Barely audible above the crackling logs, a woman said “Hello” from a doorway across the room. Tall and erect, she walked out of the shadows toward Devon with a silent tread, her green dress barely rustling. When she stepped fully into the light, what struck Devon was the unlined face and sharp eyes of a woman who, even with her long white hair, could be mistaken for fifty rather than seventy. More startling was how closely she resembled Adele, at Algiers, who could have been her daughter.
She extended her hand and looked Devon in the eye, not unfriendly but wary. “Joan Neptune.” Nodding toward the sofa, she sat down across from it.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Devon said.
“May I offer you something?”
“No, thanks.” Devon couldn’t help staring at her eyes, a deep amber that caught flashes of orange from the fireplace.
“Then we’ll get right to it,” she said, crossing her legs, revealing a pair of gold slippers embroidered with stars. “You’ve been speaking with Emmett Browne.”
“How—”
“Please. You mentioned something to the manager of my club that only Browne could have told you, about a letter in which Leonard Bechet says he gave my husband an Edison cylinder.”
Devon panicked. “Is there no such letter?”
“There’s a letter, all right, but Emmett Browne, the man who purchased it, has never made it public. And this isn’t the first time he’s tried something underhanded.”
Devon knew she had to come clean. “Yes, he did tell me about it.”
“Do you work for him?”
“No.”
“Did he pay you?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“What is it like, then? The truth, please.”
“I have been a jazz pianist and a music critic. I am going to write about Buddy Bolden. Browne had sent my grandmother a letter saying there was a matter he wanted to discuss. She died this month and they never spoke. But I met him yesterday and heard about the Bolden cylinder for the first time.”
“Why did he write to your grandmother?”
Devon hesitated. “I’m ashamed to tell you. My grandfather was Valentine Owen.”
Joan Neptune sat back slowly and looked hard at Devon. After what seemed like an eternity, she stood up and said, “Come with me.”
She led her, not to the front door, but farther into the recesses of the apartment, down a long hallway to a locked door. She opened a music box on a nearby shelf and took out a key. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. It was a double door, padded on the inside. The room within was pitch-dark and the air musty, as if it was rarely breathed. Joan Neptune threw a switch and three rows of track lights came on, blinding Devon before she realized she was standing in Sammy LeMond’s recording studio. Nothing had been changed since his death. The large room was a time capsule of 1970s technology: the recording console, synthesizers, wall speakers, hanging microphones, reel-to-reel tape recorders, and bulky amplifiers. Even the coffeemaker and refrigerator in the kitchenette. There was a Ludwig drum kit with yellowed skins and a Hammond organ beside an electric piano. Only the various brass instruments, a clarinet in an open case, and a standup bass were timeless. A plaid sport jacket was draped over a chair by the bass. A Stetson rested on the floor tom-tom. There was a pack of L&Ms on a music stand and a pair of black wraparounds on the console. At the center of the recording area, partitioned by corkboard panels, a trumpet sat on a stool atop a sheaf of sheet music. This had obviously been a place of high energy, of ferment. It saddened Devon, for just then the room could not have been more silent or still. The fact it was filled with objects, musical and personal, only made it feel that much emptier. When she looked at the instruments and half-closed her eyes, she could imagine, could almost hear, the music they would have produced. But she also felt the bottomless silence of the decades in which the studio had lain dormant.
“I have something for you,” Joan Neptune said.
Devon was surprised. The cylinder? she thought.
“I’ve waited years to give it to the right person, never knowing if he or she would come along. But now you’re here.”
She went over to a chair against the wall, beneath which was another trumpet. A Selmer trumpet, Devon noted with horror, as Joan Neptune picked it up and handed it to her.
“Recognize it?” she said coldly. “That’s your grandfather’s. He left it here when he stole the cylinder from my husband. It’s yours now.”
Devon recoiled, shaking her head. “I don’t want it.”
“No?”
