Pick up the Pieces

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I missed her. I missed her humor and her musical talent and the way she’d looked after me, like a younger sister, up until the month before the dance. I stared at the poems for what must have been another thirty minutes before I realized I was so tired even an address or phone number with the words, “Find Marigold here,” wouldn’t mean a thing to me.

  I put the rest of the poems into the box and shoved it back inside the closet. I had three new songs to present to sing at the dance, and for possible inclusion into the cd.

  Exhaustion and sadness both hit and hit hard. Singing, dealing with way too many memories, Arianna’s disappearance, the tension at the studio, including and increasing after meeting Saffron, trying to decipher meaning in meaningless lyrics and the late hour had caught up with me. I lay down on the bed and didn’t move until Junie woke me the following afternoon in time to eat another monstrous meal and get ready for what was bound to be an even more monstrous rehearsal.

  Chapter 17

  I was rested, my brain felt clear for a change, and I was raring to go for tonight’s rehearsal. Unfortunately, I appeared to be the only member of the band who was ready. The atmosphere in the old theatre was strained. Yellow crime scene tape still blocked off portions of the parking lot for yards around the area where Arianna’s car had been abandoned, even though scores of searchers had tracked through the lot and the grounds behind it for the last day and a half. I assumed the police or some crime scene forensics crew had towed the car off to wherever evidence goes in missing persons cases so they could sift through without interference and hopefully find something which could lead them to the missing girl. But it was eerie walking through the lot. This was last place Arianna Prentice had been seen.

  The old ballroom wasn’t as crowded tonight with sorority and fraternity kids or local folks wandering in from outside, but Pieces still had a nice audience. I should say that part of Pieces had a nice audience because we weren’t playing with a full deck. Specifically, we were absent one other person. Our newest band member, Saffron Baker, had yet to make an appearance. I debated whether we should ask one of the many co-eds who were enamored with Pieces if she’d like to sit in, and tell Saffron she was out before she was officially in.

  As if she’d been waiting for me to get to the point of proposing her imminent firing, the tardy soprano came sauntering through the lobby doors, followed by an entourage of frat boys who seemed eager to hold those doors for her. The guys carried two bulging carryall bags up to the stage, and then deposited them in front of the music stand I had been using. I half expected them to walk backwards, blowing kisses and ‘salaaming’ Saffron Baker after she’d ascended the stairs and taken her place behind my stand.

  I shrugged, and then calmly rearranged my own music on a different, extremely lopsided stand I found taking up space on a far corner upstage. Neither an accustomed spot nor a sturdy stand was worth starting World War Whatever, especially since I knew all the music and didn’t need a stand.

  “Nice of you to visit,” Cam remarked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  Saffron smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

  I quickly forestalled the volley of anger building up and preparing to rain down from Cameron. “So, guys? Want to hit Chains first? Saffron? You good?”

  She fixed her steely blue gaze my way. “Whatever. I’m fine. I’m sure you all need the extra warm-up. Personally, I’m ready to sing something real.”

  “Fine. Let’s go with some of the numbers we can use this weekend.”

  We got eclectic, starting with a couple of Pat Benatar numbers from the Eighties and—just for me—the Gracie Slick Sixties classic Somebody to Love. We were into it. A united group; performing solidly. Having fun. Making great sounds. Until Saffron held up her hand, called “Time!” and jumped down off the stage.

  Walking out of rehearsal before finishing the set (especially after being late) was too much to tolerate, even for someone with Saffron’s considerable talent. Cam’s face flushed bright red. “Wait! Saffron, we’re not finished rehearsing. We haven’t even started the numbers with the hardest harmonies.”

  Saffron stopped, turned and glared at him from twenty feet away. “I have things to do. What don’t you understand? Train your ears to listen, Felsen.”

