Five minutes later I huffed up the last step to the back hallway. The sound of heels rapping on the plank floor signaled Ann and Gabby Drake’s return from the courtyard, and the rise and fall of voices told me Rebecca Whitman was with them.
The front door chimed, signaling a new arrival. The footsteps slowed, and I sent the women a mental message to hurry up—I hate to keep a customer waiting, and the box was getting heavier by the second.
The chatter continued as I stepped into the hall behind them. I stretched up as tall as I could with the heavy carton in my arms and peered over Ann Drake’s shoulder to spot the customer.
Not a customer. Dave Barber—who is a barber, and a musician and festival board chair—in his tan Stetson.
And the look on his face was as deadly as any old-fashioned razor blade.
Two
If tables could groan …
Rebecca and her crew, with help from the bar staff, had lined one wall of the courtyard with buffet tables, now covered with red gingham in washable vinyl. On each café and picnic table sat blue canning jars filled with red and white flowers, a tiny American flag waving from each.
“If music be the food of love, what’s the food of music?”
“Ned, you’re quoting Shakespeare. Sort of,” I said.
“I’ve learned a line or two in my life, girlie.” Old Ned Redaway, Red’s founder and namesake, winked and reached for a fig-and-goat cheese bruschetta. Wendy and Max, whose bakery and bistro are the stomach of the village, had provided several varieties of their trademark toasts, while my mother had whipped up trays of her grilled Caprese kabobs and stuffed dates, and Ray Ramirez of the Bayside Grille made Reuben bites, using his famous beer-soaked sauerkraut. His recipe, canned in our basement, was available only at the Merc and the Grille. It might not help my hips, but it was boosting the Merc’s bottom line considerably.
“Pigs in a blanket?” I leaned forward to inspect a platter. Decidedly retro—not a bad thing, but unusual. Jewel Bay calls itself the Food Lovers’ Village for a reason, and that reason includes food that is adventuresome without being weird.
“The tea shop guy made them.” Wendy balanced a tray of fresh fruit skewers on a cake stand. “Local sausage, nice springy dough. They’re good.”
So good I ate two.
On stage, Sam Kraus and Dave Barber hoisted a speaker on to a tall stand. I still had no idea why Barber had glared at me so bitterly earlier. A customer had trailed in behind him and Tracy had been busy at the chocolate counter, so I hadn’t had a chance to confront him before he pushed past me and out my back door.
But I was going to make the chance now.
“Dave? A word?”
Barber’s boot heels made hollow sounds as he strode to the front of the wooden stage. He crouched and pushed his hat back with one finger. “Everything under control?”
“You tell me,” I said. “The way you came stomping into my shop, glaring and glowering, then charged on through like I wasn’t there? What was that about?”
Barber lifted his chin, his jaw tightening. “It’s got nothing to do with you, Erin.”
I squinted, confused, then remembered the women who’d come in from the courtyard at the same time as Barber arrived. “Well, whatever beef you have with Rebecca Whitman or Ann Drake, you keep it out of my shop. And don’t let it spill into tonight, either. Too much work has gone into putting on this concert.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the teasing tone contradicted by the flinty eyes.
“Barber, you working or BS’ing? I could use a hand,” Sam called. Barber studied me another long moment, then pushed himself up and followed Sam down the stage steps. They went out Red’s gate to the alley, also known as Back Street, where Sam’s van idled.
Heaven help the woman who gets between a man and his gear.
On our side of the courtyard, water flowed down the metal wall-mounted fountain. I strode over to unplug it before I forgot. We didn’t need one more sound to interfere with tonight’s music. My hand shook as I reached for the cord, still irked by Barber’s behavior.
I had not imagined his ire this morning, or his dismissiveness now. Few things irritate me more than being treated rudely, then told it was nothing.
In the corner stood a giant propane torch, and I leaned in to check the gauge on the tank. I didn’t anticipate much of a chill tonight, but in mountain valleys like this one, any kind of weather can happen almost any time of year.
“Erin, you seen Gerry Martin yet?”
I straightened. “Wow. Look at you, all spiffed up.”
