Jane drained the last of her tea. She was looking forward to this evening. On Friday nights, she often had Jackson come to stay. They usually played games, took a walk, shared pizza, and then he slept over on her sofa. It had been their long-standing Friday evening tradition, giving Lydia a chance to get some extra time in with her studies, and Jane thought it best to keep Jackson’s schedule as unchanged as possible. Especially since it was often the highlight of her week.
Chapter 7
Billy Killian looked out of the 50th floor window, from the conference room at the elegant Four Seasons Hotel on Fourteenth Street. The city of Atlanta was engulfed in spring blossoms, and the day had been hot. He could see small figures far below, their tiny legs reaching out, forwards and backwards, as they hurried along the pavement. We must all look pretty funny down here to God, he thought. Smiling, he turned towards the room of elegantly dressed people who were networking and making urgent requests of one another for the upcoming year.
He found a place to sit and settled onto the tapestry banquet chair. Opening the burgundy presentation folder, he was greeted with a photograph of himself receiving an award from a beautiful actress. The shot was over two years old, right after his fifth album went platinum. And to think he almost lost his life, not so long ago.
Instead of dying as a junkie, he was here for a meeting with the most elite musicians and members of America’s blues music community. A number of them were sobered up, so they had more in common with Billy than music. They were glad to be alive. Sometimes his strong emotions, unhindered by chemicals, surfaced without warning. Billy just figured it was part of cheating death. It made you grateful, maybe more than most people.
“Hey, I was just talking to Webster Street, and he thinks you ought to do a greatest hits instead of new material,” Billy’s brother, Yancy, remarked as he mechanically straightened his already perfect tie and took a seat beside Billy.
Yancy had always been particular about his dress, whereas Billy’s tastes were more assorted, occasionally bordering on the flamboyant. He cleaned up a lot better than he used to during his drug days, but he didn’t mind suiting up in daring colors and heavy jewelry. Besides, Billy knew he was a rock star, so he might as well dress any which way that tickled his fancy. When you’re a celebrity, people think it’s cool. At least, he hoped so.
“Webster is all about making the most money for the least investment, Yance, you know that. Besides,” Billy added with a mischievous grin, “this new stuff we got is too hot to keep under wraps, Bro!” He laughed and rubbed his hands together. “We’ve got to start laying down tracks ’cause I can’t keep it to myself.”
Yancy nodded, but he wasn’t as quick to ignore Webster Street’s advice. Yancy Killian could be swayed by the financial aspects of the music business, and he also knew his brother needed to produce quality albums to keep his fan base interested. He contemplated the opposing views, his face giving away nothing. Then a thoughtful smile spread across his face. His brother always produced the best music he’d ever heard.
He slapped Billy on the back. “Well, if it’s all as good as what you played me last week, I am gonna have to side with you. You know you’ve got first dibs on the penthouse studio,” Yancy assured his brother. He was proud of the fact that Billy always came to his place to record. He was handling so many new artists now that he’d added ten more recording studios.
Industry executives, artists, managers, marketing personnel, and board members found their seats as the meeting came to order. Howard Sultz introduced himself, and welcomed them all to the annual meeting.
“I appreciate you all being here, and taking precious time out of your busy schedule to join us today. The Preserving the Blues Music Hall of Fame Museum is an organization that exists only because of your generous support.” As Howard Sultz spoke, the lights dimmed and images of a modern facility materialized on a screen.
The roof line was in the shape of a guitar, with the front entrance leading into the circular hole, representing the front of guitar, and a long Hall of Fame was fashioned on the outside to look like the neck of a five-string. The immense building was skirted by a huge parking lot, laid-out among colorful plots of southern landscaping.
“Here we have our new Preserving the Blues Music Hall of Fame Museum that was finished in February. If any of you haven’t marked your calendars yet, please note that we’d love to see you all at the Grand Opening in May. We’ve reserved suites at the new hotel accommodations in Tupelo, where the security is excellent. Simply advise us of your needs.”
As the multimedia screen silently withdrew into the ceiling, their attention shifted to a striking young lady who was gracefully pushing a large cart that displayed T-shirts, program books, key chains, and caps.
“Here is an example of some of the fine quality merchandise that we’ll be offering at the gift shop.” The young lady waved her arm decoratively in front of the merchandise, reminiscent of a television game show hostess who functions as a human accessory. Enjoying her moment in the limelight, she took a stiff navy cap from the cart and placed it on her head, then struck a pose with her hands on her hips.
“Our marketing team is using only licensed images, preapproved by each artist’s management. I can assure you that these items will be treasured by visitors to the center. You each will have an opportunity to donate a percentage of the sale of your items to the Preserving the Blues Music Hall of Fame Museum. Your gifts, as always, will be greatly appreciated. Thank you, Becca.”
Becca discreetly removed herself from the front of the room, her smile unaltered as she went.
Howard Sultz paused for a drink of water. “Now I’d like to introduce a local resident from here in Atlanta. Serena Berquist serves on our national directors’ board and has been instrumental in procuring items for the museum. She is the granddaughter of blues legend Cletus Mains. Please give her a warm welcome.”
