by Julie Blair
Back in the reception area she signed the forms where he told her to sign. Then they were in the parking lot. It was dotted with trees covered in pink blossoms. Flowers filled big containers by the entrance—pink, orange, and yellow. Happy colors. She wanted to know their names.
“I’ll pick you up in the morning for the appointment,” he said when they reached the freeway.
“I don’t want surgery.”
“I know you’re scared, sunshine, but I’ll be right there with you. The benefit of the surgery outweighs—”
“Do you still remember Mom’s voice?”
He was quiet and then said, “Not as clearly as I want to.” His voice was back to his dad voice. The one she needed.
Neither did she. Nor her grandma’s. She couldn’t bear the thought of not hearing Teri’s voice in her head. She turned up the volume on the CD and directed the heater vent to blast her with hot air. She was shivering. Duke Ellington filled the car, but even music she loved didn’t chase away the dread filling her. Hills along the freeway were green and full of promise, and she clung to that feeling. She’d composed “Spring Time” on a day like this. It had to go on the album, but they’d played it every night. Which was the best version? Her shoulders collapsed with the enormity of picking the best out of eighty-one. Rubbing the cast, she willed the bones to heal.
She checked her watch. She’d barely make it to the recital before her students. “Can we stop at McDonalds?”
“Rebecca can fix you—”
“I want a cheeseburger and fries and a chocolate shake.”
“You bet. I’ve been thinking about the CD. How many songs have you chosen?”
“About half.” She didn’t tell him that half changed weekly.
“I should have gotten involved sooner. Now there’s no time to waste. We’ll spend the weekend selecting the rest of—”
“I’m going to Carmel.” She’d felt better there, and she really needed to feel better before the surgery. “To work on it. I can’t concentrate with Hannah around.”
“It has to get done, sunshine.” He looked over at her, all business again.
“It will.” She needed to prove to herself she could do this. She couldn’t disappoint Teri.
“It’s your future.”
“I know.” “Black and Tan Fantasy” started, and she thought of listening to it in the rain with Jac. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let her listen to the recordings.
“You okay with money? We can’t scrimp on it.”
“I’m—” Her head dropped. There’d be a deductible for the surgery. Teri’s medical expenses had drained their savings. And she’d been paying Regan and Sammy a little bit.
“I’ll finance it for you. When you make it big you can pay me back.” He patted her thigh. “I take care of you and Kevin. When Hannah gets with the program, I’ll help her, too.”
Program. Was there a program? She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, but that didn’t stop her mind from racing. Take care of her wrist. Get the CD done. Find a drummer. Get the band rehearsing again. Get the website updated. And their Facebook page. A million things. “I’m trying, sweetie, I’m trying,” she whispered.
Chapter Eight
Professional ethics wouldn’t let Jac skip even one song on an album she reviewed, although this one tempted her. She’d earned her reputation and people relied on her expertise. Finally the obnoxious music stopped and quiet reigned. Free jazz was one thing. Noise masquerading as free jazz was another.
“Nothing good in this batch, buddy.” She loved discovering a worthy group or artist and giving their career a boost with a great review on her blog. She reached down. Max was right where he should be, in his bed beside her recliner. She scratched along his side. He stretched out and made his happy-moan sound.
“Why did it take me so long?” Peg had tried to convince her to get a guide dog for years. She rubbed his ears with the backs of her fingers. The softness went right to her heart. It wasn’t the independence that made a difference to her. Going out in the world mattered little. It was his presence. After getting over the shock of realizing how lonely she’d been, she’d given in to his innocent but insistent seduction of her with his playfulness, devilishness at times lest she think he was perfect, and above all, his loyalty. He wasn’t capable of hurting or betraying her, and for that she’d give him anything.
She went to the cabinet that housed her CDs and searched through Brahms. Like cleansing her palate after mediocre wine, she needed to cleanse the noise of the last album. She pulled out his second symphony, then stopped. Leafing through the CDs a shelf above, she found the one she wanted. Up Beat’s last CD. Curiosity. Just curiosity.
