Damn, damn, damn, I’m so sick. I was ordered not to do this again, and here I am. I can barely see the screen of my phone. What time is it?
I don’t know. I’m going to fall on the floor if I don’t go back to bed.
I go back to bed. My head feels like it’s going to explode.
I need help. I really, really need help, and I can’t think how to call anyone. They’re all so far away.
Chapter Fifteen
Willow
The first set is rousing, with Paige and me playing off each other as we always have—we must have played together a thousand times, her long, elegant bowing weaving through my intricate fingering. We never could keep a band together, for no real reason that made sense, even though we tried for years.
I know she’s had this group for more than five years, and they’re tight. Paige is clearly the leader, with her lilting vocals and lithe dancing, every inch the professional onstage. I can’t imagine how she thinks she can walk away.
We sing a duo together, a ballad meant for two voices, and Josiah comes in behind, improvising a bass line, and the result sends gooseflesh over my arms. The crowd loves it, too, cheering and shouting, some of them standing up to double the power of their cheer. When we’re done, I glance back at him and nod. He half smiles and gives me a thumbs-up, his dark eyes shining. The part of me that is composing music all the time, even when I’m eating, when I’m dozing, nudges me again. Music!
Paige moves aside, taking support as Josiah steps up to the mic, sets his acoustic bass down, and picks up a Les Paul. I cover the mic. “I don’t have my electric violin. I thought we’d do it acoustic.”
“Use mine.” Paige takes my acoustic and supplants it with a very high-end electric. I plug it in, pluck the strings, run the bow over it, tuning and getting a feel for it. Into the mic, I say, “Hey, everybody, we’re going to try something here, an arrangement of ‘The Devil’s Questions’ that was on my album Rosebud last year.”
A whistle comes from the back, and I wave. “Josiah and I have never done this together, but you all just heard him sing, right, so—”
The reaction this time is much more enthusiastic. He grins at me, white teeth and glittering eyes, and a spark arcs between us. Equal parts heat and music, a frisson of power I can feel in gooseflesh down the backs of my arms.
I raise my violin, wait for him.
“The Devil’s Questions” is one of the classics of the Child Ballads, an enormous number of English and Scottish folk songs collected by Francis Child in the nineteenth century and given new life by the folk movement in the sixties and seventies. “This one is for my mother, Billie Thorne, who loved the Child Ballads but liked them a little rough.”
We start to play, and the band picks it up quickly, drum and flute lacing through the dark melody set down by my violin and my voice. A woman meets the devil disguised as a knight on the road, and to escape him, she has to answer nine riddles.
My voice is not my strongest musical point, but it’s clear and true, and melodies like this one bring out the best points. Josiah’s voice is intensely thrilling, bending the words into a molasses depth of seduction that hushes the room. My body is thrumming by the end, every cell plumped by musical magic, and I’m sure I’m not alone.
This is why I am committed to music, moments like this, when I am plugged into something bigger than me, something enormous and wild and full of life, a thing that flows through me and into the world, into the other bodies here, spilling out into the street, offering hope and healing and sparks of joy.
Lost as I am with Josiah in the music we are making, I suddenly capture a piece of the sonata I’ve been composing—a new depth I have never heard before. As the crowd whoops, I meet his gaze and bow in gratitude. When I straighten, he gives me a courtly bow and, in a bit of theater, presses a kiss to his fingers and flings it toward me.
I laugh, catch it in the air, and mime tucking it into the top of my blouse. The crowd loves it, and I wink at him.
At the break, I wash my face in the bathroom and go out the back door to get some air. It’s shivery cold with a February wind that cuts right through my blouse. The guys are smoking, but Josiah isn’t with them. Away from the noise, I check my phone and see a couple of voice mails, which is kind of unusual. The first is a spam call from LA, the voice mail just empty.
