by Leslie Leigh
“I thought it sounded great!” I said. “That was fun! Good choice!” Gary directed us to the next piece, a ballad, and picked up his tenor saxophone. Tommy pretty much stuck with rhythm on this one, keeping up a steady strum. I patterned my playing on a piano accompaniment, with spare bass notes, some chord accents, and the occasional fill between Gary’s breaths. But this was Gary’s showpiece, and he channeled a rich, languid, Ben Webster-ish tone. It was so soothing, as if a calm voice was whispering in my ear.
Mr. Van Dyke went around the practice area, dimming the lights to match the mood of the song, swaying as he flitted about as unobtrusively as possible. Fortunately, there were no major changes that necessitated us referencing the sheet music in the faint light.
“Very nice, Gary,” I said. “Very nice.” Tommy nodded his approval.
“Well, I don’t know if Saturday’s crowd will appreciate something like that, but it’s nice to have a few of those chestnuts in reserve, just in case.”
“Oh, sure,” Mr. Van Dyke agreed. “You can always count on a couple of old farts like me to show up at these things!”
Tommy held up his empty can. “I’m gonna get another drink, okay?”
“Melody,” Mr. Van Dyke said, following Tommy toward the stairs. “I put on the kettle. Would you care to join me in an Earl Gray?”
“That would be lovely!”
“Make it three, Dad. Would you like some help?” Gary asked.
“Tommy will help. Be right back.”
Gary smiled at me and collected the sheets from the stands. He stopped and looked toward the stairs, as if checking to make sure they’d gone up. Then he stepped closer to me.
“Melody, I-I hope I didn’t make you feel awkward last night when I asked about staying at a motel.”
“Oh, no,” I lied. “You were being very considerate, and I appreciated it.”
“Because I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize our friendship. Or our musical partnership. I mean, if you weren’t comfortable going out on a gig with me because you thought I was going to…that I….”
“What? Make a move on me?” I asked, as if the possibility were unthinkable. “Never!”
Gary nodded, somewhat uncertainly, I thought, as if he realized he might have phrased things better.
“Having said that,” I continued, “I think I’m a good judge of when a friend is concerned about a friend’s welfare, or whether that friend would like to, perhaps, be more than just friends with that friend. But nobody’s infallible, right? ESP isn’t one of my strengths. So if a friend were to want to take the relationship into another realm, he might preface a proposal for an overnight stay by discussing his feelings for her, or if he’s not particularly verbally-oriented, then he might opt to express those feelings by such traditional gestures as bestowing flowers or candy, or just asking her out on a non-work-related night on the town. Does that help?”
Part of me wanted to run screaming and laughing up the stairs until I fled the house, but I just fixed him with raised eyebrows and a steady stare, as if to ask, “Any questions?”
I thought I could almost smell his synapses sizzling and shorting, but soon he recovered.
“I like what you said,” he said. “I mean, I’m not sure what you said, but I liked it.”
“Naturally.”
Tommy descended the stairs carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups, along with a conspicuous can of Red Bull, with Mr. Van Dyke following behind.
“What say we all take five and enjoy some tea?” Mr. Van Dyke said, pointing us toward the sofa. Tommy deposited the tray on the coffee table.
Picking up his cue, Gary began playing the opening melody of the Dave Brubeck classic, ‘Take Five.’ Although the composer, Paul Desmond, played alto sax on the original, it sounded quite cool in the tenor’s lower register.
“I’ve got to learn how to play that,” I said, “although I’m not sure how it would sound on accordion.”
“It would probably lose all sense of coolness,” Gary deadpanned.
“Don’t be so sure,” his father countered. “I would have never imagined that Ives’ ‘America’ could have been adapted for accordion, but Melody certainly set me straight. That was absolutely brilliant, my dear. Brilliant. By the way, if you missed the review they published in the Crawford Caller, I bought several copies and you’re welcome to one. I even framed one to hang by the accordion display in the store; unfortunately, at present, it’s hanging above empty shelves!”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, shaking off the nagging voice of my mother echoing in my head.