  “What I don’t understand is why you assume you can waltz in and out of rehearsal when quite frankly, Ms. Baker, you’re on probation here. After all, you’re not yet officially hired.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” Cam’s voice grew calm. Bad sign. When Cam shifted from yelling his displeasure to toning down to a near whisper, it meant he was heading from mild anger into deep rage. “Yes, Saffron, you have a great voice. Yes, it blends well with Pieces. But if you’re going to continue the spoiled diva routine, we can do quite well without you. I realize you have some other supposedly vital commitment, even though you refuse to elaborate on what it is, but you claimed you could give us the time. If you can’t, then tell us now before we’re too far into this to hire someone else. As for tonight, we have another hour to go and several numbers requiring a soprano lead. Now either move your butt, get back onstage, and leave the blow-off attitude at the door, or feel free to walk through any exit and forget you ever knew us. I’m sure there are at least five music majors among the sorority girls here in the ballroom who would love to have the chance to sing.”

  I could feel my eyebrows lift about an inch, especially since Cam seemed to be willing to go with what had only been an unstated thought in my mind earlier. Dusty spun around on his stool behind the keyboard to stare. A low chuckle sounded from the back of the stage as Nic leaned back in his chair and prepared to watch the showdown. I was becoming as angry as Cam. But we didn’t need a battle royal in the Palace so I took a step down and put my hand over Cam’s arm to forestall any rash moves on his part.

  Saffron sneered. “Well, well. Cameron Felsen, dictator. Are you the leader now? Finally stealing Marigold’s place? She never would have talked to me the way you just did and you’re not half the talent she was. Who elected you to order everyone around? Shit. You’re probably the one who wanted rid of Marigold in the first place. Or was it Miss Becerra there?” Her volume rose. “Exactly who in this damned group destroyed one of my best friends ever?”

  I was ready to leap off the stage and tackle her. I’d reached the point of not caring whether the band or anyone else ever had a chance to hear the purported four-octave range of Saffron Baker. My anger threatened to spill into tears. I hadn’t wanted to come to this horrid reunion dance. I hadn’t wanted to see, be near, or relive the same feelings for the man I’d loved ten years ago, now rumored to be involved with this demonic woman who didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass she was causing totally unnecessary angst during one stupid rehearsal. I hadn’t wanted to dredge up memories of Marigold Blume and what might have happened to her. I hadn’t wanted to face the reality I’d wished Marigold gone forever and she’d disappeared. And now this pintsized Marigold clone was actually accusing me ofwhatmurdering Marigold?

  Cam ran down the steps before anyone had the chance to grab him.

  Glenn and Stone both jumped up from their tablethere were no girls sitting with them tonightand started for the stairs. Cam waved them away. “Sit down! This is a band problem and the band will take care of it.”

  Stone blinked. “What the hell? Dammit, Cameron! I’ve kept your lousy van in shape for ten years, even after you took off to Houston. I used to come to every session I could when I was in high school and carry equipment in and out of half the clubs in Texas. I’ve been sitting in this stupid ballroom and going to Manny’s to support you. If I’m not part of the band, I don’t know who the crap is. I guess being Marigold’s brother doesn’t count anymore?”

  Glenn chimed in, “Stone’s right. And as manager I definitely consider myself part of the band.”

  Cam glared at him. “Yeah. Some great manager. You led us right into this mess with Saffron and this stinkin’ c
d in the first place.” Then he looked at Stone. “I’m sorry, Stone. I . . .we . . . do consider you a part of the band. I’m not trying to exclude you. In fact I’m trying to protect you. You shouldn’t have to mess with the squabbles. You don’t need the additional strife.”

  A voice from the stage spoke up before Cam or Stone or Glenn could further damage the situation. “Saffron! Stop hassling Cam and Bebe, and everybody else. We have less than a week to bring it all together and everyone is nervous and tense. You love causing grief and strife, and normally that’s a big kick, but for one small week let it be, okay? We need your voice. But you told me you badly wanted to be included so you need us as well. Would you kindly stay another thirty minutes so we go can over the songs where you carry lead vocals?”