Jennifer and Sam Kraus had come to town for the first jazz workshop and stayed, buying an old cherry orchard with a few rows of grape vines that they built into Monte Verde Winery, co-sponsors with the Merc of tonight’s event. They played a lot of local gigs, but I’d never seen her in anything fancier than a sundress.
“Tracy took me shopping.” Jennifer plucked at the waistline of her turquoise lace dress, a close-fitting bodice over a full skirt that swung when she moved. She looked lovely and awkward at the same time, a tomboy-turned-homecoming princess. Tracy may have helped her scour thrift shops for the perfect dress, but the thick-soled black rubber flip-flops reminded me that Jennifer’s fine taste ran only to her palate.
“You’ll outshine the rest of us,” I said. “Martin should be here any minute. Can you believe what Rebecca did with the courtyard? Her volunteer spirit is amazing.”
Jennifer sucked in her cheeks. “She spends more time telling the rest of us what to do than running her own business.”
Her catty tone surprised me. Pre-performance jitters? “Speaking of business, that reminds me. I got an e-mail from the orchard and winery supplier in Walla Walla. They took some used bottlers in trade. Might be what you guys are looking for.”
Her face brightened. “Yeah.” Behind her, Sam tested the cymbals. The left side of her face twitched. “That’s my cue.” She slipped a finger under the shoulder strap of her sleeveless dress to adjust something and sped toward the stage.
Nerves hit us each a little differently.
Next thing I knew, the courtyard was packed, the noise level rising. J.D., Ned’s grandson and bartender, had enlisted help from Michelle, a barista at Wendy’s bakery, and the two of them were busy pouring Monte Verde wines. The fairy lights gave the courtyard sparkle, and the jazz trio’s soft sounds filled the air as music-loving villagers and visitors ate, drank, and made merry.
I still hadn’t seen Gerry Martin, our headliner, or Gabby Drake. Or Adam and Tanner. I hoped this flight wasn’t delayed, too, though the jet from Minneapolis could easily have flown overhead without my noticing. Adam had promised they’d be here, and he keeps his promises, but when airlines are involved … I ran a thumb across my stars.
Despite all my planning, I’d forgotten to change my own clothes. The blue skirt and white top would do, but my workday flats had to go. I dashed inside and up to my office, where I checked my phone. No messages from Adam—a good sign.
Then I tugged on my red cowboy boots. Stuck out a foot to admire them.
Let the good times roll.
∞
“What’s the difference between a bass player and a pizza?” Dave Barber stood at the microphone, one hand cradling the neck of his guitar. Sam made a low drum roll. “A pizza can feed a family of four.”
He showed no traces of the earlier nastiness. The crowd laughed, except for me. And Jennifer, clutching her electric bass.
“Why does a banjo player always lock his car when he leaves his banjo inside?” We waited. “If he didn’t, when he came back, there would be two.”
The audience groaned. Barber nodded to the others and they began a jazzy piece I didn’t recognize, but many around me bobbed their heads as if they did. I leaned against the wall near the Merc’s back door. Happily, Barber had taken my advice to leave the a
rgument—whatever it was—for another time. The trio appeared to be in good form. A few minutes later, a sax player from across the valley joined them.
Say what you want about Jewel Bay, we know how to party.
“Erin, aren’t we selling CDs?” Michelle spoke in my ear. “People are asking.”
“What? Oh, heck.” I dug around under the buffet table and hauled out the box of Martin’s CDs, the one detail Rebecca and her crew had missed. “Let’s say twelve bucks, a Friday-night special. I’ll make a sign.”
I dashed inside and made magic with card stock and a Sharpie, returning in time to hear Barber wrapping up his introduction.
“Please welcome back to Jewel Bay the master of contemporary jazz guitar, your friend and mine, Mr. Gerry Martin.”
Behind him, Sam gave another drum roll, all but drowned out by the applause as Martin bounded up the steps and took center stage, swinging his guitar into place. The gesture forced Barber out of the way. For the second time in a few hours, I saw Barber’s face darken, but the hat hid his features as he fiddled with the tuners on his guitar.
