Making a Comeback (14 page)

She slid onto the piano bench, flipped the keyboard lid up, and froze, hands poised above the keys. She looked over the piano to the drums and her heart stumbled. She desperately wanted Teri’s reassuring smile and steadying beat.

Her dad appeared in the doorway, his brows pulled together. He seemed worried a lot lately. Oscar scooted in and dashed for his perch on the couch.

Liz closed her eyes and played a chord. The sound crawled inside her, and before it faded she played another and then another, greedily soaking up every note. Six-and-a-half weeks deprived of the piano had felt like a lifetime. Within the first few bars of “Spring Time” relief shifted to fear. Her fingers were slow and she didn’t have her octave-plus reach. She flubbed notes and chord changes. She stopped and began again. The muscles in her forearm ached and sharp pains shot from her wrist into her palm. She dropped her hands to her lap.

“Best not to overdo.” He smiled, but the hard look in his eyes betrayed what he wasn’t saying—surgery was the best option. “Physical therapy at ten tomorrow. I’ll pick you up. Call the twins.” He closed the door.

She rubbed her left forearm. It was visibly skinnier than the right. “What if I’m not ready for Monterey?” The words ricocheted around the room and landed heavily in her lap. She pulled her phone from her purse.

Jac answered on the first ring. “How is it?”

“It hurts and my fingers don’t work right. What if I messed everything up?”

“I think the cast needs to be off for more than an hour,” Jac teased her. “How did it feel?”

“It hurt and—”

“I meant how did it feel to play?”

“Like a part of me that was stolen away is back.” Tears slid down her cheeks and she pulled Kleenex out of her pocket. Silence wrapped around her as if she were in the quiet calm of Jac’s home.

“I talked to Alvin. He’ll do the mastering for you.” He’d been the head sound engineer at one of the top recording studios in New York with an impressive number of great jazz albums to his credit. Now retired and living in Carmel Valley, he worked only with select clients.

“Thank you. I know it’s because of you.” Liz couldn’t imagine doing any of this without Jac. The CD was going to be the tribute Teri deserved.

“What did Mark think of the mix for ‘Spring Time’?”

“Pure genius. He said it made him feel relaxed and peaceful, like he was lying in a meadow on a warm spring day.” Exactly where she’d been when the song first took form. Jac had the uncanny ability to refine and sharpen the emotional impact of songs, making them powerful sensory experiences.

“I’ve been working on ‘Soaring Hawk.’ I finished one mix. You might not like it. I brought the sax solo out so it sounds distant.”

“Like a hawk soaring.” Another of Jac’s talents—finessing solos in just the right way so they became centerpieces. Jac’s ear was as astute with mixing as it had been when they were selecting songs. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to talk about how she’d come by her mixing experience. Liz was too grateful for the help to risk offending her by pushing the issue. For all the connection they shared musically, Jac was a mystery in so many ways. “I wish I could come down this weekend.”

“You need a break. I’ll see you next weekend.” Jac ended the call.

Babysitting her nephews wasn’t going to be much of a break. Liz sat on Teri’s stool and patted the snare drum. Working with Jac was different than working with Teri but just as satisfying. Her thoughts were snapped back to reality by her phone ringing. Regan. “It healed.”

“Good. That’s good. You played?”

“Um, gosh, that would have been a smart thing to do.” She paused and then rescued Regan. “Of course I did. It’ll be fine.” She didn’t need Regan worrying any more than she already did. “We’ll be ready for Monterey.”

“That’s good. Your hand, I mean. You’ll be there tonight?”

“Yes.” Vicky, one of the most talented students she’d ever taught, was performing with her band at her dad’s club tonight. She’d suggested Vicky expand from a quartet to a quintet by adding a bass. She’d recommended Regan and it seemed to be a good fit. “You sounded great yesterday at the rehearsal.”

“It’s good to be part of a band again.” Regan ended the call. She never said good-bye.

Liz’s stomach signaled its unhappiness that she’d missed lunch again, but it had been a small sacrifice for last-minute consulting with Vicky about the show. Mentoring young musicians was one of the best parts of teaching.

She walked across the street to the club. She needed to make sure the mics were set up correctly. She went in the back door, put her purse in the green room, and headed down the hallway toward the stage. She heard Kevin talking to someone.

“It was her decision.” Kevin sounded as tired as he’d been looking lately. It was good he and Karen were getting away this weekend.

