Making a Comeback (25 page)

“It’s a bit of a shock.” Liz laughed nervously. “How did you learn jazz?”

“I haven’t heard this story either,” Peg said, pulling back a chair at the dining table.

“I went to a jazz club one night in New York.” An act of pure rebellion after a vicious scolding from her teacher. “The sound did something to me, wound its way inside me. It was raw and powerful and mesmerizing.” Dark, smoky, the quintessential club, so far from the concert halls she was used to. “Don’t get me wrong, I listened to jazz, but I never felt it before, not in a way that made me have to explore it.” In a way that made her ache all the way back on the subway, that made her wake up the next morning determined to master it.

“So, you studied formally?” Liz asked.

“I didn’t dare. My teacher would have been furious.” Jac shuddered. “I bought albums of the great jazz trumpeters and studied their techniques and styles. Experimented on my own. I kept going to clubs, the lesser-known, the better. I’d hang around after the last set and ask the musicians questions about jazz theory. ‘You gotta feel it,’ they kept telling me. ‘Don’t think. Feel. Don’t get it right, just get it.’”

“Good advice. It’s not easy to teach yourself jazz,” Liz said, admiration in her voice.

“You never considered performing both?” Peg asked.

“I’d finally decided I was going to. That’s part of what Maria was upset about. I wanted to start a production company and record with some of the musicians I’d heard in those clubs. Amazing musicians who deserved to be heard by a larger audience. I told her everything.”

“Damn that woman.”

“It’s over, Peg.” Jac knelt next to Max. He rolled onto his back for her to rub his stomach. Forgiven. Would Liz forgive her for keeping another secret?

“So you were letting yourself put your own feelings into the music through jazz,” Liz said.

“I couldn’t stop it any more than I could stop myself from falling in love with Maria. I’d become so arrogant. I thought I could have it all and, like Icarus, I was slapped down.”

“Passion isn’t wrong,” Liz said.

“I can’t forget that a woman died.”

“Put those feelings into your playing. Transform them.”

Was that possible? Were all emotions fuel for creativity? She loved the precision of classical and the challenge of searching inside the music for a connection with the composer, a way to bring their intentions to life for an audience. She loved the freedom of jazz where the personalities of the musicians, the place, even the culture at the time, came together in a sound that was always fresh, always new.

“This is for you,” Peg said to Liz, setting something on the dining table.

Liz went to the table, and Jac heard the sound of paper tearing. Peg had told her she’d done a painting for Liz.

“Oh, Peggy, it’s beautiful,” Liz said.

“Your garden when it fills in.”

“The future,” Liz said quietly. “I have a painting of what the future looks like.”

Jac startled when Peg sat beside her and hugged her again. So many things she’d kept secret from Peg and she now regretted it. She’d allowed guilt and fear to make her a prisoner, cut off from anyone and anything that could make her feel.

“This calls for a celebration,” Peg said. “Stay for dinner, Liz?”

“On one condition,” Liz said.

“Old cabs?” Jac asked.

“Oh, I’m in the mood for plenty of old cabs. I’m also in the mood for more music.”

Jac smiled and tears stung her eyes. “Me, too.” Practicing to Liz’s album had patched something inside that had been broken for ten years. Collaborating with Liz might heal it. She’d thought long and hard since telling Liz about the accident. The guilt was still there, but not a rip current that made her powerless. She’d set events in motion that night but with no idea how things would end. She was human and she’d paid a high-enough price. She wanted music back in her life. She wanted Liz in her life.

She fingered her trumpet. Dare she let out the full spectrum of her emotions? Into the music? Into her life? The thought was thrilling and frightening and she had no idea where it would lead, but she’d go anywhere with Liz. “Let’s do something else from your album. Then you can teach me more about how to improvise.” That’s what her life felt like lately—improvising around her friendship with Liz. It was a better life than she’d thought possible.

The leather booth in Regan’s favorite diner creaked as Liz crossed her legs. She kept stirring the iced tea, although the sugar and lemon had dissolved. She was afraid to see Regan’s reaction to what she’d just told her. Regan hated change, and she was pretty sure the band was headed for more change.

“Jac plays jazz?” Regan asked as she maneuvered an edge of the massive burger into her mouth. Her cheeks pushed out as she chewed.

Liz nodded. They’d been practicing every day for the last two weeks, hours on end. Some of the best music of her life. She dipped a thick-cut fry in ketchup and nibbled it. She had to admit it was yummy.

