I had read a few articles about Jay over the years – okay, I had read every word ever written about him. He was pretty well known out west, and occasionally did shows at smaller venues throughout the Midwest and the east. He had come to Philly once about two years ago, and I had planned on going to see him, but Sydney had been sick and I never made it.
The lights dimmed. Armed with a fresh drink, I stealthily made my way through the crowd toward the stage. For some reason it was important that he see me. He walked out, not appearing the least bit nervous. His presence on stage took my breath away. He wasn’t an overt showman like Cooper had been, but he owned the spotlight in a different way; one that was more raw and powerful. I remembered what it felt like to sing beside him, the hot lights shining on us, his voice spearing through my soul.
He opened with a crowd favorite, something a little more upbeat, and the audience was enraptured. The high energy continued with his next two songs. Then it was time for a mood change, as he switched out his guitar and sat on the stool, adjusting his mic as he announced he would be dedicating the next few songs to an old friend. My heart rate tripled. But then I felt cold all over as he began a cover of Love Hurts, and when I say he put everything he had into those scathing words, I mean he held nothing back.
My head was spinning now, and not just from the rum. He didn’t miss a beat as he went right into another cover, this time Witchy Woman, and his intent to hurt me was becoming quite clear. I had just about had enough, but then he began another familiar song – this one an original - and every nerve ending in my body went on high alert. This was the song that Cooper sang for Trisha, nearly causing a riot at Darden’s club that night so long ago. Only this time the words were slightly different; they were tailor made for me. He stood up and sauntered across the stage. He was now accompanied by the full band, and he’d left his guitar behind. He strutted like a peacock – so out of character for him – as he punctuated every hurtful word, a la Darling Nikki style. If he was trying to break me, he was doing a damn good job.
The thing is, words are just words until they’re spilling from the same lips that once explored every inch of your body in the dark. The lips of the one who shared a history with you, and who once knew your heart, despite your attempts at keeping it under lock and key.
Then, they are not just words; they are the death of you. Every syllable causing physical pain.
My eyes were burning with unshed tears. The need to escape that place was so great, my legs were tingling. But my feet were stubbornly planted firmly on the ground. I couldn’t move. All I could do was feel myself shattering into so many pieces, I was quite sure I would never be able to reassemble myself.
When at last the song was mercilessly over, the crowd went nuts. Had they no idea what had just happened? Were they all so blind and stupid they couldn’t see how he just destroyed me? Of course they were. I was just another face in the crowd, after all. A face that his eyes sought out, even as the cheers from the people around me drowned out my raging emotions. I knew the moment he spotted me. I could feel his gaze like two lasers melting away my body to leave my broken heart vulnerable and exposed. I let him have a good look. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? I had thought he asked me here because he remembered my stories about my father, and how important this place was to my parents. I thought he wanted me there because we had always found a connection through music, and if we were ever going to find our way back to each other, music was a good place to start.
But I had been wrong. He brought me here for one reason, and one reason only; to bring me to my knees.
Mission accomplished.
41
Jay wanted to break something. He had never felt so ugly in all his life. That look on Izzy’s face would haunt him forever. After all those years of swearing off the kind of blind, irrational love that his parents had, and after all those years of soul searching and therapy; he had turned into his father anyway. How else could he explain what he had done? He was weak, he was mean, he was hopeless.
He would never feel the way he did about Izzy for anyone else. And he could never be the man that she deserved. And if he couldn’t show her how he felt without hurting her, well what kind of father would he ever be to Sydney? He couldn’t risk that innocent child being exposed to his poison soul.
He needed to get away from here. Far away, and never come back. He had burned all his bridges with Izzy. There was nothing left between them; he’d made good and sure of that. As for Sydney, she was better off without him in her life. He would go back to California and spend the rest of his days missing the daughter he never got to know, and trying to forget he’d ever loved Izzy Delaney.
42
I didn’t have the luxury of taking time to brood. I had a shop to run and a daughter to raise. That didn’t mean I didn’t cry in the bathroom every chance I got, and it didn’t mean my mind was ever far from thoughts of Jay’s stellar performance or the look on his face while he sang those wretched, telling lyrics.
I lasted exactly three days before I finally broke down and told Miranda the whole story. It had taken me seven years to open up to her about Jay. She knew he was Sydney’s father, and she knew that he meant more to me than just some fling. But I had played my cards very close to the vest where Jay was concerned. I had felt like talking about him would make it harder to let him go.
I had been wrong about a lot of things.
Miranda listened to me rehash my history with Jay well past midnight, as we shared a bottle of wine on the back porch. I didn’t leave much out – from the first time I saw him before we first moved to New Jersey, to the letters he wrote me, to his show at the Stone Pony. She was a good sounding board.
Over the past several years I had come to really rely on my mother. At one time I considered her to be a lovesick widow, constantly in mourning over a husband who had never loved her. But as time went on, I realized I had misjudged her. She was not just a survivor, coping with life the best she could. She was a strong, independent woman who had known love and lost it. A love that was unreturned, but no less intense. And she was wise in matters of the heart. I just don’t know why I waited so long to confide in her about this. She didn’t have much advice – what could she say? There was nothing to be done. But she was an excellent listener, and she said all the right things. She had just the right combination of ‘you poor thing’ and ‘pick yourself up, you have to move on’. It didn’t really take the pain away, but between our talk and the wine I was able to get a few hours of sleep that night.
