by Roscoe James
A long black grand piano sat to the back of the stage. A single chair, alone and on display, sat closer to the front of the stage. The air smelled of polished wood and something else. Something spicy. There were big candles on heavy floor stands strategically placed around the chairs. She walked past one, and her nose filled with the smell of frankincense. A disembodied voice announced that everyone should be seated, and Jessie dropped into the only empty seat nearby just as the lights dimmed. The cloud of murmuring drifted away, and a woman took the stage. She sat at the piano, shuffled music, and waited.
Someone coughed. Someone nearby whispered. A chair slid and made a popping noise. And the flock of birds that had been roosting in Jessie's chest since Marci left the night before stirred.
Applause started and Marci appeared. A peasant skirt of many colors swished around black boots with drooping cuffs. A simple white blouse with billowy sleeves completed the ensemble. Her hair was pulled back and puffed out in a wavy ponytail.
You're not the only one who can find people.
Jessie smiled and coughed into her hand, trying to clear the lump in her throat. Marci sat in the lone chair, and the applause died while she placed her cello, embracing it with her thighs. The lofty nave became still, and Marci raised her bow, her hand poised over the strings stretched tightly down the neck of her elegant instrument.
Cello and piano started together. The melody was familiar, and Jessie glanced at her program. “Liebesträume,” by Franz Liszt.
Jessie found herself swaying gently with the music. As Marci's bow pulled across the strings with the closing note, Jessie smiled. The nave was silent; then polite applause swelled. Jessie sat straighter in her chair, grinning like the love-struck fool she was.
The audience quieted, Marci poised over her cello again, and the most beautiful, most sublime sounds Jessie had ever heard before in her life poured forth. The piano danced a delicate duet as Marci led the hearts and minds of those lucky few who had chanced upon the old church that night across open plains, to the tops of high peaks, and tittering down into sonorous valleys filled equally with peril and delight.
Jessie was sure she was not witnessing the work of mere mortals. But instead the very spirit, the very soul, of God. She stopped glancing at her program and watched the finger of God flow from Marci's bow and touch each and every patron of the arts until eyes glazed over and lips parted in silent O's of delight.
When the music ended an hour later, the lights came up, and the polite applause was put aside for raucous adoration. Jessie jumped to her feet with everyone else and beat her palms until they burned. “Bravo, bravo,” rang out. Cries for an encore. Jessie couldn't stop grinning.
Marci stood, smiled, and bowed. She waved her arm expansively at her dance partner sitting at the piano. The woman also stood and took a bow. Marci bowed again and left the stage. Jessie's heart suddenly felt empty. She wanted to rush the stage and bring her back. To feel the touch of Marci's music again. And again. And forever.
The audience continued applauding, and Jessie could contain herself no longer. Forefinger and pinkie to lips, she let loose with a whistle that turned a few heads. People's polite smiles broke into laughs, and someone somewhere joined in.
After a full two minutes of thunderous applause, Marci reappeared escorting her cello, and the cacophony swelled. She stepped to the edge of the stage, and someone ran up with a bouquet of roses. Several others followed, and floral offerings were left on the edge of the wooden stage. Marci was gone before Jessie could carry her own meager gift forward.
Jessie contemplated what to do. The haunting of words said and many others that hadn't been said circled inside her head, making her dizzy. And still the applause continued.
This time when Marci returned, the audience quieted quickly and everyone took their seats. Marci stepped to the edge of the stage, smiled, and spoke. “Thank you. Thank you so much. As a few of you may know, this is my last performance here in LA for a while. I'll be starting my first world tour in a few days in London.” She was interrupted by more applause. Jessie's fingers came to her lips, and she stared dumbstruck. “Thank you again. I will miss you all. And I would like to leave you with something to remember me by for the five months I'll be away. This piece is one of my favorites. Something I play best when I'm in love.” Marci cocked her brow and regarded the audience. Finally she asked, “So, am I?”
The crowd tittered and laughed.
Marci returned to her seat, raised her bow, and said before she began, “A little Bach. And I'll let you be the judge.”
