Parker’s ‘Tumbling,’ from the album of the same name. Long time since we’ve heard from the man who put the ‘Quiet’ in Quiet Storm. We miss you, brotha. And now…”
Quinn turned off the stereo, breathing deeply. He looked down at his hands. He didn’t even know if he had what it took anymore, if the notes would come, if his fingers would respond.
“Will you ever play again? It’s the only thing that keeps me going.” Rae’s words echoed in his head, her face clear behind his lids.
What did he have to keep him going? Anyone who tried to get close he pushed away. All the things that were a part of his life, he’d shut out, cut off.
Rae was right. So was Mrs. Finch. He was only pretending to live. But how could he find a way to make his life real again? Was everything that made him the man he once was so bruised, so destroyed that it couldn’t be resurrected? If there were any remnants of the chameleon, perhaps he could find a way to emerge as a new man, a different man. Maybe.
Chapter 9
It was nearing 11:00 a.m. The members of the band were taking a long-overdue break. They’d been at it since eight that morning. Rae was pleased with the rehearsal session, and was certain they were ready to record the last number. It had taken her nearly two years to write the fourteen pieces that would be burned onto a CD, to find the right combination of musicians and perfect lyrics to accompany the notes she’d woven. The collection was an eclectic blend of sultry vocals and taunting instrumentals that stretched the parameters of contemporary jazz, taking this collection to new heights. But still she felt there was something missing, some final intangible element that kept it a breath away from perfection. She couldn’t put a finger on it, only felt it in her mind, in the center of her chest.
Contemplating all possible scenarios, she took a seat on the edge of the engineering table, hoping to discover what was wrong.
Melvin, the studio engineer, tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Great session, Rae. The tracks are awesome.”
She blinked, bringing the burly young man into focus. “Thanks, Mel. Won’t be too much longer.” She yawned. “Couldn’t have done it without you, baby. You know you’re a genius with those dials. You could make anyone sound good.”
“Gotta have something to work with, and you definitely have it goin’ on. This CD is gonna make you, Rae, believe me.”
“We’ll see, sweetie. We’ll see.”
Mel jerked his head over his shoulder. “You got company up front.”
Rae frowned curiously and slowly stood, arching her back to work out the kinks. She knew Gail was on a hot date, maybe not to resurface for days, and she hadn’t invited anyone. “Who is it? I wasn’t expecting—”
“Mr. Q himself,” he said with deference in his tone.
Her heart fluttered as a sudden heat flushed her body. She didn’t move.
“Whatever happened with him, anyway? He just kinda disappeared from the scene, and the brother was ba-ad, too.” He shook his head, bewildered, and reached for a control switch. “Shame. Catch you in thirty. We got the studio until two.” He chuckled and started for the door. “Pulled a few strings.”
Rae nodded absently. “Yeah, uh, thanks, Mel.” She pressed her lips together and tried to think of all the reasons why Quinn would show up here, now, after what was said—what she’d said. She didn’t want to hope. Didn’t dare. She’d witnessed how uncomfortable he seemed whenever he came to the studio, as if he wanted to run, not walk away. How he almost cringed when someone recognized him, asked him to play, what he was doing, when his next album was coming out. He’d answered in monosyllables as much as possible, or not at all. He’d only come twice, and both times had been at her insistence. Eventually she’d stopped asking him to sit in, stopped asking him to play. It slowly became clear that this was a part of his life that he wanted nothing to do with, wanted the past to stay there. That fact was reinforced to her during her conversation with Gail. So why then was he here? What did it mean?
Pulling herself together, she headed for the reception area. Whatever it was, she’d deal with it.
On the ride over, he’d tried to figure out what he was going to say. Find the words to explain what he’d been wrestling with for longer than he cared to remember. He wasn’t sure when the changes in him began: if
it was the summer visit with his son, meeting Rae, that older woman at Encore, or the constant infusion of hope that Mrs. Finch fed to him. Maybe it was one thing, maybe a combination that had begun to thaw the ice around his soul. Maybe it was nothing more than time passing—changes happening. The only thing he could be sure of was that he had to start somewhere. He gazed around, remembering the many days and nights he’d spent in a studio just like this one. Maybe this was the start. This place, this step. “Hi.”
