Allegra (8 page)

“And you have to work from your heart and not your head.” He places his hand on his chest. “Finding the emotional core of the music is what will make it appealing to an audience.”

I can only sigh.

“You dance from your emotional core, Legs. I've watched you. Go to that same place when you're working on this piece.”

Now he's beginning to make some sense. “I'm still hoping you'll help me with this, Dad.”

“I will, honey, as much as I can, but I've just confirmed the dates for our next tour. We're leaving again at the end of the month.”

“You are?”

He nods. “We're touring in Europe.”

I hear myself sigh. That won't be a short one.

He nods and places his mug on a table. “But it may be my last tour for a while.”

That's news. “How come?”

He hesitates before he answers. “Because…” He stumbles, looking for the right words. “Because I'm finally beginning to understand the impact touring's had on my family.” He looks back into his mug.

“What are you talking about? We're fine.”

Now he heaves a sigh.“I need a break from the traveling. I'll concentrate on writing for a while too. And I'll take local gigs.”

“Have you told the rest of the band?”

“Not yet. I haven't told your mom yet either. I'm waiting for the right time.”

Dad's looking so sad that I go sit next to him on the couch. “I don't want you to quit touring because of us,” I tell him gently. “But it will be nice to have you around more.”

He looks at me, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“It's good to hear you say that. I know I've been a lousy father.”

“No, you haven't! And at least your work is something you enjoy. If you were doing something you didn't like just to stay home, well, then you'd be a grouch, and none of us would be happy.” I smile at him.

He studies my face and then picks up my hand and squeezes my fingers. “How did you get to be so wise? You grew up so fast. I don't know when it happened. I guess I thought you'd be my little girl forever.”

“I'll always be your daughter, Dad.”

“I know that, honey.” He lets go of my hand and we sit quietly for a few moments. Then he turns to face me. “Has your mom seemed okay these past few months?”

I think about it and realize that yes, she was happy— until Dad came home. That's when she got all prickly. I don't tell him that. “Yeah, she really loves her work.”

He nods. “One more road trip,” he says quietly. “And that's it.”

S
even

Dad and I spend all of Saturday morning working on my project. Together, we decide to divide the piece into four distinct sections, each with a different mood. Each part will be about two minutes long, so it feels almost like writing four different pieces of music.

“I think I'll call it
Etude in B minor
,” I tell him after a while.

He rolls his eyes. “What a cop-out,” he says.

I just laugh and play the intro again. Dad picks up his flute and plays along. When I stop, he continues, and I like what I hear.

“Hey, can you do that again?” I ask, reaching for a pencil and the music score.

He plays something, but it's not the same.

“No, exactly like you did it the first time.”

He tries again, but still it's not right.

“Dad!”

“I'm trying, I'm trying.”

Eventually he gets it, or something close to it, and I'm satisfied. I play it on the piano after I've recorded it on the page. Dad gives me a few pointers on how to use his computer program, Logic Pro, for music composition. I try to imagine which instrument in the orchestra would have the best “voice” for this part. Possibly the oboe. “Let's work on the second section next,” I suggest. “This leads nicely into it.”

We spend another hour trying different variations, and I begin to understand what he means by approaching it with a spirit of playfulness. One musical thread seems to lead effortlessly to another, and it feels like a kind of musical brainstorming. As I watch Dad picking out the melody on his guitar, I realize I don't want the morning to end.

The door to the upstairs opens again and this time Mom's feet appear on the stairs.

“How's it going?” she asks. She's carrying a tray with three mugs on it.

“Good,” I tell her.

Dad nods. “This girl knows something about music.”

“I should hope so.” Mom hands out the mugs and sits down on the end of the couch, beside her harp. Her hands run along the strings. Dad and I sip our tea and listen to Mom play. For a change, there's no tension in the air. I take a deep breath and sigh, letting the gentle sounds of the harp wash over me.

“I have an idea, Cindy,” Dad says after a few minutes.

She looks up but keeps playing.

“Why don't Legs and I drop you off at the theater tonight, and then we'll carry on and catch a movie?”

Mom's hands drop to her lap and my contented feeling vanishes. It's not that I don't want to spend time with him, but going to a movie with my dad on a Saturday night…well, it just seems a bit pathetic. Playing music in the studio is one thing; going to a movie is quite another.

Mom doesn't like the idea either. “I don't need a ride, Jerry,” she says. “Marcus drives right past here. He's happy to pick me up.”

Marcus. So that's his name.

“I know he does, but I thought it would be nice for Legs and me to do something together. Marcus can drive you home after your concert.”

They both turn to look at me. I shrug. “I was going to use the evening to study,” I say, but I can't meet his eyes. “I usually have Monday night for that, but it's out this week because of the rehearsal.”

There's a long silence. I don't dare look at Dad.

“Then I'll drive you anyway,” he says to Mom. “Maybe we can get some dinner on the way.”

“That won't work,” she tells him. “I'll be dressed for my performance, and there's really no point in your driving all the way to the theater.”

