Playing with Bonbon Fire

by Dorothy St. James

  “If he thinks Camellia Beach is too small a town, why did he agree to play at the festival?” I asked.

  “A boy like that can’t turn down gigs,” Arthur said with a cough.

  “But he got his big break, right? He had his hit song,” I pointed out.

  “Just one song,” Althea said. “After that, Ocean Waves never made another splash in the music business. What I’ve heard is that they play bars up and down the coast and sometimes are invited to play at county fairs. People around here often wonder how he makes enough money from those gigs to even buy food.”

  “I heard that boy is getting money from somewhere else,” Arthur said. “But he spends it on expensive cars.”

  “If he desperately needs money, that would explain why he got so huffy about getting paid whether or not his band played,” I said.

  “I would think so,” Althea agreed.

  “So why is Bubba upset?” I asked.

  “Because Stan is as stubborn as an ass,” Arthur grumbled, which didn’t explain anything. I looked to Althea.

  She shrugged. “Bubba had scheduled The Embers and Ocean Waves to sing on different days so there wouldn’t be a conflict. He’d done it because he wanted The Embers to come back together and sing.”

  “And Stan won’t sing with them?” I’d been so wrapped up in overseeing the advertising and securing of corporate sponsors, I hadn’t paid that much attention to what was happening on the musical end of things. After all, organizing the talent was Bubba’s responsibility.

  “He was supposed to,” Althea said. “But as often happens with reunions, apparently old war wounds have reopened.”

  “If Stan doesn’t sing …” I started to say.

  “The Embers won’t be able to perform,” Althea finished for me.

  And that would put a big gaping hole in our festival’s big finale. The Embers were scheduled to perform on Sunday night, the festival’s last day.

  “I need to fix this.” I jumped up from the bench and hurried down the pier.

  “Where are you going? What are you going to do?” Althea called after me.

  “I’m going to get Bubba a lead singer.”

  Chapter 4

  “I can’t believe you did this.” Bubba Crowley’s toothy grin took up most of his face. He swayed to the Beach Boys crooning over the sound system. “You really did this.”

  We were both gathered at the base of the stage Thursday night, the first night of the festival. We’d scheduled Bixby Lewis to sing on opening night to ensure the music festival started with as much fanfare and press coverage as possible.

  But tonight’s headliner performance wasn’t what had Bubba excited.

  Late in the day, I’d talked with Bixby about The Embers, about how their music had shaped a generation of music lovers on the island, and how they’d suddenly found themselves without a lead singer. Surprisingly, Bixby had agreed right away to step in and fill the role of lead singer for the band. Without asking to talk with the band members first, without asking to listen to their music to judge the quality of their songs, he’d agreed. The way he was acting, I got the impression he already knew their music. But when I asked him about it, he claimed he’d never heard of them.

  “Beach music is beach music,” he told me. “It’s all fabulous!”

  The Beach Boys were fabulous. I wasn’t sure about Bubba’s band, which involved a group of guys who hadn’t picked up an instrument for over forty years.

  But the news of Bixby filling in for Stan had so thrilled Bubba that he’d started smiling and even dancing again. It pleased me to see him like this. I wished my feet knew the quick swinging movements of the Carolina shag as Bubba urged me to partner with him.

  Chuckling, I held up my hands. “Let me practice in private first. Otherwise I might swing you right off the pier and into the ocean.”

  Tiki torches lined the length of the pier and continued around the pavilion and soundstage where we were standing. Their bright orange flames flickered in the hot ocean breeze while a summer thunderstorm rumbled in the distance. A large wave crashed on the shore just as a streak of lightning lit up the night sky.

  “I’m just glad Bixby agreed,” I said, eyeing the distant clouds with concern. “Underneath all the bad-boy press he gets, I think he’s actually a nice guy.”

  That had to be the reason he’d agreed to sing with The Embers. It was because he was a nice guy, right?

  I sincerely hoped so. In my experience, people with “nice guy” facades were always angling to get something they didn’t deserve. But that couldn’t be the case here. It was my half sister’s charm that had convinced Bixby to come to Camellia Beach, not the beach music.