She settled back in her recliner and for the next fifty minutes focused on Liz’s music, as if she were searching around someone’s home to find out who they were.
“Hmmph. I didn’t listen closely enough.” When she’d reviewed it she’d taken it whole, and her opinion that they had potential but were immature as a band was still true. But Liz…her playing sent pulses of pure joy through her. Emotionally powerful. Technically brilliant. Innovative and unique chords and progressions. But on too many of her solos it felt like Liz held back. Fit in. Easy to miss unless you really listened. Liz deserved every bit of praise she’d received, but Jac couldn’t shake the feeling she could be even better.
Max stood and nosed her fingers. “I know.” His sense of time was as accurate as hers. The perfect partnership. He went to the front door and she went for shoes.
She heard music coming from Peg’s studio as they walked to the patio. Not show tunes. Jac pinched off a stem of lavender by the studio door and held it to her nose. French lavender. Velvety, narrow, serrated leaves and her favorite scent of the different lavender varieties Peg planted. “How’s it going?”
“Why do I agree to these shows?”
“Because gallery owners wait long enough that you forget how much you hate them.”
“I don’t hate them.”
“How many seascapes does she want?”
“Not funny. And I’ll have you know I’m painting the garden.”
“Careful. You have a reputation to uphold, an audience to please…” Something landed on her chest, pointy like a paintbrush. “Don’t throw things at the blind woman.” She tried not to smile, but she loved giving Peg a hard time. Every artist had to grapple with the balance between creative self-exploration and providing their audience with what they expected. It wasn’t an easy line to walk.
“Aren’t you late for your route?” Peg’s nickname for her daily walks because she walked the same route everyday. Past Carmel Roasting Company, where the owner selected and ground coffee for her once a week. Past Pilgrim’s Way bookstore for audiobooks the owner ordered for her. Past the Bistro for lunch. Past Diggidy Dog pet boutique so Max could get his treat from the clerks Jac trusted to supply her with the best supplies for him.
“Right on schedule.” Everything orderly and familiar, just the way she liked it. “What time’s Liz arriving?”
“Around one. You joining us for lunch?”
“No.”
“I’m making pizzas.”
“Trying to bribe me?”
“Yes.”
“What wine are you serving?”
“Whatever you pick. Can you swing by the gallery? Marissa has a check for me.”
Jac whistled. “Good month for you. Have I said how much I respect your talent?”
“You’re in a good mood today.”
“Sun is shining, birds are singing…” Her back felt great. She had the number-one blog in jazz. Max was healthy. What else was there? “Let’s go, buddy.” She carried the leather harness until they reached the street, then buckled it around him. “Want to trade half your walk for a beach romp tonight?” He barked. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
*
“Hello,” Liz called out, crossing the patio to where Peggy was kneeling, planting small plants along the front of a gard
en bed. “Pansies?”
“See, you know something about gardening.” Peggy stood and brushed dirt off her gloves. In a pink T-shirt and purple drawstring pants, she looked as colorful as her garden. “How was the appointment?”
“Surgery Monday.” Her stomach did the somersault it did every time she thought about it.
“Oh, Liz, I’m so sorry.”
Liz followed Peggy around to the side of the house, where she put her garden tools in the shed. “My dad did a lot of research. It’s the best option.” Her stomach clenched again. She rubbed her palm over the seedlings on the potting bench. They’d grown a lot in a week.
“How was the birthday party?” Peggy asked as they walked toward the house.
“Dad loved the painting and the card. I got a surprise, too. We’ve been invited to play the Monterey Jazz Festival.”
Peggy’s eyebrows rose. “Congratulations. I thought you were going to dissolve the band. You didn’t think you’d get accepted?”
“I didn’t do the submission. Teri did. I’m excited. It’s the break we wanted.”
