She watched as the men shelled out a king’s ransom to a host, who led them to two tables pushed together in front of the small stage where a drum set and two guitars sat idle.
“Excellent,” said Andrew. “They must be between sets.”
In desperate need of a moment, Emily excused herself and headed for the restrooms, her roommates, unfortunately though not unexpectedly, in tow. Sensing her mood, they did not cross-examine her too harshly, and she made it a point to keep her ring out of sight, not wanting to explain the significance of it right now. They would have too many questions she couldn’t answer.
But unable to keep from venturing into that forbidden territory for long, Margot cleared her throat after having finished reapplying her lipstick to her satisfaction. “Back there in the alley, that’s quite unlike you. Highly unlike you.”
“Maybe,” Emily answered quietly.
“You’re being careful, right?”
“It wasn’t exactly like that.”
“So you’re saying that screaming was because he was…because you were…sweet Jesus…But all joking aside, you should be careful regardless, they’re heading out soon. You know that, don’t you?”
Zoey’s smile vanished. “When did you hear that?”
“When do you think? While standing in line for garlic fries and a beer. Things are heating up for them, with Rolling Stone and all. Simon thought they’d be back on the road in a few weeks, if not sooner.”
“Weeks.” Zoey repeated the word, watching as the water washed down the drain.
“Weeks,” Emily repeated. She knew Andrew had to go on tour soon, he had said as much at dinner, but hearing “soon” quantified was another matter entirely. She twisted the ring on her hand, now hidden deep in the pocket of her coat. She realized that her fear of losing him for good had been replaced with the truth she couldn’t avoid, the truth she kept coming back to again and again: how would she fit in with his life as a musician when they were always separated by time and distance? She had been in a few relationships before, but nothing like this. Nothing could compare. Yet for all they had in their favor, they had so many things going against them. They knew so little of each other. How were they supposed to build a lifetime together when they were destined to spend it apart?
Yet as she made her way back to the table, she promised herself she wouldn’t dwell on the unknowns right now; tonight was a night to celebrate. They were together, and he had traveled halfway around the world to find her, a world he was about to take by storm.
Her determination, however, made the color bright on her cheeks, which Andrew mistook for embarrassment. His eyebrows rose in question as he stood and pulled out the chair next to him, taking her coat from her shoulders. With one arm draped around her, he pulled her close to his side, his fingers lingering on the beads of her dress.
“You’re blushing.”
“I did not break under interrogation, you’ll be happy to know,” she murmured back to him.
“Then they don’t know how to interrogate you properly.”
He leaned forward menacingly, and she drew away from his clutches in feigned alarm. But a moment later, his eyes darted toward the door to see Neil St. John entering the club. On instinct Emily raised her hand, causing everyone else at the table to look in the direction in which she was waving. Neil nodded in response, although a bit bluntly, even given his normally aloof demeanor. It was then that Emily noticed the woman by his side.
It was as if Vogue and The Wall Street Journal had mated and out of their pages had sprung this creature. That was the only explanation Emily could think of as she stared at her. She dressed as though she were French, in a burgundy trench coat and matching open-laced heels, and seemed able to accessorize to the smallest detail, down to tying the perfect knot and choosing stunning yet understated jewelry. Emily felt sure that she would even smell expensive. The woman’s hair was the only thing that appeared ruffled, falling loose around her face in long, creamy curls. Creamy, blond curls.
Ahhh…Emily finally understood Andrew’s earlier reluctance at dinner while describing the agent, whom she automatically assumed had to be this woman. Why did men have the uncanny knack to forget essentials when it came to other women?
To her left stood a handsome man with thick black hair, his glasses and leather jacket also black and stylish. He seemed bored with the surroundings and attentive only to her. They were escorted to a table on the opposite side of the room, the last empty one in the house.
