The Duet (25 page)

Jay had done nothing but think and write since he’d left the shelter. And it had done very little to calm him down. The walls of the now familiar hotel room were closing in on him. For the first time in years, he felt the panic of performing on stage settle over him. He had thought he’d left that flaw behind him long ago, but now it was back with a vengeance. He wished Cooper would be there tonight to hand him his shots of tequila and smack him on the back with his own brand of a pep talk. “You’re a fucking star!” Cooper would say every time. “Get out there and show them how it’s done.”

He missed his friend.

He still didn’t know what he would do once he stepped on to the iconic stage. He had a set list prepared, but it was unlikely he would stick to it. He was just too damn angry. Why couldn’t he get past this?

The night in the church shouldn’t have happened. He had snuck away from the crowded auditorium, full of families all huddled together. He didn’t feel like he belonged there. Not even among his own family. Maybe because it wasn’t his at all. He had tortured himself all that day, watching Izzy with Sydney, seeing how natural and easy they were with each other, and he had felt like a stranger, having no business watching. Because that’s what he was to his own daughter. A stranger.

When Izzy came to stand beside him, he hadn’t planned on touching her. He wanted to, there was no denying it, but time and too much hurt had built a wall bigger than China between them. And even though all the words in the world couldn’t begin to tear it down, he wanted to try. Instead, she reached for him and all rational thought left his brain. He had no self-control where Izzy was concerned; he never had.

They had acted like animals; but when the calm settled over him, he wanted nothing more than to drag her down with him to the floor so he could just hold her. He wanted her to fall asleep knowing that she was safe and loved by him. He even thought they could spend some time talking in the quiet of the night, getting to know each other again. He’d been ready to open up to her, and he wanted that more than anything.

But then she’d hurried off, not even looking at him, not saying a word, and he was left there completely and utterly stunned.

He’d left right after, driving through the worst of the storm, not caring that he shouldn’t have been on the road at all. He drove and drove, trying to make some kind of sense out of what had just happened, but instead he’d just grown more and more angry.

He flipped through his notebook until he found the page he was looking for. He crossed out a line with such force, the pencil dug through several pages. Then he made his changes, reread the whole thing and shut the book with grim satisfaction.

He may have felt like this was something he needed to do. But it certainly wasn’t going to be pleasant; not pleasant for either one of them.

40

Despite the fact that my very existence had begun in the parking lot of this building, I had yet to set foot in the Stone Pony. The place held a lot of memories for my mother; both good and bad ones I imagined. So I guess some part of me had never wanted to trample there.

My parents had met here. Though my dad was also a musician, and had written some beautiful songs just like Jay, that was where the similarity ended between the two men. From the little I remembered of my father, and the stories I’d heard – some from Miranda, but most from Uncle Fred – he had been a very shallow, very selfish man. Yes, he loved music, no one could deny that. But he was in it for the lifestyle, and if he ever could have, he would have been in it for the money.

Jay was the polar opposite. He performed despite the notoriety, not because of it. He wrote and then he sang what he wrote; not to share with everyone else, but because it validated him somehow.

I got there early. Jay was the last act to come on before the headliner. There were at least three other sets before him. I got a drink at the bar, which was starting to fill up, and settled in to watch a mediocre Ska band that was about fifteen years past their time. I hoped the other music was better.

I had half hoped that maybe Jay would see me there, and come out to talk to me before he went on. I wanted to gauge his mood, see where we stood. I had come close to just blowing the whole thing off, but curiosity got the better of me. So here I was, nervous as a whore in church (okay, maybe that wasn’t such a great analogy), and trying to lubricate my uneasiness with dark rum.

I suffered through the next two acts – a band in spandex who shouted obscenities and gyrated in unison, making both my ears and eyes bleed, and a solo acoustic female singer; she wasn’t terrible, but her penchant for dressing like Stevie Nicks was an instant turn off for me. There was no sign of Jay. I knew he was up next and wondered if he still had to perform his little anti-stage fright ritual before going on. He had told me that was all to appease Cooper, but maybe he still did it anyway.

I had read a few articles about Jay over the years – okay, I had read every word ever written about him. He was pretty well known out west, and occasionally did shows at smaller venues throughout the Midwest and the east. He had come to Philly once about two years ago, and I had planned on going to see him, but Sydney had been sick and I never made it.

The lights dimmed. Armed with a fresh drink, I stealthily made my way through the crowd toward the stage. For some reason it was important that he see me. He walked out, not appearing the least bit nervous. His presence on stage took my breath away. He wasn’t an overt showman like Cooper had been, but he owned the spotlight in a different way; one that was more raw and powerful. I remembered what it felt like to sing beside him, the hot lights shining on us, his voice spearing through my soul.

He opened with a crowd favorite, something a little more upbeat, and the audience was enraptured. The high energy continued with his next two songs. Then it was time for a mood change, as he switched out his guitar and sat on the stool, adjusting his mic as he announced he would be dedicating the next few songs to an old friend. My heart rate tripled. But then I felt cold all over as he began a cover of Love Hurts, and when I say he put everything he had into those scathing words, I mean he held nothing back.

My head was spinning now, and not just from the rum. He didn’t miss a beat as he went right into another cover, this time Witchy Woman, and his intent to hurt me was becoming quite clear. I had just about had enough, but then he began another familiar song – this one an original - and every nerve ending in my body went on high alert. This was the song that Cooper sang for Trisha, nearly causing a riot at Darden’s club that night so long ago. Only this time the words were slightly different; they were tailor made for me. He stood up and sauntered across the stage. He was now accompanied by the full band, and he’d left his guitar behind. He strutted like a peacock – so out of character for him – as he punctuated every hurtful word, a la Darling Nikki style. If he was trying to break me, he was doing a damn good job.

