Small Change

by Sheila Roberts

  “You never wanted to get back on the horse?” she asked.

  “You get kicked hard enough and it makes you think twice,” he admitted. He set down his wineglass and regarded her. “It would take a very special woman.”

  “Define special.”

  “The right values, the right heart. I'm not in a hurry, Rachel. Are you?”

  After what she'd been through with Aaron? “No.”

  “But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to you and that I didn't want to take this relationship further.”

  It wasn't hard to figure out what he meant by further, not with the way he was looking at her. That look in his eye started a sizzle in her that had nothing to do with the hot July evening. Her mouth felt suddenly dry.

  He reached for the bottle of wine and poured more into her glass. “How about you, Rachel? What do you want?”

  She wanted her prince to come. She wanted to never get hurt again. She wanted to feel loved, protected, and safe. But she didn't tell him all that. She said, “I want you to kiss me.”

  Amy Burke, the leader of The Red Hots, had given Jess an address in the Shoreline area, which lay south of Heart Lake and north of Seattle. Being directionally challenged, Jess had Mapquested it; thanks to the step-by-step directions, she was sure she'd be able to find the place. She had just loaded her keyboard in the back of the truck when Michael returned home from a late afternoon interview in the city.

  She had half hoped to miss him, preferring to leave him a note explaining where she was rather than tell him in person. She was out to land a part-time job that would leave him abandoned on the weekends. Of course, Michael was supportive of everything she did, except he was more supportive of some things than others. She'd been in a band when they first met. She'd joined another band when their kids were small. He'd been a good sport, watching the kids at night while she went off to play, but eventually he'd convinced her that she didn't want to be on a different schedule than the rest of the family, showing up at Saturday morning soccer games looking like a zombie or needing a nap on Sunday afternoons to recharge her batteries. But now it was just the two of them and she didn't want to be convinced out of even auditioning.

  She forestalled the inevitable by asking, “How did the interview go?”

  “I've had better,” he confessed. “I suspect they're going to hire from within.” He took in her tight jeans, ribbed black top, and dangly rhinestone earrings, along with her moused hair and freshly painted red toenails peeping out from behind her favorite red flower flip-flops. “Got a hot date?”

  “Got a band audition.”

  His brows drew together. “Band audition? When did this happen? This is the first I've heard of it.”

  “Well, it might be the last, too. I didn't want to tell you since I may not even be what they're looking for.”

  “If you're not, they're nuts. But, Jess, I wish you'd talked to me about this.”

  “What's there to talk about?”

  “How about whether I want you to do it or not?”

  “Since when do I need your permission to make money?” Of course, this wasn't really about the money. The old Bangles song “If She Knew What He Wanted” came to mind. Only with them it was more a case of if he knew what she wanted. Except Michael knew. He simply didn't like giving it.

  He held up a hand. “You don't have to say it. That sounded controlling.”

  “A little,” she said sarcastically.

  “But I remember what happens when you get involved in bands. I'll never see you.”

  “As of tomorrow you're unemployed. We'll be seeing a lot of each other.” Maybe even too much. Probably joining a band couldn't come at a better time.

  “I'll be getting another job,” Michael said. His tone of voice told her she'd insulted him.

  She stepped up to him and rubbed his arm. “I know, Michael. But we don't know when. You could be out of work for months.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said grimly.

  “I just want to do my part to help. And as we both know, I don't have a lot of marketable skills.”

  “Fine,” he said grumpily. “Go.”

  They both knew she was going to, no matter what, but she played along with the charade, kissing him on the cheek and thanking him for being so understanding even though he didn't really understand. People who weren't musicians couldn't.

  “But here,” he said, letting down the truck's tailgate and pulling out her Casio. “Take the car. You'll use less gas.”

  “There's lasagna in the oven,” she told him as he loaded it in the trunk. Then she kissed him one last time and got in behind the wheel. He watched her, looking resigned. Life was about change. He would adapt.

