Blended Notes

by Lilah Suzanne

  “Grady?”

  He looks up through the cracked windshield. “Flora, hey. I thought you and Gwen were meeting us at the courthouse.” Grady starts to get out, but she walks over to the passenger side door and slides onto the bench seat next to him. “We are, I—” She rubs the shining white-leather seat with orange trim. “This is nice. The car’s starting to come along.” The new seat and rebuilt transmission are the only things nice about it so far.

  “It’s getting there,” Grady says.

  “Well. I came by to bring you this breakfast casserole.” She lifts the casserole dish from her lap. “Gwen said that Nico makes sure that you eat when you’re stressed, but that when he’s stressed out, Gwen makes sure that Nico eats, and when she’s stressed out I’m the one who makes sure Gwen eats, and— I was up half the night worrying about no one eating a proper breakfast and woke up at four to make two breakfast casseroles. It’s the Italian grandmother in me, I guess.”

  “It’s the mom in you.” Grady takes the casserole dish and smiles. “Thanks, Flora.” He hasn’t eaten; he’s been too anxious, and Nico is more coffee than man by now. The casserole smells divine. He tells Flora that, and she ducks her head and blushes.

  “So does this thing run?” She asks, tugging her braid over her shoulder and fiddling with the end of it. The transmission works now, and he’s figured out how to rig the starter and alternator to turn the engine over.

  “Sorta. It has no brakes and overheats after about thirty seconds, but in theory, yeah.”

  Flora nods. “Still. Most people would have just left it to rot. And you got it working.”

  “Most people are smarter than me,” Grady says with a chuckle. Flora goes quiet, tugging at her braid, and, though Grady’s stomach gurgles its interest in the breakfast casserole, he waits for whatever she’s wanting to say.

  “Cayo’s birth mother contacted us,” she says softly. “I think that’s why I— pushed you, kind of, to reach out to your mother. I was projecting a bit. And I wanted to apologize. For that.”

  “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” They are two different situations entirely, Cayo’s very wanted adoption and his almost-literal drop on his grandparents’ doorstep. “What does she want?”

  “Just pictures and updates, occasionally. All through the social worker, of course. It sounds like she’s in a better place now. So that’s good.” Flora’s fingers wind around the end of her braid. “It’s complicated, the idea of sharing him like that. We want him to know her, but there’s this fear of rejection, too. For us, because she’ll always be part of him, and we don’t want him to think we’ve kept that from him. And for her, that maybe he’ll want nothing to do with her. And that’s okay.” Her hands pause on her braid as she nods. “It’s okay if his feelings are complicated. I hope he knows, at least, that we only ever want the best for him, and that it takes a tremendous amount of bravery to admit that what’s best for your child may not be you.”

  Grady looks at the black, silent screen of his phone, and they sit without speaking in his junk pile of a car, a car that a person with any sense would have walked away from and never looked back. Maybe it never will be what it should have been—too many years of neglect, too many rusted out parts—but it can still be something. The frame is good; there are parts that can be salvaged. He takes Flora’s anxious hand and holds on until Nico comes to collect him.

  “It’s time.”

  34

  On any other day, Grady appreciates the architecture of the stately white stone antebellum-style courthouse with its huge bronze doors and stained-glass windows. But today the imposing building just adds to his sense of dread. His career and financial future are on the line, and he’ll be okay whatever happens; he’ll build back up from nothing because he has before, and he’ll do it with the support of his family and friends and fans, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to. The reporters and cameras are only allowed as far as the front steps, and Grady keeps his head down, tries to look serious but not angry the way his lawyer, Ms. Howard, said before she led him at a clipped pace past the gently dancing fountains and through the crowd. “No comment,” she keeps saying on his behalf, and then Grady recognizes the reporter, Hannah, who came to the wedding and interviewed him at the house and once before that. He’s always really liked her; she’s clever and sweet and genuine.

  “Grady, can you give us a quick statement?”

  “No comment at this time,” Ms. Howard says.

