by Julie Blair
Table of Contents
Synopsis
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
About the Author
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Jazz pianist Liz Randall is reeling from her wife’s death and struggling to keep their band together. An invitation to play at the prestigious Monterey Jazz Festival is an opportunity she can’t turn down, and a challenge she might not be up to until she enlists the help of a mysterious neighbor who’s surprisingly knowledgeable about jazz.
When Jac Winters reluctantly agrees to help, a past she wants to forget threatens to destroy the carefully ordered life she’s built with her guide dog, Max, in the quiet town of Carmel-by-the-Sea.
With music and love swirling around them like ocean currents, will Liz and Jac play it safe or risk everything on making a comeback?
Making a Comeback
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Making a Comeback
© 2015 By Julie Blair. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-175-8
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: July 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Shelley Thrasher
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Gabrielle Pendergrast
By the Author
Never Too Late
Making a Comeback
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Radclyffe for giving me the opportunity to be part of her extraordinary publishing company, Bold Strokes Books. Thanks to senior editor Sandy Lowe for walking me through my first book proposal and helping me get this story headed in the right direction. Thanks to all the talented and dedicated staff who helped my story become a polished, published book with a beautiful cover.
Again, working with my editor, Dr. Shelley Thrasher, was a privilege and an education. Thanks for treating my work with care, thoroughness, sensitivity, and a keen editing eye.
Writing this story was a long and difficult journey. I couldn’t have done it without the support and guidance of my writing coach, Deb Norton. Her story wisdom shows on every page.
Thanks to Carol McComb for checking my musical facts, answering endless questions, and providing invaluable insight into the life of a professional musician.
Beta readers Ginny, Greta, and Suzy graciously read many drafts.
I’m grateful for friends and family who provide support, encouragement, and common sense when I need it—Dena and Susan, Ginny and Greta, Suzy, Patricia, Jac, and Summer.
I’ve always loved jazz, and writing this book gave me an excuse to immerse myself in it. A nod to Liz Story, Bill Evans, Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, and Benny Goodman, to name a few of the jazz greats whose albums provided my writing soundtrack.
Thanks to all the readers of lesbian fiction. Your support of the genre keeps it alive.
Dedication
A writer could not have better friends than Ginny Hagopian and Greta Muller. For all your support, this one’s for you.
Chapter One
Why did everything have to be harder alone? Liz blew out an exasperated breath as the car in front of her backed into the parking space she wanted. It was the third time that had happened.
She circled another block, creeping along in the line of cars slowed by stop signs at every corner. Tourists, unfazed by the rain, strolled along under umbrellas. Strolling seemed to be their only speed. She couldn’t blame them. She’d been coming to Carmel her whole life, but the English-village-style architecture and unique shops and galleries that helped make the small seaside town a year-round tourist destination still captivated her.
Was someone pulling out in the next block? She couldn’t see for sure around the pickup in front of her. Tears stung her eyes. Two days of feeling like her old self, and now parking was making her reach for the Kleenex that had become part of her attire in the last six months. Usually one of them drove while the other scouted for a space. A perfect collaboration. At this rate she’d be late getting back to San Jose, but then, when wasn’t she late?
“You were even late for our wedding.”
Teri’s voice had always been too loud, but she was a drummer and never did anything quietly.
Liz smiled, as if Teri were sitting beside her, teasing her, making her feel loved in spite of her faults. “Not without reason,” Liz said aloud, as if it were a real conversation. As long as she remembered Teri’s voice, it felt real.
“Must have been a good reason.”
“Just a last-minute tryst with the sexiest woman I’d ever met.”
“I couldn’t wait hours to have you,” Teri would say, adding the smug grin that showed her dimples and made Liz’s insides go soft. “But I was on time.”
“You didn’t have to fix your hair and makeup.”
“True. I only had to wash my hands.”
Teri would tap a finger against her lips, a reminder that she’d refused to wash away Liz’s taste.
The memory still brought a flush to her cheeks. After sneaking Liz away from the guests gathering at her parents’ home and up to her bedroom, Teri had made love to her with an urgency that left her breathless and relaxed on the most important day of their lives.
Her heart skipped several beats, lost without Teri’s steadying rhythm. Dabbing the tears away, she breathed a sigh of relief as she backed in between two sedans, right in front of Galerie Plein Aire. Perfect.
She pulled up her jacket hood as she stepped out of the Yukon and strode around the rear to avoid seeing the dented bumper she still hadn’t gotten repaired. If she’d known she would end up driving it, she wouldn’t have agreed to buy something so big. Perfect for their band’s tour back East last summer, but now, like everything else, it was more than she could handle.
