Authors: Julie Blair
She let the CD finish, devouring the memories of the last night of their East Coast tour. A hot Sunday in July. The stunning boutique hotel on Park Avenue they’d stayed in that featured one of the top jazz clubs in New York. The accommodating staff that made them feel pampered.
Four of the most amazing nights she’d ever experienced as a musician—playing out of their minds, high on adrenaline and hopes for their future.
One of the best weeks of her life—sleeping late, making love, exploring the city new to her. They’d gone to three shows at the Village Vanguard jazz club, promising each other they’d perform there someday. She’d always have those memories. Private memories she wouldn’t have to share with the world on an album.
The pill she’d taken at home was kicking in, and the pain that throbbed in time with her pulse was manageable. No one used the front door, so she walked to the backyard along the walkway that ran between the house and detached garage that had been soundproofed and converted into a music room before she was born. She tugged on the sleeve of the loose-fitting out-of-style blazer she’d pulled from the back of her closet. By the time she reached the back door that opened into the kitchen, she’d kicked herself into a good mood. Her dad’s birthday deserved her best showing. The smell of tomatoes and garlic greeted her when she stepped into the kitchen.
Her brother, Kevin, looked up from opening a bottle of wine and tapped his watch. Four years older, he’d added pounds to his linebacker build and more gray to the thick chestnut hair they’d all been blessed with, but he was still handsome. “Please tell me you remembered the painting.”
“In the car.” She held up her keys. “You’ll have to get it.”
His eyes widened when he saw the cast. “What did you do?”
“Tripped at Grandma’s.” She wasn’t going to tell them she’d gotten drunk and face-planted in the street. She tossed the keys to Kevin, who took a long swallow of wine and went out the way she’d come in.
Rebecca looked up from stirring a pan of meat sauce at the six-burner stove. She wore an apron over jeans and a sweater in shades that complemented her red hair. “Oh, sweetie, does it hurt?” She was the longtime chef at her dad’s restaurant and practically part of the family.
Liz nodded and softened into Rebecca’s hug. She gave the best hugs. “Where’s Dad?”
“In the music room with the boys.”
Liz needed to tell her dad she’d decided not to keep the band together before Regan and Sammy arrived. He knew what it was like to lose one’s wife. He’d be disappointed, but he’d understand.
Oscar, a huge orange tabby cat, scooted into the music room when she opened the door. The once-scrawny stray, adopted by her dad years ago, considered the space his personal apartment. He jumped onto his usual spot on the back of the couch as if he were the audience.
Her dad was sitting on his stool, front and center between the baby-grand piano in one corner and Teri’s drum kit across from it. Foot hooked on the rung, he was strumming his Gibson Super 400 guitar. He broke into a huge grin when he saw her. Robbie, Kevin’s oldest son, was sitting on a shorter stool, mimicking her dad’s posture. He was playing his new Gibson guitar and not doing a bad job of it. His younger brother, Kevin, Jr., was standing behind the drums, slapping the snares. Teri had always set him on her lap and let him play with her. Liz kept her arm behind her back until they finished.
“Sunshine,” her dad said. “Join us.”
She held out her arm and slid the blazer sleeve up to reveal more of the cast.
His smile disappeared and his eyebrows pulled together as he stared at the cast. “What happened?” He set the guitar in the rack along the wall with the other dozen guitars in his collection.
“Tripped. Colles’ fracture.”
“Collies,” her nephews said in unison as they rushed toward her. “Like the dog?” the older one asked.
“Not quite,” she said as they stroked the cast as if petting it.
“Can I draw on it?” her younger nephew asked.
“Go find your dad, boys.” He walked them to the door.
She sat on the old plaid couch with the squishy springs, cradling the cast in her lap. She flexed her fingers. In some scary way she felt compelled to make sure they kept working. The knuckles were more swollen than this morning, but the doctor said she’d have a lot of swelling at first.
“This isn’t good.” He sat next to her, staring at the cast. “We need to get you to a specialist right away. I’ll make some calls first thing in the morning. This is your career.” He walked back to his stool, hands in his pockets.
“I know.”
He looked like he was thinking and then said, “Seven months until the first date on your fall tour.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “It would be best to let Regan and Sammy move on. Next year, after everything calms down, I can form a new group.”
