Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (40 page)

Once stationary, euphoria and vulnerability battled for equal footing inside Emily. She wanted nothing more than to be alone with Andrew, and even the press of his lips to her temple as they passed through a set of thick velvet drapes to the club beyond did little to shake off her ever growing feeling of helplessness.

The room was dusky, as if the smoke that had once permeated every square inch had never truly blown away, and it was packed with people crowded around café tables, their faces illuminated by a collection of mismatched votive candles crammed into shot glasses. The only other light was provided by a nicotine-stained crystal chandelier.

She watched as the men shelled out a king’s ransom to a host, who led them to two tables pushed together in front of the small stage where a drum set and two guitars sat idle.

“Excellent,” said Andrew. “They must be between sets.”

In desperate need of a moment, Emily excused herself and headed for the restrooms, her roommates, unfortunately though not unexpectedly, in tow. Sensing her mood, they did not cross-examine her too harshly, and she made it a point to keep her ring out of sight, not wanting to explain the significance of it right now. They would have too many questions she couldn’t answer.

But unable to keep from venturing into that forbidden territory for long, Margot cleared her throat after having finished reapplying her lipstick to her satisfaction. “Back there in the alley, that’s quite unlike you. Highly unlike you.”

“Maybe,” Emily answered quietly.

“You’re being careful, right?”

“It wasn’t exactly like that.”

“So you’re saying that screaming was because he was…because you were…sweet Jesus…But all joking aside, you should be careful regardless, they’re heading out soon. You know that, don’t you?”

Zoey’s smile vanished. “When did you hear that?”

“When do you think? While standing in line for garlic fries and a beer. Things are heating up for them, with
Rolling Stone
and all. Simon thought they’d be back on the road in a few weeks, if not sooner.”

“Weeks.” Zoey repeated the word, watching as the water washed down the drain.

“Weeks,” Emily repeated. She knew Andrew had to go on tour soon, he had said as much at dinner, but hearing “soon” quantified was another matter entirely. She twisted the ring on her hand, now hidden deep in the pocket of her coat. She realized that her fear of losing him for good had been replaced with the truth she couldn’t avoid, the truth she kept coming back to again and again: how would she fit in with his life as a musician when they were always separated by time and distance? She had been in a few relationships before, but nothing like this. Nothing could compare. Yet for all they had in their favor, they had so many things going against them. They knew so little of each other. How were they supposed to build a lifetime together when they were destined to spend it apart?

Yet as she made her way back to the table, she promised herself she wouldn’t dwell on the unknowns right now; tonight was a night to celebrate. They were together, and he had traveled halfway around the world to find her, a world he was about to take by storm.

Her determination, however, made the color bright on her cheeks, which Andrew mistook for embarrassment. His eyebrows rose in question as he stood and pulled out the chair next to him, taking her coat from her shoulders. With one arm draped around her, he pulled her close to his side, his fingers lingering on the beads of her dress.

“You’re blushing.”

“I did not break under interrogation, you’ll be happy to know,” she murmured back to him.

“Then they don’t know how to interrogate you properly.”

He leaned forward menacingly, and she drew away from his clutches in feigned alarm. But a moment later, his eyes darted toward the door to see Neil St. John entering the club. On instinct Emily raised her hand, causing everyone else at the table to look in the direction in which she was waving. Neil nodded in response, although a bit bluntly, even given his normally aloof demeanor. It was then that Emily noticed the woman by his side.

It was as if
Vogue
and
The Wall Street Journal
had mated and out of their pages had sprung this creature. That was the only explanation Emily could think of as she stared at her. She dressed as though she were French, in a burgundy trench coat and matching open-laced heels, and seemed able to accessorize to the smallest detail, down to tying the perfect knot and choosing stunning yet understated jewelry. Emily felt sure that she would even smell expensive. The woman’s hair was the only thing that appeared ruffled, falling loose around her face in long, creamy curls. Creamy, blond curls.