Marci smiled mischievously while everyone laughed.
Mouth agape, Jessie sat mesmerized and confused while Marci played more than just the strings on her cello. Each pull. Each slide. Every soulful glide of Marci's bow tugged at Jessie's heart and tormented her soul.
Jessie didn't know that Bach had written a love song just for her. Much less that it was prelude to an entire suite of love songs. She only knew that, as tears traversed her cheeks and fell freely to the bodice of her dress, love could, in fact, be roped in and defined. She lived every note, every nuance, every soft murmur of that definition while Marci played.
Too soon it ended. Too soon the audience was on their feet filling the lofty nave with more praise. And too late Jessie fell out of her heartsick stupor and jumped to her feet. Marci was gone. The stage lights were dimming. Jessie wiped her cheek, and a man standing next to her offered a crisply pressed handkerchief.
“Yes. Isn't she wonderful?”
Jessie dabbed her eyes, laughed, and said, “Yes. Yes, she is. World-class.”
The man accepted the return of his handkerchief and added, “Yes. And I'm very sure she's in love. Aren't you?”
Jessie didn't hear. She was lost in thought. Or just lost. She didn't know which.
* * *
Jessie fidgeted at the entrance to the grand recital hall, smoking, and endured the glares of people leaving. Her mind ran in a million different directions, none of them taking her where she wanted to go. She wanted to run to Marci and beg her forgiveness for being so selfish. For not seeing. She wanted to fall into Marci's arms and return her declaration of love.
But how can I? I didn't say it. I couldn't. And she's leaving. To run away or get away?
An usher appeared and asked if she would like to come inside while she waited. Jessie stared into the candlelit, wood-wrapped warmth of the empty nave, shivered, and declined. The doors closed, and she wandered to the sidewalk.
I'm the psycho woman. She came to her senses.
Jessie walked along the front of the old building until she could see down the side all the way to the alley. She spied a long black limousine sitting in the dark, parking lights on, waiting. She thought of rushing back and pounding on the doors of the church until the usher opened up and let her back in. Back into Marci's heart. But some habits are too ingrained. Too hard to break.
But she's in love! She said it! Why would she leave?
Instead she dropped the red rose on the sidewalk and put her engraved invitation in the small purse she carried. With resolution she turned to the traffic to watch for a cab.
No take-backs.
* * *
A block away from the church, bright headlights heading her way swerved to the curb, and a long black car glided to a stop. A window came down and there was Marci.
“Are we going your way?”
Jessie was surprised. Marci wasn't.
The door popped open while traffic honked and whizzed by. Jessie tumbled in and reached for Marci.
“I'd like you to meet my father, Alexander Dionysius. Father, this is Jessica Butler, the woman I told you about.”
The man was sitting on a bench seat that ran along the side of the length of the back interior of the long car. He was balancing Marci's cello case in the middle of the floor. Stocky build, salt-and-pepper hair, dark brooding eyes, and elegantly dressed in a tuxedo, he reached out a hand.
“You're the guitar p
icker.”
Was that disdain? Or is he just pissed about something?
“Nice to meet you, sir.” Jessie shook the man's hand and turned back to Marci. “I—”
“And tell me, Miss Butler—”
“Father. Don't bore Jessie with a bunch of silly questions.”
“I think I have a right—”
Something was wrong. The back of the car was a web of dynamics Jessie couldn't read, but she could tell something wasn't right. Marci sounded warm and polite. Even hospitable. But nothing more.
“We're going for a late dinner.” Marci interrupted and settled in her corner of the backseat. “You should come with us. A kind of christening before my maiden voyage. My agent's been trying to organize a world tour for me for more than a year. I turned her down again last week. I thought I might be busy. But things didn't work out. So I called her late last night and told her to go ahead. That there was nothing pressing to keep me from going.”
The back of the car grew as quiet as a morgue. Jessie blanched and tried to keep the tears at bay.
Nothing pressing to keep me from going. Marci's words played over and over in Jessie's head.