Emily was about to ask Andrew about the woman when she realized she had lost his attention entirely. An elderly black man had shuffled up onto the stage, the room quieting down in respect as he did so. The man’s gnarled hands tuned the guitar he took off the stand. Age spots and dark moles spread out across his cheeks so that his leathery skin appeared mottled; his ears and nose had grown large with time, filled with an outcropping of gray hairs. His teeth, what were left of them, held his smile. Despite the ravages of time, his face looked beautiful to her; it was so very alive.
Andrew sat enthralled by the sight of him, his mind miles away, and Christian and Simon seemed just as smitten. After the old man finished up his first number to warm applause, he cleared the gravel from his throat as if getting ready to tell a story. The microphone squawked a bit when he adjusted it, making him cringe in surprise before he settled back on his stool with a smile.
“Now don’t you think I don’t see you out there in the shadows, boy, ’cause I do. These eyes may be gettin’ on, but the mind’s just as sharp. You hop on up here if you know what’s good for you, ’cause I ain’t getting no younger. Yeah, you boy, get your boney English ass on up here rhat now.”
Andrew obeyed without question, and ducking his head with reserve, he walked to the stage. A murmur passed through the crowd, and Emily swore she could hear Andrew’s name being repeated on many lips, along with the familiar sound of a bevy of women’s sighs, of course. Andrew held his hand out in greeting, but the old man looked at him with a kind of “pshsaw” gesture and grabbed Andrew into a massive bear hug before slapping him on the back.
Emily leaned back in her chair, dumbfounded. In response, Christian slid his chair next to her and smiled. “His name is Clarence Memphis Green. He is one of best, if not the greatest, bluesmen alive. Extremely underrated, though. He also adores Andrew.”
Her eyebrows rose as she met Christian’s serene face. Christian was a musician, and like all musicians belonged to a club that folk like Emily could only admire from afar. “Andrew rode on a freight car with Memphis for weeks. Nothing but his guitar and the clothes on his back. Wrote some of the most incredible music afterward.”
“But I thought you were touring all the time. When did he do that?”
Christian’s face stilled, and his eyes flickered at her and then to Andrew. “A while back. We were down South, near my home. Andrew had—well, he was really burned out, that’s all—we call it his Jack Kerouac phase. He just rode the rails and slept on hay and learned from the master. He said Memphis didn’t know what to make of him in the beginning, swore he was Mexican, but couldn’t understand what a skinny Mexican kid was doing with an English accent. But you know Andrew, he could sell coal to the devil, and it didn’t take long before Memphis took him under his wing. He’s like a son to him, I guess. Being a bluesman, you’re never in one place long enough to have one of your own.”
Christian’s words stayed between them. You’re never in one place long enough. She ignored them and instead asked him pointedly, “Why would he go off all alone?” But at that moment Memphis had started to hum.
He had handed Andrew an old guitar, which Andrew took reverently before he sat down on a nearby wooden stool and began to play. Soon the humming joined the moving chords, and Andrew closed his eyes.
The regular din of conversation had ebbed away; the audience had become transfixed by the sound of wood and strings. Emily watched the crowd take Andrew in, and from across the room she saw Neil stare at him a
s well, with what could only be described as pride. The sight made her throat unexpectedly tight. She had heard enough about Neil’s history to learn that while he had always appeared cordial to her, he was not a happy man, and definitely not a satisfied one. Now, it looked as if he had found a missing piece.
Memphis began to sing, pulling her attention back to the stage. With subdued respect, Andrew accompanied the bluesman. The song twanged sadly and ended with an old spiritual refrain, one everyone knew and could sing, and a few did so.
After the applause, Memphis took the microphone. “Well now, that ain’t too bad, don’t y’all think? Why don’t you do something? Some of what I learned you.” Hoots of agreement came from all around, making the old man smile and shake his head.
Andrew raised his eyebrows in surprise. He must have known the old man wouldn’t take no for an answer, and the continued shouts from the crowd only added to the inducement. With that, Memphis positioned the microphone in front of Andrew’s seat. The bright light focused on the stage made Andrew squint out into the audience.