“And Melody, I know we never discussed it, but I do plan on showing my appreciation for your efforts. The ‘Accordion Extravaganza’ promotion could not have been more successful. I’ve had to invest the money from our sales into more product, but once those come in….”
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Van Dyke. It was my pleasure. And, yes, I did get a copy of the Caller’s review. I think Mom bought out the newsstand at the drug store!”
“Well, just know that I haven’t forgotten you, Melody. And by the way, at least eight of the ten sales we made will require some level of instruction, so I hope you can find time to share your skills with them…soon.”
“Sure,” I replied, considering my schedule. “Now that school’s out, the library will be closed on Mondays, so I’ll work Tuesday through Friday and a half a day on Saturday. I don’t have a problem with Sunday lessons. I just don’t know how Mom would feel about being subjected to it.”
“You’re welcome to use the rehearsal room at the store anytime, including evenings or weekends. If you’d like, I’ll get you a key. That might be better in the long run: it would be less intrusive for both you and the student. You let me know your availability and I’ll contact the customers and set things up. I’ll try to keep the schedule as tight as possible so you’re not getting whiplashed running back and forth.”
“Thanks, Mr. Van Dyke. I will. May I ask you a question?”
“Sure, sweetie. What is it?”
“Could I call you something less formal than Mr. Van Dyke? I don’t know…how about Mr. VD? Or Van Dyke the Elder?”
He chuckled. “Can’t say I care for either of those, my dear. Why don’t we just settle on Zak? It might feel awkward for a little while – it took Gary days before he could call me by my name without stuttering – but before you know it, it’ll flow easily from the tongue.”
“I’m sure it will, Zak,” I agreed. Well, that was a relief.
Zak frowned. “I just wish you guys would let me go out on the road with you sometime. I could play bass, or keyboards, whatever you need. Maybe I could meet a woman with a fetish for older musicians!”
“That’s my dad,” Gary smiled proudly. “But who’d mind the store if we were all out touring together?”
“I know, I know,” Zak muttered. “It’s just not fair, being stuck behind a counter all day. Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to that guy who wanted to devote himself to playing music and just having fun. Where did that guy go?”
I stared at him until the lines in his forehead disappeared. “He’s still there, Zak. I can see him.”
Chapter 5
Monday at work, I felt more upbeat than usual, knowing it would be my last Monday at the library till the school year cranked up again. The morning flew by and I was surprised when Margaret showed up to relieve me for lunch. I grabbed a quick bite at Mom’s and when I returned, I heard a series of sneezes as I walked up the steps to the main room.
Margaret sat at my desk; her eyes were watering as she blew her nose. She pointed at a bouquet of flowers on the desk. “Those…those are for you. Ah-choo!”
“Margaret, are those flowers making you sneeze? Well, get up and get away from them, you poor thing.” Bless her heart, Margaret was as dedicated as they come, but there’s dedication and then there’s masochism.
The bouquet was mostly composed of Forget-Me-Nots. I looked for a card, but there
was none. “Who brought these by, Margaret?”
“A delivery man,” she sniffled. “He didn’t give me his name.”
“Actually, I was more interested in who sent them rather than who delivered them. I don’t see a card.”
“Maybe you could call the flower shop. It was Jameson’s…or was it Clare’s? Ah-choo! I’m sorry, I’m not that familiar with them because of my…ah-choo!...allergies. But looks like whoever sent them wants to remain anonymous. Oh, Melody, you have a secret admirer! How…ah-choo!…romantic!”
“It’s alright, Margaret. I have a pretty good idea who sent them,” I smiled. It appeared that my brief chat with Gary last night had paid dividends. Forget-Me-Nots? Jeez, it had only been half a day since we were last in each other’s company but, nonetheless, the sentiment was sweet. Gary had left for Chicago today and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday evening. Did he think he would be forgotten over the course of two days?
“By the way,” Margaret said in a hushed voice, “I heard from a source at the courthouse that the prosecutor will decide this week what charges will be brought against Bob Christian, that man who killed that woman with the crossbow.”