“It was a bad decision.” Her dad’s voice was dense with criticism.

“It healed.”

“We don’t know that yet, and now we’re a month behind with rehab.”

“She’s always been a hard worker.”

“Not lately. I don’t understand this disappearing to Carmel the minute her classes are done on Wednesday and staying through the weekend. We need the CD done. We were making good progress with mixing, and then out of the blue she says she wants to finish it on her own.”

“Liz knows what she’s doing.”

“Liz isn’t thinking clearly right now. This is too important, Kevin. Her career. The club.”

“Revenue’s picking up. We’ll be all right.”

“We need Liz back on stage. She fills the club, and it gets us exposure we need. I took a big risk doing this for her.”

Liz backed down the hallway as their conversation shifted to employee problems. He’d opened the club for her? That didn’t make sense. The club was his dream.

Karen came through the back door. “How is it?”

“Hurts.” She made a series of fists. Yep. Pain.

“I’m proud of how you’ve handled all this.” Karen was soft-spoken like Liz’s mom had been and just as rock solid. “Have you seen Kevin?”

“He was just talking to Dad.”

“I swear, if anything interferes with our weekend away…” Karen’s face turned stony.

Liz wasn’t sure what to say as they continued down the hallway. Neither Kevin nor Karen seemed happy lately. She went to the stage and Karen headed toward Kevin, who was over by the bar. Liz repositioned a mic over the piano to pick up more treble, while her thoughts bounced between her hand and what her dad had said.

“I’ve blocked out Friday, June thirteenth, for the CD-release party.” Her dad stood at the edge of the stage, his arms crossed.

“That’s too soon!” She sat down on the piano bench and stared at him.

“We need to get people listening to the band again.”

“I don’t even know if I can play yet. How are we going to rehearse for it?”

“You don’t need much rehearsal other than to get a drummer up to speed. Did you call Bobby? He’s showy like Teri was. He’ll be a good match.”

“I asked Cassie to play Monterey with us.” Jac had suggested it, pointing out it might be easier if the new drummer was someone Liz knew and trusted. In so many ways Jac’s advice was astute and thoughtful.

“She’s not Teri’s style.”

“We need to push the release back. We’re not done mixing.”

“You need to spend less time in Carmel and more time—”

“I’m working on it in Carmel with Jac. I know how important—”

“Who’s Jack?”

Oh, God, had she said her name? She scrubbed her face as fatigue washed over her.

“Liz?”

“I’m working with someone on the mix.”

“I see.” His jaw muscles worked.

“No, you don’t.” She moved to sit on the edge of the stage, legs dangling down. She could trust him and it would eliminate part of the stress. “I’m working on it with the woman who writes
Jazz Notes
.”

“The blog?” He looked puzzled.

“She’s the sister of the artist who did your painting.”

He frowned. “I’ll grant she’s a decent critic, but what does she know about—” He snapped his eyes to hers. “She helped you pick the songs.” He shook his head. “It’s not your sound.”

“I needed someone impartial. We chose the best songs, Dad. You can’t tell anyone about this.”

“She doesn’t want to be associated with your album?”

“She’s blind and a very private person.”

“I don’t know.” He looked at her like this was another of the bad decisions she was making.

Liz shoved up to a stand, grimacing as she inadvertently put weight on her left hand. “I do.” It would be the best CD she could give Teri. That’s all that mattered. She went back to checking the mics.

*

Liz slid onto a stool at the end of the bar in her dad’s club, the dark end farthest from the stage. It was a good crowd for Thursday and an unknown band. Half an hour and Vicky’s set would be over and she could go home. Liz pulled her phone from her pocket and added a comment in the notes app, happy to have the use of both hands. She would have a long critique session with Vicky and didn’t want to forget anything. Regan was sensational. She’d obviously been practicing.

Her thoughts drifted away from the music. Her dad wouldn’t budge on the date for the CD-release party. Six weeks. She was scheduled for PT three times a week for now. She’d researched the rehab process. “Unpredictable” appeared often in articles and on-line forums. She did circles with her wrist and made fists. It hurt. She was a hard worker. She’d have to do an hour or more of exercises daily on top of PT. But that word, unpredictable, kept jabbing her. What if hard work wasn’t enough? Everything depended on her playing again.

“How’s the wrist?” Hannah joined her, an arm around a young brunette.

“Good.”

“Liar.” Hannah whispered something to the brunette, who went to the other end of the bar.