  Saffron smiled at Nic. The peacemaker still seated behind his drums. “Well, about bloody time. Since someone with a brain has weighed in, I’ll be glad to stay.”

  Cam had been struck speechless. He turned and slowly climbed the few steps back to the stage. I nudged him and whispered, “Let it be. She’s ours for the next half hour. Let’s take advantage of it.” I glanced around the ballroom. The few kids left were focused on the confrontation, while pretending not to hear us. The band needed to chill and to finish rehearsal with a female menace who was now smiling and winking at Nic Jericho. I shut my eyes for a moment, silently vowing not to grab one of Nic’s cymbals and bash it over her unnaturally blonde head.

  I left Cam’s side and moved back over to my spot, then watched as Saffron sensuously made her way back up the three steps. She nodded quite pleasantly and said, “Well, I vote we do the Annie Lennox number, Sweet Dreams. Give Bebe a chance to do her stuff and give my voice a rest until the harmonies.”

  I was agreeable. I was sorting through a stack of sheet music for the song when Saffron delivered the punch line. “Plus, she needs the practice.”

  I bit my lip, sank completely down to the floor and started digging into my bag as an excuse not to look at Saffron, holding back the desire to tell her she could damned well harmonize with herself since she was Miss Perfect. A hand reached down and helped me back to my feet. Nic. He whispered, “She’s trying to goad you, Bebe. Believe me, she’s aware of your talent. So go knock the socks off the wench. Your musical chops are far better even though you don’t seem to believe in yourself. Use them.”

  He grinned at me in much the same way my dog, Clyde, grins in delight after he finishes demolishing a bone from the butcher. I took a deep breath. I nodded at Cam to take Sweet Dreams from the top. I then proceeded to sing the living fool out of it. Cheers rang out from the remaining pledges and frat boys. They rang out from the table where Glenn, Clifford and Stone were sitting. They rang out from all guys in the band.

  Saffron said nothing. She merely smiled, then called out a the titles to three songs requiring a coloratura capable of hitting high notes I figured would make a Metropolitan Opera star blanch.

  I let it go. I sang the harmonies required in what appeared to have become a ‘sing off.’ Saffron finished her set. More cheers from all areas of the ballroom. Saffron bowed. She glided down the stairs on the left side of the stage, ending up beginning a slow promenade toward the exit closest to the parking lot.

  I glanced over at Glenn, who seemed to be warring between pleasure hearing the sounds from Pieces and his anger and hurt at Cam for shoving him out of the loop before.

  “Glenn? Whacha think? Was the mix okay?” I called out, then paused before awkwardly adding, “Hey, I’m sure Cam didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  Cam sheepishly added, “Glenn, Bebe’s right. I apologize. I swear Saffron devils the life out of me. I need to sit in a dark room with incense and chant soothing mantras to forget she exists. Talk about ironic. We were all so worried her looks would remind of us of Marigold we didn’t wonder whether her wacked personality would turn us into lunatics. A trait Marigold also displayed on more than one occasion.”

  Glenn beamed at both Cam and me. “No problem. No apology necessary. I’ve had dealings with Saffron on and off for about seven years. I’ve watched nuns filling out applications to become contract killers after thirty minutes in Ms. Baker’s presence. She does have a way of getting under the skin. Rather like lice and other small parasitic beasties.”

  I shook my head. “Shame she’s so blasted good. I can’t hate anyone with a voice so awesome. Not to mention she can be funny, although I’m not sure humor is her intention, and I’m scared to laugh in case she’s serious and she’ll beat the daylights out of me, even though I’m about a head taller.”

  A little brunette Beta Zeta sitting at the table with Stone and Glenn nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve heard her sing at clubs all over Austin. She’s awesome. I only hope I can sound half as good by the time I’m through with school. And I heard a rumor some producer is trying to get her to record on a major label.”

  Glenn held up his hand and pointed to the entrance of the ballroom. “She’s also back.”

