Making a Comeback (11 page)

“Did Teri compose?”

“Not directly, but all our compositions were—” She knew where Jac was headed.

“Stay with the music.”

“You mean ditch her favorites.” Liz clenched her jaw, irritated at Jac’s calm expression. Jac’s insides weren’t churning. Her chest didn’t hurt.

“You can put anything you want on the album. It’s your album.”

That phrase again. Your album. She hated it.

“For the sake of argument, which are the ten best of the songs we just listened to?”

Liz stared at the door. She could be home in minutes. And then where would she be? Alone with an overwhelming task she hadn’t been able to accomplish in six months, or with her dad who just wanted it done. She crossed her arms and listed them.

“I agree.”

Good. That was good. Liz uncrossed her arms and went to the kitchen for more coffee. She liked Jac’s vanilla French roast but still added sugar and cream liberally. So far they’d agreed on everything. Musically, they were a good match. Maybe this would work out.

“Let’s cut the rest.”

Liz sucked in a breath and her heart clattered. Cutting. Resentment bubbled up from that tender place in her stomach. She went back to the window. Few patches of blue remained amid the dark clouds gathering over the ocean visible beyond the Monterey pines, their heavy branches barely moving in the wind. She didn’t hear Jac approach until she was beside her. Like sunshine on a cold day, her presence was soothing.

“Stay with the music and trust your instincts.” After a minute Jac said, “Let’s take Max out before it rains.” She walked toward the hallway that led to the bathroom and two rooms with closed doors—bedrooms, Liz assumed.

She wanted to go home and take a pain pill and crawl into bed. She was exhausted and her wrist hurt again. Instead she put on her sweatshirt and tennis shoes and waited. She’d asked for Jac’s help and she’d see it through.

She walked behind Jac on the narrow path that started at the back of the property and took them down the cliff to the beach in a series of switchbacks. Jac navigated it as if she could see. When they reached the bottom, Max dropped his tennis ball on the sand and barked at her. She threw it into the stiff wind that whipped her hair. It made conversation difficult, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk. They walked all the way down to the end of the long beach, taking turns throwing the ball for Max. She was careful to walk out of range of the ice-cold water, but Jac seemed unfazed when it washed over her ankles.

When they got back to the cottage, there was a tray on the dining table. Cheeses, apple slices, French bread, and bowls of bean soup. Jac opened a bottle of white wine. She didn’t go through her tasting ritual but set two glasses on the table. “I’m in the mood for a fire.” With sure and graceful movements she set kindling, lit a square of fire starter, and stacked more kindling around it. In minutes flames appeared.

Liz sipped the wine. It tasted expensive. “You’ll have to give me fire-starting lessons.” She’d stopped after several dismal attempts that created nothing but smoke. Teri had always started the fire on the rare occasions they spent time in Carmel.

“Practice.” Jac joined her at the table. “Turn lights on when you need to. The switch for the sconces is by the door.”

No clocks. No art on the walls. Lights never on. Jac’s world was so different from hers in some ways, but music was obviously the center of Jac’s life. “Did you ever play an instrument?” Jac analyzed music with as much a musician’s ear as a critic’s.

“I dabbled. Do you mind if we work while we eat?” Jac was already headed for the CD changer. “Of your core songs, which five are your favorites? We’re not cutting the others.”

Liz listed their favorites. Easy. She and Teri had been so in sync in every way.

When Jac returned to the table, “Spring Time” from their opening night was playing. Liz’s first choice. How did Jac find specific versions out of eight CDs?

They listened through dinner, through Jac adding more wood to the fire, through Peggy coming to retrieve the tray and bring slices of that delicious chocolate cake. Eight versions of each song.

She yawned and checked her watch. She could barely see it in the dim light from the sconces. Midnight? Jac seemed as fresh as she had this morning. “Maybe we should call it a night.”

“Listen. What’s your first impression?”

“Tired.”

“Yes!”

She’d meant herself, not the music. She started to say as much, but Jac’s hand was sweeping the air to the rhythm. And Liz saw it. Jac’s hand slowed, wavered, then righted itself. No. She kept her gaze on Jac’s hand as a sick feeling gathered in her stomach. It happened again. And then again. The beat wasn’t steady. Tears filled her eyes and she pulled Kleenex from her pocket. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. She looked away from Jac’s hand, out to the dark garden and the moonless sky, but music filled the room with evidence of Teri’s illness.