“Wrist is okay?”

“Great.” It ached if she did too much, but it was getting stronger every day.

“She any good?”

“Yep.” That was an understatement. Jac’s talent was one thing to read about or hear on an album and another to witness in person. What she lacked in improvisational skills, and those were getting better by the day, she made up for with a tone that could melt butter and technique that allowed her endless creative possibilities. Liz felt a responsibility to nurture such enormous talent, and that scared her.

“That’s cool she knows both jazz and classical.”

“Cool? That’s it? I thought you didn’t like her.”

“I never said that.” Regan sucked on the straw in the stainless-steel blender cup.

“Since when do you drink chocolate shakes instead of Coke?”

“Since I like them. Is she going to join the band?” Regan salted her fries and then salted them some more. Where was the usual resentment of anything new?

“No. I don’t know.” The question that wouldn’t go away. Jac seemed oblivious to the possibility. Peggy hadn’t brought it up, but she could see the question in her eyes every time they played. “She’s Jacqueline Richards.”

“And you’re Liz Randall. One of the top jazz pianists in the country, according to the article in the
Merc
after our show last week. Does she know our stuff?”

“Yeah.” Jac worked out an improvisation to another song on an almost daily basis, as well as new variations on others. Peggy said she played late into the night. It was like she’d been let out of a cage and was making up for lost time. When they weren’t practicing, they worked on arrangements. “I’ve been composing again.” She’d been waking up and going to bed with new music swimming through her head.

“For the band, right? Not just you and her.”

“For the band.”

“When do we get to hear it?”

“It’s not our sound. I’ve been fusing classical into it.”

“That’s been done. Modern Jazz Quartet, Mingus…” Regan shrugged one shoulder. “I know more than blues.”

“I don’t know where all of this is coming from. Honestly, I don’t know where I’m going with it.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s different.”

Regan sucked down more of her shake. “It’s not Teri.”

Oh, God, she was going to cry. Liz nodded, a lump in her throat.

“I don’t want to let go of Teri, either, but that doesn’t mean we should stop new things from happening.”

Why was Regan talking in sentences? Several at once? And embracing change? “Why aren’t you wearing black?”

Regan gave a half smile and her eyes softened. “Dark green’s pretty close. You want a different band?” Regan asked, looking away from Liz.

“I want this band, but I hear the new pieces as a quintet. Sometimes a full orchestra.”

Regan slid fries around in the ketchup on her plate. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you weren’t considering her joining us.”

“I don’t know.” She was barely used to Cassie on drums. Could she face another change? And Jac? It would alter their dynamics as well as their sound.

“What does she say?”

“I haven’t talked to her about it. She doesn’t want to perform again.”

“She’s gotta miss it. Do you want me to talk to her?” Regan smiled. “Just kidding.”

“When did you get a sense of humor? Oh, gosh, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, I deserved it. Life’s better lately.” Regan studied her plate, bangs obscuring her eyes. “I’m kinda with someone.”

“That’s great. When do I get to meet her?”

“You already have.” The sheepish grin was adorable. “Vic.”

“Vicky?” Of course. She should have realized. Regan was still part of her band, and Vicky had been to their Thursday-night gigs at the club. She’d thought they had their heads together talking music.

“Have a thing for redheads.” Regan grinned for an instant.

Liz poked Regan’s hand. “Smart, gorgeous, good heart, great musician…I’m happy for you.”

“I want what you and Teri had. Sorry. That didn’t come out right.”

“It came out perfect.”

“I’m different when she’s around, like together we have a new sound.” She smiled. A happy smile. “Bring Jac to a rehearsal.”

“I’m not sure she would.”

“Tell her to be there or I’ll come get her on my bike.”

She laughed. Jac on the back of Regan’s beat-up motorcycle would be a sight.

“Can she jam?”

“Not at our level. I have her doing some of the same ear training I had you and Sammy do.” Every day Jac had more questions about jazz theory. It was exhilarating, and a bit intimidating, to be teaching Jacqueline Richards.

“Bring her. I’ll go easy on her.” Regan winked. Actually winked.

“Dessert, ladies?” the waitress asked.

“Nah,” Regan said, running her palms over the edge of the table, her heavy silver rings clunking over it. “Is your dad okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“It’s cool how much he cares,” Regan said, looking serious. “But the new videos he’s posted on the website? That’s kind of weird.”

