Twilight time, p.17
Twilight Time, page 17
Ninety minutes later, after a bun-less barbecue burger, apple slaw, and a sixteen-ounce IPA, her noisy belly felt full and happy. Even the cramps had eased, with only a subtle continuous twinge to remind her that her uterus was still a battle zone.
“You were right.” He pushed the empty plastic basket that had held his chicken sandwich and onion rings to the side. “This was a much better idea than a muddy trek to some lighthouse.”
She stretched an arm beneath their high-top table to give Lily some ear scritches. The dog sat up and lifted her head to meet her hand halfway. “I’m glad it’s unanimous. We all need a break from our usual schedule of driving for hours or hiking for hours right about now. A lazy afternoon in a brewery with nothing more strenuous than a game of cornhole for us and a casual walk for Lily seemed like just the ticket.”
Straightening in her chair, she gazed around at the sparse lunch crowd, the sky-high steel tanks behind a glassed wall where more beer continued to be brewed for future consumption, and finally settled her attention on the lone woman seated on a bar stool atop the small stage. While crooning a love song into the single microphone, the long-haired blonde, maybe about twenty years old at most, strummed a gleaming guitar.
Maia glanced at Spence, who listened to the music, barely paying attention to anything she said. “She’s good, isn’t she? Young, but good.”
He nodded. “She’s better than good. She’s comfortable.”
Huh?
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Another nod. “The highest praise.”
After wiping her mouth, she balled her napkin and tossed it into her own empty plastic basket. “Explain please?”
He said nothing, letting the woman’s song play out, but Maia noted the fingers of his left hand danced on the tabletop in direct rhythm to the music, as if finding the notes on an invisible violin that accompanied her guitar.
“Hello? Spence? Want to explain what you mean to those of us with a good ear but no musical talent?”
He frowned. “It’s hard to put into words.”
She leaned forward to gain his full attention. “Then put it into song.”
At last, he broke whatever hold the siren on stage had on him and turned back to Maia, puffing air through pursed lips while he considered how best to piece his thoughts into something she might understand. “You know how you said you have a gift for getting people to say things to you they never thought they’d admit publicly?”
Had she said that? She didn’t think so. Certainly not in those terms, but she couldn’t deny, regardless of the way he said it now, the story she’d told about the ticket seller and the choir guy gave off a close-enough vibe.
“O-kay...” she allowed, prompting him to continue with a twirl of one hand.
“Well, truly talented musicians have a similar gift. Some of us learn to play well, but we never achieve the level needed to pull every secret note and every hidden sound from our instruments. That takes true genius, a real gift. Beethoven-like talent, if you will. Did you know that as his deafness became worse, he trained his body’s other senses to tune into individual notes? He would sometimes put a pencil in his mouth to feel the keys against his teeth, or he’d have the legs sawed off his piano so he could lie on the floor with his body curled around the keyboard to absorb the subtle differences in vibrations from one key to the next. He and the instrument became one, the music inside and outside of him, surrounding him so that he didn’t need to hear to know what note came next. It was as natural to him as breathing. That’s pure musical genius that most of us can never attain. It’s more than magic. It’s alchemy. Oh, we lesser musicians convince ourselves we can create that same wonder, and we band together in groups or symphonies. Or we limit ourselves to playing at small, intimate gatherings. We teach others or reserve our playing time to holidays and special occasions for family and close friends.”
He paused then, ear cocked toward the woman’s sweet, mournful voice while she sang about not fooling a fool in love. When the tune became instrumental only, he spoke again, as if not wanting to ruin his listening by daring to talk over her.
“To be alone, just you and the instrument, in front of a crowd of strangers, no matter how small, takes an intimate relationship borne of the confidence of knowing you have the gift. That you and your instrument are on your way to becoming one.”
Finished with his litany, he propped his chin on an upraised fist and continued to listen to the singer.
Maia chewed on his words but didn’t allow herself time to digest them. “You have a gift—”
“No,” he interrupted, never taking his eyes from the stage. “Not like her. I could never do what she’s doing right now, be up there alone, just me and my instrument. She has a presence, an ‘it’ factor I couldn’t pretend to own. She’s a star.”