“That is some surprise. Your wrist will be healed?”
“I hope.” Liz settled onto a bar stool in the kitchen and wiggled her fingers. The knuckles finally looked like knuckles. “Surgery will make healing more predictable. I can start rehab sooner.”
“I imagine you’re nervous about surgery,” Peggy said when the pizzas were in the oven and they were sitting on the patio. “We’ll have to distract you this weekend. I’m going out to Carmel Valley tomorrow to my favorite nurseries. Why don’t you come?”
“I need to get the songs picked for the CD.” She tried to be enthusiastic, but the enormity of the task settled like a heavy weight across her shoulders. Maybe her dad was right about using the last night.
“Ask Jac to help. You won’t regret it.”
She looked across the garden to the undulating Pacific, gray trying to be blue today. She loved how variable it was from day to day, a reminder that nothing stayed the same. “I don’t want to offend her.” If that many songs were too much for her, how would a layperson ever sort through them? “She seems to know a fair amount about music but—”
“That would be an understatement.”
Liz jerked her head in the direction of Jac’s voice. By her tone, she seemed more amused than offended.
Jac stood by the table holding Max’s harness. Max ran to the lawn and rolled around on his back, legs pumping in the air. “You’re wondering if I’m qualified.” Jac set the harness on a chair and sat next to Liz. “You can always decline my suggestions.” Max bounded toward them with a tennis ball in his mouth. He poked Jac’s leg. She took the ball from Max and handed it to Liz.
True. Max bounced around her chair, his ears lifted and tail wagging madly. Liz threw the ball. Max streaked after it and snagged it on the first bounce. He pranced regally back to her and dropped it in her lap before dancing around her chair again.
Jac smiled as if at a private joke. “Do you know the blog Jazz Notes?”
“Who doesn’t? Reviewed our last album and said—” Liz’s arm froze as she was about to throw the tennis ball. She stared at Jac. No.
Jac tipped her head. “At your service.”
“Shit.” She flung the ball.
“It’s been called that.”
“No one knows who writes that blog.” She shook her head. She was sitting next to one of the most well-regarded critics in jazz.
“And I intend for it to stay that way.” Jac’s expression looked dangerously serious.
Peggy was shaking her head indulgently. “I need to check the pizzas.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Max dropped the ball in her lap and she dutifully threw it for him. Yeah, it would be fun to have a dog.
“See comment above.”
Liz laughed. “How about I give you the recordings and you pick?” The thought was both disturbing and such a relief that she inhaled a huge breath, as though she hadn’t really breathed since Regan put the letter in her hand. She gulped when Jac didn’t seem amused.
“I can offer critical evaluation, but an album has a heart and soul, and only you can find that.” Max returned with the tennis ball. Jac gave him a hand signal, and he lay down by her chair but kept the tennis ball between his feet.
“There is no heart to this album.” Liz studied a drop of water sliding down the outside of her iced-tea glass, her mood dropping with its descent.
“That’s ridiculous. It’s a tribute to Teri.”
She stared at Jac. Yes! That was exactly it. If only she could get her dad to understand that. With him, it was about generating momentum for the band. She needed it to be personal. She needed it to be perfect. Maybe she could work on it with Jac.
“But the tribute comes from your feelings about Teri and the music you made together. It’s not about her. It’s about you.”
Peggy was still in the kitchen, and time seemed to slow in Jac’s quiet presence. Liz didn’t want it to be about her, but Teri wasn’t here to help. Teri’s voice was in her head, but it had nothing to offer about the CD or how to accomplish what she’d set in motion. “I’d be grateful for any help you can give.” She rubbed the cast. So much had changed since Teri’s death.
“When do you want it done?”
“This weekend. Before I have surgery.”
“Surgery?” Jac’s eyebrow went up.
“Monday.”
“Without giving it a chance to heal on its own?”
“It’s too risky. We were accepted to Monterey and I can’t take the chance.”