&n
bsp; Sidestepping tourists, she hurried up the alley flanked by shops and took the steps up to the gallery at the end in two bounding strides. She regretted the exuberance when her calves complained. In her search for new routines, she’d thought a jog on the beach the last two mornings was a good idea.
“You’re here for the Morris,” the redhead at the desk said. “The framing worked beautifully. We can unwrap it if you want to check it.”
“No. I’m sure it looks great.”
“Do you want help carrying it out?”
“I can manage. I don’t want you to get rained on.”
The painting barely fit between her arms, and she pinched the top and bottom to keep from dropping it. She could do this. She backed out of the gallery, watching the painting’s corners so they didn’t knock against the doorframe.
As she reached the bottom step she misjudged the height of the railing, and a corner of the painting hit it with a crack. Trying to correct, she backed up and collided with something that grunted. She watched helplessly as a woman fell into a brick planter full of flowers.
Liz set the painting against a storefront and turned to help the woman up, almost tripping over a dog that stood patiently amid the commotion. “I’m so sorry. I had this painting…well, you can see. Are you all right?”
“Max?” The woman knelt, and the dog pushed its head against her hand. She ran her hands over his sides and down his legs. “Is he hurt?”
“He seems fine.” The dog’s harness and the woman’s panicked tone finally registered. “Oh, my gosh, you’re blind.”
“Keen observation,” the woman said, cupping the dog’s chin and stroking his head.
“Are you all right, Jac?” The gallery employee rushed down the steps.
“I’m fine, but is Max?” Jac ran her hands down his legs again.
“He’s not bleeding anywhere and he’s wagging his tail,” the employee said.
Jac gave the dog a biscuit from her pocket and kissed his head. Standing, she pushed the hood back from her face.
Liz was horrified to see blood oozing from a cut above Jac’s right eye. “Um, you’re bleeding.”
“Where?” Jac ran her hand over her forehead, smearing the blood.
“Here.” Liz pulled a Kleenex from her pocket, wrapped it around her finger, and dabbed at the blood.
Jac jerked back from the touch. “I can manage.” She held the Kleenex to her forehead and handed an envelope to the employee. “Peg said to call if you have questions.” She took Max’s harness and started down the alley.
“He’s a beautiful dog. Golden retriever?”
Jac stopped but didn’t turn around. Her shoulders rose and fell once, as if she was taking a deep breath. “Yellow Labrador retriever.”
“I’m sorry for bumping into you.” She wasn’t sure Jac heard as her long strides carried her away. Max guided her effortlessly around people, ignoring a yippy little white dog wearing a plaid sweater. What a great partnership.
“Let’s get the painting back in the gallery and check it,” the employee said, taking one side.
In the back room Liz watched anxiously as the woman cut the paper away. “Oh, no,” she said, rubbing the chipped corner. Tears filled her eyes. She’d suggested to her siblings that the painting was the perfect birthday gift for her dad. He did so much for all of them, and she wanted him to feel extra special. Sometimes no matter how hard you tried, things went wrong.
“Let me call the framer and ask him to do an emergency repair,” the employee said, giving Liz’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
Liz knew why she was an easy target for tears today. The birthday party she didn’t want to go to Sunday, afraid it would be like the last family gathering, when she’d broken down in the middle of opening Christmas gifts. She wanted to show people she was doing better, and the thought exhausted her.
“He’ll fix it,” the employee said. “Come back in forty minutes.”
“Thanks.” Liz checked her watch. The brown leather band was frayed so badly she worried it might come apart, but she couldn’t face not having it the way it was when Teri gave it to her for their fifth anniversary. Surely it would last a little longer.
She left the gallery and headed to Sixth, turning left at the Corner Bistro toward another gallery she liked. The rain had let up and she unbuttoned her jacket. It was warm for mid-March. Passing the Bistro’s patio she saw Jac sitting at a table off to the side under an awning that matched the Italian Villa orange of the walls. Her back was to the street, as if she was oblivious to the world. Her dog lay at her feet, head on his paws.
Eating alone made Liz feel lonely. Why not keep Jac company? She smiled as she approached the table and then felt foolish. Jac couldn’t see her. Max looked up at her and his tail swiped the patio. “Excuse me. I’m the woman from the gallery. I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“Quite.” Jac sat with perfect posture, hands on a white napkin draped across her lap. She was well-dressed in navy wool slacks and navy raincoat unzipped to show a fisherman-knit turtleneck sweater. Her mother had loved those sweaters.