“Oh, really?” There had been a dearth of information in the media regarding developments in that case. “Margaret, would you do me a favor and let me know if you hear any updates from your source? I’m not always tuned into the local news, and I’m kind of busy getting ready for a wedding this Saturday. I’m helping to provide the music.”
“Okay,” Margaret whispered, giving me a wink. “Oh, that must be Tiffany Ashcroft’s wedding!” Her voice dropped back to a whisper. “Did you know she’s marrying her boss? They say he’s older than her father!” She stared with an eyes-wide-opened expression at the mention of these scandalous revelations.
“I had heard that,” I replied. “Well, all we can do is wish her well and hope that her decisions bring her happiness, eh?” As much as I would have liked to bond with Margaret at Tiffany’s expense, I felt that it would be hypocritical of me to trash a client.
“I suppose you’re right,” Margaret agreed reluctantly. She leaned in closer. “But still…everyone in town is absolutely shocked.”
I nodded, but my attention was drawn to a drop of fluid quivering on my desk. I looked up at Margaret, hoping that it might be a tear, but no such luck. She followed my gaze and her face twisted in mortification. She wiped furiously at the spot with her tissue while I made a mental note to douse my workstation with disinfectant after she’d left.
Chapter 6
That evening, I was surprised to get a call from Gary. Perhaps, I thought, absence does make the heart grow fonder. He was calling from a hotel outside Chicago. Having picked up the accordion – a “special order,” he explained – then he’d continue on to Indianapolis for another pickup and then on toward home, unless he ran out of steam and had to spend another night along the way.
“So why don’t we plan on a Wednesday night practice? Will that work for you?”
“Fine with me,” I said, wondering how to approach the topic of the bouquet delivery. “I appreciate the heads-up.”
“Another reason I called,” he continued, “was because I received an email from Tiffany Ashcroft. Her fiancé does have a preference for their first dance at the reception. It’s called ‘Since I Fell for You.’ Not the Buddy Johnson song, in case you’re familiar with that. It’s from the doo-wop era. I’ll forward her email with the link so you can check it out.”
“Cool. Anything else?”
“Nah. I’m kind of beat. I ordered a pizza. I’ll see if I can find a movie on the tube; otherwise, I’ll call it a night and get an early start. Anything new happening with you?”
“Well, now that you ask, I did receive a special delivery at work today.”
“Oh, yeah? Like, a book order? CDs?”
“No, something more organic,” I teased. There was a pause, after which I thought Gary would come clean.
“Well, that’s nice,” he said. “Oh, it sounds like the pizza is here.”
“Yes, it was very nice,” I blurted. “It was an anonymous gift, actually.”
“Oh, really?” Gary said coyly. His voice became strained as he walked about the room. “A fan, perhaps? You should probably get used to that sort of thing, Melody. After all…how did that guy put it? You really know how to squeeze that box, or something like that? Hey, sorry, but I’ve got to go. The pepperoni is calling.”
“Enjoy,” I said, feeling slightly deflated. Why didn’t he just ‘fess up and take credit for the flowers? Maybe the act was so alien to Gary’s nature that he felt he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. After all, if you can’t express to someone how you feel about them, how are you going to own up to something as romantic as sending a bouquet? I guess that’s why he wanted to remain anonymous.
Later, I received the email and checked out Charlie’s song request. It sounded like something from the doo-wop era, with the standard C, A-minor, F and G pattern. The lyrics, not surprisingly, detailed how smitten the singer was with the object of his affection.
Since I fell for you, my whole world is spinning around,
Believe me, ‘cause it’s true, I may as well have hit the ground.
Etcetera.
Had Gary fallen for me? Not like a ton of bricks, all sudden-like, but more of a slow-motion tumble, a Peckinpah spill that had played out over the years we’d known each other? Did he now find himself like a beetle turned over on its back, helplessly smitten, his world spinning around?
