by Julie Blair
“Listen. What’s your first impression?”
“Tired.”
“Yes!”
She’d meant herself, not the music. She started to say as much, but Jac’s hand was sweeping the air to the rhythm. And Liz saw it. Jac’s hand slowed, wavered, then righted itself. No. She kept her gaze on Jac’s hand as a sick feeling gathered in her stomach. It happened again. And then again. The beat wasn’t steady. Tears filled her eyes and she pulled Kleenex from her pocket. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. She looked away from Jac’s hand, out to the dark garden and the moonless sky, but music filled the room with evidence of Teri’s illness.
“I’m sorry.”
“You knew all along.” Liz’s stomach hurt like she’d been punched. Why hadn’t she noticed? Why hadn’t Teri said anything? Sure, she’d been sleeping later, taking naps, but they’d all been exhausted after weeks of touring. She took the remote from Jac’s hand. Where was the damn off button? The silence felt accusing and her chest tightened. She should have taken better care of Teri. What if they’d come home early…started treatment…“It’s still a great song,” she whispered. Maybe she could excuse not hearing the unsteady beat during the shows, but months of listening to the recordings?
“It is. The beat’s fine—”
“Teri! Teri.” God, were they all like that?
“Teri’s fine in plenty of songs. You’ll have enough material for a great album.”
“But not a double album.”
“I don’t think so.”
“How many people will notice? If I didn’t…” She twisted the ring on her right hand.
“How could you?”
She cradled the cast as Jac’s point hit home. She wasn’t listening to music. She was listening to memories. Gravity was too much all of a sudden and she wanted to give in, to slide to the floor.
“Let’s quit for tonight.”
Liz packed her computer, put on her shoes and sweatshirt, and opened the door.
“Eight tomorrow?”
She closed the door and stepped into the drizzle.
*
Jac was in the hot tub, still consumed by the music, peripherally aware of rain spattering onto the water, when Peg paid the expected visit. Her back was stiffer than she wanted it to be, but no muscle spasms. One more day and she’d be back to her routine.
“Are you all right?”
“How’s Liz?”
“Ragged. What happened?”
“The truth. If she wants it to be the best, she has to hear what’s there. She has to separate the music from her feelings for Teri.” The recordings were Liz’s past, the album she created from them her future. She’d have to make a choice.
“Oh, honey, are you sure you’re up to this?”
She climbed out and wrapped her robe around her, trying to keep in the warmth. The flagstones were cold on her feet. Rain landed on her head as she hurried into her bedroom. “I have to be.” Liz would never be able to pick the material by herself, and if she’d had anyone qualified to help they would have already. The future of a gifted musician was at stake. That concern overrode personal discomfort.
An hour later she lay on her bed still wide-awake, keyed up, unable to let go of the music. Her body tensed against the rip current of emotions that threatened to suck her fully back to the past. Emotions and music. Such a tricky, delicate marriage. Emotion the musician put into the music made it powerful and alive. Emotion separate from music, outside those acceptable channels of expression…dangerous.
The German-accented voice of the man who’d been her teacher for twenty years filled her head. She clenched the covers. Who was she to advise Liz? She hadn’t navigated that terrain well. Max whimpered, his legs pumping. Dreaming. She laid her hand on his shoulder and he quieted. Could she help Liz and keep her distance from emotions she wanted no part of?
Chapter Ten
“I don’t think I can do it.” Liz paced barefoot, from warm tile to coarse rug, window to kitchen, in Jac’s cottage. She wanted blue sky, not gloomy monochrome white depositing a steady rain.
“You already have.”
Why did Jac get the recliner? She added more sugar to her coffee and filled Jac’s cup. “We’ve narrowed it down to twenty-five songs. Let’s cut five and do a double album.”
“All right.” Jac took the cup from her and set it on the side table without sipping.
Liz wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something. Jac’s methodical calm infuriated her. Listen. Stay with the music. Hear what’s there. “I can’t afford it.” She looked out at the plants drooping in the rain. Twice the cost to mix and master. Higher purchase price. Double albums didn’t sell as well. She wanted to laugh. She’d asked for Jac’s help, and boy had she gotten it—her unwavering attention to detail, her ruthless ear, her insight. Two of the most exhausting days she’d endured as a musician. Two days of the most exhilarating musical discussions she’d had since…She shook her head to clear it and checked her watch. By four this afternoon it had to be done. Long drive home. Surgery tomorrow morning.
“Don’t think. First choice.”
She named it, surprised when Jac agreed.
“Congratulations. One song. Don’t think. Least favorite.”
She named it.
“Excellent.”
“Just like that?” She looked over her shoulder at Jac, still ensconced in her recliner. Two days of endless analyzing and they were down to grab bag?
“You have impeccable instincts. Trust yourself.”
She bristled at what wasn’t said. Eliminate Teri. “It’s a tribute to Teri.”
“Yes,” Jac said too quickly. “It’s a tribute to fourteen years of making music together. Not four nights.”
She stared out the window. Those four nights in New York were the crowning glory of those fourteen years. God, she was sick of thinking in calendars. Fourteen years with Teri. Four nights of shows. Six months plus a day since Teri’s death. “How do we make this final cut?”