  “Nice guy?” Bubba crowed. “That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. That boy ain’t just nice, he’s magnificent! Have you seen the crowd on the beach waiting to hear him sing? It’s been ages since I’ve seen this many people show up for anything at Camellia. You did this. I can’t thank you enough, Penn!”

  He twirled me around in time with the music and then pulled me into a tight bear hug that stole my breath. I quickly wiggled out of it. “Yes … um …”

  His mentioning the crowd reminded me of the threatening letter that had crashed into the shop on the back of a rock.

  Bubba was right about one thing: no one had predicted the size of tonight’s crowd. Thanks to Bixby’s fame, the pavilion tickets had sold out weeks ago. A standing-room-only crowd formed a human wall on the beach surrounding the pier. Further away, the less rabid fans had set up beach blankets and lawn chairs.

  We didn’t have enough security for a pack of people this size. I shivered as I watched even more fans arrive. Someone, either on the beach or in the pavilion, had threatened to kill Bixby, or more precisely, to set him on fire.

  The pier and pavilion were both constructed of wood. They had already burned twice. Once by arson.

  Did the security team know to watch out for fire starters? Althea was overseeing security. I called her on my cell phone, but the call went to voicemail. As I was leaving a message, I noticed a shiny bald head weaving its way through the crowd toward Bubba and me.

  I smiled.

  “Congressman!” I called out, waving my hands in the air. I had hoped to get a chance to speak with him tonight. Bertie had promised to deliver the savory bonbons, and I wanted to check in with him to find out if he was satisfied with our work.

  “Good evening, Penn. What a turnout. You’re certainly an asset to the community.” Congressman Trey Ezell, who was a few inches taller than me, flashed his VIP badge to a security officer to come join us behind the cordoned-off area set up off to one side of the stage.

  He smiled, causing his teeth to sparkle in the flickering torchlight. He wore his signature dark gray suit with a red power tie. A crisp white handkerchief with lace edging peeked out from his suit coat’s pocket. Although he was nearly twenty years older than my thirty-seven, he was quite a handsome man with his crisp features and square jaw. And after all he’d done to help out with the shop, I considered him a good friend.

  A young boy who looked about ten or eleven years old followed the congressman into the VIP area. The dark-haired boy, dressed like a mortician in a tailored black suit and red tie, was grinning so hard his cheeks had turned ruddy red. While the congressman shook Bubba’s and my hands, the boy swayed to the music being played over the sound system until the congressman used his elbow to give the boy a nudge. Still grinning, the boy straightened and looked all the adults in the eyes.

  “I’d like y’all to meet my nephew, Tom Ezell,” the congressman said. Tom parroted his uncle, extending his hand to greet Bubba and me with the same polished grace as his uncle. “Tom has been helping out with my campaign.” The congressman lovingly put his hand on his nephew’s head. “Since I don’t have any sons of my own, Tom here is going to follow me into the family business of politics. He’s got quite the aptitude for it.”

  I supposed that explained why a preteen
would be wearing a suit and tie to a rock concert.

  “Did Bertie deliver the bonbons to your booth?” I asked Ezell.

  The congressman nodded happily. “She delivered them a few hours ago.” He held up a prettily packaged cellophane bag. “She also included an extra for taste-testing.”

  “And?” I asked nervously. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Penn, you have Mabel’s gift in the kitchen.”

  “That’s Bertie’s gift,” I tried to explain.

  “The chocolates are amazing. Almost as good as your grandmother’s. The apple didn’t fall far from her tree with you. Camellia Beach is lucky to have you. Speaking of which, how are things going with you and your shop? Did the loans come through?”

  “They did. They did. Thank you.” We chatted a bit about the financial process while his nephew silently watched the crowd, his eyes growing wider and wider.

  “Are you a Bixby Lewis fan?” Bubba asked Tom, trying to keep the poor boy from being too bored with all this talk about bank loans and collateral.

  “Oh, yes indeed, sir,” Tom answered. “I still can’t believe he’d come here.”

