Jazzed

  Mary Beth lifted a plate from the stack and moved toward the food. “I must admit, this room is more conducive to crafting and conversation at the moment. I really appreciate your hosting this meeting, especially so soon after being ill.”

  “We all do,” Annie added, carrying her plate and cup across the room to the sofa.

  Soon the group was gathered in front of the fireplace, where tiny fingers of flames flickered between logs. When Stella was seated ramrod straight with her ankles crossed in one of the two leather chairs flanking the fireplace, silver forks began to clink against china plates.

  Peggy placed her cup and saucer on the small accent table at the end of the couch, speared a bit of cake on her fork, and leaned her shoulder into Alice. “This is a great time to tell us about your trip,” she said, popping the bite in her mouth.

  Annie, Alice, and Kate took turns describing the conference, each reaching into her tote bag from time to time in search of materials gathered in workshops. They had collected enough copies of each brochure, handout, and sample to share with everyone.

  Peggy organized hers into a pile on her lap before stuffing it into her craft bag. She looked at Annie, her eyes aglow with excitement. “This is great stuff! Now, let’s hear about the jazz club.”

  “Well,” Alice said, casting a dramatic look Peggy’s way, “we found it our first night in the city. We learned the ins and outs of New York City subways and sidewalks, and found The Avant-Garde in Greenwich Village. We also met Mitchell Grants, the club’s owner.”

  Stella looked puzzled. “The Avant-Garde? Why did you go there, exactly?”

  “Oh, that’s right!” Alice’s confused look turned to one of understanding. “You were sick during the last meeting and didn’t hear about Annie’s latest mystery. She found an empty matchbook cover for a jazz club and some old photo negatives at Grey Gables. We were trying to trace the identity of a singer in one of them.

  “Oh,” said Stella stoically. “Carry on.”

  Annie, sitting on the other side of Alice, leaned forward on the couch. “Mr. Grants was a very nice man. He shared a lot of stories about the old days and some of my favorite jazz musicians.”

  Peggy crossed her legs and made circles in the air with her foot. “And? Did he know her?”

  “Instantly. Her name was Asta, and she sang in the club during the late forties,” Annie explained. Then she relayed the details Grants had provided.

  The room was silent as Annie thought about what to say next. Suddenly Gwen said, “Stella?”

  The older woman was pale and in obvious discomfort. “It’s this cold and cough medicine that young doctor prescribed. It makes me lightheaded. I’m fine. Go on.”

  Alice whipped out her cellphone and began touching icons. “We found this photo of Asta in a café we visited with one of the club’s musicians,” she said, passing the phone around so each woman could see.

  Stella barely glanced at the photo after taking the phone from Kate. Dropping it into her lap, she closed her eyes and leaned forward with her hands on her temples. “This medicine is getting to me.”

  Kate caught the phone with one hand as it slid from Stella’s lap and placed her other hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Stella? Are you all right?”

  Annie ran out of the parlor and called for Jason, who immediately appeared in the foyer. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said as he approached. “Stella isn’t feeling well. Maybe she needs to lie down awhile.”

  He entered the parlor and went straight to his employer. Kneeling in front of her chair, he gently put a hand on her forearm. “Mrs. Brickson, can you stand? Would you like me to take you upstairs?”

  Stella nodded, her expression blank. Standing slowly, she took Jason’s arm.

  Annie placed her hand on Stella’s free arm. “Would you like me to help you upstairs?”

  Stella stood up, grasping Annie and Jason for support, and started for the stairs. The rest of the Hook and Needle Club stayed in the parlor and watched the trio disappear.

  Stella’s gait seemed to improve as she moved closer to her bedroom. Color had nearly returned to her cheeks by the time Annie and Jason helped her get on the bed.

  “Stella, I’m going to loosen the top few buttons on your dress to give you more breathing room, OK?” Annie waited for a nod before slipping the first button through its hole.

  When Annie stood and stepped back from the bed, Jason took Stella’s pulse and looked into her eyes. “Her pulse is fine,” he said, turning to Annie. “Would you mind looking in the wardrobe and finding something less constricting for Mrs. Brickson to wear?”