It was a good thing I was well rested, because the next day was a doozy.
With Chowder Fest coming up that weekend, the town was busy preparing for the surge in traffic. Most merchants made more profit on this weekend than in all the off-season months combined. It was a chance for the seasonal businesses to close for the winter on a high note. Of course, this was all reliant on the weather cooperating, and since Al Roker was practically guaranteeing seasonably warm temperatures and less than ten percent chance of precipitation for the three day weekend, Avalon was all aflutter.
I unlocked the café at five thirty, surprised to see at least a half dozen locals hop out of their cars and rush inside. Miranda had barely gotten the bakery case stocked and had a smile in place when the lot of them rushed her at the counter.
“My lord, it better be warmer than this on Friday!” said Mrs. Makool, owner of the yarn store a block away.
“They’re calling for temperatures in the sixties,” Abe from the t-shirt shop chimed in.
“Yeah, well I’ll believe it when I see it.” Grumpy Gloria muttered from her spot in line. She ran a gift shop that carried the most beautiful jewelry, pottery and blown glass. Her business was booming every year starting in March, and she had a gorgeous house, a helpful husband and a loyal dog. But she complained about everything under the sun; from the weather to how dark the white lines were painted on the street; you name it, she was unhappy about it.
“Now, now e
veryone,” I said as I handed Abe his dark roast and a blueberry muffin. “We go through this every year. As long as rain isn’t pouring from the sky, we’ll all do well. If it’s warm, folks will linger around the shops, and if it’s chilly, we’ll sell more chowder.”
“I hope it’s not windy,” Grumpy Gloria said as she approached me at the counter. “There’s nothing worse than when it’s windy and people don’t think to pull the door shut behind them.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said with fake cheerfulness. “I think there might be a thing or two in life worse than that.”
As usual, Gloria missed my sarcasm. She took her time ordering, asking me all sorts of questions about the ingredients in each of the baked items. Today she claimed to be allergic to gluten. Yesterday it was lactose intolerance (though she was quick to order an extra creamy latte with whipped topping), and I believe the day before that, she was a vegan and not able to eat anything with eggs.
I rolled my eyes when I turned around to make her coffee, but I smiled a little to myself. Avalon may not be a small town in the traditional sense, but sometimes this café made it feel similar to one. I loved these people, annoying and crazy as they were, and I wouldn’t trade any of them for the world.
“Mr. Baylor!” I said when I turned around and saw my very favorite customer. “How are you this fine day?”
I topped off Gloria’s coffee with a smiley face made of chocolate syrup and handed it to her with a wink. She scowled and found a seat in the corner, far away from everybody else.
“What looks good today, Mr. Baylor?”
Mr. Baylor stood a few feet away from the cash register, his eyes raised to the chalkboard menu up high on the wall. He had a routine, and it could not be hurried. First, he would peruse the menu as if he hadn’t looked at it every day for the past two years.
“You changed some things,” he stated. We hadn’t changed a darn thing.
“We have a lovely Kona blend today on special, Mr. Baylor. Are you in the mood for a nice dark roast, or would you prefer something on the lighter side?”
“Lighter side? Young lady, in my day, there was only one kind of coffee; dark and strong. And we didn’t fluff it up with any of that syrup or froth or whatever you young people ruin a perfectly good cuppa joe with these days.”
I pressed my lips together. This was the same speech he gave – verbatim – every single morning at six.
“I think I know just the thing for you,” I said as if I’d just had an epiphany. “Wait right here.” I fixed him a mug of steaming Kona blend – the same one he drank every day – and added a dash of cinnamon and a squirt of chocolate syrup, careful to keep my back to him so he didn’t see. I selected a generous-sized lemon bar from the bakery case and put it on a matching plate, then carried them over to his favorite table near the window.
He gave me a dollar. “Keep the change,” he winked at me. I smiled at him warmly and tucked the dollar in my pocket. Mr. Baylor was ninety-six years old, and sometimes he wandered on back to 1940. I didn’t care. When he was having one of his more lucid days, he would tell me the most wonderful stories about his life, and those were worth way more than the simple coffee and treats he got from me every morning. The way I saw it, I owed him.
The morning continued at much the same pace, and I was grateful to be busy. The less time I had to think, the better.
Miranda left around one for a lunch date with a friend, and I took advantage of the lull in business and stepped outside for some fresh air. It had warmed up a little since earlier, but the clouds hung low and dark, casting an eerie shadow on everything. I leaned in my open doorway, watching my fellow shop owners as they busied themselves getting ready for the weekend. Windows were being washed – some even painted with fresh logos and slogans. Sidewalks were being swept, displays were perfected, and signs and banners were hung. I loved this time of the year.
“Izzy.” I turned with a start at the sound of my name. My name in that voice. God, I was so angry with him, and yet his voice still did things to my insides.