“I’m sorry.”

“You knew all along.” Liz’s stomach hurt like she’d been punched. Why hadn’t she noticed? Why hadn’t Teri said anything? Sure, she’d been sleeping later, taking naps, but they’d all been exhausted after weeks of touring. She took the remote from Jac’s hand. Where was the damn off button? The silence felt accusing and her chest tightened. She should have taken better care of Teri. What if they’d come home early…started treatment…“It’s still a great song,” she whispered. Maybe she could excuse not hearing the unsteady beat during the shows, but months of listening to the recordings?

“It is. The beat’s fine—”

“Teri! Teri.” God, were they all like that?

“Teri’s fine in plenty of songs. You’ll have enough material for a great album.”

“But not a double album.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How many people will notice? If I didn’t…” She twisted the ring on her right hand.

“How could you?”

She cradled the cast as Jac’s point hit home. She wasn’t listening to music. She was listening to memories. Gravity was too much all of a sudden and she wanted to give in, to slide to the floor.

“Let’s quit for tonight.”

Liz packed her computer, put on her shoes and sweatshirt, and opened the door.

“Eight tomorrow?”

She closed the door and stepped into the drizzle.

*

Jac was in the hot tub, still consumed by the music, peripherally aware of rain spattering onto the water, when Peg paid the expected visit. Her back was stiffer than she wanted it to be, but no muscle spasms. One more day and she’d be back to her routine.

“Are you all right?”

“How’s Liz?”

“Ragged. What happened?”

“The truth. If she wants it to be the best, she has to hear what’s there. She has to separate the music from her feelings for Teri.” The recordings were Liz’s past, the album she created from them her future. She’d have to make a choice.

“Oh, honey, are you sure you’re up to this?”

She climbed out and wrapped her robe around her, trying to keep in the warmth. The flagstones were cold on her feet. Rain landed on her head as she hurried into her bedroom. “I have to be.” Liz would never be able to pick the material by herself, and if she’d had anyone qualified to help they would have already. The future of a gifted musician was at stake. That concern overrode personal discomfort.

An hour later she lay on her bed still wide-awake, keyed up, unable to let go of the music. Her body tensed against the rip current of emotions that threatened to suck her fully back to the past. Emotions and music. Such a tricky, delicate marriage. Emotion the musician put into the music made it powerful and alive. Emotion separate from music, outside those acceptable channels of expression…dangerous.

The German-accented voice of the man who’d been her teacher for twenty years filled her head. She clenched the covers. Who was she to advise Liz? She hadn’t navigated that terrain well. Max whimpered, his legs pumping. Dreaming. She laid her hand on his shoulder and he quieted. Could she help Liz and keep her distance from emotions she wanted no part of?

“I don’t think I can do it.” Liz paced barefoot, from warm tile to coarse rug, window to kitchen, in Jac’s cottage. She wanted blue sky, not gloomy monochrome white depositing a steady rain.

“You already have.”

Why did Jac get the recliner? She added more sugar to her coffee and filled Jac’s cup. “We’ve narrowed it down to twenty-five songs. Let’s cut five and do a double album.”

“All right.” Jac took the cup from her and set it on the side table without sipping.

Liz wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something. Jac’s methodical calm infuriated her.
Listen. Stay with the music. Hear what’s there
. “I can’t afford it.” She looked out at the plants drooping in the rain. Twice the cost to mix and master. Higher purchase price. Double albums didn’t sell as well. She wanted to laugh. She’d asked for Jac’s help, and boy had she gotten it—her unwavering attention to detail, her ruthless ear, her insight. Two of the most exhausting days she’d endured as a musician. Two days of the most exhilarating musical discussions she’d had since…She shook her head to clear it and checked her watch. By four this afternoon it had to be done. Long drive home. Surgery tomorrow morning.

“Don’t think. First choice.”

She named it, surprised when Jac agreed.

“Congratulations. One song. Don’t think. Least favorite.”

She named it.

“Excellent.”

