by Julie Blair
“What did you buy?” Jac dipped a piece of French bread in the olive oil, her movements as sure as if she could see.
“Buy?”
“At the gallery. You said you were carrying a painting.”
“A present for my father,” she said, around a bite of bread. “It’s his sixtieth birthday Sunday. He loves the ocean but doesn’t get over here often, so we thought we’d take the ocean to him. It’s by a terrific artist named Peggy Morris.”
The waiter set bowls in front of them and grated cheese over the soup. “It’s a new Asiago. Tony wants your opinion.”
“Perfect,” Jac said, after tasting the soup with the same attention with which she’d tasted the wine.
“This artist does wonderful seascapes,” Liz said when the waiter had gone. She rarely had an appetite, but this soup was delicious.
“Which one did you buy?”
“Umm, it’s called A Clearing Storm. I confess I wanted it for myself.” Something about it had tugged at her emotions—the loss and loneliness, the struggle of being on her own for the first time in her life. The painting captured that and also a sense of hope and peace she yearned for. “Rough, angry sea—”
“Waves crashing against the rocks, sun coming out through bulky gray clouds, two gulls flying high up in the sky. I was with her the day she painted it.”
“The artist? That’s amazing.”
“Would you like her to sign a card for your dad?”
“Huh?” Liz scraped her bowl with a chunk of bread. Had she just wolfed down the whole thing?
“She’s my sister.”
“You’re kidding.” What an unexpected and pleasant encounter. Sometimes good things did come from disasters.
The waiter traded a plate of pasta for Liz’s bowl. “This smells delicious.” Gorgonzola cream sauce.
“Card?”
“My dad would love it.” She watched Jac use her fork to push fusilli pasta onto an oversized spoon, bring it to her face, inhale like she had with the wine, and finally slide it past her lips. She’d never seen anyone eat with such measured grace, each bite like an event unto itself, each movement perfectly orchestrated. Her family loved food but devoured it like they were eating in a cafeteria.
“I’ll call her and you can pick it up.”
“Lunch is good?” A man about her father’s age wearing chef whites approached the table.
“Excellent as always,” Jac said. “Was the wine a Verdejo?”
“Haven’t fooled you yet but I keep trying.”
“Tony, this is Liz. Tony’s the owner and creator of fine cuisine.”
“So, am I buying you lunch?” he asked Jac.
“You stumped me on the album,” Jac said.
Tony clapped his hands, winking at Liz. “Bravo! I’ll send dessert and coffee out in a bit.”
“Do they always just bring you food?” The staff was treating Jac like royalty. Carmel was known for celebrities, but she’d never heard of anyone famous and blind who lived here.
“Because I can’t read the menu?”
“Oh, gosh, that’s not what I meant.”
“I abdicate the decision. Tony’s an excellent chef and has never disappointed me.”
Liz wished she could abdicate her responsibilities. Sammy, the band’s sax player, and Regan, his twin sister and their bass player, would be at the party on Sunday. They’d be disappointed that she still wasn’t making progress on the album. It wasn’t just her career at stake. She’d have to decide soon if she should replace Teri and keep the band together or let them move on. Her chest tightened and that shadowy emptiness spread through her body, making her feel heavy. Everything was so much harder on her own. The conversation drifted back to music. Jac was certainly knowledgeable about jazz.
She flipped her hood up against the rain that had started in earnest and checked her watch as they walked through the patio gate of the Bistro. Right on time to pick up the painting.
“Peg will have it ready for you,” Jac said, putting a cell phone back in her pocket. She gave the address and started to give directions.
“I know where it is. We’re a few blocks away on Carmelo, near Tenth. Practically neighbors.”
“Was your grandmother Mildred Randall?”
“How would you know that?”
“Your last name is Randall, you mentioned the house was your grandparents’, and it’s on Carmelo. Fifth house from the corner of Tenth, if I remember correctly. Peg took piano lessons from her. I was sorry to hear she passed away.”