“Hurts to play.”

“You knew it’d take time.”

“I guess I was hoping for a miracle.” Cast off. Sit down and play like it had never happened.

“You deserve one.” Hannah slid onto the stool next to her. “In the meantime I’ll share my good news with you.” Her smile was infectious. “You’re looking at the head chef for East of Eden
,
the new hip Asian fusion restaurant in San Francisco. Opens in October. They want me to come on board right away to help with the layout and developing menus.” Hannah’s voice had an edge of snobbery that Liz disliked.

“Congratulations. Does that mean you’ll be moving out?”

Hannah’s smile faded. “Is it that bad living with me?”

“Only sometimes.” She smiled and squeezed Hannah’s arm. “Don’t forget we have the boys all weekend.” Hannah’s expression went blank. She’d forgotten in spite of the note Liz left on her bathroom mirror. “So Kevin and Karen can get away? You’re in charge of getting tickets to the new Muppets movie.”

“No problem. Um, I sort of had a date tomorrow night. Maybe—”

“No.” Liz wasn’t going to sit in a theater with Hannah and the brunette.

“Yeah, bad idea. Okay. You, me, kids, and popcorn.”

Vicky stepped to the mic. “This next song is dedicated to Professor Randall, my teacher at San Jose State and my mentor.”

Liz recognized it as an arrangement of one of her tunes. This was what music should be—a living thing that passed from musician to musician. Teri lived as long as these moments existed. She fingered her wedding ring. Her grandma had never stopped wearing hers, and her dad still wore his. She had the band and teaching. That was her life now.

Liz drove between the stone gateposts and onto the gravel driveway. Parking behind Roger’s SUV, she turned the key so the engine was off but the CD still played. Bill Evans’s
Sunday at the Village Vanguard
kept the silence at bay. Jac and she hadn’t talked on the twenty-minute drive from Alvin’s mastering studio.

Dropping her hands to her lap and leaning her head back, Liz closed her eyes. Exhausted physically and mentally, yes, but more because she wanted a moment in Jac’s reality. Sightless, the music seemed more visceral, more poignant, more intimate, or maybe it was just her teeming emotions grabbing for somewhere to anchor. For reasons they hadn’t talked about, Evans had become their go-to music the last month in the few hours—during meals or late at night when their ears had lost their sensitivity—when they weren’t working on the CD. Palate cleanser, Jac called it, and it worked—complex but ordered, restorative.

Her album was mastered. Done. She was relieved, but a new sadness was attached to it, a vacancy that scared her. It was like being in a room abruptly vacated, the occupant’s belongings left behind but no trace of the person. Those four precious nights were the last music she would make with Teri. She didn’t know how to say good-bye to Teri’s music any more than she’d known how to say good-bye to her. That last conversation they’d had before the disease and the drugs separated them had been—

Jac let out a long breath, and it snapped Liz back to the present. There would be no CD, no tribute to Teri, without the woman sitting beside her. She leaned over the center console and hugged Jac. The gearshift poked into her ribs and she didn’t care. Jac tensed and then relaxed, but didn’t hug back. Liz sat back in her seat, embarrassed. Jac wasn’t the hugging type.

“We went to three shows at the Vanguard.” Liz closed her eyes again. “It gave me chills.” Photographs on the walls spanning eighty years of jazz history. Knowing Evans and so many jazz greats had played there. Like meeting relatives she didn’t know she had. “That was our dream gig. We were so sure we were back on track. So sure we’d perform there one day.”

“You will.” Jac sounded hoarse. She seemed tired. Not that it showed in her always perfect posture, or her endless patience, or her attention to detail, which was why they’d gone back for a fourth day of mastering. She seemed tired like someone who’s reached so deep they’ve given away parts of themselves not easily replenished. She’d spent more hours on the album than Liz had. Her generosity was breathtaking.

The last song on Evans’s CD started and Liz turned up the volume. “This album was recorded fifty-three years before our last show in New York, almost to the day. And not ten minutes away by cab.” While dancing his fingers over the piano keys at the Vanguard on that Sunday in July, Evans hadn’t known his band would be demolished by tragedy not long after the show. Jac knew jazz history as well as she did, but Liz kept going, as if feeding Teri’s death into the long list of jazz musicians who’d died too young and her name into the long list of survivors forced to regroup after tragedy. “His bass player died ten days later in a car accident. That trio was his best group.” Maybe her best group had come and gone, too.