“We listen.”
She whirled around, angry words on her lips. Jac was petting Max, curled up in his bed. Their home. She was an invader. She’d asked for this. She tried to imagine doing this with her dad. A sinking feeling tugged on her stomach. He knew music, but he wasn’t in Jac’s league. She was barely in Jac’s league. She squeezed the coffee cup. Her fingers worked. Tomorrow screws and plates would replace the cast. Music overshadowed the sound of the rain hitting the roof and patio. Opening night. Teri grabbing her before they walked onstage and kissing her. One of their core songs. The audience loved it.
“What do you hear?”
“Sammy on top. Regan underneath. Teri pushing them.” The song ran its eight minutes. A different song replaced it. Closing night. An old song she’d recently revived. She’d put it in the set list on a lark because it was a great song for jamming. They’d had the audience on its feet, clapping along. A glorious end to the tour.
“Which one do you prefer?” Jac asked when it finished.
“The first.” Liz stared out at the garden as she listened through the fifteen minutes of two more pieces. The rain had picked up, making flower stems bounce to its rhythm.
“Which one?” Jac asked.
“The first.” She listened through two more pieces Jac selected, seemingly at random.
“Which one?”
“The first. Is this about cutting?” Liz turned and studied Jac.
“It’s about what you’re not hearing.”
“Teri’s rhythm is fine.”
“Why did you pick those three?”
“On ‘Sleeping Late’ Regan has that great solo. She was hot that night. On ‘Combustion’ Sammy shows off his great upper register. On ‘Late Night’—”
“Where are you?” Jac walked toward her, head tilted, her voice gentle.
“I don’t understand.”
“Those three songs you didn’t pick are the only ones where we hear what Liz Randall is really capable of.”
“You’re holding back on all but a few solos. Why is that?”
“Soloing isn’t the point.” She crossed her arms. She didn’t like where this was headed.
“It’s not not the point either. You have fabulous technique. You have rhythm and style that have swing and stride and blues all wrapped up in a sound I’ve never heard. You have star-quality talent, and you show it off only once in a while?”
“It doesn’t matter to me.”
“What?”
“Standing out.”
“Why not?”
“A band is collaborative. A group. I’m not a soloist. It’s about our collective sound.”
“You’re one of the best jazz pianists playing right now. Show off that talent. Build a band around that talent. Like your Ellington and Brubeck. What you have is a watered-down version of what you could be.”
“It’s who we are. It’s our sound.” It’s who I am.
“That sound is dead.”
The sob welled up from that raw place deep in Liz’s center, the place Teri had been ripped from. Jac laid her hand on her shoulder. She wanted so badly to turn into the touch. No. She wouldn’t give in. She’d preserve their sound. She rushed to the door. The hell with Jac and her infuriating calm and arrogant assumptions. She hurried up to the house, the rain cold pinpricks on her skin. She’d say good-bye to Peggy and go home. Next week she’d make the last cut herself.
When she got to the patio, her thoughts were interrupted by conversation and laughter coming through the closed French doors. Peggy’s Sunday brunch that was open to anyone who wanted to come. Two couples sat with Peggy and Roger, the table covered with plates of food. Peggy waved and came to the door.
“I was about to bring brunch down for you. Why don’t you pick what you want?”
“I need to leave.” She would put together an album of Teri’s favorites. It was that simple.
“What happened?” Peggy cupped her elbow and led her to her studio.
“We don’t agree on what the album should be.”
“Jac said it was going well. She loves your music.”
“Everything’s different working with her.” She missed Teri’s laughter, the dimpled smile, the comfort of her eyes. The safety of her opinions.
“But is it bad different?”
Liz didn’t like Peggy’s tone, like she was talking to one of her kids. She wanted to snap back, but she couldn’t. She shook her head. No, it wasn’t bad different, just hard different.
“You have no idea what this is costing her.” Peggy’s expression was sad, like a sadness that had been there a long time.
Costing Jac? Serene? In her recliner? Unfazed?
“She never has guests in her home. People send requests to the blog all the time asking for help with albums.” Peggy fixed her with a look somewhere between pleading and accusing. “You’re the first one she’s invited in, the first one she’s agreed to help.”
Liz shivered in her wet T-shirt. She’d made assumptions about a woman she barely knew. A woman who’d been nothing but kind to her.
“She’s as invested in this album as you are.”
Her chest tightened. None of this was Jac’s fault. Her insights were pointedly accurate, and that was the problem. She didn’t want them to be. She wanted Teri’s beat to be strong and sure. She didn’t want to be the star. She shivered harder.
“Don’t walk out on her.”
Abandoned. Liz knew how that felt. The studio smelled of paint. Peggy’s creativity hung in the air, as potent as her emotionally powerful paintings stacked against the walls.
Peggy pointed to a canvas on an easel. “I thought this was going to be a simple little seascape, but it had other ideas. I wrestled with it all week, tried to make it what I saw in my head. This morning I just started painting and let it evolve through the brushes.”
“It’s beautiful.” She held Peggy’s gaze, absorbing the point and the kindness.