  She was. Saffron slithered through the club up to the stage, finishing next to Nic, who was packing up his music. The pair exchanged a few words before a smiling Saffron oozed down the stairs and made her way to the exit door without a goodbye given to anyone else. Nic waved at us, then followed her.

  He was also smiling. I was not.

  Chapter 18

  “It appears Pieces is done for the night, doesn’t it? Apparently Miss Saffron has other plans. And now, uh, it looks like so does Nic.”

  Cam directed these comments to the ceiling. I didn’t speak. There was a burning sensation directly under my left rib. Either last night’s chili and tamale fest was catching up with me or I was suppressing the desire to light a match somewhere in the vicinity of Saffron Baker’s bag full of sheet music. Preferably while Nic Jericho was nearby.

  Whatever small claim I’d had on Nic ten years ago had grown tenuous in the days before Marigold vanished. It completely disintegrated the day his father finished turning me into a dishrag who didn’t have the nerve to speak up for herself. Yet the angry knot in my stomach, which had appeared following the exit of Nic and Saffron, kept tightening at an alarming rate.

  Cam shook his head. “Some things don’t change, do they?”

  I glared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I seem to recall seeing that exact look on your face one night when five girls surrounded the Mr. Jericho and towed him away saying they wanted an autograph.”

  My voice was raspy. “My recollection is that they wanted a lot more than his signature. I kept trying not to dwell on whether or not Mr. Jericho obliged.”

  Glenn soothingly said, “Bebe, you’re so wrong. It was always you. I remember Marigold talking about how crazy Nic was for you. She said he never felt even a quarter of those feelings for her when they dated. Even though she tried herbest. Umbefore Cam, of course.”

  “Her best what?” I asked.

  Cam tapped his knuckles gently on the top of my head. “Best as in maybe best not to know. Our Marigold could be, well, inventive when she wanted.”

  Stone chimed in with, “And persuasive. She could talk a chicken into a stove pot filled with boiling water when she put on the charm. The word ‘no’ was not in her vocabulary. Amazing. She generally took anything she wanted and oddly, no one ever seemed to mind.”

  I smiled for the first time in an hour. Stone was right. Marigold had used every bit of her charm and stubborn determination the day she’d cornered me outside of the choir practice rooms in the music school eleven years ago. The day I met Nic. The day Marigold Blume had decided the very young singer from Laredo would become part of Pieces.

  I was barely seventeen when I left home in search of a good education and I was youngest in my freshman class at Southwestern University. I’d landed in Georgetown with a full scholarship to the university, leaving behind a grandmother thrilled because her granddaughter would be the first in the family to attend college, a mother back in jail for shoplifting and a father I’d n
ever met who, for all I knew, might be dead. My childhood and adolescence had made me extremely independent, but also prickly, shy, terrified to confront anyone about anything and extremely distrustful. Once I’d hit Southwestern, I spent most of my free time safely ensconced in my dorm room. I religiously made all my classes (even the eight a.m. Chemistry for the Science-Challenged) and rehearsed with the Chamber Choir, never missing a practice. When I wasn’t in class or at rehearsal, I was off vocalizing by myself in a tiny room in the music building. I’d been practicing an aria from Carmen the day the door burst open on my private sanctum and a short, pretty and obviously demented woman with blazing blue eyes and a wild mop of curly blonde hair strode inside.

  “Nic. Nic. This is her. The girl. The one I told you about. Yes. I knew I’d find you, whoever you are. You’re fantastic! You’re coming with us.”

  The manic whirlwind had pulled the man standing outside the practice room in to stand with her. I still remembered feeling a wave of heat hitting me the instant I saw him. I stared at the girl and tried not to look athim. Lord Byron on a very good day. Bronte’s Heathcliff on a bad day, which was still awfully damned good. Gorgeous didn’t begin to cut it.

  I’d finally managed to squeak out, “Who are you people? And what do you want? This is my room ‘til five and I need to get this section down.”

  The blonde ignored my questions. “Come on. You’re ours for the rest of the day. If I’m rightand I always amyou’re ours for the rest of your life.”