Devon’s anger was welling up in her. “My grandfather died before I was born. I’m ashamed of what he did. But I want no part of it. I made a mistake coming here.”
Joan Neptune studied her closely. “I’ll show you out.”
Devon felt sick to her stomach as they walked to the foyer. The maid had left her coat on a chair. Joan Neptune opened the door, then paused. Her voice remained calm. “On which side was Valentine Owen your grandfather?”
“My mother’s.”
“Her maiden name was Owen?”
“Cardillo. She didn’t want his name.”
“Cardillo. So that was your grandmother’s last name?”
“No, her last name was Broussard,” Devon replied, stepping outside. She couldn’t bear to be interrogated another moment. “I’m sorry for everything. I won’t bother you again.”
All the way down the corridor Devon felt Joan Neptune’s eyes on her. Only when she reached the elevator did she hear the door to the apartment close.
Joan Neptune crossed her living room and looked out over the park. The clouds were low and flat, slate gray. The wind was so cold she could feel it through the double panes. She poured herself a white rum, neat, and sat down by the fire, beneath the portrait of her husband. As she’d grown older, she slept less—five hours at most, broken up. She knew that night she wouldn’t sleep at all. The maid asked if she needed anything else, then left. As soon as she heard the front door close, Joan Neptune set down her drink and cried, harder than she had in years, since she had stopped crying for Sammy.
NEW YORK CITY—DECEMBER 24, 7:00 P.M.
Devon put on her blue dress and walked into Ruby’s bedroom. Still in her nightgown, Ruby was propped up in bed skimming a magazine.
“I just made a reservation for dinner at eight-thirty,” Devon said. “A bistro on Fifty-seventh Street.”
“I’m not really up for it, dear.”
“It’s Christmas Eve. You’ve been in here all day. It will be good for you to be around other people.”
“I feel like I’ve been around hundreds of people lately.”
“No, mostly you’ve been alone, or with me.” Devon patted her arm gently. “Come on, Mom. Get dressed. It’s our last night in New York.”
“I thought you were staying on to research that article.”
“No, I’m not sure where that’s going right now,” Devon said ruefully. “And I want to get back to Miami myself.” She was still off balance from the night before. Once she got her mother home, she needed to clear out the debris she’d left behind in her own life and try to start working again, sober, focused.
“I hope you’re not just leaving here because of me,” Ruby said.
“No. Some things have come up. We can talk about it another time.” She opened the closet door. “Now, how about this white woolen dress?”
“You win,” Ruby said, getting out of bed. “Give me the dress. And I promise not to order steak.”
Devon smiled. “You’re getting your sense of humor back.”
“Is that what you call it?”
Devon’s phone beeped. “Text message,” she murmured, flipping the phone open. “Jesus.”
“What is it?”
Devon tried to gather her thoughts. “Joan Neptune’s coming here.”
“What—now?”
“Soon.”
“How did that happen, Devon?”
“I was going to tell yo
u—I visited her last night.”
“I don’t understand. You invited her here?”
“No.”
“Then why is she coming?”
“Just get dressed, Mom, and I’ll try to fill you in.”
Devon answered the doorbell, and Joan Neptune, wearing a green suede coat and green dress, greeted her with an apology. “I’m sorry for last night. Please forgive me. I didn’t know who you were.”
“I told you who I was. Come in.”
She was carrying a large leather handbag. She seemed giddy, which puzzled Devon even more. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“It’s certainly a surprise. Let me take your coat.”
“This is a beautiful place,” she said, looking around the suite.
“My mother wanted to treat herself,” Devon explained.
“Special occasion?”
“You could say that.”
“Is your mother here now?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to meet her, if that’s all right.”
“May I ask why?” Devon said. “And why you’re here?”
“Because I need to speak with both of you.”
“What about?” Devon said warily.
“Trust me, please. I’ll explain everything.”
“All right. This way, then,” Devon said, leading her down the hall.