They arrived in silence and piled out of the car. Given Marci's father's presence, Jessie didn't reach for Marci's hand or try to pull her into her arms. But she wanted to. Every second of every minute Jessie caught herself holding her breath and holding back. The three of them walked into the restaurant together like any other normal people would. The maître d' addressed Marci's father by name and showed them to a secluded table away from most of the noise of the restaurant.
Marci was talking about her concert that evening. “I don't believe I've ever performed that well before. Ever. Do you, Father?”
“You were superb, dear.” The man waved for a waiter and stared openly at Jessie.
Jessie tried to lean close and whisper, but Marci busied herself with her linen napkin and kept talking. “A recital. Not really a concert. My farewell to LA. You see, I'm going on tour. I'll be traveling for five months. Oh, but I told you that, didn't I?”
Jessie wanted to scream. To grab Marci and kiss her mouth shut.
“Did I miss anything?” A woman's voice, heavy with an accent Jessie didn't recognize, stopped Marci talking. She looked across Jessie's shoulder and smiled brightly.
“I'm sorry I missed your recital, dear. But with organizing everything with such short notice, I just couldn't get off the phone.”
“Isabella.” Mr. Dionysius was on his feet shaking the hand of a tall, elegantly dressed woman. Her jet-black hair was coifed like that of some Jackie Onassis wannabe. After Marci's father released the woman's hand, her startling black eyes fell on Jessie. Marci's father went on. “Not a thing. We were just ordering drinks. Maybe a bottle of wine? Some champagne to celebrate?”
“Marci. Dear.” The woman walked around the end of the table, bent, and applied a chaste peck to Marci's cheek. “And you have a guest. How rude of me.”
A finely manicured hand poked the air a foot from Jessie's face.
“This is Isabella di Rossetti.” Marci's hand fell on Jessie's. “I believe I mentioned her. From my years at Juilliard? One of my professors. Isabella, this is Jessie.”
Jessie was suffocating. Their corner of the restaurant was uncomfortably quiet. She was sure she would die and be swept away with the remains of the day to the Dumpster out back. She finally managed to shove up from the table and take a step back.
“Oh! You are the—how do they say it?—guitar picker?”
“Me? Right! Yep!” Jessie's smile felt goofy even to her. “That's me. The guitar picker. If y'all 'll just give me a minute, I think I need to powder my nose. Nice to meetcha, Isabella.”
Jessie grabbed her small purse from the top of the table, turned, and walked quickly across the main floor of the restaurant. She felt light-headed. The room looped sideways. Her feet didn't want to cooperate. She held her hand out in case she fell.
She staggered past the maître d', past the bar, and through the foyer toward the front door of the restaurant. Just as she shoved past the doorman, a hand fell on her shoulder and pulled her back, spinning her around.
“Jessie.”
She stared wild-eyed at Marci, turned back around, and pushed through the door again into the crowd of parking guys and customers who were standing around. She yelled at no one in particular to get her a cab. On the sidewalk she strode to the corner of the restaurant, almost falling twice, doubled over, and swallowed to keep from throwing up. Sure she's in love. She's so in love she ran back to…
Marci touched Jessie's shoulder and whispered, “Jessie.”
“You fucking bitch. All you wanted to do was fuck some straight girl into loving—”
“Don't, Jessie. I can explain.” Marci was calm and composed.
“Not much to explain. Looks pretty simple to me. You went out and found—” Jessie was frantic.
“No. That's not it at all.” Marci's composure hurt more than any words.
“Then what the fuck is it?”
Marci looked over Jessie's shoulder at the valet crew milling around and shoved her down the side of the restaurant into a shadow.
Jessie pushed past Marci and started to walk away. “Maybe you're still trying to figure out if it was love or just sex. Is that it, Marci?”
“Don't, Jessie. Don't do this to us.” Marci reached out and pulled Jessie back.
“Us!” Jessie could feel her blood boiling. “You mean the three of us? You, me, and Isabella? Is she going to teach me about love too? Is that it, Marci? I couldn't say it, so you've found me a teacher?”