The tentative greeting filled him with a sudden warmth that surprised him. Slowly he turned around and when he saw Rae standing there, as lovely as the day he met her, he realized how much he’d missed her—how much more time he’d wasted.
Quinn stood, taking her in, inch by inch: the way the bronze-colored Lycra pants defined the smooth curves of her legs and thighs; the cotton T-shirt that highlighted rather than diminished the swell of her breasts; the sinewy column of her neck, the warm brown of her face, haloed by the springy twists of chestnut hair.
“Hey,” he finally murmured in response. He angled his head to the side, looking at her as if she were the only woman in the world. He slid his hands into the pockets of his pants as he slowly approached her.
The room seemed to shrink around them.
Rae held her breath, or maybe it was trapped in her chest, she couldn’t be sure over the rapid beating of her heart.
“You look good,” he said from deep in his throat, standing mere inches in front of her, forcing her to look up at him.
“So do you.”
He shrugged. “How you been, Rae?”
She pulled in a breath, thought about telling him how much she’d missed him, that she was willing to wait for him to figure things out, change his mind about them. That she was sorry for trying to push him. But some buried instinct told her no. That wasn’t why he’d come. He was there to unburden himself, to make his own confession in a way.
“Good, and you?” she asked, following her instincts.
“Missing you, Rae,” he admitted, his dark gaze unwavering.
Relief widened Rae’s eyes, increased the beat of her heart. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she reached out to tuck that one wayward lock behind his ear. The tip of her finger lingered for a moment near his jaw, gently stroking it.
For an instant his eyes fluttered closed before he took her hand away, pressing her open palm to his lips.
A shudder ran through her and she audibly moaned.
“Can you leave?” he asked in a voice so heavy with something she couldn’t discern that it was almost unrecognizable. His free hand cupped her waist.
She thought of all the reasons why she needed to stay. All the work that still needed to be done. This was important, her magnum opus if she did it right, put in the time, made everything perfect. How many years had she waited and worked for today, this time in her life—at all costs? How many hours, days, weeks had she spent toiling, sweating, working out every detail, every nuance, accepting nothing less than one hundred and fifty percent from everyone and even more from herself? And there was still much to be done to get ready to lay the last track. They needed her, couldn’t finish without her. She glanced over her shoulder and all that rested and waited on the other side of the control room door—a definitive step toward her musical future. “Why can’t I go with you? You promised.” The tiny voice of her daughter still haunted her. She’d chosen her career over her life once before. It was a deadly game and she’d lost. She turned to Quinn, saw the quiet patience in his eyes—and something else—a faint light of hope—the minute possibility of a different kind of future.
She swallowed, terrified of letting go of the only life raft she’d ever known and reaching out into the dark water of the ocean, praying that she wouldn’t go under. She took his hand and he squeezed hers as if he understood the turmoil and doubt that raced through her head. He was throwing her a new life raft, after the first one had been battered and worn. The decision to cling to it would be hers.
“If you can wait a minute…I’ll get my things.”
Chapter 10
Quinn stood, watching her inspect his living quarters. “Hope you don’t mind that I brought you here.”
“No. Not at all.” She looked around with admiration at the stylishly decorated living room, the sleek furnishings, original artwork by Biggers, Catlett, Basquiat, and Lawrence. But what drew her like a moth to a flame was the large, beautifully maintained Steinway piano that dominated one corner of the room. Slowly she walked toward it, stroking the polished wood surface of the instrument with reverence.
In the months that they’d been seeing each other he’d never brought her to where he lived. And if she was really honest with herself, in the back of her mind she thought that maybe he lived with someone. At least she did at first. But once she got to know him she understood that Quinten Parker was not that kind of man. If he’d allowed another woman to get that close to him, to penetrate his protective shield, he would never have allowed her to enter his life. It was a matter of respect with him. There was some other reason why he’d never brought her here. Maybe tonight she’d find out.
