by Cleo Coyle
Through it all, she’d forged affectionate relationships with some of the most influential artists, writers, poets, and musicians of the twentieth century. And, in her toast on this very special evening, our beloved grande dame evoked an old memory while acknowledging this brand-new one—
“Tonight, my dear Abby, you brought back a treasured memory of my son’s late father.” She tipped the glass toward Matt. “Antonio and I were lucky witnesses to pianist Erroll Garner’s performance of jazz at Carnegie Hall. A momentous night for music—and for America. I felt the same tonight, my dear. None of us will ever forget your brave and brilliant performance.”
“Hear! Hear!” Gardner cheered.
“She is brave,” Stan gushed, “and brilliant!”
“Brava,” Jackson agreed.
Madame’s gaze met Abby’s tearful eyes. Then she hoisted her glass even higher and exclaimed, “To the brightest star in our nation’s capital tonight, Abigail Parker!”
Grinning shyly, Abby only sampled her champagne. Already euphoric, she didn’t need further stimulus. We all felt that same euphoria, and the boisterousness of our celebration threatened to burst my mural-covered greenroom’s walls.
Gardner kept shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe our good fortune, and Stan’s grin was so wide his upturned cheeks kept displacing his eye patch. (And I was pretty sure Stan’s bliss had as much to do with Abby’s kiss as it did with the success of their performance.)
For Abby it was a triumph she never imagined possible. And me? I was big on relief—happy to stand back and quietly watch iced bottles of Dom Pérignon passed around for refills. I clinked glasses quietly with Luther, too.
“The White House chef was here tonight,” I informed him. “She complimented your menu.”
“Our menu,” he said, clinking my glass right back. “And, as you well know, we sold clean out of everything.”
I gleefully nodded, having heard raves all night about our food—as well as our coffee and specialty drinks. But it was our improvised menu that I was sweating, and the success felt sweet.
When Abby saw us, she broke from her well-wishers—including a brace of journalists vetted by the White House press office—to take me by the hand. She grabbed Stan’s hand next. Then she motioned for Madame, Luther Bell, Gardner, and the other members of Four on the Floor to join our circle.
“I’d like to propose my own toast,” she declared. “To Clare Cosi, Gardner Evans, and my dear Stan. To Four on the Floor, and Chef Luther Bell. But especially to Madame DuBois, who had the faith to invest in this space. This has been—and still is—the happiest night of my life, and I owe that happiness to all of you! I can’t ever thank you enough!”
Hugs, kisses, laughter, and another round of champagne were interrupted by the White House Deputy Press Secretary. With a tight smile, the woman reminded Abby that reporters were waiting to interview her.
She led Abby to two chairs in a quiet corner, near the room’s fireplace. Abby sat down in one, waiting for the empty chair to be filled.
As the reporters in line were politely reminded that their interviews would be limited to five minutes each, I noticed a familiar face in the group—our enigmatic Ponytail Man with the trimmed gray beard and piercing dark eyes.
“Mystery solved,” I said, sidling up to him.
He tensed. “Mystery?”
“I already knew you were a fan of Abby’s. Now I see you’re a journalist.”
I extended my hand, and he took it.
“My name is Clare.”
“Bernie Moore. I write for Jazz Beat.”
That intense gaze of his drifted back to the First Daughter, who was speaking with a woman from the Washington Post. Gard and the other band members quieted down their chatter, but their grinning continued. Like a band of big brothers, they were proud to see Abby finally getting some star treatment.
“Are you planning to write a feature about Abby?”
“Of course. It’s clear she’s been keeping her light under a bushel. Her gift should be shared with the world—”
“Please! One more question,” the Post reporter begged after the press secretary announced her time was up.
“Abby, why did you decide to play in Georgetown, here at the Village Blend, DC?”
“The management sent me a personal invitation,” she replied. “The week the club opened I received a little postcard advertising Open Mike Night.”
We sent out invitations?
This was news to me.
Sixty-two
“DID you send an invitation to Abby?” I whispered to Gardner, who looked equally confused.
“I sent out nothing.”
“Then who did?”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around this. Nobody at this club knew the President’s daughter had an ability to play piano, let alone jazz piano.
Gardner didn’t have any answers, either. He quietly asked his bandmates, but they were clueless. And since Abby believed we invited her to play at our Open Mike, she couldn’t shed light on the mystery, so I simply let it go.
“I was thrilled to come,” Abby continued. “I’d been practicing alone for years. That invitation is what got me out of my room. Gardner and Stan were so encouraging. I could never have done it without them!”
With the Post reporter’s question answered, the deputy press secretary signaled Bernie Moore to take the vacated chair.
“I’ve got to go, Clare,” Bernie said, “but it was nice to meet you.”
“I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
When he introduced himself to Abby, the girl reacted strangely.
“I’m sorry to stare,” she said after a pause. “It’s just that you look familiar to me. Spooky familiar. Have we met?”
“I’ve been in your Open Mike audiences for weeks.” Bernie smiled. “I guess you saw me out there applauding.”