“Jay.” I nodded formally, not moving from my spot. I may have looked calm and collected, but I was anything but.
“I came to say that I…” He ran his hand down the side of his face, and I had a flashback of the two of us standing in the kitchen when he was telling me about Cooper’s drug habit. I swallowed back the painful memory.
“You what, Jay? What did you come to say?” I had to force myself to sound cold, but the truth was, if he apologized for the performance the other night, I would forgive him in a New York minute. But he had to say the words. I wasn’t feeding them to him. And I wasn’t going to make this easy.
“I’m heading back home. I think it’s better that way. At least for now.”
“Uh huh,” I nodded, trying not to show any kind of emotion. That was not at all what I expected, but if I had thought of the words I least wanted to hear, it would have been those. “So what you’re saying is that I did the right thing by keeping Sydney a secret from you. Because you are checking out – just like I thought you would. Congratulations, Jay. You’ve lived up to all of my expectations.”
This time, he pulled both of his hands through his hair in frustration. I could see his jaw working. “Okay Izzy. You know what? You win. You were right not to tell me. From now on, you can go about your life, guilt free, knowing that you saved your daughter – our daughter – from the ill fate of having me for a daddy. Are you happy now?”
I straightened from where I was leaning in the doorway and took a tiny step closer. We were still several feet apart, but even at that distance, I felt that pull he had over me. What I didn’t feel were the right words. I had no idea what to say; no biting comment, vicious remark, sarcastic jibe. I had nothing.
We stood face to face, glaring at each other, the only sound in my ears was my erratic breathing. I was vaguely aware of Abe and Grumpy Gloria watching us from the corner where they had just been chatting.
“No,” I finally said, my voice barely a whisper. “No, I’m not happy.”
Jay searched my face, and for just a split second, I thought maybe he would just say ‘to hell with it’, pull me close, and put all this ugliness to bed – literally.
“Well that makes two of us.” He spun on his heel and walked away, leaving me standing there like a complete dumbass, wondering why we both felt it necessary to keep hurting each other like we did.
I pressed my hand against my chest, which felt way too tight all of a sudden, and glanced up to see Abe starting toward me, a look of concern on his face. I forced a smile and gave him a wave, then went back inside to the comfort of my café.
43
Jay still hadn’t booked his flight. He had no idea why he was hesitating. There was nothing left to be done here. He would go home, calm down a little, then call Izzy and ask if it was okay that he write to Sydney once in a while. He had thought he could just walk away, but he was fooling himself. Izzy may have made it clear she wanted no more to do with him, but he would never abandon his daughter, even if he thought it best if he kept a bit of a distance.
Trisha was staying in New Jersey for a couple more weeks. He hadn’t seen much of her since they first got there, and he felt a little bad about it. She was much easier to hang out with than he remembered. When he’d run into her at the O’Donnell’s a few weeks back, he’d been wary at first, especially when she called him the next day asking him to go to New Jersey with her. But he found that he actually enjoyed her company. She wasn’t so full of drama, and she didn’t feel the need to fill every silence with chatter. In fact, she’d been quite introspective the whole trip. He wondered if there was more to this visit than just reconnecting with some old friends. Maybe she had fences she was trying to mend too.
He only hoped her plan was working out better than his.
Tired of watching the world from his second story balcony at The Breakers, Jay decided to take advantage of the mild October day and walk a while on the beach.
It was nearly sixty degrees, with promises of warmer temperatures over the next three days. The town was having some kind of festival, and everyone seemed to be busy preparing for the crowds. In fact, the desk clerk at the hotel had been none too pleased when Jay was unable to give him a definitive check-out date. They needed every room.
Kicking off his shoes beside the pile of flip-flops and sneakers at the entrance to the beach path, Jay came up over the dune and got his first view of the Atlantic up close. He started walking in the direction of Izzy’s house, not for any real reason other than there seemed to be less people on the beach. He was passing an older gentleman, probably in his late fifties, who was smoking a cigar and sitting in a faded beach chair, his fishing pole stuck in the sand beside him.
“You’re Sydney’s father, aren’t you?”
It took Jay a minute to place the familiar face. He didn’t get a chance to answer or even nod. “Fred Delaney. We met at the shelter during that last storm.”
Jay shook Fred’s outstretched hand. The two men stood there sizing each other up for a moment, until Jay started to feel uncomfortable.
“Nice to see you again,” he said, anxious to move on. He made a move to keep walking, but Fred stopped him.
“Why don’t you sit a while? Beautiful day.” Fred motioned to the sand beside him, and Jay, not able to think of a good reason not to, took a seat.
“Beer?” Fred asked, reaching into the cooler beside him. Jay shook his head. “So I figured I could maybe shed a little light on what’s going on with Izzy.”
Jay looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “What do you mean?”
Fred puffed on his cigar, pulled it out of his mouth and inspected it thoughtfully. “The thing about guys like us, Jay, is that we’re keen to observe. And I’ve been observing these Delaney women for almost thirty years. Did Izzy ever tell you about her dad?”
The Duet Page 19