  Annie gave Jason a worried smile. “I’m happy to help.”

  Waving Jason’s hand away, Stella cleared her throat as Annie turned toward the wardrobe. “I’m fine. I don’t need to change clothes or go to bed.”

  Annie opened the mirrored door of the wardrobe and looked for a robe or loose housedress. When she found a velvety belted robe, Annie pushed back the next garment to make enough room to slip the cranberry material off the hanger.

  “Annie, I’m fine! I don’t need the robe.” Stella’s voice was suddenly strong and clear.

  But Annie wasn’t listening. She was too busy staring at Asta’s countenance, her dark eyes flashing under a swoop of blond hair, gazing from a large, yellowed poster hanging in the back of the wardrobe. Pushing the clothes farther apart, Annie looked closer. It looked like the moody photo made from the negative found behind Gram and Grandpa’s portrait but with the name “Asta” emblazoned in cursive across one top corner and the club’s name and address printed along the bottom. Stunned, Annie struggled to make the connection between the cold, stubborn woman sitting on the nearby bed and the sultry songbird in the poster. Collecting her wits, she turned to Stella. “Asta. You knew Asta?”

  Stella’s eyes flashed, and then they narrowed. “Asta is none of your business!” Her voice was cold and razor sharp.

  Jason looked from Annie to Stella and drummed his fingers on the dresser, drawing Annie’s attention to the collection of family photos behind him. She crossed the room, her eyes searching each frame for familiar faces. Nestled in an antiqued silver frame, she found a black-and-white photo of a young Mitchell Grants posing with Asta in front of The Avant-Garde. “This is Mitchell Grants,” Annie said, picking up the photo for a closer look. “I’d recognize his toothy smile anywhere.”

  Annie’s eyes widened. She looked from Asta—smoldering, passionate, beautiful—to Stella—calm, cool, collected, and defiant. “Stella, are you Asta?”

  Stella simply returned Annie’s gaze without saying a word. Annie wondered if the woman was simply choosing her words carefully or refusing to answer the question altogether. While waiting for a reply, she perused the photos again and found a copy of the picture hanging in Marvin’s Café, the same one Stella had been viewing when she dropped Alice’s phone. Holding the photo closer, Annie studied the face of the man who was not Mitchell Grants. There was something about the eyes and the chin that reminded her of—Jason! She handed the photo to Jason. “Is this your father?”

  Jason tapped his thumbs on the sides of the frame and looked to Stella with questioning eyes. His employer began to stammer an answer but then closed her mouth and nodded.

  “This is my uncle, Leo Harmon. He was a photojournalist who died long before I was born.” He replaced the photo in its original spot and selected another of Asta with a slightly older woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties. He tapped his index finger by her face. “My mother, Evelyn Harmon—Uncle Leo’s sister. Before she married my father, she tagged along with my uncle on photo shoots. She was a gifted pianist who, I’ve been told, could keep up with the best jazz musicians at the time. She died in a car accident when I was a little boy.”

  Stella slowly rose from the bed and walked to the dresser. “Evelyn and I were good friends, just like Betsy and I were during our younger years. She was happiest when playing accompaniment for singers. Jason may look more like hi
s Uncle Leo, but he inherited his mother’s gift of music. He has made sure I keep music in my life.”

  Before Annie could respond, Alice’s voice filtered in from the hallway. “Annie? Is everything all right?”

  The room was silent for a moment as the three occupants looked at one another. Jason’s eyes softened as he turned to Stella. “I think it is time to let your friends know Asta’s identity and allow them to see a bit of the person you’ve hidden from them all this time.”

  Stella stammered as if trying to wrap her mind around the enormity of what Jason was asking her to do. Looking at Annie, she nodded. “Please tell our friends we will be down in a few minutes.”

  Stella sent Jason downstairs at the same time, assuring him she needed to be alone to collect her thoughts. Having done so, she descended the stairs on her own and entered the parlor.

  “Thank you for waiting for me to weather the effects of my medication. I’m fine now. I’ve been out of commission with this cold and throat infection, so I didn’t know about this latest mystery about Asta, the jazz singer,” she said, her voice sounding much stronger than when she went upstairs. “Feel free to refill your cups and plates. You might want to have your works-in-progress handy to keep your hands occupied. Jason and I have quite the story to tell.”