The other is from my sister. Weird times ten. Sam never calls me. It came in at nine thirty, more than an hour ago. “Hi, Willow. Sorry to bother you, but I’m having a bad night. Call me when you can.”
A bad night? What does that mean? Urgently, I press the return button, and it rings and rings and rings. I try again, worried now, and she still doesn’t pick up. “Hey,” I say. “I’m at a club, so I can’t hear the phone. Text me if you want me to come by in a little while. I’m happy to do it.” I pause. “Sorry you’re having a bad night. Call me back if you want, anytime.”
Then I wince. Too much.
But it’s too late.
“Willow!” Paige calls from the door. “Let’s talk about the next set!”
We finish the last gig at just after midnight. I’m sweaty and happy and full of the effervescence that always fills my body after a live performance. Some musicians like studio work, and I’ve done it to make ends meet, but the pleasure of playing for a crowd, seeing their faces and reactions, amping them up, is unmatched for me. My fiddling and singing meshed brilliantly with both Paige’s and Josiah’s, and as we start packing up, Paige is as high on the whole thing as I am. “That was brilliant!” she cries, lifting her hair off her neck. “I’m so glad you came. The crowd loved it, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. I love singing with you, always.”
“We sound good together,” she agrees and points with her bow at Josiah. “But seriously, you and Josiah should put something on tape. You have amazing stage chemistry. That was outrageous.”
I nod. “It was really good.”
“You can come play with us anytime,” she says. “I mean it.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on that, but I’ve got to find something that pays substantially.”
“I totally get it. I’ll keep an ear open.” She stops and frowns. “Seems like I heard about somebody who needs a violinist for a baroque group. Interested in that?”
Baroque means a quartet playing chamber music for upscale parties, which is not my usual pleasure, but I’m in no position to be choosy. “If it pays, I’m interested.”
She grins. “I’ll look it up and text you.”
“Thanks.” I hug her, smelling the same faint sweat in her hair. “Let’s get a meal soon and catch up for real.”
“How’s your aunt doing?”
“Oh, she’s great. Get this: she’s an Instagram influencer. G-L-O-R-I-A,” I say, spelling it out.
“Like the Van Morrison song?”
“Exactly.”
“God, she’s a hoot. I’m going to look her up.”
“Hey,” I say, swinging my case over my shoulder.
“Yeah?”
I think of us at sixteen, planning futures of stardom. The stardom that hasn’t materialized for either of us. “Don’t give up yet.”
She tsks, looks away. “Not quite yet. But I’m not you, Willow. I don’t have that thing, whatever it is. The magic.”
The word sparks against the flint of my sense of loss. I feel it, know it’s true. There’s something alive and longing for expression in me that wants outlet through music, and I can’t imagine what my life will be, who I will even be, if I have to give it up. The idea causes physical pain in my ribs. “That’s not—”
“Please.” She holds up a hand, and I see that she’s tired, really tired, and I wonder what it would be like to play a club six nights a week, month in, month out. “I’m pretty clear about who and what I am.” She hands me a thin packet of folded bills. “It’s all good.”
“Thanks.” We hug again, quickly, and I head out, still buzzing. Out on the street, I’m a little
turned around and pull out my phone to check the location of the closest subway station. There’s another message from Sam, and this time, she sounds very drunk. “It’s all for nothing, right?” she says. “I need to order some avocados, and there are none in the forest.”
I frown. “What the hell?” My stomach squeezes. This is so very unlike my self-sufficient sister. The message came in just a half hour ago, so I punch the return and call her back.
No answer. I call again, and a third time. It just goes to voice mail.
Damn. I need to swing by there, but I’m not sure the same train goes to Harlem.
“Where are you headed?” says an unmistakable voice.
I turn, and Josiah is standing there, looking much less alternative in a black camel hair coat and a hat that covers his hair. He’s donned a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that give him a more serious aspect. “Upper West Side. How about you?”
“Morningside. Want to share a cab?”
I wave a hand. “Ugh. No. I’m taking the train.”