His jaw tightened and he ran a hand through his thinning hair, gray at the temples. “You don’t have that kind of time. This band. This year. It’s your last shot to make it big.”
She wanted to argue. She didn’t. He was right. The music industry was fickle and she’d already had two opportunities. It should be simple—hire a new drummer and keep going. Nothing was simple without Teri. “It’s not fair to keep them hanging.”
“I love them like they were my own kids, but they owe you. They’ll wait.”
Again she wanted to argue, but again he was right. She and Teri had discovered the twins in a coffeehouse, playing the heck out of an old blues standard. Their raw talent was breathtaking. Impressed by what they’d heard, they offered the twins the opportunity to become part of their new quartet. It seemed symbolic—their own lives were starting from scratch after Teri’s battle with leukemia. Why not do the same with a band? It had worked and they’d been so close to achieving their dream. Again. “Maybe I shouldn’t start another band. Cassie has always said I could join—”
“Absolutely not.” He crossed his arms. “You’re going to make it big with your own band. That’s what we’ve worked for.”
“I can’t do it alone.”
He sat next to her again and put his arm across her shoulder. His Old Spice was familiar and comforting, as was the soft knit of the long-sleeved Polo shirts he often wore. “You’re not alone. I won’t let you lose your dream.”
“It hurts too much without her.”
“It gets easier. You’ll be glad you stuck with it. We’ll focus on the album. Without shows, it’s imperative we give your fans something to keep their interest.”
“I’m still picking the songs.”
“Closing night was your best show. We can use it for the album.”
“I want to pick the best versions out of all the sets.” The album had to be perfect.
“We need momentum, sunshine.”
His favorite word. How did you get momentum from a dead stop?
“It’s been long enough. You can’t let adversity get you down.”
“I’ll get them picked this week. I promise.” Eighty-one songs to choose from. The enormity of it made her dizzy.
“That album has to carry us until your fall tour.”
“I know, Dad.”
“We’ll get through this.” He squeezed her shoulder and headed toward the door. “I’m going to pop over and check on the restaurant. We’ll talk about this later.” The restaurant he’d owned for over thirty years was across the street and the jazz club next door to it.
Liz looked around the room where she’d spent so much of her life. Dark paneling. Fluorescent lights overhead. Brown carpeting worn unevenly from where people stood or sat as they played. Shelves stacked with sheet music. Stools of varying heights and some folding chairs. Coat rack by the door. Not fancy, but oh…the music that had been created here. Surrounded by all the instruments, all the history, all the dreams born here, she felt very lost. She stroked Oscar for the three seconds he’d allow, the tip of his tail twitching.
Getting up, she went to Teri’s drum kit and sat on the wooden stool. She toed her feet to the rung. “I broke my wrist.” She tapped her fingers on the floor tom, then across the hanging toms to the snare drum. How could she face someone else sitting here? Not Teri’s expressive brown eyes that anchored her. Not Teri’s dimpled grin that never faded when she was behind her beloved drums. “I can’t do it, sweetie. I can’t keep my promise. I’m sorry.” She fled the room that didn’t feel safe anymore. She’d have to convince her dad that letting Regan and Sammy move on was best. When she had her emotions under control, she returned to the kitchen, as much the hub of family gatherings as the music room.
“Taste this.” Her sister, Hannah, came toward her from the far end of the large kitchen, holding a spoon of chocolate frosting. “You broke your arm?”
“Wrist.”
“Oh, Lizzie, that’s terrible. Is it going to be all right?”
“I hope so.” She licked the frosting off and glanced from the spoon to the conspiratorial grin on Hannah’s face. “Looks like chocolate but tastes like—”
“Chocolate-raspberry ganache. Ta dah.” Hannah bowed, her perfectly highlighted wavy chestnut hair flowing over her shoulders.
“Don’t let Kevin find out,” Rebecca said, putting two pans of lasagna in the oven.
“Find out what?” Kevin walked in from the direction of the living room. By the sound of it, his boys were playing video games.
“Nothing,” Hannah said.
Kevin dipped a spoon in the bowl of frosting. “What the—” He worked his mouth as if it were full of peanut butter. Banging the spoon down on the counter he said, “Dad likes chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.”
“And he’ll get chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Just dressed up a little.” Hannah’s hands were on her hips, and frosting dripped from the spoon she held.