  When all of the women had replenished their refreshments and removed their needlework projects from their bags, Stella took a deep breath and began to tell her tale.

  19

  Stella stared at the marquee and could hardly believe her eyes. Oliver Franklin and His Band! They were really here, in New York City, opening at The Avant-Garde. It had been several years since they had played at the USO dance in Stony Point and had asked her to sing with them. She could still remember the curious mixture of nerves and excitement running through her body when she stepped up to the microphone and poured her heart out to the audience. Of course, she had nearly frozen when she spotted Betsy making eyes at Charlie Holden, but even losing the handsome sailor to Betsy couldn’t take away the thrill of performing. All eyes had been on her during that song. There was nothing like it. Yet she never expected to see Oliver and the boys again.

  “Just what’s so special about this band, Stella, that you dragged us down here in the middle of the week?” Seymour Brickson asked.

  Their friends Ruth and James were waiting by the club’s entrance with Seymour’s roommate, Clarence, and his girlfriend, Mildred.

  Stella looked at Seymour and blinked. “I sang with them once at a USO dance a few years ago. They were good. Very good.”

  Taking her elbow, Seymour led her to their friends as people began arriving for the show. The six of them entered the club and found a table not too far from the stage. “I promise you will like this band,” Stella said.

  When Oliver and his band struck the first note, Stella closed her eyes and felt the music flow over her as she barely swayed her head to the music and tapped her toe, hidden under the table, firmly with each beat. They were still good. No wonder they hadn’t faded away like many bands. She snapped out of her trance when Ruth touched her arm.

  “Did you really sing with them? Onstage, in front of people?” Mildred cradled a highball glass between her hands.

  Stella couldn’t tell if Mildred’s words indicated admiration or disgust. “Yes, I did,” she replied. “All my years of music lessons culminated in that one performance at the USO dance.” The truth of her reply fell softly, and Stella wondered why she had left music back in Stony Point with Betsy and Charlie. She looked at the past with the same hushed detachment as she had once watched snow flurries float from the sky into the yard of her childhood home. Being a singer against her father’s wishes hadn’t been any more possible than frolicking in the snow without his permission. Girls of her background just didn’t do those things. The opportunity to perform had come and gone, replaced with her New York City debutante ball, sorority activities, and college classes.

  At the end of the set, the band took a break and disappeared backstage. Mitchell Grants, the consummate club host, stopped by the table to see what everyone thought of the group. Much to the amusement of Stella’s college friends, she told him about her one appearance with the band.

  “Would you please ask Oliver if he will speak with me after the show? I’d enjoy seeing him after all these years,” she said. “Tell him I am Stella from Stony Point, Maine.”

  Mitchell smiled, his pearly whites lighting up his face. “Will do. They will be back onstage shortly. Enjoy the rest of the show.”

  The band returned for the last set and drew loud applause after each number. Stella tried to divide her attention between the stage and the ongoing conversation at her table. She was only half-listening to Mildred describe a social event held recently at the Powelton Club when the music stopped and Oliver stepped to the microphone.

  “Our final song goes out to a girl who jazzed up this band during a stop on our USO tour several years ago. This is Stella by Starlight.”

  Conversation at the table stopped as the band started to play. Stella was filled with a mixture of embarrassment and delight. She glanced at Seymour, who didn’t seem to be amused by the bandleader’s announcement. She remained silent after the song ended. Oliver stepped off the stage and made his way to Stella’s table.

  “Stella, it’s good to see you after all these years,” he said, pulling a chair from the next table and sitting down. “Are you still performing?”

  Stella introduced Oliver to Seymour and their friends before answering. “No. I’m attending college in the city, but I’ve not had an opportunity to perform since I left Stony Point a few years ago. I’m flattered you remember me.”

  Oliver scraped his chair closer to Stella and looked into her eyes. “You were one of the best vocalists to perform with us on that tour. Say, we just lost our lead singer. Are you interested in auditioning?”