Billy turned to see a statuesque blonde approaching the podium. Her smile was easy and sincere. She was dressed in a tailored, mint-colored shantung-silk suit. Pearl earrings bobbed attractively from her small ears, and she casually tucked her straight blonde hair behind them, revealing beautifully sculpted cheek bones. Her face was lightly sun-kissed, making all of Atlanta seem more warm and inviting.
Her voice was low and clear, attractively tinged with a southern accent. Billy melted in his chair. She was the classiest woman he had ever seen. She’d told a joke and everyone responded with laughter, but Billy missed it.
“So, that is why I am speaking to you today,” her eyes skimmed the room, embracing each listener. Billy’s heart skipped a beat as she focused her gaze momentarily in his direction. “Of course, we realize that many of these items have great sentimental value, but that value only doubles when your keepsakes are shared with your most dedicated fans. If you could look through your closets, sift through your mementos, and find something to donate to the museum, we would be so honored to display it for you in this illustrious new facility. The types of items that we are looking for include performance clothing, personal correspondence and photographs not previously shared with the public, private audio and visual footage, retired instruments, or awards that you’ve been given.”
Billy wished he had every award he’d ever won. He would place them at her feet right now.
“Feel free to contact me and I’ll arrange to have your donations safely conveyed to the museum. Of course, we will manage each item with tender loving care, and it will be enjoyed by millions of visitors. Thank you in advance for your generous support.”
Serena Berquist shook Howard Sultz’s hand and said something to him with a charming smile. Billy’s eyes were glued to her pleasing form as she returned to her seat.
She appeared to attend today’s meeting by herself, and sat at the back of the room with the presentation technician.
Forty minutes later, the meeting fi
nally concluded. Billy stood up from his chair and bolted towards Serena Berquist.
“Billy!”
He pretended for a moment not to hear. He glimpsed the back of Serena’s head as a sea of people filled the gap between them. She was talking with his distribution manager, Webster Street. Webster was stylish and smooth, and had a reputation as a ladies’ man. Billy quickened his pace, but someone caught him by the arm. It was Rusty, a fellow blues artist from Texas.
“Good Lord, Billy, where’s the fire?”
“Hiya Rusty. Didn’t know you was going to be here. I was hurrying over there to catch Webster.”
“Do you wanna join us for dinner? The guys and me thought we’d go around the corner, on Peachtree … . ”
“Um … could I take a rain check, Rusty? I am not sure I am free tonight.”
“Sure, Billy.” Rusty studied Billy’s distraught face for a moment, and figured there might be a woman on his mind. That girl with the T-shirts made for some yummy eye-candy. Maybe Billy had designs on her.
“I’ll let you go. If you change your mind, you’ll call me?”
“Yeah, sure. See ya.”
The crowd stood in tight little groups and Billy had a difficult time shouldering his way to the back of the room. A few artists stopped him for a quick handshake and congratulations for the success of his last album. Finally he reached the area where Serena had been speaking with Webster. She turned, and his heart dropped into his boots.
He stated his name and blurted out his intention. “I’d like to donate a guitar to you.”
She smiled. “That’s wonderful!”
“How do we do that?” He couldn’t believe how un-smooth he was. Yancy would laugh out loud if he could hear him now.
“Well, why don’t we get coffee downstairs, and we can talk about it.”
“Sounds good. You’re as smart as you are pretty.” The compliment came rolling out, but Serena didn’t seem to mind. She just smiled again, and walked closely beside him.
The hotel elevator doors opened on the neoclassical tower of marble and rose granite. As they entered the dimly lit lounge, Billy silently led Serena across the plush, ivory carpet. There was a cozy table in the back corner, somewhat hidden from the rest of the room by a large potted palm in a stone planter. They sank into the hug of a pair of cushy cocoa-striped club chairs, and Billy ordered de-caf.
“I called you ‘Miss’ before. Is that right?”
“For the time being. I am engaged,” Serena said. She seemed distracted for a moment, and avoided his gaze.
“Oh, okay.” Now what?
Suddenly upbeat again, she said, “I am a big fan of yours. May I call you Billy? I was hoping that you’d be here, and that I would get the opportunity to talk to you. Your Message album is my absolute favorite!”
“So, you’re Cleatus Mains’s granddaughter, huh? That’s really somethin’. Do you play?”
“Me?” Serena threw her head back and laughed. “No, I don’t play. I wish I could, you know? Give Bonnie Raitt a run for her money. But, no.”
“Did you ever want to learn? I mean, how do you know that you don’t have the gift?” Billy said.
• • •
Serena was touched by the thoughtful expression in Billy Killian’s eyes. He was concerned that she might be overlooking something special in her life. The magic in music that he’d found. What a nice guy.
She drew in a breath. “Well, I’ve never tried to play. And to be honest, it scares me. It’s one thing to sing in the shower. It’s quite another thing to sit down and put an instrument in your hands and be that … vulnerable. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, ma’am I certainly do. I’ve felt, when I am playin’, that the whole world was hearing me pour my guts out. It’s a powerfully personal thing sometimes. Music doesn’t lie, ya know?”
