Making a Comeback (24 page)

“You can’t be serious. You forget I can ruin your reputation with a phone call to—”

“Someone beat you to it. I’ve scheduled an interview with a journalist. I’m coming clean about the accident. I should have done the honorable thing ten years ago. I’ll take what judgment comes.” She stepped back and held out her hand. “Deal?”

“Ten years you give me the runaround? And now—”

“You’ll make a fortune. Take it or leave it. Be quick about it. I have a dinner engagement.” Bluff. Pure bluff. She hoped he went for it. The silence stretched.

“Sixty-forty split,” he said.

“Fifty-five, forty-five.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” He stood and shook her hand. “I taught you well.”

“No, but I learned anyway.”

“I’ll have the papers drawn up. Aren’t you going to introduce me to Ms. Randall?”

“No.”

He laughed, and then what she assumed were his same ridiculous Italian loafers clipped across the patio.

“Wow,” Liz said, nudging her shoulder. “That was a great impression of Jacqueline Richards. I assume that was your ex-husband?”

“Malcolm Phillips. Greedy bastard. Guess you’d better call your friend. Nap time.” She headed toward her cottage, anxious about the outcome but feeling in control of her life for the first time in a decade. “What kind of wine should I bring?”

“Old cab.”

Jac wiggled her fingers over her shoulder. Accidents. Some she ached to undo. Others were a precious gift.

Liz kept her eyes shut, trying to hang onto the dream. Onstage, by herself, lights so bright she couldn’t make out anything but the piano and a black curtain behind her. She was playing a new version of “Carmel Sketches”—bits of blues and swing, bits of what sounded like a fugue, some of the choppy Brubeck-like chords she loved. Music came from behind the curtain, faint at first and then louder. An orchestra. When she stopped, applause erupted from an audience she couldn’t see.

Opening her eyes she clamped down on the music running through her head. She wanted to laugh as she dashed for her grandma’s piano. Jac was rubbing off on her. Fusion of jazz and classical wasn’t new, but it was a new style for her. She’d been stalled on the arrangement of “Carmel Sketches.” This was a welcome breakthrough. She couldn’t wait to share it with Jac. She’d do her wrist exercises, take a shower, run to the bakery for the bear claws Jac liked, and be there early for their walk. Jac’s eyebrow would go up, but this time in an amused way instead of a scolding “you’re late again” way.

In the kitchen, she poured water into the coffeemaker. Enough for one. “What do you think of the new piece?” she asked Teri’s picture on the bar top. She could still remember Teri’s voice, but any answers were from the past, as was the smile that never changed. Kleenex was no longer part of her attire. Sadness captured her at moments, but she also had laughter and joy in her life. Being alone didn’t scare her. She could start a fire. She was managing the band. She’d sold the Yukon and bought a used convertible, something she’d always wanted. She was composing again. Her life was moving forward. She was keeping her promise to Teri in spite of herself.

Blue sky and cool air greeted her on the patio. She settled in one of the cheerfully painted chairs by the new table. Well, a used table she’d bought last weekend at a garage sale with Peggy. She’d painted it yellow, and Peggy had added colorful flowers across the top. She sipped coffee and studied the garden, running through the Latin plant names Peggy was teaching her. “It’s coming back to life, Grandma. Not exactly like you had it, but it’s beautiful.” Two juncos tossed water over their backs in the birdbath, and a jay pecked at a feeder hanging from the Japanese maple they’d pruned back into shape. It felt like home.

An hour later, bakery bag in hand, Liz hurried down the walkway to Jac’s. She heard music coming from the cottage. She stopped and listened. That wasn’t just music. That was a solo trumpet playing a sophisticated classical piece. Beautifully. By the time she reached the door her hands were clenched. Something else Jac had lied about. She couldn’t sound like that without practicing regularly.

She knocked, then knocked louder, but the music continued. Finally, it stopped. As she brought her hand up to knock again, the piercing sound of a single high note, like the cry of a raptor, pinned her in place. The note went on and on and on. At last, it tailed off with such torment that Liz’s breath caught in her chest. She understood that kind of pain. A long silence followed, and then she heard Jac cry out, “Max! Oh, God, no!”

She tried the door. Locked. She pounded. In seconds it was opened. The look of panic on Jac’s face made her heart leap into her throat. “What happened?”