“No, that’s not why you look familiar,” Abby insisted. “I know! I saw you on campus—up at American University. You were on the steps outside Bender Library, right?”
“You’re right,” Bernie said. “I was chasing a story.”
That’s strange, I thought. What story would a professional music industry magazine writer chase on a college campus? Unless that story was Abby . . .
Bernie barely began his interview when they were interrupted by the deputy press secretary, ushering over a silver-haired older man in an open-collared sports shirt and custom-cut jacket.
“Abigail, you remember Grant Kingman, CEO of Consolidated Television Network—”
The seriously tanned exec swept past the woman and took Abby’s hand. “We met during your father’s first Presidential campaign!”
“Yes, I remember—”
“I was mighty impressed by your performance, Abigail. Fantastic! Our network would be honored if you’d play something on The Good Day Show.”
Abby’s eyes went wide. Stan and Gardner beamed like proud parents, and Jackson and Theo made noises that sounded a lot like “Whoo!”
But the happiest reaction seemed to come from the forgotten man sitting across from Abbie. Bernie Moore’s grin was wider than Alice’s Cheshire Cat.
“The Good Day Show is the top morning broadcast in America,” Kingman continued. “And I think all of America would appreciate hearing you play.”
Abby exchanged a giddy glance with Stan.
“Thank you, Mr. Kingman,” she said. “I think I speak for every member of the band when I say we would be delighted to perform on your show.”
Kingman’s CEO suave melted into perplexity. “Oh, no. You misunderstand. A solo piano appearance is what we’d like from you, Abigail. I spoke with the First Lady by phone earlier, and she’s agreed to make the appearance with you, so—”
Abby stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kingman, but I performed with this band tonight.�
�� She gestured to her friends. “I won’t play without them.”
Sixty-three
KINGMAN’S perplexed expression deteriorated even further, into naked annoyance. “My dear, don’t you know? You mother is planning to—”
Before he could say another word, the deputy press secretary surged forward. “Mr. Kingman, please don’t trouble yourself with these mundane details. Arrangements like these will be finalized through the White House. Doesn’t that make good sense?” Wrapping the executive’s arm around hers, she deftly herded the high-powered CEO away from the First Daughter.
Meanwhile, Abby and Stan put their heads together—a position they clearly enjoyed. Stan rested his carved forearms happily on Abby’s shoulders and she smiled widely.
Jackson bumped fists with Gardner and Theo. “Imagine us on The Good Day Show?” Jackson gushed. “Between our mothers and aunties, we’re gonna have all of Baltimore watching!”
“We should play something brand-new,” Abby told them, her eyes radiating excitement. “Why don’t we come up with—oh, wait!”
Suddenly, she remembered the journalist, waiting quietly in his chair.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. . . . ?”
“My last name’s Moore, Abby.”
As she sat down again, his smile for her was genuine, without a trace of impatience.
She nodded. “Why don’t you ask me those questions now?”
Before Bernie could speak, the press secretary reappeared, sans CEO.
“Time’s up, Mr. Moore.”
Abby objected, and the press secretary apologized, but insisted that Abby stick to the schedule. Bernie Moore’s shoulders slumped, his smile disappearing, but he vacated his chair without protest.
“We’ll see one another on campus, Mr. Moore,” Abby earnestly promised. “Then you can ask me all the questions you like!”
The next journalist swept Bernie aside in his lunge for the hot seat, and immediately began firing questions at Abby. She was so focused on her answers that she didn’t notice the commotion on the stairs.
“Come on, guys, make way, make way!” Agent Sharpe’s deep voice called. Then he burst into the greenroom with a smile on his face and a handsome blond man by his side.
Though he looked no older than twenty-five, the newcomer projected self-assurance worthy of a junior senator—with a wardrobe to match. The blue blazer was custom cut, the gray slacks beautifully tailored.
I recalled seeing him in the audience tonight, sitting with the White House staff, and it was clear the Secret Service detail knew him well. Calling many agents by their first names, he traded lively banter. But it was a facile confidence, a smooth, traveling-salesman sort of charm.
Finally, he broke from the pack. Following Agent Sharpe, he moved behind Abby, who was still preoccupied in her interview chair.
“Look who came to see you on your big night!” Sharpe interrupted.
When Abby glanced up, the young man flashed a dazzling smile, and all the euphoric joy, which had radiated in Abby’s face since her performance, melted away.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” she said.
Her voice had changed, the tone no longer full of life and certainty. It was the voice she’d used in the presence of her mother, the Stepford Abby voice.
“I came back early so I wouldn’t miss the show!” Bending down, he pecked her cheek. She accepted the gesture with less ease than a cornered cat.
“You were surprisingly good,” the young man went on, sweeping back his golden hair. “And you only froze up a few times—I don’t think that many people noticed. Anyway, the way you played your instrument was great.”
“Preston . . .” she said quietly. “We don’t play our instruments.”
“Is that so? What do you play, then?”
“We play music!” Gardner, Jackson, and Theo all answered with her.
The members of Four on the Floor all laughed and bumped fists.
Everyone but Stan.