“This is…beautiful, Quinn.” Impressed, she turned to him and nearly melted when she saw the half smile and the easy grace of his taut body leaning casually against the off-white wall a few steps from her.
He shrugged. “It’s home. Want a drink? Something to eat?”
“Yeah, I’m starved actually. We were working for hours.” She tugged on the hem of her sweatshirt.
He tipped his head toward the kitchen. “Come on. Tell me what you want.”
No, you’re not ready for me to tell you what I want, she thought, following him through the open dining room to the kitchen.
“What do you have a taste for, full-cooked meal, or something light?”
She walked over to the fridge, where he was poised, peering at its contents. Unlike a lot of men, he kept it fairly well stocked, a variety of food for each meal.
“Something light sounds fine,” she volunteered.
“Salad?”
“Cool.”
“Beer?” Quinn suggested.
“Thanks.”
He handed one to her before taking out the ingredients for the salad. Without much fanfare, he put fresh spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms, and cucumbers on the kitchen counter and a flash memory of doing the very same thing with Nikita on her visit that first night ran through his head. But this time, instead of memories of her opening the unhealed wound of her loss, the recollection didn’t sting, didn’t twist his insides as it usually did. He turned on the water and began washing the vegetables, wondering what that meant.
“There’s a big bowl in that cabinet over your head,” Quinn said.
Rae handed him the bowl, smiling. “What can I do?”
“Relax. Unwind. How’d the session go today?” he asked, momentarily wanting to live vicariously through her.
“Great. I think.” She took a sip of her beer.
“Want a glass for that?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“So what do you mean, ‘you think’?” He sliced the skin off a cucumber, and glanced at her over his shoulder.
Rae took a breath and tried to vocalize what she’d been feeling. “Well…I know the work is good. It sounds great and everyone’s loving it. They say it’s the best thing I’ve done.”
“But…”
“Something’s missing, Quinn, and I don’t know what it is. It’s just a feeling I have. You know?” She looked at him with her brows furrowed.
Quinn put the washed vegetables in the bowl, sprinkled some croutons on top, and placed it on the island counter.
“French or Italian?”
“French.”
He took a fresh bottle from the cupboard and placed it next to the bowl. “The plates are on a shelf under your feet.”
Rae took out two plates, found forks and knives, and put them on the counter, convinced by now that he hadn’t heard her or had cho
sen to ignore what she’d said.
Quinn took a seat on the stool. “What do you think it is?” he finally asked, hoping that her answer, any answer would somehow unlock his own mystery, why something that seemed right, remained wrong, untenable.
“The music is there, every note in place, the lyrics move, but…”
“But what?” His tone became almost urgent. “Is it you that’s missing—standing on the outside conducting the orchestra of your life from behind a glass wall?” he asked with the precision of a skilled surgeon.
She looked straight at him as a realization slowly dawned within her. How could he know, understand what she herself had questioned ceaselessly, unless he, too, had been in that dark space? “I’m not there. I’m not anywhere,” she confessed, the weight finally being lifted. “It’s as if the soul of me has been erased and I’m just going through the motions.”
Something inside him opened, shifted, as if a block of ice had been touched by the heat of the sun. He’d needed to hear the words, the words he’d been afraid to say out loud that had danced in his head for three years. He leaned forward, his eyes intense.
“It’s the same place I’ve been, Rae, what I’ve been feelin’. I can make all the moves, say and do all the right things, and on the surface everything looks great. But inside—” he poked his chest “—it’s empty. The melody is gone. Everything seems to lack meaning, any depth.”
Her pulse raced as her eyes scanned his face. “Yesss,” she uttered, knowing his words had struck home, had found a real truth. “Yes.” Her eyes suddenly filled. “How do you get it back, Quinn? I’ve been fooling myself, fooling everybody into thinking that I was all right, better, moving on. I buried myself in my music, held on to the notes as if they were life preservers that would keep me from sinking. Surrounded myself with people and work, gigs and more work, because I was so damned scared. The music can be a wonderful place to hide yourself inside. It can cloak your fears, provide you with a false shelter. Do you know what I mean?” Tears streamed down her face unchecked.
