Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (35 page)

A bell sounded as he entered, and an old woman shouted out from the back of the shop, “Be with you in a minute.”

The scratchy, muted horns of Tommy Dorsey’s “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” danced their way about the shop. By the time he navigated the circuitous path around the knickknack laden tables and overstuffed clothes racks, the boxes of musty books and record albums, and on to the counter, he was humming the tune.

The little white-haired woman he remembered from before came scampering toward him, her hands held up, her eyes bright as though Andrew was the first customer of the day. “Excuse the mess, I’m doing some spring cleaning and everything is all over the place. Oh—oh I remember you! The handsome borscht fellow!”

“Pardon?”

“You’re Emily’s friend, the homeless musician. So nice to meet you. My name is Myra, Myra Freidlander. We’ve never been formally introduced, but I’ve heard all about you. You’re Andrew Hayes.” She shook his hand daintily, a smile illuminating her inquisitive face.

“Pleased to meet you as well, and yes, I’m Andrew Hayes. But I’m not homeless.”

“I know, she told me.”

“Really? What else did she tell you?”

“You know how Emily is. I just have to infer the good bits myself, but I’m usually not far off. So, Mr. Andrew ‘I’m no longer homeless’ Hayes, with the caramel skin and the ought to be illegal blue eyes, what brings you to my store?”

Andrew felt himself blush, the way he did on stage whenever anyone called out something the least bit provocative. “There’s a coat in the front window. The black one. I was wondering if I may—”

“That would look breathtaking on you. Let me get it.”

Myra rushed off. Andrew was amused, watching her tiny body wind between the plastic mannequins on display in the front window. Myra, however, proved more nimble than Andrew would have ever expected, and with a cry she emerged through the bodies triumphant, the black frock coat held high.

“Here you go—can’t wait to see what it looks like on those amazing shoulders of yours.”

Disarmed, he took it from her and offered her a hand down from the window along with a heartfelt smile. In return, she blushed a shocking shade of red and batted her eyelashes.

A three-way mirror sat in the back of the shop. He slid on the coat and checked his reflection, shoving his hands in his pockets as he was wont to do. It fit like a glove and looked surprisingly decent, especially for being so old.

“You need a coat like this. The weather’s been awful, and Emily would love it.”

“I’ll take it, then.”

Myra rang him up at the counter, Tommy Dorsey’s horns having given way to Benny Goodman’s clarinet. “I like your choice of music,” Andrew offered.

“Of course you do, who wouldn’t? That was when they knew how to play. You could understand every word they sang.”

He smiled and wondered what Myra would make of The Lost Boys. Probably the same thing his father had. He could only imagine what that proper man would think of his life now. Piano playing ghosts in the attic issuing warnings. Fame around the corner. A woman who made everything else pale in comparison.

The emptiness of missing the man he had never said goodbye to sat in his heart like a weight. Despite their estrangement, could he only look back to appreciate their good times together and forget everything else? Was nostalgia that strong?

He drummed his fingers on the counter and glanced down at the vast selection of jewelry on display. Old vintage brooches, bracelets, and necklaces lay on trays of velvet. His eyes inventoried the collection while he waited.

“Is Emily partial to anything here?”

Myra’s eyes met his, and they sparkled in a kind of elfish delight. “Oh, she loves them all.”

The earrings in the front appeared to be the clip-on kind, decorated with glaring chunks of costume glass which seemed more appropriate for someone’s grandmother. Next to them were hefty looking cameos of Greek goddesses in profile, and to the right of those were strings of odd-shaped pearls with rhinestone clasps. He seriously doubted Emily would care for any of these pieces, and if she did, their very weight would surely topple her to the ground. Almost giving up, his eyes strayed to the back corner of the case and he stopped dead. There, set aside in its own velvet box, was a ring: platinum, inlaid with diamonds, and encircled with a vine pattern. He knew that design. They were the exact same vines that decorated Nora’s urn. And the exact same pattern that decorated the keepsake box.

Finding his voice, he calmly asked the woman, “That…that ring. Where…where did you get it?”

“This one?” Myra laughed to herself as her fingers flitted in anticipation, and she retrieved the box and brought it up to the counter like she was displaying her first born.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? Pure platinum, and the color and clarity of those diamonds laced in there are almost overkill, if you ask me. The workmanship alone—”

“How much?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, this is reserved for a friend. I couldn’t possibly—”

“I’ll give you twice the asking price.”

“If I’m not being too bold here, what do you intend to do with it?”

“Emily. Emily would love this ring.” He didn’t know if Emily had shared the details of their recent finds with Myra, and he had no intention of doing so now. But he had to have this ring. He had to have it for Emily.

“Well, you know, times being what they are, I suppose I could—”

“Three times.”

Her jaw snapped shut. “Would you like me to gift wrap it for you?”

“No need. I’ll take it with me,” he insisted.

When she was done ringing him up, he slipped on the coat and placed the small velvet box in the pocket. His fingers remained there as he exited the shop, brushing Emily’s ring like it was a talisman.

The restaurant Neil had chosen for their meeting was located on Valencia Street, a bit hipper but no less edgier a neighborhood than the Haight and lined with the urban staples of unpronounceable restaurants and avant-garde art galleries. Their restaurant appeared to be an amalgamation of both.

“Where were you?” Simon yelled as Andrew rushed out of a taxi. Dressed for once in a button-down and jeans, his army jacket nowhere to be found, he was pacing outside the restaurant door. He had combed his hair and his glasses were pushed firmly up the bridge of his nose, casting him more in the light of a Stanford MBA than that of a drummer in a rock band on the verge of greatness. Christian, a picture of relaxation in a leather jacket and cords, was leaning against the faux brick façade, texting. He raised a hand in greeting but didn’t look up from his phone.