“Nah, c’mon.” A taxi rolls up, and I realize he must have already ordered it. “My treat.” He opens the door, and I don’t really want to take that long train ride, so I duck into the back seat. He slides in after me, gives an address. “You?”
I give my aunt’s address. He raises an eyebrow. “Fancy.”
“My mother bought it when she had a hit album, back in the late seventies.”
“Ah, you said. Billie Thorne is your mother.”
“Yes,” I say with a smile. In the close confines of the cab, he seems longer, broader. He smells of hair oil and a nearly worn-away cologne and the heat of our performance. It prickles along the edges of my nerves, filled no doubt with pheromones, and I realize it has been months and months since I’ve had sex.
No. I slam the door.
He measures me for a moment. “That’s quite a legacy.”
“Yeah. It’s a lot to live up to.”
“I can see that. But you’re an entirely different kind of musician.”
“Not really. She was electric guitar and rock and roll, but the roots are the same.”
“Yeah? In what way?”
I take a breath, looking out toward the dark expanse of the river, lights sparkling in buildings on the other side, both cold and inviting, life and challenge. “So many things, but the main thing was that she loved the Child Ballads and they informed most of her songs. Not in the same way they inform what I do, but in that sense of the doomed lovers and women having to twist themselves into pretzels to escape some terrible fate.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. ‘The Wager,’” he says, referring to one of her songs. “I can see that.”
It’s hard to get used to that voice, so very deep and resonant. Every word sounds a hundred times more important.
“What was she like as a mom?”
“I was only nine when she died,” I say, dodging. People always want this information, but I worry that I’m going to lose the small bits of her I actually remember. “My aunt raised me for the most part. And my sister.” I look at the phone, but there’s nothing from Sam. To shift the conversation away from me and my family, I ask, “Where are you from?”
“Northern California originally. Grew up on the circuit of Ren Faires.”
“Ah! That’s why we meshed so easily onstage!”
“You grew up in Faires?”
“No, but I spent almost ten years touring with them, a band called MoonDance Fiddlers.”
“After my time.”
I incline my head. “Did you like it? Hate it?”
“It was good. The whole family had gigs. My dad was a juggler. My mom was a serving wench and dancer, and my siblings and I had an act singing ballads. I can play recorder like a champ.”
I laugh, and it’s the kind of belly laugh that loosens all the tension. “I bet you were a hit.”
“Thank you. I like to think so.”
“I loved the Faires,” I say.
“I did when I was small. It’s a free way of living, and we were homeschooled, so I had a prime education.” He shrugs. “It gets old after a time.”
“I can see that. Are your parents still doing it?”
“No, my dad got cancer about ten years ago, and they settled down in Marin County. My mom grew up around there, and she’s really happy to be back, I think. My sister lives nearby and looks out for them.” We’re crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, and lights flash over his face, illuminating a cheekbone, the edge of his jaw. “My dad’s fine now, goes fishing like a proper old man.”
“That’s the kind of childhood I longed for. So normal.”
He laughs, and that sound, too, is deep and evocative. “In Ren Faires?”
“No. Two parents. Siblings. A dad who goes fishing. That sounds pretty stable to me.”
“I have to admit it was pretty good. I have a good family.”
“How did you end up in New York?”
He looks at me. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You don’t have to answer,” I say with a shrug. “Just making conversation.”
“Mmm.” I hear the rumble along my wrists, the edge of my collarbones. “Deflecting, I think.”
I meet his gaze. “Maybe.”
“All right, Willow, daughter of Billie, I’ll play. I won a scholarship to NYU for undergrad, and the minute I got here, I knew it was my place.”
“Did you study music?”
“Literature. I’m a writer.”
It’s my turn to measure him. “It wasn’t heartbreaking enough to just have one creative passion?”
He laughs softly. “It’s not so bad. The music is play, and I’ve never expected the writing to make money.”