When Joan Neptune entered the sitting room and saw Ruby, her smile widened.
Ruby rose from the sofa and shook her head in bewilderment.
“Hello, Ruby,” Joan Neptune said, walking over and taking her hands. “I always knew this day would come.”
It was Marielle.
For a while, Ruby just stared at her. She couldn’t help it. Hazy to begin with, she could barely absorb what was happening. Devon also had trouble grasping that this was her mother’s aunt Marielle who had disappeared without a trace.
Sitting side by side with Marielle on the sofa, Ruby burst into tears. “I can’t believe it’s really you,” she said.
Devon wondered whether Ruby could deal with another jolt, good or bad, just as she was regaining her equilibrium. She went over and put her arm around her mother.
Ruby called room service and ordered a pot of hibiscus tea, along with sugar and fresh limes. Devon had grown accustomed to her eccentricities. But Marielle looked pleased. “You remember,” she said softly.
When the tea arrived, it was Marielle who served it, adding a teaspoon of sugar and a squeeze of lime to each cup, just as she had in New Orleans three decades earlier. When Ruby looked at Marielle’s clear eyes and still flawless hands, her memories flooded back. Marielle’s mud baths in the clawfoot tub, and the greenhouse herbs with which she washed her hair. Her freesia perfume. The panther brooch with the diamond eyes she was wearing now, that matched her earrings: black triangles speckled with diamond chips.
“Onyx,” Ruby said.
“Yes.”
Ruby shook her head. “But how?”
“You mean, how did I get here?” Marielle said. “I barely know where to start. I’m an old lady now, Ruby. And you must be …”
“Forty-eight.”
“Forty-eight. With a beautiful daughter.” Marielle turned to Devon. “Your mother is my second cousin once removed, which makes us second cousins twice removed.”
“You realized it last night when I told you my grandmother’s name.”
“Yes. And I regret our misunderstanding. What matters is that we’re all here now.”
“Have you been in New York long?” Ruby said.
“Ever since you last saw me. A long time. I was married to a musician named Sammy LeMond. Our years together were the best of my life. Then he was taken from me.”
Ruby covered her mouth. “Oh no.” She hadn’t gotten far enough past her initial shock at seeing Marielle to take in the fact that, if she was Joan Neptune, she was also the wife of the man her father had sent to his grave.
“Then you know,” Marielle said.
“Just yesterday I learned what happened. It was bad enough then, but now it’s a nightmare. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. How could you have known?”
Ruby shook her head. “I couldn’t. I never knew my father.”
“But I know you. I never stopped thinking about you, Ruby.”
“I wanted so badly to find you, Marielle, but I didn’t know where to start.”
“You never could have found me. I became Joan Neptune. No one knew. Not even my husband.” She took Ruby’s hand. “No one has called me Marielle since the day I left New Orleans. Until tonight. You see, Devon, I once knew a girl named Ruby Broussard, the daughter of Valentine Owen and my cousin, Camille Broussard. I searched for Ruby Broussard. And Ruby Owen. But until you said it, I had never heard the name Cardillo.”
“It was my grandmother’s name,” Ruby said. “After New Orleans, I went to live with her in Miami. I took her name. Legally I could have been Ruby Owen. He was on my birth certificate. But that’s the only place he was. Broussard? I hardly ever saw my mother again until this year.”
“Devon told me she passed away. I’m sorry. I lost contact with her long ago.”
Devon understood why Marielle had had such a powerful effect on her mother in her youth. Her strength was readily apparent, in her face, her voice, her gestures. She had a primal quality, a sense that youthful transitions were still occurring—or at least possible—long after she had passed middle age. She had a chameleon-like quality, in which disparate traces of the many lives she had once described to Ruby flickered in and out of sight. It was as if one of those African masks on her wall had come to life.
“Devon’s a musician herself,” Ruby said.