“Liz? Max. He’s hurt. Hurry. Oh, God, I hurt him.”

She rushed past Jac and found Max standing in the living room, blood on the floor by one of his front feet. Dozens of CDs and their shattered plastic cases littered the floor around him. She recognized the covers. Jac’s albums. “Let’s see what happened, big guy.” She knelt and lifted his paw. He was as calm as Jac was frantic.

“How bad is it?” Jac knelt beside her, breathing fast, oblivious to the broken bits of plastic under her knees and bare feet.

“His paw’s bleeding. Hold him so he doesn’t step on anything while I get a towel.” She hurried to the kitchen.

Jac held his collar and stroked his head, telling him over and over how sorry she was.

Liz brushed bits of plastic out of her way and knelt again, holding Max’s paw and blotting the blood away. “There’s a cut on the side of one of his pads.”

“Where?” Jac worked her fingers down his leg and cradled his paw.

“Here.” Liz put Jac’s fingers on the cut.

“Noooo.” Tears ran down Jac’s cheeks. “We need to get him to the vet.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad.”

“I can’t take the chance.”

“Don’t move until I sweep up. I don’t want either of you cutting your feet. Broom?”

“Closet by the door.” Jac held Max’s collar again, rubbing his chest, her cheek on his, murmuring to him. The anguish on her face was heartbreaking.

What must it be like not to be able to see your beloved partner and make sure he was okay? Whatever had driven Jac to destroy her CDs had hurt her worse than it had Max. His wound was superficial. He’d be as good as new in a few days. What would it take to repair the damage to Jac? She pondered these questions during the ten-minute drive to the vet and the doctor’s examination and assurance that nothing more than a compression bandage and topical ointment were needed. The trip home was equally silent.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Jac said when they’d walked to her cottage. She opened her door and stepped in, Max at her side.

“Wait a minute.” Liz blocked the door from closing and followed Jac inside. “He’s going to be fine, but I’m not sure you will.”

Jac went to the kitchen and came back with a handful of dog biscuits. She walked Max to his bed and sat on the floor next to him, blood on her slacks. She fed him and stroked his back. Max rested his bandaged paw on her thigh. Partners.

“What happened?” She sat next to them on the warm slate, feeling like an interloper.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Come on, we had a deal. Don’t shut me out.”

“I forgot I’m not Jacqueline Richards anymore.” Jac’s voice was sharp with bitterness.

“You miss being her.” Liz scooted her back against the recliner, deliberately bringing their shoulders in contact. “I was going to surprise you with being early today. I heard you. I think you fudged the facts a bit about how much you play.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready to talk about it.”

“I understand. It’s your sanctuary. You’ve been playing all along, haven’t you?”

“Not the first couple of years after the accident, but then…I couldn’t live without it.”

“What happened today?”

“I got caught up in the return of Jacqueline Richards—working on the anniversary CDs, the warm reception from the Bach Festival, your friend’s enthusiasm for my music when she interviewed me. It’s easy to say I’ll never perform again, but…” Jac shook her head, still stroking Max.

“Hard not to want to.” Weeks away from the piano and months without performing had left her feeling lost and edgy. She couldn’t imagine how hard it had been for Jac the last ten years, deprived of the thing that had been at the center of her life. “Are you sure you can’t?”

“My range is still what it was, but it would take years to restore my embouchure. I don’t have the breath control, endurance, fingering technique…”

“Do you want to try?”

“I don’t want people coming to see me out of sympathy or curiosity, comparing me to who I was. It’s best I stay retired.”

“Why haven’t I heard you except for that one time a few months ago?”

“I usually practice in my soundproofed office and never when I know you’ll be around. This morning I rebelled at the confinement.”

Jac alone like that was more than Liz could stand. “Play with me.”

Jac shook her head.

“I used to do a mean Bach.” She nudged Jac’s shoulder and got the raised eyebrow. “Let’s borrow Peggy’s piano.” She waited. So much was at stake. Jac’s heart and soul, and any chance she might perform again.

Jac frowned as if deep in thought, and her hand stilled on Max. Several minutes went by. Finally the hard lines of her face softened. “Are you sure you can keep up with me?”

Liz let out a sigh of relief as she pulled Jac up. “Let’s find out.”