“Just like that?” She looked over her shoulder at Jac, still ensconced in her recliner. Two days of endless analyzing and they were down to grab bag?

“You have impeccable instincts. Trust yourself.”

She bristled at what wasn’t said. Eliminate Teri. “It’s a tribute to Teri.”

“Yes,” Jac said too quickly. “It’s a tribute to fourteen years of making music together. Not four nights.”

She stared out the window. Those four nights in New York were the crowning glory of those fourteen years. God, she was sick of thinking in calendars. Fourteen years with Teri. Four nights of shows. Six months plus a day since Teri’s death. “How do we make this final cut?”

“We listen.”

She whirled around, angry words on her lips. Jac was petting Max, curled up in his bed. Their home. She was an invader. She’d asked for this. She tried to imagine doing this with her dad. A sinking feeling tugged on her stomach. He knew music, but he wasn’t in Jac’s league. She was barely in Jac’s league. She squeezed the coffee cup. Her fingers worked. Tomorrow screws and plates would replace the cast. Music overshadowed the sound of the rain hitting the roof and patio. Opening night. Teri grabbing her before they walked onstage and kissing her. One of their core songs. The audience loved it.

“What do you hear?”

“Sammy on top. Regan underneath. Teri pushing them.” The song ran its eight minutes. A different song replaced it. Closing night. An old song she’d recently revived. She’d put it in the set list on a lark because it was a great song for jamming. They’d had the audience on its feet, clapping along. A glorious end to the tour.

“Which one do you prefer?” Jac asked when it finished.

“The first.” Liz stared out at the garden as she listened through the fifteen minutes of two more pieces. The rain had picked up, making flower stems bounce to its rhythm.

“Which one?” Jac asked.

“The first.” She listened through two more pieces Jac selected, seemingly at random.

“Which one?”

“The first. Is this about cutting?” Liz turned and studied Jac.

“It’s about what you’re not hearing.”

“Teri’s rhythm is fine.”

“Why did you pick those three?”

“On ‘Sleeping Late’ Regan has that great solo. She was hot that night. On ‘Combustion’ Sammy shows off his great upper register. On ‘Late Night’—”

“Where are you?” Jac walked toward her, head tilted, her voice gentle.

“I don’t understand.”

“Those three songs you didn’t pick are the only ones where we hear what Liz Randall is really capable of.”

“What’s your point?”

“You’re holding back on all but a few solos. Why is that?”

“Soloing isn’t the point.” She crossed her arms. She didn’t like where this was headed.

“It’s not not the point either. You have fabulous technique. You have rhythm and style that have swing and stride and blues all wrapped up in a sound I’ve never heard. You have star-quality talent, and you show it off only once in a while?”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“What?”

“Standing out.”

“Why not?”

“A band is collaborative. A group. I’m not a soloist. It’s about our collective sound.”

“You’re one of the best jazz pianists playing right now. Show off that talent. Build a band around that talent. Like your Ellington and Brubeck. What you have is a watered-down version of what you could be.”

“It’s who we are. It’s our sound.”
It’s who I am
.

“That sound is dead.”

The sob welled up from that raw place deep in Liz’s center, the place Teri had been ripped from. Jac laid her hand on her shoulder. She wanted so badly to turn into the touch. No. She wouldn’t give in. She’d preserve their sound. She rushed to the door. The hell with Jac and her infuriating calm and arrogant assumptions. She hurried up to the house, the rain cold pinpricks on her skin. She’d say good-bye to Peggy and go home. Next week she’d make the last cut herself.

When she got to the patio, her thoughts were interrupted by conversation and laughter coming through the closed French doors. Peggy’s Sunday brunch that was open to anyone who wanted to come. Two couples sat with Peggy and Roger, the table covered with plates of food. Peggy waved and came to the door.

“I was about to bring brunch down for you. Why don’t you pick what you want?”

“I need to leave.” She would put together an album of Teri’s favorites. It was that simple.

“What happened?” Peggy cupped her elbow and led her to her studio.

“We don’t agree on what the album should be.”

“Jac said it was going well. She loves your music.”

“Everything’s different working with her.” She missed Teri’s laughter, the dimpled smile, the comfort of her eyes. The safety of her opinions.