  Maybe he wouldn't have to. Maybe she wouldn't get the gig. Maybe they'd laugh her out of the room. She gripped the steering wheel and swallowed hard.

  Jess was glad she'd allowed herself plenty of time to find where the band was practicing since, even with the directions, she'd managed to get lost. But now she was standing with her trusty keyboard and amp at the front door of a split-level house in a middle-class neighborhood. Out-of-control azaleas crouched around the front porch while on the front lawn a sprinkler made a feeble attempt to keep the grass from turning brown under the July sun. An ancient Honda sat in the driveway, blocked in by two other vehicles that Jess guessed belonged to the other band members: an SUV and a Volkswagen bug that triggered a sentimental pang. A boy's bicycle leaned against the garage, evidence that Amy Burke had at least one child. From somewhere deep inside the house Jess thought she heard the thumping of a bass. She rang the doorbell and the chime started some sort of small dog yapping. Kids, dogs, and a messy front lawn— it reminded Jess of her own life a few years back.

  “Killer, stop!” commanded a female voice. The front door opened wide and there stood a pretty thirty-something blonde, holding a Chihuahua. The dog took one look at Jess and started barking all over again. “Oh, stop,” said the woman in disgust. “He is wound way too tight,” she explained. “You must be Jess.”

  “That's me,” said Jess, trying to inject as much good cheer and youth into her voice as possible.

  “I'm Amy. Come on in. Everyone else is down in the basement. Careful you don't trip over the shoes.”

  Jess maneuvered her equipment through the narrow landing and past a pile of tennis shoes—okay, Amy definitely had more than one child—and down the stairs. She wound up in a huge rec room that housed a battered pool table at one end and a band at the other. She quickly took in her possible future bandmates.

  At the drums sat a skinny blonde with the face of an angel who looked like she was barely into her twenties. Her long hair was caught up in a sloppy bun and she was wearing soccer shorts, a baggy T-shirt, and tennis shoes. The bass player stood chatting with her and twiddling her instrument. She didn't look much older than the drummer. Jess took in the stylish clothes, maroon hair, the sleeve tattoo, and the multiple ear piercings and suddenly felt old. These women were too hip, too hot. They'd never want to play with her. She must have been out of her mind to think she could do this.

  The bass player smiled at her. It was an open, friendly smile. Maybe she needed glasses and couldn't see that Jess was the only one in this room who was over the hill.

  “Well, this is us,” said Amy. “You obviously know who I am.” She motioned to the drummer. “This is my baby sister, Kit Mason.”

  The drummer saluted Jess with a twirl of her drumstick and said, “Hi.”

  “And I'm Melissa,” said the bass player.

  “You don't even want to know her last name,” added Amy. “Her husband's Czech and none of us can pronounce it, not even her.” She motioned to a small cooler. “If you get thirsty, we've got Diet Pepsi, Dr Pepper, and Starbucks fraps. That's about as wild as we get. You saw the ad. We don't do drugs and we don't drink when we're playing. Ever,” Amy added sternly.

  “I'm cool with that,” Jess assured her. Did she look like a druggie or
something?

  “Our last keyboard player forgot to tell us she had a problem,” explained Melissa.

  Kit snickered and Amy gave her a quelling look. “She fell off the stage. Not cool.”

  “Don't worry. I think I can manage to stay upright,” Jess assured everyone.

  Amy nodded. “So, here's us in a nutshell. Melissa just had the big three-oh and a baby. Kit's not married but she has a serious girlfriend.”

  “That really frustrates all the guys who hit on her,” added Melissa.

  “And me,” Amy concluded, “I'm the fearless leader.”

  “Bossy old bat,” added Melissa. “We call her BOB for short.”

  Amy pointed a disciplinary finger at her. “Hey, I'm only five years older than you. Watch who you're calling old.”

  Jess forced a smile and hoped nobody asked her how old she was. If thirty-five was an old bat, Jess was the walking dead.