Jac held her trumpet against her body as they walked to Peg’s. It was a beautiful coastal summer day, sunny with a cool breeze. Max ambled along next to them.

“He’s darn cute in the purple bandage.”

“Is he limping?”

“Not a bit.”

“I don’t deserve his love,” Jac muttered.

“You deserve love more than anyone I know. We’ll work on the dating thing.” Cassie had been asking Liz to set her up with Jac.

“No dating.”

“We’ll see.”

“My sheet music is in Peg’s office,” Jac said when they were in the dining room. “Alphabetized by composer. Bach’s Concerto in D Major.”

The house seemed too quiet without Peggy in her kitchen, and Liz missed the yummy food smells that usually came from it. “You better be here when I get back.” She headed toward the office, remembering the last time she’d been in it and the shock of discovering Jac’s real identity. Now she was going to accompany her on Bach. She was as excited as she was nervous.

*

Jac knelt beside Max, where he’d curled up on the bed in the corner. She rubbed his leg above the edge of the compression wrap. She’d lost control again and he’d been hurt. He licked her hand.

“He’s all right.” Liz squeezed her shoulder. “Give me a few minutes to warm up,” Liz said, as she scooted the piano bench back and lifted the keyboard lid.

Did she want to do this? Peg had offered, but Peg wasn’t Liz, and that’s what it came down to. She wanted to know what it felt like to make music with Liz.

“That wall of pictures still freaks me out. Two presidents. A who’s who of conductors. A queen?”

Jac wasn’t that woman any more, and she didn’t want Liz treating her as if she were. She fingered her trumpet, trying to gather the courage to do what she wanted to do. “Liz?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Play a song from your album.” Her stomach jittered.

“I want to play with you, not for you,” Liz said.

“‘Mad Dash.’ Please?”

“All right, but then Bach.”

Jac listened. Did she dare? Liz was almost to her favorite part. Heart pounding uncertainly against her ribs, she lifted the trumpet to her lips and joined in. Liz faltered but didn’t stop. There would be questions, but right now all she wanted was the connection with Liz. She could have continued all day, but finally the song came to an end.

“You? Jazz?” Accusation mixed with confusion.

She sat next to Liz. “I dabble.”

“You improvise pretty well for just ‘dabbling.’”

“You liked it?” Her stomach went soft the way it did around Liz. “I’ve been working it out for weeks.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been practicing to your CD through headphones hooked to my computer.”

“You…my music. That takes some getting used to.”

“Can we keep going?”

Liz started something that sounded like “Carmel Sketches.” It wasn’t a version she’d heard before.

“I can’t improvise.”

“You might not be able to do it on the spot, but what you did with ‘Mad Dash’ is original, sophisticated, and technically brilliant.” Liz continued for several minutes. “This is why I came over early. I heard it in a dream. A new arrangement of ‘Carmel Sketches.’”

“It’s your sound. It’s you, Liz.”

“I’m scared. Where do I go from here?”

“Keep working with it. Let it evolve. I hear Ellington and Brubeck and Bach. How bad can that be?”

“How about we toss in some Richards?” Liz repeated the melody line, then again with chords. “Key, melody, and chords—that will give you the harmonic possibilities. Then stop thinking and let the music lead you.”

Jac fingered the valves, both scared and excited. Could she do this?

“Play with me.”

She lifted the trumpet, terrified she’d make a fool of herself but unable to refuse the invitation. When they stopped, Liz started again and Jac did better. The third time better still. By the fourth time, she was truly improvising. Music. Liz. Her heart beat with a new rhythm. Finally Liz stopped. Jac held her trumpet to her chest, breathing hard, sweat running down along her hairline. Happier than she’d been since before the accident.

“Jac? Oh, my God.” Peg. Her voice shaky. A second later Peg wrapped her arms around Jac. She was crying. “I’ve dreamed of this. You have no idea…” Peg held her for a long time, laughing and crying. “Have you two been practicing when I’m not around?”

“First time,” Jac said.

“What happened to Max, and why do you have blood on your pants?”

“Long story,” Jac said, sitting beside Liz again. “I like the arrangement.”

“Something’s been missing in it. Now I know. It was you.”

Jac didn’t know what to say. That was a lot to digest. She’d imagined what it would be like to play with Liz but had never thought it a reality.