  “Wait, hold on a sec.” Grady speaks into the recorder Hannah is holding toward him. “I just want to say…” Grady glances at Ms. Howard, who sets her mouth in concern, but does tip her chin with consent. “Whatever happens in there— All I ever wanted to do was make good, honest music. I never had any expectation of fame or fortune or anything like that. So if the rest of it all goes away, then, then I’m just gonna keep on making good honest music. And I—” He stops to take Nico’s hand, in full view of the crowd and the press and the cameras. “Nico and I appreciate everyone who has supported us; it really means a lot to us both. That’s all.”

  Then he’s whisked inside, through marble hallways on shining polished wood floors under tall arching ceilings with bronze chandeliers and stone carvings. Grady ducks into the bathroom that’s hidden behind a statue of a lioness; her somber stone eyes follow him until he’s out of sight. He splashes water on his face, pats his cheeks dry with a paper towel, and says to the pale, panicked Grady in the mirror, “You’re gonna be okay. Whatever happens, you’re gonna be okay.” Someone flushes a urinal behind him, then a man in a nice suit washes his hands next to Grady as nonchalantly as if he sees people giving themselves desperate pep talks in the courthouse restroom mirror every day. He looks like a lawyer, so maybe he does. Lawyer-guy leaves, and then Nico comes in.

  “Holding up okay?” Nico’s voice is tight, his body and face are nothing but rigid, sharp edges. Grady’s guilt over dragging him through this returns, until Nico slides off his own stylish sports coat. “The regular guy approach is good, but Gwen pointed out that it was maybe too casual.” He helps Grady into the coat, tugs the lapels, and buttons the two bottom buttons. “Now, no more freaking out. You’re not in the wrong. I’m happy to be standing by you. Everything is going to work out.”

  He’s obviously convincing himself as much as he is Grady, so Grady takes a breath and nods. “Okay.” Grady checks himself in the mirror one last time. The coat does make him look more put together, though it’s a little too snug in the arms and chest. It beats the first time he had to do something like this, when he borrowed his Granddaddy’s church suit that was way too big and threadbare at the knees and elbows. “This is not my first trial, did you know that?”

  “I may have heard rumors of the sort,” Nico says with clear distaste.

  Shame weighs in his belly as Grady lists, “Driving under the influence. Drug possession. Trespassing and damaging private property, and… Mm. Resisting arrest, I think was the official accusation.”

  Nico’s face is unreadable; he fixes the knot on Grady’s tie that doesn’t need to be fixed. “Must have been a wild night,” he finally says.

  Grady’s laugh is a grateful release of tension. “It was a few separate occasions. In case you ever wondered why I don’t drink.” He tries to play it off as a joke, though not a bit of it is actually funny.

  “I know who I married,” Nico runs his hands down the satin material of Grady’s tie. “Warts and all. Metaphorical warts, of course. If you had real ones, well.” He makes a no way face. Grady laughs again, feels lighter again. “I’m not a total Boy Scout, you know. I’ve been to Tijuana on spring break. I’ve done things.”

  Grady squints at him. “You were a Boy Scout, though. I saw the photo albums.”

  “A metaphorical Boy Scout,” Nico says with a sigh and flickering roll of his eyes. “All right, Grady Dawson, menace to society. Let’s do this.”

&nbs
p; In the courtroom, Nico joins Flora, Gwen, Clementine, and Spencer in the audience, and Grady sits at a large table up front to the left; at the table on the right is Duke, bracketed by a team of lawyers in slick charcoal suits, just as Nico predicted. Throughout the hearing, none of them spare Grady a glance. Has he ever been anything other than a chain of dollar signs to Stomp Records? It’s hard for him to believe that.

  Ms. Howard went through what the proceeding would be like a few days ago: Stomp would present their case, then she would present his case, then the judge will take some time to review each side and make his or her decision. It’s an arbitration and not a criminal trial, so Grady won’t have to take the stand or be cross-examined. “It’ll be boring, overall,” she said. But Grady’s heart is trying to gallop right out of his chest no matter what she told him.