  ****

  Stella’s icy façade began to thaw, but the aristocratic bearing remained the same. As Stella began to weave the story, her eyes warmed, and Annie saw a glimpse of the passion so evident in the photographs of Asta performing.

  “I suppose all of you are as scandalized as Seymour was when I told him about the audition.” Stella looked into the faces of her friends, her hands folded in her lap.

  How difficult this must be for Stella, Annie thought as she took in the surprised countenances of the Hook and Needle Club members, who had put down their projects and were focused solely on Asta’s story.

  “We’re not scandalized,” Annie said to fill the silence.

  “It’s more like we’re surprised,” finished Gwen, who then picked up her knitting needles and resumed work on a pink-and-purple cellphone case. “Quite surprised.”

  Kate shifted in her seat, her hands empty because she didn’t have a work-in-progress to finish for the fundraiser. “Mr. Grants said Leo Harmon was in love with Asta, or I guess I mean he was in love with you. What happened between the two of you?”

  Stella’s response was a smile bigger than Annie had ever seen on her grandmother’s childhood friend.

  “Leo is how I found Jason. He was Jason’s uncle,” Stella said, looking at her chauffeur. “But I am getting ahead of myself.”

  Little by little, Stella unraveled the mystery of the jazz singer and the photos found at Grey Gables. Oliver Franklin and His Band—featuring Asta—became a hit in New York and drew crowds at each performance. One of their biggest fans was a photojournalist named Leo Harmon.

  “Leo was a kind, shy man who hid behind his camera. He loved photography, jazz music, and Asta. He often dropped by the club to take photos of musicians during rehearsals or performances. When he couldn’t afford to pay to see the show, he happily exchanged photos for a ticket.”

  She fell silent as if deciding which memories to share and which to keep locked away in the past.

  “He was filled with stories about jazz musicians he had met through his photography, and he delighted in telling those tales, es
pecially to me,” Stella said. “I was a young, small-town girl with stars in her eyes. I thought I could have it all, money, status, and music. I was naive.”

  Annie’s eyes skipped from face to face, and she wondered what her friends were thinking. She watched Kate shift again in her chair.

  “Stella, did you love Leo?” asked Kate, her question barely audible.

  Annie was curious to hear the answer and laid her partially made place mat and crochet hook across her thighs in anticipation of the answer.

  “Kate, Leo was in love with a woman who really didn’t exist. Asta wasn’t real. She was just a figment of a young girl’s imagination, a girl who mistakenly believed she could keep her left foot in one world and her right foot in another.”

  Stella hesitated and seemed to be at a loss for words. An awkward silence hung over the room.

  Jason, who had pulled up a chair between Stella and the fireplace, cleared his throat. “Pardon me for interrupting, but this might be a good time to tell them about my mother.”

  Stella nodded and asked Jason to pour her a glass of water. She watched as he crossed the room to the refreshments and filled a tall glass from a china pitcher. “Thank you,” she said before taking a sip and continuing her story.

  “Evelyn.” The name was spoken with awe and affection Annie hadn’t before heard from Stella. “Leo’s sister was one of the most talented pianists I’ve ever known. Ten years Leo’s junior, she was in awe of her brother and his friendships with musicians. She didn’t like to perform alone, but she loved to accompany anyone who happened to be playing at the club.”

  Stella and Evelyn had been close friends, drawn together by a love of music and the realization that neither one of them would ever become famous—Stella by virtue of her limiting social status and Evelyn because of a debilitating fear of performing before large crowds.

  “We came from different worlds, Evelyn and I, but we shared a great love for music. Isn’t it interesting how music can bridge the gap between people? If it hadn’t been for jazz, we never would have met, much less become friends,” Stella said. “In many ways, she was like Betsy, very accepting of people and their faults.” Stella’s eyes fell on Annie. “Evelyn became the confidant I lost when I cut your grandmother out of my life. She was the only person I trusted enough to share why I had left Stony Point. Nobody else knew my heart was broken when Charlie Holden fell in love with Betsy instead of me. Jealousy can make a person do such stupid things! For a time, Leo and Evelyn were like the brother and sister I never had.”