“What do you mean?” The waitress cleared their plates, and Liz rested her forearms on the table.

“The ones of you as a kid.”

“I didn’t know.” Liz shook her head. He wasn’t himself lately—distracted and forgetful in a way she hadn’t seen since her mom’s death. “I’ll talk to him tonight.”

Regan nodded. “Gotta get back to work.” She fished in her pocket and laid a twenty on the table. She was fanatical about paying her way. She knuckled the table next to Liz’s hand. “It’s your band, not his.”

Liz nursed her iced tea, trying to gather her thoughts. Her dad was doing a lot of what Teri had done, especially booking shows and managing the website. She was grateful, but this new fascination with her past made her uneasy.

When the waitress asked again if she wanted dessert, she ordered a sundae. She wasn’t sure which conversation she dreaded more—the one with her dad or the one with Jac about playing with them. Jac deserved to be back on a stage, and she couldn’t deny that she was now a key part of Liz’s new music. Whether Liz liked it or not, things were changing.

Jac flew through notes on her trumpet, still not sure this was a good idea, but Liz had asked, and she’d do anything for her. That’s why she was here in this stuffy room that smelled of sweat and old carpet, playing with people she barely knew, hoping she didn’t embarrass herself. It was her fourth rehearsal with the band. Better than the last three, but still not good enough. She loved this song, and Liz’s solo was coming up.

Sweat trickled down her neck, and she blew moisture from her trumpet as Liz took center stage. She tilted her head. There it was again. More evidence that something was wrong with Liz, besides the lack of her usual chattiness. Her playing had changed in the last week—less vibrant, less daring. Today it was lifeless and flat. Sad. You couldn’t hide from your instrument. Was it the jazz festival? School starting in a few weeks?

Finally, she and Sammy joined in, and the song took off as Liz faded to the background. She let go of thought as she poured her emotions into the music, giving it everything she had. Life was risky and messy, and she could put all of that through her trumpet. Transform it. Liz had. She’d let grief and loss take her to a new place, but it hadn’t destroyed her. Instead, new compositions were pouring out of her. A sound uniquely Liz. It was breathtaking, and she loved being part of what she was sure was the birth of Liz’s future.

“Let’s run through ‘Carmel Sketches,’” Liz said. They worked on it several times each rehearsal and, although Jac wasn’t privy to all of what happened with the band, she knew this was the test piece. If Sammy and Regan could shift into this jazz/blues/classical fusion that was evolving in Liz’s music, she’d introduce more of her new compositions.

Jac had been waiting for this all evening. She’d worked out a new variation for her solo and wanted to surprise Liz with it.

“Rebecca has dinner ready,” Liz’s dad said. Like it mattered when the food was prepared in a restaurant kitchen. He didn’t like “Carmel Sketches.” She’d heard him complaining to Liz about wasting time on it. This band could bang out their signature songs in their sleep. Regan and Sammy seemed energized by the challenge, bringing more to the song with each rehearsal. Being part of the song’s evolution was thrilling—so different from having a single run-through the day before a concert with an orchestra that was often less than welcoming to the star soloist invading their turf. Collaboration. A new way to experience music. She loved it.

“We’ll be there in a bit,” Liz said, sounding tired.

Jac blew a riff, hoping he’d leave. Out of respect for Liz, she hadn’t confronted him about telling the reviewer. She didn’t like him, or trust him, one bit.

“Hannah’s waiting on us,” he said.

Hannah probably wasn’t in the neighborhood yet. She liked Liz’s sister—feisty and outspoken, but under it all she clearly loved Liz. Lizzie. Jac had called her that a few times because it was fun to tease her.

Liz counted them off, and the song began with piano and soft cymbals. She waited her turn impatiently, her forearm muscles contracting as she fingered the valves. Primed. Finally, she put the trumpet to her lips and blew a single note, holding it like a seagull soaring, while under her the band played a rolling melody like the ocean. She and Sammy passed the melody back and forth, sax and trumpet trying to outdo each other, like two gulls high in the sky. He was giving her a run for her money today. Then it went into her favorite part—Liz’s long, complex solo inspired by her enjoyment of Carmel’s art galleries. It was subtle, with richly voiced chords and superb phrasing. Beautiful and emotional. Tears stung Jac’s eyes every time she heard it. Then it was back to the ocean Liz loved and Jac’s next solo. Five minutes later the song came to its gentle conclusion. She waited. Had Liz liked the new version? Silence. Then clapping.