“Can’t you stick to anything?”
“It’s cake, Kevin. Lighten up and live dangerously.”
“Look what living dangerously got you.”
“It. Wasn’t. My. Fault.”
“Your boss finds you in bed with his wife, and it wasn’t your fault?”
“You’re jealous because I have more fun than you.”
“And welcome to it.”
Hannah’s face tightened. She tossed the spoon into the bowl and stalked out of the kitchen.
“She’s trying to contribute,” Liz said.
“She’s ignoring tradition. Like always.” Kevin rubbed the back of his neck and took a healthy gulp of wine.
“Where’s Karen?” She hadn’t seen her sister-in-law.
“Home. Sick.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he said, his mouth a hard line. It was a shame they’d missed their weekend getaway.
Benny Goodman blared from speakers in the living room, and seconds later Hannah bounced into the kitchen. “Dance with me, Kev.” She grabbed his waist and whisked him through the kitchen and into the dining room, around the table, her yellow dress twirling out around her as she sashayed to the swing beat. Music had always been her family’s salve and bond, and not even Kevin could stay mad in the midst of all that jazz.
A timer went off, and Hannah dashed into the kitchen. Opening the convection-oven door, she stuck a toothpick into the cake. “Perfect,” she said, reaching for a hot mitt.
“Dare I ask what you did to the cake?”
“Nothing Dad won’t like.”
An hour later Rebecca carried pans of lasagna to the table, Hannah close behind with the salad and garlic bread. It was her dad’s favorite meal. The back screen door banged and Sammy walked in from the kitchen, his wavy black hair hanging over the turned-up collar of his trench coat. He looked rough but played tenor sax like an angel, and his puppy-dog eyes were a hit with the band’s younger female fans. “Happy Birthday, Pops.” He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the back of his chair.
Regan, his twin sister, appeared in the archway between the kitchen and the dining room, dressed head to toe in black, the only color she wore. “Hey.” One hand was in its usual position half in her jeans pocket, and the other held a present. Her dark good looks and broody manner made her a heartthrob, especially with the fans savvy enough to know her preference for women. She was grinning. In the four years she’d known Regan, Liz had rarely seen more than a half smile.
“Saved you the best seat,” her dad said, pulling out the chair to his left.
Regan set the present on the sideboard with the others. She stood next to Liz and held out a folded piece of letter-sized paper. “Read it.”
Keeping her left forearm under the edge of the tablecloth, Liz took it with her right hand and snapped it open. An email printout. She frowned, read the “from” line, and peered up at Regan, who was rocking back and forth, still grinning. Liz read the first sentence. Her heart stopped and then started up, pounding like that of a horse about to jump a fence. By the time she finished the three paragraphs, her hand was shaking. The table was quiet, everyone staring at her.
“What is it?” Her dad asked.
She handed him the paper and stared at her plate, unable to speak, as confusion and anger collided in her stomach. Regan shouldn’t have done this without asking her.
Her dad’s smile grew as he read. “Congratulations!” He stood and waved the paper. “Up Beat is invited to perform at the Monterey Jazz Festival!” There were confused looks and then clapping as everyone asked, “how” and “why didn’t you tell us?”
“I sent it,” Regan said. “Teri put it together.”
Liz shot her eyes to Regan as the shock tumbled through her. Teri had done this? How? When? Why hadn’t she said anything? Why hadn’t they discussed it?
Promise you’ll keep playing.
No, no, no. This couldn’t be.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” her dad said. He squeezed Liz’s shoulder and held up his glass. “Here’s to the future of Up Beat!”
“What about your wrist?” Hannah asked. The table went silent.
“Nice timing,” Kevin said, sarcastically.
Regan tilted her head, her fork halfway to her mouth.
“Collies,” Liz’s youngest nephew said. “I drawed on it.”
She pulled her arm from under the table, and the excitement on Regan’s face shut off so fast it was as if someone had flipped a switch.
“Damn,” Sammy said. He set his fork down and chewed his bottom lip. “Damn.”
“Excuse me.” Liz bolted out the back door. Monterey Jazz Festival? They’d appeared there with their first quartet and had planned to submit for this year, but…Teri had managed that in the weeks—She walked faster around the house to the street, hugging the cast to her stomach, feeling sick. This was too much for her to handle on her own.