“I got waylaid. Not to worry, we’re on time.”

“Barely.” Simon shoved open the stained glass doors. “After you, Paulie,” he said grandly but not without an undertone of reproach.

The host led them to a large table near the window; the sun reflected off the severe place settings and starched white tablecloth. A painting reminiscent of Chagall hung directly above and featured a woman whipping a herd of cows.

“Andrew.” Neil stood and held out his hand in greeting, a rare smile on his face as they approached the table. “How’s the house? How’s the writing?” he asked as he shook Simon’s and Christian’s hands in turn. “You received some excellent write-ups from your shows in L.A. Did you happen to catch them?”

Andrew waited for his standard dislike for the retired manager to rear its ugly head, but it didn’t. It was good to talk to him, to hear the business-like clip of his voice and feel the contained excitement that seemed to always be brewing under his surface. By the time he sat down, he felt relaxed in spite of himself.

“Yeah, we did, thanks. The house is a nightmare, nothing new there. But we managed to nail down some rehearsal space at the university, and I’m writing—on and off.” He wondered what the hell Neil would think if he knew what had transpired in his life during the last week.

“What? Your neighbors don’t approve of your playing?”

“Define playing,” quipped Simon under his breath with a raised eyebrow in Christian and Andrew’s direction.

“Well, thank you for coming today on such short notice. This all came about rather quickly. Evidently one of her people saw you in L.A. and things really started moving,” said Neil, taking his seat. “It’s a wait-then-hurry up world sometimes, isn’t it? I want you to know before we begin that you are under no obligation—” He opened his mouth as though he wanted to say more, but his eyes locked on a figure who was making her way to table. “Ah, there she is. Gentlemen, may I introduce you to a colleague of mine, S.J. Gordian of Voodoo Pink Records. She’s represents—”

“The Stands, Violet Afternoon, and the Havershams,” Andrew said, amazed. “Three of my favorite bands.”

“Very good. And here I thought you were just the tortured artist type from all the buzz I’ve heard about you. You must be Andrew Hayes.”

A willowy blonde wearing a stylish suit of light green and needle-sharp black pumps, her hair constrained in a tight chignon, held out her hand.

Andrew shook it, and her full lips creased into a smile, her lipstick the palest of pinks. She was of an indeterminate age, both nature and success evidently playing in her favor. Like most agents, she was anchored between the wildness of twenty and the gamesmanship of forty.

“Pleased to meet you,” he replied briskly.

She shook the hands of Simon and Christian, causing them to stammer their greetings before they all took their seats. She perched on the edge of her chair and loosened her gossamer scarf, the color of a crisp dollar bill, as she ordered a drink from the waiter.

“So, Andrew, how long do you intend to hide away here in San Francisco?”

The remark caught him off guard. Emily had asked him almost the same thing, but where hers was full of hope, S.J.’s question was a challenge.

Why are you wasting your time here? Where is your drive? Your ambition? Don’t you want to amount to anything?

He was about to respond when Neil cut him off, his voice a little more forceful than Andrew ever remembered. “These gentlemen have been touring nonstop for quite a long period. Nonstop—you remember what that’s like, don’t you, S.J.? I believe they need some time to recharge, to recall why they do what they do. It keeps them sane. Don’t you agree?”

S.J. cast him a sideways glance. “Not all of us can afford to sit back and enjoy the fruits of our labors, Neil. And all play and no work makes for a very unmarketable Lost Boy.”

Andrew sat back, interested to watch these two powerhouses duke it out. But the conversation from that point on remained coolly cordial, with Neil dominating most of it, so much so that Andrew soon became aggravated. After all, she wasn’t here to be lectured to as Neil had the annoying habit of doing. In fact, it wasn’t until the salad, when Neil was asking her about signing an obscure new group from the slums of Dubai, that she had her first opportunity to speak. She praised their talent, their ability to succeed in the face of certain failure.

“Oh, but I forgot, they would interest you, wouldn’t they? You’ve always been my inspiration, Neil.” She raised her glass and toasted him. “Gentleman, your landlord is a legend in the business—quite a story.”

Neil leveled her with a look that prompted Andrew to ask, “What story?” But Neil was not forthcoming with any details, which only intrigued Andrew more. “Seriously, I’d like to hear it.”

Neil averted his eyes as if to say,
do what you want
. The tension between him and S.J. was quickly becoming palpable.

“They covered Neil in this incredible documentary, if I remember correctly.” She leaned over to Neil, placed her hand on his, and murmured, “Please correct me if I get any of this wrong. I don’t want to exaggerate any of the details,” before she turned her attention to Simon, Christian, and Andrew with a conspiratorial smile and a wink.

“It was incredibly well done, almost Dickensian. I remember how the announcer went on and on. Bought up an orphan in London, lived on the streets, forced from foster home to foster home. Finally taken in by the St. Johns, a poor but good-hearted family in Oxford. God, you really should have had your own theme music. Isn’t that right, Neil?” She smiled serenely at him in the torturing style of an old acquaintance before she leaned over and whispered. “You see, gentlemen, the St. Johns never realized what a genius they had on their hands until young Neil went off to school. Brilliant, sucked it all up. He managed to get full scholarships through university. Then he shocked his family and decided he wanted to go into the music business, quite an unorthodox choice when he could have been a doctor or a lawyer, or even the Prime Minister if he’d wanted. Didn’t even finish school, left England in a flare of a rebellion. Left his family, left everyone. He never returned until years and years later.”