Preston smirked at the band. “The truth is, I’m not really into that kind of music—”
“Oh?” Gardner said. “What kind of music do you like?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged the question off. “I came to support Abigail. And from all the applause she got, I’d say she made a fifty-yard touchdown in the last quarter of her final game!” He patted her shoulder. “Nice job. It’s great that you got that out of your system, isn’t it? Think of the story you can tell our children one day.”
Stan stood watching this exchange in a state of profound confusion.
Then Preston noticed Abby’s hands. “Why aren’t you wearing my ring?”
The words made the situation clear enough. But Stan looked to his bandmates, unable to believe his own ears.
“What did that guy say?”
My stomach clenched at the question, because now I knew. Abby had never shared the truth about her engagement. And I knew one more thing—
The best night of Stanley McGuire’s life was about to become the worst.
Sixty-four
“TELL me you didn’t lose my diamond,” Preston teased with a smile.
“I don’t wear your ring when I perform,” Abby quietly told him. Then she dared to meet Stan’s shocked gaze. Her next words were louder. “It restricts my ability to play.”
We all watched Stan go stiller than stone. With his one good eye, he cast a long, hard look at the golden-haired boy in the blue blazer. Then he shifted his gaze to Abby.
“Do you want to explain to me who this guy is?”
“Preston Emory,” the stranger cut in, offering Stan his hand. As they clasped, he jerked the musician close, careful to keep the tight smile in place for the onlookers. “Abigail and I are engaged to be married. No public announcement yet, but that’s mere days away.”
Then he invaded Stan’s space further, hissing into his ear. “That was a cute scene between you two on that piano bench. Stuff happens onstage, I know, so we’ll call it a stage kiss. But if it happens again, I won’t be happy.”
Preston released Stan and he stumbled backward on his game leg. Still wobbly, he faced Abby.
“You’re not serious about this clown!”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, eyes pleading. “I tried to tell you a few times. I did say my life was complicated. That it’s not a normal life—”
“We really should go, Abigail,” Preston loudly cut in. “I spoke with your mother and she and the President are waiting up at the White House to congratulate you. The staff has champagne on ice and everything!”
“But I don’t want to go!” She stood up from her interview chair, the fight in her finally rallying. “My friends are here.”
Preston gently took Abby by the shoulders and gazed into her eyes.
“Honey-bunny, don’t be selfish. You should consider all these Secret Service people. They’ve been here, guarding you, since morning. Now it’s nearly one in the AM. Don’t you want to be fair to them?”
Abby’s bolstered expression melted to confusion, then completely crumbled. “I guess you’re right,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t thinking . . .”
I glanced at Agent Cage. Though she continued to hold her posture stiff as a statue, her expression was no longer stone. Preston’s ploy angered her. But she held her tongue.
Stanley McGuire didn’t.
“Don’t let this guy guilt-trip you!” he cried. “You don’t have to leave!”
Preston turned on him. “Stay out of this, Cyclops.”
That did it.
Stan wasn’t a tall guy, but his drummer’s physique was lean and tough. As he balled one of his powerful hands into a fist and drew back his strong arm, Jackson put aside his drink and Gardner stepped forward.
But it was Abby who intervened, jumping between the two young men.
Cupping St
an’s cheek, she whispered, “Calm down. You and I are still friends. And I’ll see you soon.”
One touch from Abby and Stan’s whole body relaxed.
“Remember the TV appearance on Monday?” she said hopefully. “We’ll have to rehearse, right?”
“So we’ll see each other tomorrow?”
“I’m sure we will,” she said, but anyone could see she wasn’t so sure.
“Time to go, Abigail.”
Stan’s wiry form tensed again, but he kept his gaze locked on Abby’s. “This clown will never trade fours with you. You know that, don’t you?”
Abby’s lips moved, but before any sound could come out, Preston wrapped a possessive arm around her and propelled her toward the exit.
Shaking with emotion, poor Stan watched Abby being swept away, a small army of Secret Service agents blocking his last view of her.
“He’ll never trade fours with her,” he repeated to his bandmates, his gaze lost in the empty space where she had been. “He’ll never trade fours . . .”
Sixty-five
MIKE Quinn rubbed the back of his neck. “Trading fours? What does that mean exactly?”
“Trading fours is something that happens in jazz. Each member takes four bars to play a short solo. They can trade two or eight or sixteen, or as many as they like. It’s a back-and-forth thing.”
“So why did Stan say that about Preston Emory?”
“Trading fours is about cooperation and chemistry within the band. That night in our greenroom, Stan was trying to warn Abby that Preston was not the kind of guy who’d step back and let her play her own solo, express her own voice. Abby’s fiancé was condescending, self-satisfied, and controlling. We all saw it!”
Emotional now, I pounded the SUV’s dashboard to make my point—a mistake. For the first time since we’d pulled the vehicle into this dank garage in “not the nicest part” of Baltimore, the gangbanger watching from a folding chair put aside his smartphone game.
From across the empty space, he fired off an unfriendly stare. I returned his gaze with a friendly smile, and he returned to the animated action on his tiny screen.