“Maybe I'd just like a date with my wife,” he says quietly. “And you could change into your dress at the theater.”

Mom collects the empty mugs and goes back up the stairs without saying a word.

Dad stares at the door she's just gone through, then suddenly climbs the stairs after her. I hear the front door slam.

I'm left with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

There is no family dinner on Saturday night. Dad hasn't come home, and Mom helps herself to a bowl of corn chowder that she made earlier. Later on, she tells me to have a nice evening and then climbs into Marcus's sports car. I watch as they back out of the driveway and speed away.

We don't have a Sunday-night dinner together either. I spent the morning back in the music studio, working on my project, but Dad didn't join me. I don't blame him. I'm not even sure he came home last night.

I help Mom prepare a couple of pots of chili for Monday night's Loose Ends rehearsal. It was my idea to make two, one veggie and one meat. I stand at the counter, chopping onions and green peppers while Mom fries meat at the stove behind me. I want to talk to her, ask her what's going on, but I don't. It just feels like too big a topic to broach. She's unusually quiet too. When we're done, we sit at the table, sampling our creations.

“How are you feeling about tomorrow night?” Mom asks gently.

I shrug. “Okay, I guess.” I know exactly why she's asking. Having friends over is not something I usually do. It's strange. I can dance in front of a theater filled to the rafters with strangers, or play at a piano recital, but… well, I just don't “do” friends. Except for Angela, and our friendship never leaves the dance studio. “They're here for the rehearsal, not to hang out with me.”

She nods. “It'll be fine.”

Thankfully, the subject is dropped. I've been trying not to think about it too much.

Mom leaves for work while I finish cleaning up. I notice that she drives herself. I still haven't seen Dad. I hope he shows up for Monday night's dinner. I'm not sure what I'll tell Spencer and the girls if they arrive and Dad's not here.

But he does show. When I get home from school on Monday afternoon, I can hear him in the studio, practicing. I don't recognize the song; it must be new. Mom has tidied up the kitchen and put a stack of bowls and spoons on the counter.

Steve arrives first. I let him in, but I can't look him in the eyes. The last time I saw him was the night he caught me dancing alone in the kitchen. “So?” he says, hanging his jacket in the closet. “How's the dancing?”

“Good,” I tell him and leave it at that. He follows me into the kitchen and greets my mom, joining her at the counter where she's chopping up vegetables. They begin catching up on news. Dad's soulful saxophone music wafts up the stairs. Steve looks at Mom, eyebrows raised. She just shrugs, but I sense she's retreating into herself again.

I keep a watch on the street, waiting for Spencer and the girls. Eventually an old Volvo pulls up to the curb, and they all pile out. They wave at the driver when the car pulls away. I can see that they're laughing about something. Sophie applies lip gloss as they walk up the steps. I take a few deep breaths, open the door and invite them in. I introduce them first to my mom, then to Steve. Dad comes into the kitchen and I see Spencer's eyes light up. I make the introductions.

“I'm a huge Loose Ends fan,” he tells my dad. “I saw you perform when you opened for the Tragically Hip.”

“Cool,” Dad says modestly. He always acts like he doesn't get what the fuss is all about. He cracks open a can of soda and takes a long swig. He glances around the room, spots Mom, then quickly turns back to Spencer.

“I think my favorite album is
Room to Move
,” Spencer continues. “You really explored some new stuff on that one.”

“Interesting that you say that,” Dad answers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think it's my favorite too. It was the first time the guys let me experiment a little.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods and elbows Steve, who has moved over to join the conversation. “Before that, they thought I was just a bass player. I finally got up the nerve to show them I could play a few other instruments—and write too,” he adds.

“Cool,” Spencer says.

“And that's how it got its title, that album; they finally gave me room to move.”

I can see that Spencer is trying to act nonchalant, as if talking to one of his favorite musicians and getting the scoop behind the album is something he does every day, but his posture is a dead giveaway. His arms are crossed tightly across his chest, and he's rocking back and forth.

I exchange a look with Talia, and we smile. I feel myself relax. Sophie and Molly begin chatting about something else, their voices high-pitched. Eventually the other band members begin to arrive. I introduce everyone. The men act as shy as my friends do. Without their music and instruments to hide behind, they're just regular guys. I think people forget that.

Mom starts handing out bowls, and everyone eventually helps themselves to the food. The girls and three of the band members sit around the table and talk while they eat. I lean against the counter and eat chili with my dad, Spencer, Steve and Randal, the drummer. Mom stands slightly apart from us and simply listens.

“Spencer has an autograph collection, all musicians,” I tell Dad.

“Really,” Dad says, tilting his head.

Spencer nods. “I'm up to two hundred now.”

“That's great,” Steve says. “Would you like to make it two-oh-five? I can give you signed head shots of each of these guys.”

“Maybe we're not famous enough for his collection,” Dad teases.

“Are you kidding? That would be awesome! Thanks,” Spencer says.