  Bubba leaned forward and stage-whispered into the boy’s ear, “Penn is a good friend of his.”

  “Really?” Tom gasped as he looked at me with new eyes.

  Before I had a chance to answer, someone from behind grabbed me around the waist.

  I whirled around, ready to defend myself. Through the years I’d taken several self-defense courses in hopes of bolstering my self-confidence. After all, anyone who’d spent their childhood being reminded of how they were an unwanted burden would need help with their self-confidence.

  Thanks to the thick crowds and this morning’s threatening letter, my entire body was on high alert. I swung like I wasn’t going to let anyone take advantage of me ever again.

  The man who’d snuck up behind me ducked.

  Thank goodness he ducked.

  “Bixby! What are you …? You’re not … you’re supposed to be getting ready for the show.”

  Gracious me, had I almost socked our superstar in the nose seconds before he was supposed to go onstage?

  He grinned but held up his hands as if preparing to ward off any errant fists that might fly his way again. “You’re a live wire, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I … I …” I had no excuse. I should have reacted with better care.

  Bixby looked like the superstar I’d met several years earlier backstage at his concert. He was dressed in black leather pants that outlined his toned legs and a black T-shirt. His stage makeup darkened his eyes in a way that made him look tough. Dangerous almost.

  This was the Bixby Lewis the fans expected and adored.

  Bubba took Bixby’s hand and started shaking it as if he were operating a water pump. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to sing with The Embers on Sunday. We haven’t had the chance to perform for nearly half a decade. And we couldn’t do it now without you.”

  “Glad to do it,” Bixby said as his arm kept pumping up and down, up and down. “Um … can I have my hand back now?”

  “Oh! Sorry. I’m just so excited.”

  “That’s okay. I’m actually looking forward to performing with your group. I have a—”

  “Bixby Lewis, is it? It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Trey Ezell, local representative to the state house and currently running a vigorous campaign for the U.S. Senate,” Congressman Ezell cut in to say. “Thank you for agreeing to perform this weekend. You’re helping to put our little town on the map.”

  “I … um … glad to do it,” Bixby said. “I’m looking forward to getting back to my roots. Growing up, my parents played all the classic beach music tracks. The swaying rhythm has seeped deep into my bones. I’ve long dreamed of making a beach music album.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have found a better place than Camellia Beach to find inspiration. There’s a wealth of talent here. You could throw a stone and hit someone with amazing musical ability.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Bixby said politely. “Bubba—”

  “As I’ve said,” the congressman continued, “I’m running for U.S. Senate. Here’s a campaign favor Penn helped me put together. I’d like you to have it.” He held up the chocolate-filled cellophane bag tied with red, white, and blue ribbons with an attached “Ezell: Your Next Senator” pamphlet. He thrust it into Bixby’s hands. “The savory bonbons filled with cheese and pretzels are mind-blowing. Read the brochure and let me know what you think.”

  “Um … sure. Thank you,” he said. “Now, Bubba—”

  “Bixby”—this time it was Bubba who interrupted him—“you need to meet your biggest fan.” Bubba smiled down at Tom, who was shaking like a leaf. “Tom Ezell is the congressman’s nephew.”

  “My biggest fan?” Bixby extended his hand to the boy. “That’s quite an accomplishment, Tom.”

  Tom’s cheeks turned bright red. “I love all of your songs, sir.”

  “We’re all friends here. Call me Bixby.”

  “Bixby?” Tom tried it out and looked to his uncle for confirmation that he hadn’t blundered.

  Ezell nodded encouragingly.

  So did Bixby.

  “Bixby?” Tom said, looking to his uncle again. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Ask away,” Bixby said.

  “I have a friend who wants a music career. Do you have any advice for him, sir?”

  “Advice?” Bixby pursed his lips for a moment. “Tell your friend to learn to read music and to always keep an eye out for the next big hit. All you need to break into this business is to find that one good song, the song everyone is going to be humming after hearing it.”

  “One good song,” Tom repeated. “Thank you, sir.”