Until today I’d thought him the picture of the people-loving barber-shop personality. Had I misread the situation earlier? Was the source of tension not Rebecca or Ann, but Martin?
Martin swung into action, setting the rhythm. Once the mood and melody were established, he cut loose on a lead. The first piece was all him, all-star, all spot-on, a clinic of control and stage presence. Proof of what hours alone in a room with a guitar can produce. This valley is blessed with more than its share of creativity and some pretty talented musicians, but when the big kids come to town, sit back and enjoy.
Slim and intense, dressed all in black, Martin poured his energy through his fingers into the strings. He clearly relished the spotlight—even when that spotlight was a bulb in a rusted coffee can, shining on a worn wooden stage, its walls hung with signs from businesses long gone.
The piece ended, and Martin acknowledged the applause, guitar up, poised for the next tune. He muttered signals, counting off like a quarterback in church. Though I’m no jazz whiz, I thought the intricate rhythms sounded a hair off, and judging by the furrowed glance Martin shot Sam, he seemed to think so, too. Whose fault, I couldn’t tell. Then the rhythm evened out, and Martin pivoted toward the crowd. But his head was bowed, eyes on the frets, as if by concentrating, he could force the trio of backup musicians to his will. As if we weren’t there.
A few minutes later, he threw a phrase to Barber, who threw it back, and they bounced off each other in a long counterplay, Martin keeping time with one black-booted foot. Then Barber stepped forward and took the lead, but Martin didn’t step back. If that was supposed to be Barber’s cue to keep it short, he ignored it, going off on an extended riff that I quite enjoyed. So did my neighbors, judging by the swaying shoulders and tapping toes. Martin played along, but his shoulders had stiffened and the animation had left his face.
Barber built to a climax, then wound down, signaled Martin, and stepped back, fingering a quiet pattern.
“Hey, sunshine.” The voice I’d been waiting to hear broke through the applause, and a familiar scent enveloped me as Adam’s lips brushed my cheek.
I stretched up for a kiss, then stood to hug Tanner. “Welcome to Jewel Bay. I can’t believe it took us so long to meet.”
Adam and Tanner had been best friends since the first day of the first grade, more than twenty-five years ago, but since Adam and I had gotten together last August, we’d been too busy for a visit. The timing wasn’t great now, either, but that’s life. A shiver of delight sped through me, to see them reunited. They were two sides of a coin, both tall and slender, Tanner’s close-cropped hair dark blond, Adam’s brown curls permanently tangled by the wind. They were even dressed alike, in cargo pants and hikers.
“Facebook doesn’t do you justice,” Tanner replied, a twinkle in his blue eyes.
The music started up with a dramatic “take charge” chord that led directly into a fierce lead. I didn’t have to look at the stage to know Martin was reclaiming the focus after Barber’s solo. Adam handed Tanner a beer and they sat on either side of me. I reached for Adam’s hand.
No way was I going to let a little disharmony on stage mess up my world.
When the piece ended, Barber tromped down the steps without a word, and Martin took the microphone from the stand.
“Once in a generation,” he said, “a voice comes along that redefines music as we know it. Somehow, in a magic lost to us mere mortals, the singer creates a new sound not bound by any labels. That, my friends, is the gift this beautiful young woman is sharing with us tonight. I’m proud to have discovered her here two years ago, in a beginning jazz workshop, and to present, in her festival debut, a voice you will never forget, Miss Gabrielle Drake.”
This wasn’t actually a festival event, but no point quibbling over genius.
The stage lights turned Gabby’s black hair into gleaming ebony. Her sound truly was a marvel, her guitar almost as big as she was. She started with a sultry Norah Jones cover. Adam pressed his leg against mine. Then the young singer and her mentor shared a duet, a love song he’d written for two pop stars who’d since divorced. I’d heard the pop version on the radio endlessly a few years back, but the jazz rendition sounded fresh and lively. Gabby’s soulful notes slipped around Martin’s, then swung back to the light side, as bright as the hot pink dress that barely covered her bottom.