“Mmm, I guess you’re right. And, that would be your experience, but it isn’t music for a long time, is it? I don’t relish making awful noises while trying to learn.”
Billy laughed and shook his head. “I’ve had plenty of those days, too, believe you me!”
• • •
Later that evening, Billy walked Serena to her car. She slid in and he closed the door as she waved and turned over the key. After she pulled away, he stood in the parking garage for some minutes. Replaying her voice was like a sweet melody, a song he wanted to hear all of the time. He walked back to the entrance to the hotel.
He closeted himself in the elevator. The chime signified his accent to the 48th floor, and he fumbled for his keys. As he stepped into the dark hotel suite, a feeling of cold loneliness poured down his chest. He fumbled for the light switch and shut the door behind him.
Lord, what has come over me? I was fine. I spent the better part of the evenin’ with the most gorgeous woman on earth. And now I feel like I’ve dropped to the bottom of a well.
And he wanted to drink his way back to the top.
His gaze shifted to the minibar in his room. He knew there would be some comforting alcohol in there. And not too much, either. Just a little to calm his nerves. No one would know, and it wouldn’t have to mean anything.
This commitment to being sober would be a battle that he would fight for the rest of his days. But why tonight? Was it Serena? Did she somehow bring out the worst in him? Why should he care? She belonged to another man, and he would never see her again.
Billy heard voices in the hallway, and he recognized his brother’s among them. Thank you, God. The cavalry just rode in.
He dashed out into the hallway, closing the door on his temptation. He caught up with Yancy and asked him to get a cup of coffee with him. Yancy said that sounded just right. Billy had won this round, and he desperately hoped he’d be in a better frame of mind when it was time to enter his room again.
After talking with Yancy, he was.
The next morning, Billy was boarding his flight back to Texas when his subconscious tickled him with a thought. They hadn’t talked about the guitar. A grin creased his face. He was glad to have an excuse to contact Serena again.
Chapter 8
Serena Berquist parked her convertible in the garage of her brick home on Montgomery Ferry Drive. Coming into the cheerful Prussian-blue-and-yellow kitchen, she was greeted by Taffy dancing with delight, jumping up to her knees. Dropping her purse on the counter and kicking off her high heels, Serena swooped down to pick up the dog, who weighed less than a sack of sugar.
“Taffy! Hello, precious girl! Did you think Mommy was never ever coming home?” She smoothed the dog’s silky steel-blue-and-tan silk coat, while they made their way to the sun room and out the back door. She put Taffy out for a quick potty, then let her in again.
She had a message on her phone. Probably Richard. She pressed the button and heard his voice. “Just checking in from New York.” There was a pause. She knew he was trying to remember what was on her agenda, so that he could express an interest in how it went. He gave up after a moment and ended with, “Saw on the TV that you had a thunderstorm yesterday. Hope it wasn’t too bad. I’ll call you this weekend.” Click.
“I am going to marry him, Taffy. Richard’s a very wonderful, successful, sensible man, you know? Hmm,” Serena mumbled softly, “of course you don’t agree.” She recalled Easter weekend last year. They’d come home from a luncheon with her parents to find Taffy on top of Richard’s briefcase, chewing the leather handle. Richard had already called the dog, “Rodent.” Found guilty of ruining his property, Taffy was immediately upgraded to “The Destructive Rodent.” Taffy had never been a problem before, but she wasn’t sure if Richard would allow her to keep Taffy after they were married. He would put it in a way that seemed logical. Richard would insist that of course she would prefer the comfort of her husband over that of a dog, right, honey?
Sere
na picked up her teacup-sized Yorkshire terrier and whisked her upstairs to bed.
For the most part, Serena had always been malleable, although she did exasperate her parents when she was younger. Despite their officious encouragement, she wanted to dig in the dirt with the family gardener, sleep with dogs in her bed, and take up the sloppiest of hobbies.
Serena’s parents garnered a lot of cooperation from her with a single compromise. They allowed her to ride horses. Except for a sporadic reminder not to “break her fool neck” the Dr. and Mrs. allowed Serena to ride in peace. They didn’t meddle with affairs at the barn or attend her horse shows, which she considered the greatest blessing of her teen years. Serena walked through the show barns with a variety of friends. She drank pop out of a can, cussed now and then, wore whatever clothes she wanted, and enjoyed her freedom.
Serena dreamt she was falling from Logo, a horse she used to jump until she had a fall from him that broke her arm. Of its own volition, her leg kicked beneath the bedcovers, waking her up. It was only excess electricity from the nervous system, she reminded herself. The clock read one A.M. Taffy sighed and rolled over. Serena felt wide awake and agitated.
They hadn’t talked about the guitar. But not because she forgot.
What kind of game was she playing? She needed Richard. When she was with him, her life came together. She was protected, and her parents’ expectations were fulfilled. There was a lot of security in that.
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