  Bixby winked at the boy before turning back to Bubba. “I need to talk with you about The Embers. I was looking over the songbook you sent to my beach house this afternoon. Tucked in with the scores was a piece of paper with a roughly handwritten song called ‘Camellia Nights.’ It completely blew me away. I love the ‘three times three, he took her out to sea’ refrain.”

  “Really? ‘Camellia Nights’? You like that one?” Bubba sounded stunned. “I wrote it.”

  “You wrote it?” Bixby asked, impressed.

  “Well …” Bubba scratched his stubbly chin. “I wrote the music. Stan wrote the lyrics.”

  “The song Stan wrote?” Ezell asked, sounding slightly desperate to be part of the conversation even though, like me, he didn’t have a musical background.

  “You’ve heard of it?” Bubba asked.

  “I kind of remember Stan talking about putting together a new song right before he moved away to form Ocean Waves. It must have been that one.” Ezell crinkled his brows as if trying to remember the details.

  “It’s brilliant,” Bixby said. “I want to get my hands on the full score. I want to sing it. Heck, even if the rest of the song is only half as good as what’s on the worksheet I found in the songbook, I want to buy it. How did it not become a chart buster?”

  “We never had a chance to perform it, not even during a practice session.” Bubba sounded bitter about it. “Stan quit the group and The Embers broke up.”

  “Really? No one has ever heard this song? Ever? Then we’ll just have to add it to your set list for this week’s performance.”

  “No. That’s not going to happen.” It wasn’t Bubba who’d objected but Stan Frasier. The aging singer had worked his way through the crowd by flashing the VIP badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck. Like Bixby, he was dressed in black leather pants and a black T-shirt. Unlike Bixby, however, he looked washed out and tired. I felt sorry for him. He’d spent years chasing the kind of fame Bixby had attained. He’d traveled from place to place with nowhere permanent to call home. That lifestyle had clearly taken a toll on him. Deep lines crisscrossed his face. He looked years older than Bubba or Trey, who were his contemporaries. Perhaps it was the year
s of disappointments that had caused him to sour. Perhaps those same disappointments were driving him now to try to block The Embers from finding their way back into the spotlight.

  “You don’t have a say in what The Embers do,” Bubba growled. “Not anymore.”

  Bixby took a step back as if worried another fist might go flying in his direction.

  “It’s my song. You can’t sing it,” Stan said.

  “You’re forgetting that it’s half my song too,” Bubba countered. “And Bixby doesn’t just want to sing it with the band. He wants to buy it. Just think what ‘Camellia Nights’ could do for this town if we put it in the hands of a superstar like Bixby.”

  Stan’s entire face turned red. “Half or whole, it doesn’t matter. I’m not giving permission for you to sing or sell that song … or any of my songs. To anyone.” He poked Bubba in the chest with his stubby finger. “Pack it up, loser. If The Embers sing again it’ll be over my dead body.”

  Stan stormed off before anyone could react.

  “Well, then, he’s just going to have to die, because The Embers are coming back,” Bubba sneered.

  “Please, Bubba,” I said. “Don’t make any trouble.” Especially not in front of Ezell’s nephew. “I’ll talk to Stan. I’ll do what I can to make it all work out. We have time. You don’t perform until Sunday.”

  Bixby, clearly uncomfortable with the argument his interest in the song had caused, glanced nervously at his smartwatch and cursed. “I have a concert waiting.”

  He disappeared through the curtain that led to the makeshift backstage area. Two burly security guards stood watch at the curtain’s opening to keep out unauthorized entrants. I prayed the security team we had in place would be enough to keep Bixby safe.

  “Don’t worry your pretty head, Penn,” Bubba said when he noticed my scowl. “Everything will work out for the best.”

  The torches’ glow created a dance of light and deep shadow on Bubba’s face as he moved to the beat of the music. The effect made his grin appear too happy, grotesque even. Sure, he was generally a jovial fellow, laughing easily. So I couldn’t understand until later—much later—why his maniacal smile made me feel so queasy.