“Stop it, Jessie! How the hell do you think I found you walking along the road looking for a taxi?” Marci was indignant. “I saw you! The minute I took the stage, I saw you! It was all for you, Jessie. The best performance of my life? The question before the encore? All for you.”
Jessie hesitated.
Marci's countenance softened. “Yeah, I'm in love. I'm in love with you. You, Jessie. I waited in back for you after the recital hoping you'd come. Hoping you'd find me. And then you didn't. After we left I told our driver I'd forgotten something and had to go back so we'd have to drive in front of the church. I did that for you. For us. Don't you see?”
The only thing Jessie saw was that Marci was leaving and the only other woman Marci had ever professed her love to was being paraded in front of her like some stupid playground taunt. She stared at Marci and ground her teeth.
“Don't do this, Jessie. I'll be gone for almost five months.” Marci met Jessie's challenging gaze without hesitation. “Come back inside with me. Let's tell my father about us. You know I love you. He'll listen. I guarantee it. All you have to do is say it.”
Jessie felt a tear break loose and slide down her cheek. Someone yelled down the side of the building, “Your taxi's here, lady.”
She stared and said nothing.
“Okay. Then say it to me, Jessie.” Marci stepped closer, touched Jessie's hand, and implored. “Right now. Just say it.”
Jessie felt another tear break loose.
“If you're that ashamed of what we are, what you are, how can you ever expect to find love? You certainly won't find it in your little pink book.” The words were meant to hurt, and Marci hit the mark.
“At least I didn't call and have them all show up for dinner. Jesus, Marci! You're a real piece of work.”
“You think that's what this is? That I planned this? I had no idea you were going to show up tonight.” Marci reached for Jessie again. Her composure, real or feigned, hurt more than her words. “Hell, Jess, I didn't know if I'd ever see you again. Ever. Isabella is going on the tour with me. She speaks four languages. She knows my music. She's connected everywhere. She's taking a sabbatical to go with me.”
“And what else does Isabella do that I don't do?” Jessie shoved past and tried to escape.
Marci grabbed Jessie's arm and held her in place. Her words came out firm and unyielding.
“Jessie, I'm sorry this is all so fast. I really am. I know I'm pushing too hard, and that's not fair. But sometimes life isn't fair. One hot, muggy day in Memphis, you and I decided to sneak off and enjoy each other. I think we did. I know I did. But we got caught.”
Jessie tried to run, but Marci's fingers dug in.
“A year ago your sister thought she was in love. You proved her wrong and destroyed her life. But you were right. And now she's married to a wonderful man, a worthy man.”
Rage blossomed in Jessie's chest. Marci went on.
“My mother came home one day with the news that she had cancer. Six months later she was gone. Even with all the money and doctors my father threw at the problem, he couldn't save her. Life isn't fair, Jessie. It's messy and noisy and full of things we'd rather not see. But that's how life is.”
When Jessie pulled again Marci let go and whispered her final words.
“Sometimes there isn't time for neat and tidy. Sometimes you have to take a chance and hope things work out for the best. Don't go, Jessie. I need you. I love you. And I don't believe you'd be here if you didn't feel something for me that went beyond a bed and a lot of sweaty grunts and moans.”
Jessie's mind betrayed her heart, and her body obeyed. She turned away from the only person she'd ever met who could fill her eyes with tears of regret, and her first few steps turned into a mad dash as she searched frantically for her taxi. She curled into the backseat and cried. Her body shook with each mournful sob. Her driver dodged traffic like a madman trying to get the crazy woman to her destination before she really freaked out.
* * *
Jessie stripped her clothes off, grabbed her duffel bag, and pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt. Then she stuffed all her clothes in her bag, got the rest of her things, and checked out of her hotel. She waved a taxi down and headed for the Greyhound bus station.
She scrabbled around in her purse, trying not to cry, until she found what she was looking for. Jessie didn't know how it had happened. She'd found it tangled in her fingers when she was crying in the back of her taxi. It was shiny and looked brand new. Not a cheap trinket. Something nice. She ran her finger across the smooth gold finish of the nameplate and felt the ridge of the inscription.