  Amy went on. “I've got two boys in grade school and they're gonna turn me gray before I'm forty. So, to keep sane, I do the band thing on weekends. We play a couple of clubs in Seattle. Mostly we do the animal clubs.”

  Eagles, Elks, and Lions—Jess had done her share of them, too. “How did you all get together?” she asked.

  “I started the band,” said Amy. “I did time in Nashville trying to make it as a songwriter. I finally got tired of starving, came home, and reconnected with my high school sweetheart. But I missed the music. Ya know?”

  Boy, did she ever. Jess nodded.

  “We met Melissa at Gig Land,” Amy continued. “She was looking for a bass and we were looking for a bass player.” She looked speculatively at Jess. “You've had some experience, it sounds like.”

  “About a million years ago,” Jess admitted. “But I've missed the music, too. And my husband's been laid off so I decided it was time to jump in again,” she finished, then worked up her nerve to add, “One last time, before I'm too old.”

  Amy gave a snort. “Hey, look at Bonnie Raitt. American Idol has got it all wrong. You're never too old if you're good.”

  “Well, I could be too old to qualify as a Red Hot,” said Jess.

  “Red hot is how we play,” said Kit, hitting a drumroll.

  “We can't help it if we look that way, too,” added Amy with a grin. Then, all business, she said, “So, let's see what you can do.”

  With cheeks suddenly warm, Jess broke out her keyboard.

  “Whoa, dude, that is a dino,” said Kit.

  “It is,” Jess admitted as she plugged in her amp, “but I think I can still get some sound out of it.”

  “Well, let's see,” said Amy, picking up her electric guitar. “Know any Bangles?”

  The Eighties was Jess's prime time. “Uh, yeah,” she said with a confident smile.

  They launched into “Walk Like an Egyptian.”

  “Not bad,” approved Amy when they'd come to an end.

  Not bad? That had been a blast. “What else do you do?” asked Jess.

  Within a short period of time, they'd tried on everything from “It's Raining Men” and “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” to Carrie Underwood's “Before He Cheats.”

  “You're good,” said Melissa admiringly when they'd finished.

  “A hell of a lot better than our last keyboard player,” added Kit.

  “Anyone was better than our last keyboard player,” said Melissa, looking at their fearless leader as if it was her fault.

  Amy shrugged. “What can I say? I boo-booed. But not this time,” she added. “You can play, girl, and you've got a nice voice. If you want to be a Red Hot you're in. We've got a gig at a club downtown and you can jump in as soon as you feel ready.”

  “The sooner the better,” added Melissa. “We really need key-boards.”

  She had a chance for one more run. And she'd be bringing in extra money. Oh, yes, she wanted in. Two hours later she left Amy's house buzzing.

  Back home, she parked her equipment in the front hall and hurried in to the family room to make her big announcement. Michael looked up from the book he was reading with an expression as far from expectant excitement as a man could get.

  She pretended not to notice and struck a pose. “You are looking at the new keyboard player for The Red Hots.”

  He managed a smile but it didn't reach his eyes. “I'm happy for you.”

  “Sure you are.” She joined him on the couch.

  “No, I am. Really,” he insisted. “I just wish you didn't feel like you have to do this.”

  “Michael, I want to do this. One last time.” They were empty nesters now and the kids weren't the only ones who needed to fly.

  He nodded, chewing on that. “Okay. I'll be your groupie.”

  She slipped her arms around him. “Thank you for under-standing.”

  He smiled at her. “Who said anything about understanding? I'd like to meet the man who understands women, especially mine.”

  But her girlfriends understood. Her Friday tennis buddies were delighted and all promised to come hear her. So did Rachel and Tiffany when she told them that evening as they met at Rachel's house to brainstorm cheap craft projects. “We'll have to find a different time to meet since I'll be working Friday nights.”

  “It's the end of an era,” said Rachel with a sigh.

  “I suspect your Friday nights will be starting to fill up any-way,” teased Jess.