“Thank you, sir,” he said with deep affection. “What should I play?” He strummed while he addressed the old man, as he did whenever he held a guitar, playing, always playing.
“Do that little one she liked so much. The one you used to do for her when your heart was all busted up, when she went away.”
Andrew’s strumming caught; he was studying the strings now, something she had never seen him do. He appeared to be stalling for time while his fingers began to plink away at the notes, and he tried to find his bearings. When at last he raised his eyes, they were a sea of blue glass. He spoke quietly into the microphone. “This is for her. For my muse. Because I found her, and because she said yes.”
The song was simple, more poem than anything else, and his voice was rife with heartbreak. Emily could hear Zoey sniffle next to her, and Christian chuckled softly and pulled her closer in response. Simon said nothing to Margot, though he had not moved his hand from where it lay next to hers on the table.
Andrew’s strumming grew stronger and fiercer. Feelings overflowed in her. Jealously. Anger. Confusion. Love.
What did the old man mean “when she went away?” When his muse went away? But she was his muse. She remembered Andrew’s words, that the thought of her had been with him his whole life. But she had always believed him to mean something romantic, not painful, not controlling. Not real.
Finally, the music quieted to only the vibrations of the strings and the whisper of his voice. When he finished, Andrew placed his hands on the strings and closed his eyes as he did whenever he played anything close to his heart. The applause was shattering. Memphis sat back as if to say “look at your bad self,” and gave him one last smack on the back before Andrew politely waved to the crowd and hustled his way back to the table.
Once there, he took a long drink of water and sat back in his chair, clearly self-conscious. Memphis began another song as Andrew glanced at Emily, his glass still at his lips.
“That was—”
“For you,” he said quietly, and swallowed a huge gulp.
“You traveled with him, in a train?” cried Zoey in disbelief; evidently Christian had told her the story as well.
“With chickens.”
“No. You’re shitting me.”
“Right hand to God.” Andrew waved the waitress down for another drink. “I get wicked thirsty when I sing, sorry.” He glanced to Emily before returning his attention to Zoey. “Yes, I spent some time with him, and it was amazing. Ah, Neil’s still here.” Then he looked past them and waved his hand in an effort to change the conversation.
“Andrew,” Emily asked. “About what Memphis said?”
“Andrew, your fans cometh,” Margot said, her voice less than gracious. She gestured to the blonde who had gotten out of her seat and was slinking toward them.
“Fan doesn’t seem to suit her job description,” Emily muttered.
“No it doesn’t, but they’re coming over now, and I’d hate to have to snog you senseless on this table to prove a point. Be nice.”
“Andrew, gentlemen, what a pleasure,” S.J. said, her voice dark like smoked glass. She glanced between Margot and Zoey before her gaze settled on Emily. “This is my colleague, Robert Bolen. He’ll be working with Glenn Sommers, the writer from Rolling Stone I mentioned over lunch today. Fancy running into you tonight. I didn’t realize you guys hung with itinerant bluesmen.”
Emily dug her nails into Andrew’s knee. “Ow. Um—yes. S.J., permit me to introduce Ms. Zoey Cohen, Dr. Margot Larson, and Ms. Emily Thomas. Ladies, this is S.J. Gordian.”
S.J. nodded in greeting to each of them before stopping at Emily. “What an interesting name. Emily Thomas—it’s rather old fashioned.”
“And yours too. Rather mythological.”
Neil appeared at that moment, saving Emily from ruining Andrew’s career.
“How is everyone doing this evening? Mr. Green is amazing, isn’t he? And you, Andrew, you were—”
“Phenomenal.” S.J. zeroed in her attention on Andrew, ignoring the rest.
“If anyone is phenomenal, it’s Memphis,” Andrew replied, blushing as he finished off the last of his drink.
“There’s a distinct difference between hearing music on a track and hearing it live, from the lips, as it were. Don’t you think, Neil? How long have you known about this man, really? Were you holding out on me?”
“Of course I was,” Neil said with more than a hint of condescension. “It’s what keeps me awake at nights. How to make your life even more difficult, S.J.”