  The judge doesn’t take very long to come back with a decision, which makes Grady’s lawyer sit very straight very fast, and makes Grady’s pounding heart leap into his throat. The judge hands down her decision, taps her papers into a pile, and smacks the gavel down. Case closed. Just outside the courtroom, Grady drops back against the cold marble wall as everyone who came along to support him gathers around. Then Stomp’s gang of lawyers marches past, and Duke Delmont stops to shake Grady’s hand. “No hard feelings, son.”

  Nico tips his head, works his jaw, and crosses his arms over his chest. Gwen hah’s so loudly it echoes through the chamber. Flora glowers, and Spencer’s glare could be a death stare.

  “You got a lot of balls, Delmont,” Clem says. Grady looks at this man, who he thought was an ally, a friend, and sees what he really is with his gold rings and gaudy belt buckles and loud bluster: a guy who’s trying way too hard to believe he matters. He’s just as much a cog in the machine as Grady is—a filthy rich cog, but still a cog.

  “You know what, Duke,” Grady says, gripping Duke’s hand with both of his in a firm handshake. “No hard feelings.” He releases Duke’s hand and adds in an icy, passive-aggressive tone of voice that would have made Memaw beam with pride, “May god bless your soul.”

  Court Rules in Favor of Grady Dawson:

  Says Not in Violation of Contract, Is Free to Record at Another Label.

  Nashville Indy Press

  Blake Davidson reporting

  A Nashville court declared that Grady Dawson is no longer bound by his contract with Stomp Records, denying the label’s claim that Dawson violated the terms by not providing an appropriate album and by performing an unreleased song in public. Stomp Records was also seeking to reinstate the initial three-record, seven-year contract due to these claims.

  “Stomp Records was really only seeking to keep Grady Dawson a prisoner of the label,” Dawson’s manager Vince Bauer told press. “Making up claims and violations that Grady would never commit. They have their album, they know full well the content of Grady’s character, and the judge could see that clearly.”

  Entertainment Attorney Tanisha Howard represented Dawson, while the case for Stomp Records was pled by the law firm Hickey, Hickey and Bloodworth. Dawson looked dressed down and somber while walking into the courtroom, but returned jubilant and visibly relieved, hand in hand with his new husband, a marriage which some say was the real source of the controversy with Stomp all along. Now released from Stomp Records, Dawson says he will be considering his options for a new label, but said in a statement that he, “Can’t wait to make new music. I feel free, like I’m only just getting started.”

  35

  Grady had met Nico only thanks to Spencer. But Grady blew his chance, tongue-tied at the sight of Nico, while smack in the middle of an interview. He’d been rapidly losing patience and an ability to focus on the questions:

  “Rumors say that you—”

  “We hear you’re dating—”

  “What parties will you be—”

  Red carpets are a loud, stiflingly hot chaos of flashing cameras and dozens of concurrent interviews, of last-minute primping and briefings and making sure to be seen with the right people at the right time. Whatever that particular interviewer was asking Grady got sucked into the vortex of it all when a waif-like model swept into Grady’s peripheral vision, trailed by a harassed-looking stylist. The model may have been the one gracing runways and magazine covers, but it was the stylist Grady couldn’t take his eyes off.

  “Excuse me.” Grady stepped away mid-interview. He knew it was rude and he’d hear about it later from Vince, but, whoever that guy was, with his striking features and perfect hair and legs for days, he was elegant and regal even while sniping at the model to get over herself. Whoever he was, Grady needed to know. And then the guy flipped to a genuine concern and gave the insecure-masking-as-bravado model a pep talk, told her she was beautiful and she was strong, and Grady couldn’t live another moment without talking to him.

  But then another microphone appeared, and the crowd closed in, cutting off his intended path. He felt the chord of connection between him and the mysterious stylist was severed. That was it, he’d lost his chance and he knew, he just knew, there was something there, something important.

  “I’ll set up a meeting.” Spencer sighed and scowled. “Despite my better judgment.” It would not be the first time Spencer had helped him set up a “meeting.”