“Let’s take brunch down to Jac. You know how cranky she gets if her meals are late.”
Liz nodded, but her steps felt heavy as they walked to the kitchen. Did she have enough courage to do what needed to be done?
*
Jac’s arm fell uselessly to her side and her heart sank as the door closed behind Liz. Her scent lingered and she greedily inhaled the comforting smell. She had no agenda for the album other than helping it be the great album she knew it could be. Helping Liz reach her potential. It was a terrible dilemma for Liz. She admired her loyalty to Teri, but for the album to be its best Liz had to let go of the past that defined her. It was a lot to ask.
“Did I push too hard?” she asked Max. She returned to the recliner, warm from her body, and stroked him. This was her life. A good life she’d worked hard to build. She pressed play on the remote. A knock on the door. Peg with brunch. She’d lost her appetite.
“Is Liz all right?” she asked, opening the door to a bluster of cold air.
“No.”
Liz. She’d come back for her computer.
“Can we talk?” Resolve in her voice.
“Of course.” Liz’s courage pulled at her heart.
“Brunch,” Peg said, following Liz.
Jac turned the volume down and set the table, listening to Peg describe what she’d brought. She was hungry again.
“I’m sorry,” Jac said when Peg was gone and they were seated at the table. “I’m not doing this very well.” Her heart stopped for an instant when Liz covered her hand. She didn’t like being touched, but Liz’s touch felt strong and gentle, two qualities she felt sure Liz possessed. She liked the connection.
“You’re doing a great job. I’ve never met anyone with your feel for music.” Liz withdrew her hand. “Will you help me finish it? I won’t leave again.”
“Of course I will.” She filled her plate with pancakes and bacon and quiche for good measure.
“I’ve never been on my own musically. I think band, group, solos written around my musicians, but not me.”
“Ellington was a genius at highlighting his soloists, but he didn’t shy away from taking center stage. You’re not quite at his level.” Jac smiled and hoped Liz would, too. “But you’re close.”
“I’m not, but thank you for saying so.”
“You can build the future you want, but you have to take center stage.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“When you hear new music, are you always sure you can make it a workable composition?” Liz was silent. It was a big leap in her relationship with her music. “Don’t you trust your instincts?”
“The band’s dynamics will change.”
“The personnel might change, too.”
“Maybe I’m not up to it.” Fatigue and worry in her voice.
“And maybe you are.” They ate in silence for a while, surrounded by the sounds of rain and beautiful music.
“So we have five chosen.” Liz took their plates to the kitchen.
“You should put ‘Drum Roll’ on it. Teri’s solo is solid and riveting.”
“Agreed. Let’s listen to the best versions of the core program and pick four.”
One by one they listened to the songs and talked about them, and Jac felt like herself again in a way she hadn’t in a long time. Memories poked at her, accompanied by jabs of emotion, but she didn’t have time to think about the past. There was only the music and Liz. At three o’clock they made the last choice. She put the recliner upright and leaned forward, tears stinging her eyes. She always experienced that moment of letdown when a project was finished.
Liz put her hand on her shoulder. Squeezed. Let go. “I felt bad about bumping into you. I don’t any more. I’d like to give you credit on the album as co-producer.”
“Absolutely not. It’s yours. Yours and Teri’s. I’m honored to have helped.” An awkward silence descended. “It’s beautiful. So very beautiful. Can I have a CD of those songs?”
“I’ll g
o ask Peggy for a blank and burn it for you before I leave.” Liz walked to the door but didn’t open it. “Do you think I should have surgery?”
She thought before answering. Dishonesty seemed wrong. “If it were me I’d wait and see if it heals. Surgery isn’t foolproof.”
“Even with Monterey?”
“Worst case, if you have to cancel out of the festival, you’ll perform there again someday. Trust your instincts and think long-term.”
“Thank you for your honesty.” The door opened and then closed softly.
“Shall we brave it, buddy?” Max’s tail whacked the side of the recliner. The rain had stopped, and a walk would clear her head and chase away the memories threatening to escape the corners where they sat with sharp teeth. Other albums, but she’d never forget this one. Tomorrow life would be back to normal.
The door opened and Peg said, “Nobody goes anywhere until we’ve heard it. Roger has champagne waiting.”
Jac smiled and knelt by Max. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” She wrapped her arms around him and rubbed her cheek on the side of his head. This was one celebration she’d be glad to attend.
Chapter Eleven
“I did my best, Dad.” How many times had Liz said that this morning? Teri would know how hard it was to choose the songs, and she’d approve. One of the million things was done. A few minutes and they’d be at the surgery center. She was nauseous even though she hadn’t eaten since last night. The celebration toast that turned into dinner. The memory of the fun evening made her smile in spite of the growing dread that was making her heart pound.
“Your core songs are less than half the album. You have to give your audience what they expect.” How many times had he said that this morning?
“I picked the best material.” It would be so much easier if she could tell him the woman behind Jazz Notes helped her, but Jac had staunchly refused. She flexed her fingers. No pain. No swelling. Were the ends of that bone knitting together? She slanted the heater vent toward her and stared out at the heavy gray sky.