“Ah, so you have a day job.” It’s something I might have to figure out if the contest doesn’t pan out. I almost have to win rather than just place. Anxious little gremlins scurry around my body, and I shove the thoughts away.
“Not a day job,” he says. “My main gig. I’m a professor.”
In Morningstar Heights. “At Columbia?”
“Yes.” That’s all, just that simple affirmation.
He waits for my reaction, and it does take a couple of seconds to rearrange my assessment of him. The wild clothing is a costume, the music for play, the Ren Faire childhood. I try to imagine him in a blazer and jeans, or maybe a suit. “With all that entertainment background, I bet you’re a great teacher.”
He smiles, eyes as sleepy-dangerous as a tiger’s. “Hope so.”
My sister’s dig runs through my mind. I’m sure you’ll find a guy soon enough. I force myself to look away.
A news story on the back seat console shows a man in handcuffs in some European setting, being led away by police in black uniforms. The voice-over says he has been arrested in connection with a number of missing pieces of art. I’ve heard the news a few times, but this time they flash four photos of still-missing pieces, and the second one electrifies me. A Renoir landscape worth millions.
I stare, mouth dry.
The screen shows a well-tended woman of a certain age being arrested in Amsterdam, then flashes back to the man in his late seventies. His hair is thick and wavy, and I can imagine that he was quite the thing years ago.
“This is a pretty interesting story,” Josiah says. “Have you seen it? All the elements. Art, theft, Nazis, romance.”
“Romance?”
“Dude was a bit of a player. Women carried the paintings for him. This lady here was arrested because of a painting that’s been lost for over three hundred years.”
“Huh.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Maybe I have. I know that Renoir.
It hangs in the parlor.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I turn it over, hoping it’s Sam. Instead, it’s Gloria. Have you heard from your sister? She left me a weird message.
“Sorry,” I say to Josiah. “My aunt.” I’m already typing. She left me a weird message too. I’m on the way ho
me. Should I stop by her apartment?
If you wouldn’t mind.
Done.
“Change of plan,” I say. “I need to check on my sister. She’s on One Hundred Twenty-First Street. We can drop you first.”
“No, no. My original offer stands—we’ll drop you first.” He glances at his phone. “It’s getting pretty late. Why don’t I wait?”
I realize it’s nearly 2:00 a.m. I hesitate. “No, I have an app.”
“As you wish, good lady.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” I say in my best Ren Faire accent. But I’m calculating now how much of that fifty dollars I’m now going to spend on cab fare.
As for the painting, it can’t possibly be real. I’m just getting carried away. Why would my mother have a Renoir? How would she have connected to some suave Romeo? Not really her type.
Unless it wasn’t my mother.
Maybe it’s Gloria. I mull this over in silence, staring out the window at storefronts and rain-shiny sidewalks reflecting squiggles of light. Is this why she seems so distracted?
At Sam’s building, I check for my phone and purse and violin, then open the door. “Thanks.” I pause. “I’d love to jam with you again. That was some magic on that stage.”
“Definitely. Do me a favor, will you?” Josiah asks. “Text me when you’re home safely.”
“I will.”
He holds out his hand for my phone, and I give it to him. I watch him type in his number, trying not to notice his long, graceful fingers, his broad palms. He hands it back. “Be safe.”
“Thanks.” I close the door and suck in a lungful of cold air to cool off. He’s just one of those men. I’m sure every woman—and no doubt plenty of men—he meets has at least one tiny moment of awakening in his presence.
I have the code to the main door and let myself in, then take the elevator upstairs. All is silent. At Sam’s door, I listen for any sounds, and apart from the television across the hall, there’s nothing. I knock and wait.
Nothing.
I don’t want to pound too much because of the other people on the floor, so instead, I knock again and call her on the phone at the same time. When her voice mail picks up again, I say, “Hey, I’m outside your door. Open up. Gloria is worried about you. So am I.”
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