Five years ago and Liz still missed her terribly. Everything she knew about the piano she owed to her grandma. “Can I give you a ride to wherever you’re going?”
“I’ll walk.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you.” Jac was already several strides down the street. “I hope I run into you again.” She cringed, hoping Jac hadn’t heard.
Jac pivoted toward her. “Perhaps it’s best you don’t.”
Was she teasing or serious? Liz still hadn’t decided by the time she walked into the gallery. The time with Jac had been refreshing, like they’d been in their own world, away from everyday problems.
“You’ll be pleased,” the employee said, leading her to the back room. “The framer put wood tabs on all the corners to cover the repair work.”
She ran her fingers along the frame. If only someone could repair her life so flawlessly. Notes darted through her mind again, and this time she hummed them. They faded after a few bars.
“I’ll wrap it for you,” the woman said, picking up bubble wrap.
Her phone rang. “Hi, Kev. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t bother.” Her brother sounded stressed. “I have to work.” He managed her dad’s restaurant and the bar for the jazz club her dad had opened last year.
“Oh, no.” She knew how much Kevin had been looking forward to the getaway with his wife, Karen.
“Three o’clock on Sunday. Don’t be late.” He ended the call.
She called her sister. “I’m not babysitting the boys tonight. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”
“Oh. Um—”
“I don’t care if you didn’t clean up.” Letting Hannah move in with her had seemed like the perfect solution for both of them, but the reality of clothes and shoes tossed anywhere and Hannah’s night-owl habits was getting harder to live with.
“I’m sort of having someone over for a cooking lesson.”
She clenched her jaw. Another groupie from the catering company Hannah now worked for after losing her head chef position at a luxury resort.
“Since you weren’t going to be home I invited her to spend the night.”
They’d had this discussion. No sleepovers.
“I’ll clean the condo and do your laundry,” Hannah said in her cajoling voice.
“I’ll stay here tonight.” It wasn’t fair to be mad at Hannah. She’d been through a lot, too. And she had to admit she’d felt better the last two days here in Carmel. Another day was an appealing prospect.
“You’re the best, Lizzie.”
This time she let the employee help her load the painting into the Yukon. She made her way down Ocean Avenue, toward the beach, in the slow crawl of cars typical on the main street through downtown Carmel. As she waited her turn at a four-way stop, Jac and Max crossed the street, her strides long and confident, his tail waving as he guided her around people. Driving through the intersection she realized something.
The conversation with Jac had seemed different because Jac didn’t treat her like the grieving widow or the pianist without a band. She didn’t see worry or, worse, pity on Jac’s face. Just two people talking about music. When was the last time music wasn’t about analyzing or critiquing or worrying? She looked in the rearview mirror, but they were out of sight. She hoped she would run into Jac again. She should have asked her where she lived.
A few minutes later she turned left onto Carmelo Street, drove past her grandma’s slate-blue cottage with the driftwood
picket fence her grandfather had built, and stopped in front of the property at the end of the street. She’d walked past this property more times than she could count, envying the unobstructed ocean view from atop the bluff. A wrought-iron fence was barely visible behind exuberant plantings of lavender and blue flowered shrubs she didn’t know the name of. A one-story house sat well back from the road. Monterey pines dotted the property. The Pacific created a grayish-blue backdrop in the distance under the cloudy sky. She drove between the Carmel ledgestone gateposts that framed the entrance to the driveway, tires crunching on the gravel.
Ten minutes later she headed to her grandma’s house with the card for her dad, an invitation to dinner next time she was here, and the information that Jac lived on the property. She’d see Jac again. The thought made her smile.
Chapter Two
Jac unbuckled Max’s harness as soon as the surface changed from hard street to gravel. Home. Half-an-hour late, thanks to Liz joining her for lunch. If she had to endure conversation, at least it had been a topic that interested her. Twenty-four seconds to cross the graveled parking area. The crunch of her soft-soled walking shoes stopped when the surface changed to flagstones at the walkway that skirted the main house where Peg and her family lived. Twelve seconds and she was on the large patio behind the house. A few minutes to check in with Peg and let Max be a dog, and then the hour nap that concluded her afternoons.