Robert snapped a few shots as if this was his only form of discourse.
“It seems Mr. Green has a question for you,” S.J. whispered to Andrew.
He excused himself, leaving an awkward silence in his wake, but he soon returned, and his face was alight with enthusiasm. “He wants us to play.”
“You’re shitting me,” Christian muttered. “Really?”
“Our choice.”
“Hell,” was all Simon could utter.
“So what’s it going to be? Nothing sedate. Boy band rubbish, mate?” Andrew asked Simon and neatly ducked a blow.
“Boy band what?” S.J. asked.
“You know,” said Christian, barely able to talk through his laughter. “It’s Simon’s deepest darkest secret. He wants to be every twelve-year-old girl’s fantasy. Two guys wailing into one microphone with the big bad drummer in the middle, pounding away.”
“Then by all means,” said S.J. enthusiastically.
With evil smiles all around, the three men jumped up onto the stage. Memphis took the microphone.
“Looks like we got ourselves an extra treat this evening. I’ve heard these boys play, so y’all might want to hold onto your woman or man or whatever you got next to you, but that’s just ’cause I’ll be playing along.” He chortled and moved his chair to the side, taking out a harmonica and beaming from ear to ear.
Simon took his place behind the drums, sizing them up, and Christian draped the bass over his shoulder and strummed a bit, getting comfortable, while Andrew took hold of the guitar he had been playing.
“Oh dear God,” muttered Zoey at the sight of all three of them up there.
Christian was right. There was something about two men at one microphone and one behind a set of drums that could make even a twenty-something group of women with ample education fall to pieces. Andrew started counting off, and then his hand struck his guitar. Zoey started screaming as the beginning chords exploded. Christian’s face plastered against Andrew’s as their lips blazoned the lyrics into the microphone. Simon pounded the drums with wanton frustration of a song about sex, about wanting it and not having it, then having it but not getting enough of it. It was a wonder they remained standing.
Christian, usually sedate on bass, had his face contorted into some gorgeous pseudo-coital expression that was riveting. And Andrew, oh Andrew, he was just too elated, too on fire to do anything
but smile and cock his head like a teenage boy, then fall back, purse his lips, and tear into a wild, inhuman riff. By the time they hit the bridge with the requisite “oooos” wailed in tandem and their sweaty cheeks pressed together, the crowd was on its feet.
Possessed by the sound, people began to dance, rocking, pounding their feet. Those who weren’t dancing stood on chairs to get a better look at the stage as Simon smashed away on the drums and Andrew improvised, his fingers on fire.
Out of nowhere, Neil took Emily’s hand and pulled her out of her seat. He swung her into the horde and began to dance, and they laughed so hard they almost fell down. It was a side of him she had never seen. A wave of elation crashed over everyone, and they were singing and dancing; the old were young again, and the young were unleashed. The photographer was firing pictures off so fast he seemed like a strobe light with legs. And S.J. was mesmerized.
Neil spotted her too, and made a sound in the back of his throat as he spun Emily around hard.
“Neil,” she shouted over the din. “What’s wrong?”
She could only hear bits and pieces of what he was saying; the riot around them was too loud. “She promised the photo shoot, that’s it. That’s the only reason—she would have never—And now she wants to sign them. They need someone else. She’ll only—never mind. Forget it.”
Determined to keep him talking and knowing from the look on his face that she probably would not get any more information about S.J. from him, she plumbed her mind for anything they might have in common. “I’ve been doing some research about your house for a paper of mine for school. I was wondering if you knew anything about the previous owners. Or any history of the house.”
“I bought the place about ten years ago in an estate auction,” he yelled to her over the commotion. “I never met the owner.” They danced a bit more before he lowered his lips to her ear. “My wife was getting her treatment at UC, the location was convenient, and she adored it.” She had to strain to hear him now and stood on her tiptoes. “She didn’t want to die in a hospital. We had hospice until the end.”
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 28