“A star? A teenager playing in a brewery in Minnesota on a Wednesday afternoon for two dozen people?”
“Don’t be a snob, Maya. She hasn’t been discovered, probably never will be, but she’s a star, nonetheless. Not every star becomes famous before sizzling out. And before you argue, not everyone who’s famous is a star. You know a star when you see one. Take a good long look. You’re watching one now.”
She settled in her chair, focused on the stage and the woman’s next song. And the song after that. The whole time, Spence sat rapt, completely drawn in.
“You could change that, you know,” she said at last.
He swerved his head toward her. “Change what?”
“Her destiny. Her ‘star stuck in the sticks who’ll probably never be discovered’ place in the world.”
“I don’t follow you.”
She laughed. “You still have no clue what kind of cachet knowing Wyatt and Leah Blackthorne brings you, do you?” Her head tilted to one shoulder, she twisted her lips and rolled her eyes, showing her full exasperation at his dunceness. “If you really believe in that young woman,” she pointed to the singer onstage, “and think she’s special, you should talk to her during her next break. Find out what her dreams and plans are for her musical future. Ask her if she’s got a demo. I bet she does. She might even have an EP on one of those music sites a lot of indies use in the hope of getting discovered. If you still feel strongly about her when you talk to her, you could share her music with Wyatt and the band. Who knows? Maybe they’ll agree with you that she’s the hot new sensation they’ve been looking for. By next year, maybe she’ll be part of the band. Or their opening act for another tour. Or even just a featured performer for a song or two on the next album. The point is you could be the person who starts this star on her trajectory.”
His forehead crinkled, displaying his uncertainty. “It could be a while before she takes a break.”
“We can wait. Lily’s asleep on my foot, and we have no other plans today. Let’s get two more beers and enjoy listening to her in this teeny venue before she’s playing to sold-out arenas.”
Chapter 16
Midway through their second beers, the singer announced she’d be back, placed her guitar into the case at her feet, and stepped off the stage to a smattering of polite applause.
“Idiots,” Spence grumbled. “They have no idea they’re seeing greatness.”
One or two people greeted her, made some remark about her singing, and she gave them each a grateful nod before wending her way around the empty tables to the bar.
“You can change that for her. Now’s your chance,” Maia said, nudging him with an elbow. “Go talk to her.”
He glanced at the whip-thin young woman in pink crop top and jeans, her tattooed arms lounging against the bar as she waited to place her drink order. Just looking at her made him feel a thousand years old. What could he say that wouldn’t make him look like a lech? Maybe, if Maia introduced herself first, she could break the ice, and he could follow up with his appreciation for the young woman’s musical talent. “Why don’t you interview her instead?”
“Unh-unh. This one’s your project. I’ve got my interview for today from a different generation. Your turn.”
It killed him that she knew exactly what he was thinking and actually mocked him for it. All well and good for her to start conversations with strangers. He wasn’t as fluent in chitchat.
He plucked at her wrist. “Come with me then. Otherwise, she’ll think I’m some kind of creep trying to pick her up. Or worse, a serial killer attempting to lure her into my windowless van.”
Maia clucked her tongue and released his hold on her. “Lily’s asleep on my foot. I’m not waking the poor dog. You’ll have to use your own charm to convince her you’re not a creep. If you find yourself unable to convince her, you can point to me, and I’ll wave to let her know we’re together. Less creepy. Besides, you’re not asking her to leave the brewery with you. All you’re going to do is introduce yourself, mention you know Wyatt Blackthorne, and tell her you think she’s got tremendous talent and you’d like to pass her music on to some professionals, if she’s interested. At that point, she’ll either provide you with a web address to find her stuff online or a sample of her work on CD or some other digital media form. That’s the end of it. You’re not going to swap emails or phone numbers. All that info should be available on her demo. You can listen to her stuff, send it to Wyatt or Leah, and at best, someone connected with them will contact her with any offers. Once you’ve listened to her stuff and passed it on, you’re out of the mix.”