The thing is, words are just words until they’re spilling from the same lips that once explored every inch of your body in the dark. The lips of the one who shared a history with you, and who once knew your heart, despite your attempts at keeping it under lock and key.

Then, they are not just words; they are the death of you. Every syllable causing physical pain.

My eyes were burning with unshed tears. The need to escape that place was so great, my legs were tingling. But my feet were stubbornly planted firmly on the ground. I couldn’t move. All I could do was feel myself shattering into so many pieces, I was quite sure I would never be able to reassemble myself.

When at last the song was mercilessly over, the crowd went nuts. Had they no idea what had just happened? Were they all so blind and stupid they couldn’t see how he just destroyed me? Of course they were. I was just another face in the crowd, after all. A face that his eyes sought out, even as the cheers from the people around me drowned out my raging emotions. I knew the moment he spotted me. I could feel his gaze like two lasers melting away my body to leave my broken heart vulnerable and exposed. I let him have a good look. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? I had thought he asked me here because he remembered my stories about my father, and how important this place was to my parents. I thought he wanted me there because we had always found a connection through music, and if we were ever going to find our way back to each other, music was a good place to start.

But I had been wrong. He brought me here for one reason, and one reason only; to bring me to my knees.

Mission accomplished.

41

Jay wanted to break something. He had never felt so ugly in all his life. That look on Izzy’s face would haunt him forever. After all those years of swearing off the kind of blind, irrational love that his parents had, and after all those years of soul searching and therapy; he had turned into his father anyway. How else could he explain what he had done? He was weak, he was mean, he was hopeless.

He would never feel the way he did about Izzy for anyone else. And he could never be the man that she deserved. And if he couldn’t show her how he felt without hurting her, well what kind of father would he ever be to Sydney? He couldn’t risk that innocent child being exposed to his poison soul.

He needed to get away from here. Far away, and never come back. He had burned all his bridges with Izzy. There was nothing left between them; he’d made good and sure of that. As for Sydney, she was better off without him in her life. He would go back to California and spend the rest of his days missing the daughter he never got to know, and trying to forget he’d ever loved Izzy Delaney.

42

I didn’t have the luxury of taking time to brood. I had a shop to run and a daughter to raise. That didn’t mean I didn’t cry in the bathroom every chance I got, and it didn’t mean my mind was ever far from thoughts of Jay’s stellar performance or the look on his face while he sang those wretched, telling lyrics.

I lasted exactly three days before I finally broke down and told Miranda the whole story. It had taken me seven years to open up to her about Jay. She knew he was Sydney’s father, and she knew that he meant more to me than just some fling. But I had played my cards very close to the vest where Jay was concerned. I had felt like talking about him would make it harder to let him go.

I had been wrong about a lot of things.

Miranda listened to me rehash my history with Jay well past midnight, as we shared a bottle of wine on the back porch. I didn’t leave much out – from the first time I saw him before we first moved to New Jersey, to the letters he wrote me, to his show at the Stone Pony. She was a good sounding board.

Over the past several years I had come to really rely on my mother. At one time I considered her to be a lovesick widow, constantly in mourning over a husband who had never loved her. But as time went on, I realized I had misjudged her. She was not just a survivor, coping with life the best she could. She was a strong, independent woman who had known love and lost it. A love that was unreturned, but no less intense. And she was wise in matters of the heart. I just don’t know why I waited so long to confide in her about this. She didn’t have much advice – what could she say? There was nothing to be done. But she was an excellent listener, and she said all the right things. She had just the right combination of ‘you poor thing’ and ‘pick yourself up, you have to move on’. It didn’t really take the pain away, but between our talk and the wine I was able to get a few hours of sleep that night.

It was a good thing I was well rested, because the next day was a doozy.

With Chowder Fest coming up that weekend, the town was busy preparing for the surge in traffic. Most merchants made more profit on this weekend than in all the off-season months combined. It was a chance for the seasonal businesses to close for the winter on a high note. Of course, this was all reliant on the weather cooperating, and since Al Roker was practically guaranteeing seasonably warm temperatures and less than ten percent chance of precipitation for the three day weekend, Avalon was all aflutter.

I unlocked the café at five thirty, surprised to see at least a half dozen locals hop out of their cars and rush inside. Miranda had barely gotten the bakery case stocked and had a smile in place when the lot of them rushed her at the counter.

“My lord, it better be warmer than this on Friday!” said Mrs. Makool, owner of the yarn store a block away.

“They’re calling for temperatures in the sixties,” Abe from the t-shirt shop chimed in.

“Yeah, well I’ll believe it when I see it.” Grumpy Gloria muttered from her spot in line. She ran a gift shop that carried the most beautiful jewelry, pottery and blown glass. Her business was booming every year starting in March, and she had a gorgeous house, a helpful husband and a loyal dog. But she complained about everything under the sun; from the weather to how dark the white lines were painted on the street; you name it, she was unhappy about it.

“Now, now everyone,” I said as I handed Abe his dark roast and a blueberry muffin. “We go through this every year. As long as rain isn’t pouring from the sky, we’ll all do well. If it’s warm, folks will linger around the shops, and if it’s chilly, we’ll sell more chowder.”

“I hope it’s not windy,” Grumpy Gloria said as she approached me at the counter. “There’s nothing worse than when it’s windy and people don’t think to pull the door shut behind them.”