Max made his goofy grunting sounds, which he did when he rolled on his back on the lawn adjacent to the patio. The harness was custom-made not to chafe or bind, but it seemed to be his way of switching from on-duty to off-duty. Show tunes came from Peg’s art studio at the far side of the patio, and Jac headed in that direction. Painting must be going well today.
“Guess how my day was, honey?” she asked in the Ozzie-and-Harriet parody they did with each other. She rubbed the soft leaves of the lavender plant by the door and sniffed her fingers.
“You have a cut over your eye that I’m supposed to keep careful watch over, and you met Mildred Randall’s granddaughter.”
“Did you recognize her?” She tried to create an image of Liz based on her grandmother. Her voice was a pleasant alto that sounded kind. It occasionally slowed and became a flattened monotone—one of the marks of sadness. She knew the reason for the sadness.
“No. I can see the family resemblance in her face. Hazel eyes like her grandmother. Wavy, chestnut hair below her shoulders. Younger than us.” Paintbrushes clinked against a jar, and Peg’s footsteps tapped across the cement floor toward her.
“It’s fine.”
Peg pushed her hood back, lifted hair from her forehead, and pressed around the cut. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when you touch it. I’ll clean it and put Neosporin on it.” She swatted Peg’s hands away and backed up. “Blind isn’t the same as incompetent.”
“Thank you for reminding me. Liz couldn’t stop talking about your musical knowledge and how similar your tastes are to hers.”
“We’re not going to be friends.”
“Wouldn’t you like someone at your level to talk music with?”
She wasn’t going to encourage this discussion. It was a chance meeting that would not be repeated.
“I invited her to dinner the next time she’s over here.” Peg’s voice was irritatingly enthusiastic.
“I’m late for my nap. What’s for dinner?”
“Minestrone.”
“Perfect.” She held up the bag. “A new Asiago from Tony.”
“He spoils you.”
“He makes money off me.”
“It’s okay for people to like you, honey.”
The comment didn’t justify a retort. People had always liked her for what she could give them. Period. She headed for her cottage at the back of the property. Five minutes and she’d be on her bed with Max.
“Malcolm called again.” Peg sounded reluctant to deliver the news.
“Damn it!” She stopped, anger tightening her muscles. How many times did she have to say no?
“You should listen to the message.”
“Delete it.”
“He’s not going away this time. He wants to—”
“I know what he wants.” Capitalize on the ten-year anniversary. Damn him.
“You should talk to him and try to work out a compro—”
“Never!” She left her hood off as she strode to her cottage. What was cold rain pelting her head compared to the icy resentment in her veins? On top of being knocked down and a too-perky lunch companion, she had to be reminded of one of the biggest mistakes she’d ever made in marrying that man. Too much for one day.
Max was waiting for her by the front door. “You’re my perfect partner.” Gentle, smart, loving, and totally incapable of anything but loyalty. He gave a final shake before they stepped into the quiet and order she craved. She’d always been solitary. Being blind had exaggerated that trait, and she didn’t care in the least. As long as she had music, she had everything she needed.
Shoes and socks were discarded into the closet by the front door along with her jacket. After towel-drying Max, she walked barefoot to the kitchen, the heated slate floor warm and textured beneath her feet. She gave Max a generous handful of the oatmeal-peanut butter biscuits Peg baked for him. “Spoiled.” He nudged her hand for more and she indulged him.
Taking a stiff brush from a drawer, she walked around the small dining table and opened the French doors. She stepped onto the wet flagstones of the small patio backed by a walled garden and the six Monterey Pines she’d helped her parents plant as a child. When it became obvious that staying here was the best option, she’d asked that the cottage be built on this spot so she’d have a visual image to associate with it. Those seedlings were now forty-foot-tall trees that provided additional privacy and some protection from the wind off the ocean. The property had the proverbial million-dollar view, but for her, the sight of the Pacific Ocean just beyond the cliff was a distant memory.