I leaned forward, searching for Ann. She and a white-haired man in his late sixties sat at one of Red’s weathered picnic tables, eyes on their daughter, faces glowing.
I glanced at Tanner. He, too, stared intently at the stage, arms crossed, face expressionless. He vibrated with nervous energy, though I didn’t think it came from the music. I hoped his nerves weren’t over meeting me.
As if he felt my gaze, he turned and smiled, sweet and slow.
Then Gabby began another piece and I focused on the stage. She was clearly taking the lead, and if I read the rapid shifts on Martin’s face right, she’d caught him off-guard. They couldn’t have had much time to rehearse, and the impression he gave was of surprise—not the irritation he’d shown at Dave Barber’s stage bravado. Like a true professional, he settled into the background, letting the young phenom shine.
All too soon, the set ended and so did the music. It had been a short concert—all we could hope to wheedle out of Martin for a freebie in the backyard of a retail shop and a village hangout.
I excused myself and hustled across the courtyard to thank the musicians.
“Amazing,” Donna Lawson, the liquor store queen, said. “If this is what we can expect all week—”
“You bet it is.” I wriggled past her and ran smack into Reg Robbins.
“Starting out on the right note,” Reg said, his trademark Hawaiian shirt so big that his girlfriend, Heidi Hunter, could have worn it as a bathrobe.
Heidi’s diamond-and-sapphire tennis bracelet gleamed as she reached out to give me a hug. “Erin, this was wonderful. I’ve loved his music for decades. To finally hear him in person … ”
“It’s going to be a fabulous festival,” I said. I wound between friends and neighbors and reached the foot of the stage. Gabby unplugged a cord and I heard Martin speaking, his back to the audience, his tone ugly.
“Don’t ever show me up again like that. They came to hear a five-time Grammy winner, not some upstart music school brat who barely knows her way around the fret board.”
“They’ll get to hear you all week,” Gabby replied, her voice rushed. “This was my chance to show people what I can do. If you think I’m a star in the making—”
Martin’s back stiffened. “I’ll show you—”
“Hand me your guitar, sweetheart.” The man I presumed to be Mr. Drake materialized beside me. “Then we’ll find you a bite and a drink.”
Gabby sp
un away from her mentor and handed her big guitar to her father. “Erin—hi! What a great night! I hope it sounded as good out there as it felt up here.”
Give the girl credit, she could turn on the shine in a flash. Her bright eyes and high color betrayed not one hint of conflict.
What was going on?
“This is my father, Grant Drake,” she said, jumping off the stage. “Daddy, Erin runs the cute shop with all the local food and pottery we told you about.”
“Ah, yes.” He gave me a courtly nod. He had to have heard Martin’s sharp tone, if not the actual words. But instead of rising to his daughter’s defense, he’d ignored the matter. Or was he following her lead, singing a happy tune? “Thank you for the jam. From what I hear, it was hardly necessary.”
“I try never to make a mess without making amends. Come over to our side of the courtyard. We’ve got plenty of food left.”
“We’ll be there as soon as we get this guitar safely tucked away.” He draped his arm around his daughter—she barely reached his shoulder—and led her away.
In need of something cold and wet—Red’s serves a surprisingly good Pinot Grigio, far more to my taste than Monte Verde’s offerings—I headed for the outside bar. Part of the charm of the place is the two giant spruce trees growing in the middle of the courtyard, so big their branches shade our side as well. One wide trunk shielded the man on the other side from view, but after listening to his singing and commentary for forty-five minutes, I recognized Gerry Martin’s angry tones in a heartbeat. This time they were aimed at Rebecca Whitman.
“I don’t know what ever made me think making plans with you was a good idea. Your plans were nothing but false pretenses. And you better believe I’m going to tell everyone who’s anyone in Austin and Nashville what this town is really like.” Martin stepped into view and spotted me. “I suppose you want something too. Everybody in this town wants something.”
He stalked out the back gate, ignoring a small cluster of fans with their phones ready for selfies with him, CDs in hand for his autograph.
Treble at the Jam Fest Page 2