  Rachel's self-satisfied smile said it all.

  “Just think, we know a star,” gushed Tiffany.

  “Not really,” said Jess. “Musicians are a dime a dozen. But it's going to be fun. I think this group could be good.”

  “Getting paid for something fun, that rocks,” said Tiffany.

  “Getting paid for anything rocks,” said Jess. “And speaking of money, how are your eBay bids doing?”

  Tiffany beamed. “I have bids on everything. So far I'm over two hundred dollars and my bids don't even close until next week.”

  “You're not going to go crazy and spend that all at garage sales, are you?” worried Rachel.

  Tiffany shook her head vehemently. “No way.” She dug a twenty-dollar bill and a ten out of her purse and held them up for show and tell. “This is my spending money for tomorrow.”

  “Good girl,” Rachel approved.

  “As soon as the money from this week's bids clears I'm transferring it from my PayPal account to my checking and writing a check to pay down my credit cards,” Tiffany said with a determined nod. “Then, as soon as my credit cards are paid off, I'm getting a divorce,” she added with an angry flash of her eyes.

  Oh, no, thought Jess. What now? “You don't want to rush into anything,” she cautioned.

  “Believe me,” Rachel added, “divorce is no fun.”

  “Neither is being married to Brian,” Tiffany snapped, and then proceeded to tell them about her husband miseries.

  “This can be worked out though,” said Jess, trying to be the voice of reason. “Maybe you guys should try counseling.”

  “We probably can't afford it,” Tiffany grumbled.

  Rachel's phone rang and Jess said, “If that's a certain hunky Latino, tell him you're busy. And don't say it's us,” she added quickly. “It's good for him to think you're in high demand.”

  Rachel wasn't much of a game player, and after their dinner together the night before it seemed silly and manipulative. She did tell him she was busy, but stood ready to say with whom if he asked.

  Surprisingly, he didn't. Maybe because he could hear Jess laughing in the background at something Tiff was saying.

  “All night?” he asked.

  Knowing how their girl nights went … “Yes, probably.”

  “Well, then how about doing something tomorrow night?”

  “What did you have in mind?” As if it mattered.

  “Dinner and dancing.”

  “Dancing sounds great. If you want to come over, I can make dinner,” she offered, feeling guilty at the thought of him spending money he didn't have.
/>   “Are you thinking I can't afford a dinner out?” he teased.

  “Yes,” she said truthfully.

  He chuckled. “Don't worry. We won't have to wash dishes. I'll pick you up at six.”

  “Okay.”

  “What have you got to wear?” Tiffany asked later as she and Jess and Rachel were poring over recipes for tea and coffee drinks.

  Rachel felt mildly panicked. “For going dancing? I don't know, and I've spent my clothing budget for the month.”

  “I know! Let's go shopping in your closet,” suggested Tiffany. “The diva on a dime says sometimes you already have great outfits. You just have to look at stuff with new eyes, pair things up together you normally wouldn't.”

  “I don't think the diva on a dime has been in this closet,” Jess said, once they got there.

  It was a little disheartening. Rachel's classic outfits were great for teaching and running errands, but they sure didn't say, “Take me on the dance floor.” Instead they primly demanded, “Take me to the PTO meeting.”

  “Look.” Tiffany pulled out the red floral halter top Rachel had gotten at the Bargain Boutique. “How about wearing this and adding that beaded necklace you made last year, the one with the garnets? And you know, I've got the perfect skirt.”

  “It'll be too short,” Rachel predicted.

  “And the problem with that is?” Tiffany retorted, and disappeared. She was back five minutes later with a gauzy black skirt in hand. It was definitely short.

  “And hot,” Jess assured her. “You look great. Now you can go to the ball, Cinderella.”

  Rachel had a hard time getting to sleep that night. Cinderella. Funny that Jess referred to the classic fairy tale. Were women hardwired to want a happy ending, to long for a prince?