“You’re such a goof.” She brushed Max from head to tail, and he wiggled his rear end in appreciation. “That bastard. He’s not undoing our life, buddy, but he has ruined our nap.” Daily three-hour walks and the naps that followed were part of the routine that kept her back pain manageable.
Still bristling with irritation, she walked across the living room to the cabinets that contained the core of her life—a state-of-the-art sound system and her CD collection. Alphabetized by genre and artist and labeled in Braille, it was almost evenly split between classical and jazz, with a dash of Broadway musicals, blues, and opera. Thumbing through the jazz albums she found what she wanted—Dave Brubeck’s Time Out, revolutionary for its unusual time signatures when it was released in fifty-nine. She envied Liz for having met him and, moreover, having played with him. Her credentials were impressive—the Brubeck Institute at University of the Pacific, a mere three hours away in Stockton, was an enviable school for jazz. Pianist in the institute’s highly regarded quintet should have been a sure trajectory to fame, but fame in the music business was often a twisted path. She knew what Liz’s path had been. Unfortunate for one so talented.
She hadn’t listened to Brubeck in a long time, but the conversation with Liz about her favorite composers and jazz pianists had piqued her interest. All right, she grudgingly admitted, it had been one of the most interesting conversations she’d had in a long time.
She settled into the leather recliner positioned as close to the center of the space as Peg would allow for aesthetic purposes. As much as Peg had always been visually oriented, sound had been Jac’s world. The loss of her hearing would have been a tragedy she couldn’t have adapted to. Using the remote, she adjusted the various parameters on the equalizer until she was satisfied. In the never-ending darkness, music was light and shadow and color. Movement. Life. It was also laced with memories. Today those memories stayed pleasant enough, safely away from awakening darker emotions just as easily provoked.
If Liz loved Brubeck
and Ellington, why were both of her bands unabashedly blues/rock style jazz? Her first group, The LT Quartet, had garnered two well-deserved Grammy nominations. Up Beat, her more recent quartet, was the same style with a sax player who wasn’t a bad imitation of Coltrane, Liz’s piano chord progressions solidly pinned to the twelve-bar blues, and a drummer who pounded with a rock beat. A drummer who’d died last year. Liz’s partner. The twisted path of fate.
Jac pushed the recliner back and opened herself to the music. Max settled in his donut bed next to her chair with a contented huff. She scratched her fingernails through his damp fur. No, Peg was wrong. She was not going to be friends with Liz Randall. She didn’t do friends.
Chapter Three
Liz drifted slowly up from sleep. She hadn’t slept through the night in longer than she could remember. Arousal licked at the edge of her awareness. The slow wake-up kind where she’d nuzzle Teri’s neck and fondle her breast, the introduction to lovemaking. She snuggled back against Teri and then sat up so fast she banged her knee on the coffee table. The back of the couch, not Teri. Her grandparents’ living room, not the master bedroom in their condo. She pulled the collar of the T-shirt over her nose. One of Teri’s she hadn’t slept in yet. Yes, there was the faintest trace of her slightly masculine cologne. Longing surged through dormant channels. She cupped her breast and let go with a groan. Slid her hand inside the waistband of her sweats—No. Not if it wasn’t with Teri. She shoved off the couch and tugged on one of Teri’s old UOP sweatshirts.
Opening the French doors beside the stone fireplace, she walked out to the brick patio. Blue sky and a chill in the air greeted her. Why was her body doing this to her? Another way grief didn’t play fair—months of numbness and then it made you ache for the touch you’d never have again. Dropping onto a rickety chair at the wooden table her grandpa had built, she turned the gold band on her finger that meant they’d belonged to each other. Still belonged to each other. A jay squawked at her from the branch of the overgrown Japanese maple in the corner of the small backyard.