“I know she is. And all you know about the Bolden cylinder, Devon, is what Emmett Browne told you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure Mr. Browne shared an interesting version of the story. Let me tell you another version, which happens to be the truth. It begins on my last night in New Orleans, the last time we saw each other, Ruby. You must have been told that I was called to the phone at Ciro’s, went out to the parking lot, and disappeared. That phone call didn’t just change my life: it made me invent a whole new one. A man on the phone told me I had five minutes to leave the restaurant and thirty minutes to get out of town. He ordered me to stay away from the airport and the train station—to just drive. Don’t go home, he said. Don’t call home. Don’t talk to anybody. And don’t come back here, ever, if you know what’s good for you. Driving east, into Mississippi, across Alabama, I felt sick knowing how worried you and Theodora must have been. Honey, I never stopped thinking about you. But I knew that man was speaking the truth, and I did what he said.”
“Who was he?” Ruby said.
“I don’t know. I didn’t recognize his voice. Maybe he was disguising it, maybe not. Didn’t matter. He was threatening me, but there was fear in his voice, too. That’s what really shook me up: I knew he wasn’t lying. He might have been as scared as I was. We both knew what Chief Beaumont could do, to friends and enemies alike.”
“But what had you done?” Ruby said.
“Done? It’s what I knew, Ruby. It wouldn’t mean much today, but back then it might have sent some important people to jail, including the chief. There was a contract put out. I never found out any more than that. I wasn’t even sure what it was I knew that had suddenly turned toxic. I’d seen and heard plenty when I was with Beaumont’s brother.”
“And none of your connections could help you?”
“There was no one in that town who could check Beaumont. I had no choice but to run. I drove ten hours straight. Caught a few hours’ sleep in a motel outside Atlanta. Then headed north. I checked in to a hotel in East New York where a black woman alone wouldn’t catch notice. Had no luggage, so I bought a suitcase. Some clothes. It was when I signed the register that the name came to me. Joan Neptune.”
“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Dev
on said, “but weren’t you afraid such an unusual name would arouse suspicion?”
“Names like Wilson or Jones—they sound suspicious. But who in her right mind picks an alias like Joan Neptune if she’s laying low? It grew on me. Neptune was always my planet: the water planet. I waited a week, then rented an apartment. I needed work.” She turned to Ruby. “I couldn’t exactly do what I did in New Orleans. Not much market for that up here. But I knew I could draw on what gifts I possessed. So I set up as a psychic, taking on clients. I made a reputation for myself, and one day the police called on me to help them. I lived alone, kept to myself. Then one night I went to a club and met this man. And everything changed again. We traveled. He had tired of it when he was young, touring all the time, but I got him to go to Amsterdam with me, and Stockholm, and Venice. Cities with canals, cities built on water, like New Orleans. So that sometimes we both felt as if we’d gone home while being as far away from home as possible. He loved that. He loved the light that came off the water, and the smell of the canals, that mix of salt and fresh. He loved to wander, find a neighborhood we didn’t know, a park, a restaurant. We would sit for hours listening to music. I almost had a child—can you believe it? I was forty-four, and he was fifty-six. But it didn’t work. Nearly killed me. We decided then that we had each other and that’s all we needed. His music, the club, our home. I had given up my practice. He had a sweetness about him. A soft spot for musicians who were down and out. He was a strong man, but he could be naïve, believing in people. I didn’t believe in anyone except him, and I tried to watch out for him. And, for all my supposed know-how, I let him down when he most needed me. I warned him, but it wasn’t enough. I never should have left his side. I remembered Valentine Owen. I knew how he had treated your mother and you. I knew he had done worse things, in New Orleans.” She sat back. “You saw my home, Devon. Most of the furnishings were Sammy’s originally. The paintings, the sculpture. There are a lot of things you could steal there. All kinds of people visited us: gangsters, grifters, tough guys. But only once did someone steal, and it was Valentine Owen. I’m sorry to be telling you this, Ruby.”
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