Jac’s other eyebrow shot up. “You applied to—”
“Teri did.”
“Without your knowledge?”
Liz stiffened as something dark and hard clamped down on her heart. “It was her gift. A way to help the band keep going.”
“And to put you in an awkward position.” Jac’s voice was sharp, and Max looked up at her. She petted him and he put his head back on his paws.
“We had dreams.” Liz’s voice was louder than she intended, and that hard place started to burn. “It took a lot of guts to do what she did when she was…” The unspoken word hung in the air like a dark cloud over the warm, gentle spring day. Six months tomorrow. Of course Teri had been secretly hoping for a last-minute miracle, as she had. Tears filled her eyes and she pulled Kleenex from her jeans pocket. Would grief ever stop ambushing her?
“I know.” Jac’s voice was soft, as if she saw her tears. “But it’s your place to decide if, when, and how you continue.”
“The band was never mine alone.”
“It is now.” It wasn’t said unkindly, but it had a bite to it. Jac shoved her chair back and went to the house. Peggy intercepted her and said something to her.
“Are you all right?” Peggy set two pizzas on the table, both still bubbling from the oven.
“She doesn’t pull punches.” Liz’s mouth watered in spite of her conflicting emotions.
“Her bark’s worse than her bite.”
“I can’t argue with her credentials.”
Jac returned with a glass of red wine. “I assume you played a core program each night and added different selections to mix it up?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have them on a computer?”
“Just the original master.”
“Put it on CDs with the same songs back-to-back. I don’t care which night was which. Bring them by when you’re done. Be here at nine tomorrow.” Jac slid a slice of pizza onto her plate, and just like that it was settled.
Liz felt like saluting. She felt like hugging Jac. She didn’t know what to say.
“Did you tell Liz about your show at Gallerie Plein Aire, Peg?” Jac cut a bite of pizza. Of course she wouldn’t eat with her fingers.
“Your own show?” Liz shoved a big bite into her mouth. She loved eating with her fingers.
“Next month.”
“God, this is good.” Liz wiped tomato sauce f
rom her chin. “Do you show in other galleries?”
“I used to, but as much as I love sharing my art, it got to be too much pressure. It was starting to feel formulaic—the gallery owners wanted me to keep painting more of what was selling. For a while I bought into that because I wanted to give buyers what they want.”
“It’s the same for me,” Liz said. “I love shows, but I get tired of having to do the tunes we’re best known for. Some of them I wrote fifteen years ago.”
“Bands are successful if they create a sound that people respond to,” Jac said. “But that becomes a trap. The greats like your Ellington, Miles Davis, Brubeck—they never sat still. Their music was constantly evolving, reflecting their new interests and creative development. Blocking that process leads to stilted artists, or musicians.” She bobbed her fork at Liz. “And boring music. Your band will be different without Teri and your style might change. You have to trust that if you lose some listeners, you’ll find new ones.”
“It’s easy to get caught in expectations, isn’t it?” Peggy asked. “I’d rather do fewer paintings, enjoy each one more, and be able to explore different subject matter and styles. I’ve been working with pastels this last year and exploring new ways to look at color and form.”
Liz listened, adding a comment occasionally, as Jac and Peggy talked about the creative process like it was something they discussed often. She missed these kinds of conversations with Teri. So many gaps left by her death.
“Nap time,” Jac said when Peggy took the plates to the kitchen. She stood, her head tilted as if in thought. “Ten years. I’ve been blind ten years.” Without another word, she ambled off toward her cottage, Max trotting by her side.
Liz stared, her hand over her chest, until Jac disappeared behind the door with the gargoyle knocker. Would she ever not be caught off guard by Jac? She fought the urge to follow her, to see her home. She heard notes in her head—a new part to the melody from last weekend. Humming, she gathered the rest of the dishes and went to the kitchen.
Peggy handed her a plate of cookies. “Come by for coffee in the morning before your audience.”