For that matter, had I? Had the teenage crush I’d felt for him and kept down all these years, subjugated by logic and low self-esteem, now wriggled free? It was beginning to feel that way. I wasn’t trying to force it to happen, but now that the possibility of our relationship evolving beyond friendship inched toward reality, I found myself very much wanting it to happen.
The problem, of course, is that both Gary and I were apprehensive about compromising that friendship by injecting a romantic element that the other might reject. Someone had to make the first move. Unfortunately, it looked like it might be up to me
Chapter 7
Tuesday contained an element of déjà vu. Again, upon my return from lunch, another gift awaited me. This time, a large parcel sat on my desk. A label warned that the contents should remain refrigerated. The return address only showed the name of the company.
“It’s a gift basket!” Margaret exclaimed. I was relieved that she didn’t appear to be having an allergic reaction to the package. Two older, female patrons looked up from their magazines as if they were awaiting the unveiling.
I cut along the cardboard seams with a letter opener and opened the flaps. Lo and behold, as they used to say. It was a gift basket, filled with an assortment of chocolate goodies and an adorable little Teddy Bear.
“Isn’t that just the cutest thing?” Margaret gushed. The two women glanced at each other and smiled.
“It sure is, Margaret,” I agreed. A little too cute, I thought to myself, but he meant well. A card inside identified the sender only as ‘An Admirer.’ “Would you care to try something here before I pop it in the fridge?”
“Oh, it all looks scrumptious, Melody. Thank you, but no…it’s too personal a gift to share.”
I looked up at the two ladies, beckoning with the basket, but they just smiled and looked down at their magazines. I walked to the break room with my gift basket, wondering how long it would take this tiny spark of interest to fan into a wildfire of gossip capable of engulfing the entire town. I hoped that when Gary returned, he’d step out from the shadows so we could address things face-to-face; otherwise, I had no recourse but to play coy as inquiring minds approached me seeking more titillating tidbits of information.
***
I was almost relieved when Wednesday passed without yet another delivery. I sensed that Margaret was somewhat disappointed that there were no singing telegrams or skywritten declarations of love.
“Did yo
u find out who your secret admirer is, Melody?” she asked when I’d returned from lunch.
“Not exactly,” I replied. “He still hasn’t revealed himself. Have you heard anything from your sources about the charges against Bob Christian?”
“No, and I just spoke with them yesterday,” she said, gathering her things to leave. “As soon as I get any information, you’ll be the first to know.”
That evening, the Gary Van Dyke Quartet (Minus One) convened once again in the Van Dyke basement. Tommy Blaine raised a can of Red Bull to acknowledge my entrance, but Gary didn’t even look up from sorting through a stack of sheet music. Undeterred, I set my accordion down and walked over to him.
“Welcome back, Gary,” I chirped, and gave him a big hug. I felt his body tense. Tommy froze in mid-chug, staring around the can at this public display of affection. Earlier, I’d fantasized about planting a smacker on Gary’s lips, but decided to trust my instincts, leaving that emotional escalation to remain in the realm of fantasy.
Oh, well, nothing ventured….
Getting down to business, we practiced for the next hour, running through a dozen tunes, including the ‘first dance’ number, “Since I Fell for You.” Gary crooned the lyrics in a silky, sincere voice, and Tommy threw some bluesy licks between lines. Tommy nailed an incredible solo mid-way, but when we finished, Gary decided to cut the solo and instead Tommy would just repeat the opening bars.
“The longer they dance, the more awkward it’ll get, so let’s keep it tight,” Gary explained. Tommy took it well, just nodding. He knew he had other opportunities during the set to shine.
All told, we had a repertoire of over fifty songs of all kinds: waltzes, some funkier pop pieces, some swing, and many that fell between ‘a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll.’ We relied on the sheet music for many, something that most of your wedding-frat party variety bands would never do, but then we were a pretty subdued ensemble. We didn’t unison dance while we played, and we didn’t employ any pyrotechnics. We weren’t ‘show biz’ at all. We just played the music well and hoped that the audience felt this was enough.