Ahhh…
Emily finally understood Andrew’s earlier reluctance at dinner while describing the agent, whom she automatically assumed had to be this woman. Why did men have the uncanny knack to forget essentials when it came to other women?

To her left stood a handsome man with thick black hair, his glasses and leather jacket also black and stylish. He seemed bored with the surroundings and attentive only to her. They were escorted to a table on the opposite side of the room, the last empty one in the house.

Emily was about to ask Andrew about the woman when she realized she had lost his attention entirely. An elderly black man had shuffled up onto the stage, the room quieting down in respect as he did so. The man’s gnarled hands tuned the guitar he took off the stand. Age spots and dark moles spread out across his cheeks so that his leathery skin appeared mottled; his ears and nose had grown large with time, filled with an outcropping of gray hairs. His teeth, what were left of them, held his smile. Despite the ravages of time, his face looked beautiful to her; it was so very alive.

Andrew sat enthralled by the sight of him, his mind miles away, and Christian and Simon seemed just as smitten. After the old man finished up his first number to warm applause, he cleared the gravel from his throat as if getting ready to tell a story. The microphone squawked a bit when he adjusted it, making him cringe in surprise before he settled back on his stool with a smile.

“Now don’t you think I don’t see you out there in the shadows, boy, ’cause I do. These eyes may be gettin’ on, but the mind’s just as sharp. You hop on up here if you know what’s good for you, ’cause I ain’t getting no younger. Yeah, you boy, get your boney English ass on up here rhat now.”

Andrew obeyed without question, and ducking his head with reserve, he walked to the stage. A murmur passed through the crowd, and Emily swore she could hear Andrew’s name being repeated on many lips, along with the familiar sound of a bevy of women’s sighs, of course. Andrew held his hand out in greeting, but the old man looked at him with a kind of “pshsaw” gesture and grabbed Andrew into a massive bear hug before slapping him on the back.

Emily leaned back in her chair, dumbfounded. In response, Christian slid his chair next to her and smiled. “His name is Clarence Memphis Green. He is one of best, if not the greatest, bluesmen alive. Extremely underrated, though. He also adores Andrew.”

Her eyebrows rose as she met Christian’s serene face. Christian was a musician, and like all musicians belonged to a club that folk like Emily could only admire from afar. “Andrew rode on a freight car with Memphis for weeks. Nothing but his guitar and the clothes on his back. Wrote some of the most incredible music afterward.”

“But I thought you were touring all the time. When did he do that?”

Christian’s face stilled, and his eyes flickered at her and then to Andrew. “A while back. We were down South, near my home. Andrew had—well, he was really burned out, that’s all—we call it his Jack Kerouac phase. He just rode the rails and slept on hay and learned from the master. He said Memphis didn’t know what to make of him in the beginning, swore he was Mexican, but couldn’t understand what a skinny Mexican kid was doing with an English accent. But you know Andrew, he could sell coal to the devil, and it didn’t take long before Memphis took him under his wing. He’s like a son to him, I guess. Being a bluesman, you’re never in one place long enough to have one of your own.”

Christian’s words stayed between them.
You’re never in one place long enough
. She ignored them and instead asked him pointedly, “Why would he go off all alone?” But at that moment Memphis had started to hum.

He had handed Andrew an old guitar, which Andrew took reverently before he sat down on a nearby wooden stool and began to play. Soon the humming joined the moving chords, and Andrew closed his eyes.

The regular din of conversation had ebbed away; the audience had become transfixed by the sound of wood and strings. Emily watched the crowd take Andrew in, and from across the room she saw Neil stare at him as well, with what could only be described as pride. The sight made her throat unexpectedly tight. She had heard enough about Neil’s history to learn that while he had always appeared cordial to her, he was not a happy man, and definitely not a satisfied one. Now, it looked as if he had found a missing piece.