“You know the signs of a concussion, don’t you?”
“Shall I count backward from ten?” Jac lifted an eyebrow and tilted her head, pinning Liz with eyes that were pale blue, like the sky right after the fog burns off, and crystal clear. Shouldn’t they be cloudy? Didn’t blind people wear sunglasses?
“You can’t take things for granted.” She must sound ridiculous. Of course this wasn’t a serious medical situation, but Liz’s pulse jumped anyway. They’d been sure they would beat Teri’s leukemia, as they had the first time. “Um, it’s still bleeding.”
Jac took balled up Kleenex from her pocket and dabbed the cut.
“I’m Liz Randall. Here’s my business card in case you need stitches.”
“Are you a doctor?” Jac took the card and tucked it in her pocket.
“No, but—”
“Who exactly are you?”
“A musician.” Was that still true, with the band on indefinite hiatus and their plans for a fall tour in ruins?
“What kind?”
“I played the piano in a jazz quartet,” she said, surprised at the question. “And I teach music at San Jose State.” At least she still had that.
Jac laughed, and the sound trickled through Liz like the perfect pitch on a wind chime. The knots that bound her heart loosened a bit. It took her a second to realize what Jac was laughing at. Duke Ellington was streaming through the speakers mounted on the walls.
“‘Black and Tan Fantasy,’” they said in unison.
Jac’s eyebrow rose again. “Newport Jazz Festival, 1956.” She tapped long, elegant fingers to the rhythm.
“Saved his career.” Ellington had been on the verge of disbanding his orchestra before that performance. Liz wondered if a serendipitous moment would revive her career.
“The concert is in your honor,” a waiter said, coming through the door from the restaurant. He set a glass of white wine in front of Jac and a bowl of water in front of Max. “Tony said if you can name the album, your lunch is free. I’ll be right back with another glass of wine for your guest.”
“What’s your quartet’s name?”
“Up Beat.” Liz pulled out a chair, morosely thinking she should change the name to Down Beat. They’d been so high the day the doctor said Teri’s leukemia was in remission that they’d decided on the hopeful name. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“You apparently have.” Jac lifted the wineglass to her nose, inhaled for several seconds, and took a sip like someone used to tasting wine. “Your album two years ago was very good. A little immature, but with potential.”
“Thank you. I think.” She stroked Max’s back and he wagged his tail. “Does he like the beach?” She pictured walking the Carmel beach, throwing a ball for her own dog instead of watching all the dogs having fun with their owners. Max stared at her, ears lifted.
“Careful. He knows the word and he’ll exp
ect to go.”
“Have you seen us perform?” Liz cringed at her poor choice of words.
“No. Are you here for a show?”
“I came over to spend a few days at our vacation home. It was my grandparents’. Are you a local?”
“Yes.”
The waiter returned with a glass of wine for Liz. He set a basket of bread on the table, along with a small plate, onto which he poured olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “How’s the wine?”
“Tell Tony to put this one on the menu. Should work with his swordfish and lighter pasta dishes and would be superb with his tomato bisque.”
“Shall I bring you a bowl of bisque while he prepares your lunch?”
“Perfect,” Jac said.
“Shall I bring the same for your friend?”
“Please.”
Liz studied her companion as she listened to this exchange, grateful not to have to make a decision. Jac’s face was beautiful in a classical way. Thick, wavy, blond hair rested on her shoulders. She looked to be older than her own thirty-two years, but it was hard to tell—she had a timeless quality.
Notes danced across Liz’s mind, and she almost jumped in her chair. She hadn’t heard even the hint of a new song since before Teri’s death. Normally she’d hurry to write it down before she lost it, but today she let the notes drift away. “Are you a musician?”
“Just a music lover. If you did a follow-up album, I missed it.”
“No.” Her shoulders dropped. They’d recorded four nights in New York on their tour last summer, excited to release their first live album. She still hadn’t chosen the songs to put on the CD. “Ellington’s one of my idols,” she said, pulling her attention back to the music.
“‘Diminuendo in Blue,’” they said in unison again when a new song started.
Liz smiled at the raised eyebrow that seemed to be a common gesture with Jac. “The famous Paul Gonsalves solo,” she said, letting the exuberant sax pull her away from fretting about the album she really needed to get done. She took a sip of the wine. “Who couldn’t be happy listening to that?” She tapped her feet and moved to the addictive swing rhythm she loved. Teri would be drumming her fingers on the edge of the table and swiveling her shoulders to the beat. The memory landed softly, with no hint of dragging her under.