  “I’m done with hookups,” Grady reminded him. He was tired of it, tired of being that guy, and it led nowhere but disappointment and depression and a distraction from his career goals. He wasn’t gonna to find love in the bed of a stranger; he just wished it hadn’t taken him so long to sort that out.

  Spencer replied with a skeptical grunt. “We’ll see. What did the model look like?”

  “I dunno, a model. Tall. Skinny. I wasn’t really paying close attention.”

  Spencer gave him another long-suffering sigh. “What was she wearing?”

  Luckily Grady remembered the gown, mostly because he’d watched her stylist adjust and fluff and fold and fuss over it. It was gold, with pleats as sharp as his jawline and accents of swirling velvet as black as his hair. And somehow, from that, Spencer found him and then called and bullied his way into a meeting in the very short time Grady would be in L.A.

  “Spence…” Grady warned when a sneering Spencer hung up the phone. They’d talked about that before. Spencer didn’t know the strength of his own assertive nature sometimes.

  “I just wanted to make sure it happened,” Spencer protested. “I can tell that you like him and—” His shoulders slumped; his defensiveness ebbed away. “Be careful, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Spencer was a good assistant because he was determined and sure, a little foolhardy, but it worked out for the best, usually. And he didn’t just do things because he had to, but because he cared. “I will be.”

  Today, Grady climbs the steps to Nico’s office just as he had that afternoon back in L.A. He’d taken a slow jog twice around the block then to calm his nerves and still pushed the door open with sweaty palms and a fluttering stomach, and today, just like then, it’s Gwen who greets him. Only now, it’s with a smile and a wave instead of a deliberate drag of her eyes up and down him from head to toe and back and then declaring, “Oh, this is gonna be fun.” Grady liked her instantly.

  Today, Gwen has Cayo on her lap and she only has eyes for that little boy. “This is our new assistant,” she says, ruffling his hair. Cayo chews on a capped pen, watching a video on her computer screen as she works on a look-book; the show sounds like Sesame Street. From her lap Cayo notices Grady and yells, “Dee Dee!” Grady points to himself, and Cayo says it again. “Yeah, that’s your name now,” Gwen says, “deal with it.”

  Grady will not just deal with it; he loves it. He crouches for a chat, until Cayo is entranced by Elmo and Mr. Noodle again, so Grady stands and turns to talk to Spencer, who isn’t there. Grady nods his head to indicate the empty receptionist’s desk, “Where’s your old assistant? I have e
xciting news, I wanted to tell all y’all.”

  “Spencer quit,” Gwen says simply.

  “Again?” Grady stands up, frowning at the abandoned desk. He doesn’t know how to help Spencer sometimes, not when he keeps running out ahead of himself and worrying about the consequences later. Grady feels like a father with wayward teenager. He has a moment of sympathy for what he put his grandparents through, what his mother put his grandparents through. The door opens, and Nico comes in with a few shopping bags. He puts them on the stairs to the loft so he can greet Grady with a peck on the lips.

  “Nico!” Cayo exclaims, holding his little arms out.

  “Okay, how does he say your name perfectly?” Grady asks.

  Nico scoops Cayo up into his arms. “We worked on it, didn’t we? I could not abide being called Uncle Igo.” Cayo babbles something back at him.

  Grady knows that Gwen brings Cayo into the office from time to time, especially now that it’s late fall and Flora is back to work, Cayo back to daycare, and Gwen’s hours are as odd and unpredictable as ever. They’re making it work, though, and Cayo is a big, healthy toddler with a friendly, upbeat personality. It seems that his charming temperament finally won Nico over.

  “All right, back to Mommy,” Nico says. “I need to log that stuff now that we’re out an assistant, again.”

  “Still waiting on that errand boy,” Gwen remarks as Nico heads over to the stairs.

  “What happened with Spencer?” Grady follows. He and Nico seemed to be getting along, but it was probably only a matter of time before their dueling headstrong natures caused problems again.