Memphis began to sing, pulling her attention back to the stage. With subdued respect, Andrew accompanied the bluesman. The song twanged sadly and ended with an old spiritual refrain, one everyone knew and could sing, and a few did so.

After the applause, Memphis took the microphone. “Well now, that ain’t too bad, don’t y’all think? Why don’t you do something? Some of what I learned you.” Hoots of agreement came from all around, making the old man smile and shake his head.

Andrew raised his eyebrows in surprise. He must have known the old man wouldn’t take no for an answer, and the continued shouts from the crowd only added to the inducement. With that, Memphis positioned the microphone in front of Andrew’s seat. The bright light focused on the stage made Andrew squint out into the audience.

“Thank you, sir,” he said with deep affection. “What should I play?” He strummed while he addressed the old man, as he did whenever he held a guitar, playing, always playing.

“Do that little one she liked so much. The one you used to do for her when your heart was all busted up, when she went away.”

Andrew’s strumming caught; he was studying the strings now, something she had never seen him do. He appeared to be stalling for time while his fingers began to plink away at the notes, and he tried to find his bearings. When at last he raised his eyes, they were a sea of blue glass. He spoke quietly into the microphone. “This is for her. For my muse. Because I found her, and because she said yes.”

The song was simple, more poem than anything else, and his voice was rife with heartbreak. Emily could hear Zoey sniffle next to her, and Christian chuckled softly and pulled her closer in response. Simon said nothing to Margot, though he had not moved his hand from where it lay next to hers on the table.

Andrew’s strumming grew stronger and fiercer. Feelings overflowed in her. Jealously. Anger. Confusion. Love.

What did the old man mean “when she went away?” When his muse went away? But she was his muse. She remembered Andrew’s words, that the thought of her had been with him his whole life. But she had always believed him to mean something romantic, not painful, not controlling. Not real.

Finally, the music quieted to only the vibrations of the strings and the whisper of his voice. When he finished, Andrew placed his hands on the strings and closed his eyes as he did whenever he played anything close to his heart. The applause was shattering. Memphis sat back as if to say “look at your bad self,” and gave him one last smack on the back before Andrew politely waved to the crowd and hustled his way back to the table.

Once there, he took a long drink of water and sat back in his chair, clearly self-conscious. Memphis began another song as Andrew glanced at Emily, his glass still at his lips.

“That was—”

“For you,” he said quietly, and swallowed a huge gulp.

“You traveled with him, in a train?” cried Zoey in disbelief; evidently Christian had told her the story as well.

“With chickens.”

“No. You’re shitting me.”

“Right hand to God.” Andrew waved the waitress down for another drink. “I get wicked thirsty when I sing, sorry.” He glanced to Emily before returning his attention to Zoey. “Yes, I spent some time with him, and it was amazing. Ah, Neil’s still here.” Then he looked past them and waved his hand in an effort to change the conversation.

“Andrew,” Emily asked. “About what Memphis said?”

“Andrew, your fans cometh,” Margot said, her voice less than gracious. She gestured to the blonde who had gotten out of her seat and was slinking toward them.

“Fan doesn’t seem to suit her job description,” Emily muttered.

“No it doesn’t, but they’re coming over now, and I’d hate to have to snog you senseless on this table to prove a point. Be nice.”

“Andrew, gentlemen, what a pleasure,” S.J. said, her voice dark like smoked glass. She glanced between Margot and Zoey before her gaze settled on Emily. “This is my colleague, Robert Bolen. He’ll be working with Glenn Sommers, the writer from
Rolling Stone
I mentioned over lunch today. Fancy running into you tonight. I didn’t realize you guys hung with itinerant bluesmen.”

Emily dug her nails into Andrew’s knee. “Ow. Um—yes. S.J., permit me to introduce Ms. Zoey Cohen, Dr. Margot Larson, and Ms. Emily Thomas. Ladies, this is S.J. Gordian.”