Could it really be that easy? He hadn’t a clue. Neither did she, he bet. In fact, she was probably making this up as she went along just to watch him squirm. He arched a brow in her direction. “How do you know so much about the music business?”
Her expression remained carefree as she sipped the last of her beer and placed the empty cup on the table. “I interviewed Jade Bengal before her New York show last year. That was basically how she was discovered. Except, in her case, it was a television exec who heard her singing on a street corner in L.A., grabbed her demo and gave it to a movie producer acquaintance because she had a song he thought would be the perfect love theme for a film in the works. When it was released a year later, the film tanked, but the song, Thanks for Everything, hit number one on the charts. And the rest, as they say, was history. Now, go. Shoo! Don’t come back without her demo. And another round of beers.”
He pointed to the empty cups. “Go easy on these. The alcohol content’s probably a lot higher than what you normally order at a bar.”
“Relax. I’m a big girl. I know my limits.” She waved off his concern and urged him on his way. “Go on.”
Still unsure, he got to his feet and ambled over to where the girl waited, slouching his posture to look less tall, less intimidating, less like a creep, he hoped.
“Hey,” he said as a greeting. “You were great up there.”
The young woman, barely out of her teens he’d guess, gave him a once-over and a noncommittal, “Thanks.”
Yup. Just as he figured. She thought he was a creep. “No, I’m serious. You were phenomenal. You’ve got a great gift. How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was two.” She arched on tiptoes to see over the bar, as if signaling someone to come to her aid.
“Well, it shows. I’m... umm... well, you don’t know me but I’m Spencer Knowles. I’m friends with Wyatt Blackthorne. Do you know him? Of Wyatt Blackthorne and the Ungrateful. The rock band?”
She dropped to flat feet, back straight again, and her heavily lined eyes rounded. “I’ve heard of them. My dad’s a big fan.”
Ouch. He stifled a grimace. With every word she spoke, he aged a decade. “What’s your name?”
“Kaycee. Spelled K-A-Y-C-E-E. Mom and Dad spelled it C-A-S-E-Y but that’s so lame. I like my version better.”
“Uh-huh. So, Kaycee, I was wondering if you have a demo I could share. I can’t guarantee anything, but I’d like to pass you around—pass your work around, I mean. I think you have tremendous talent. Would that be okay with you?”
“Are you serious?” Her face brightened and a genuine smile appeared. “That would be great! This is for real, right? You’re not dragging me?”
“Dragging you?”
“Playing a joke. Making this up to make me look stupid.”
“No. I’m not dragging you. I’m actually a violinist myself. I worked with Wyatt’s wife, Leah on her Broadway show, Oscar Wilde, Lord of the Vampires. I was first chair in the orchestra.” He pulled out his phone, typed in the play’s website on the internet, and showed her the picture on the soundtrack page, with the cast and musicians all lined up. “Look. That’s me with the violin in the center.”
She took the phone, pinched the image to enlarge it, then held it up against his face. Apparently satisfied, she decreased the image to view the website in its entirety. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Spencer Knowles.”
She handed back the phone. “That’s what it says. So... umm... you play violin?”
“I do.” He spread his hands on the bar top. “And I’m guessing you can, as well.”
She shrugged, communicating an attitude of no big deal. “Violin, bass, cello. Pretty much any stringed instrument. Except the harp. I mean, I’m good, but not great. I’d need more practice.” Her lips pursed. “They’re not exactly easy to carry around though, so it’s not like I’ve got lots of time or room to learn. There’s one at my school, and my music teacher lets me go into the auditorium to mess around with it when no one’s there. I love the tunes I can pull out of it, but I want more. Maybe someday, when I’m established, I can have a music room in my house and play the harp for hours on end until I’m really proficient. For now, I’ll stick with the guitar. Easier to carry around with me.”
There’s one at my school. What school? How old was she? Please, let it at least be high school. Despite the sweat popping out on his nape, he played it cool, never let his fingers drum, keeping his hands quiet atop the bar rather than allowing them to pull at his collar. “Where’s school?”
“Concordia College.”
Thank you, God.
“I’m on a scholarship,” she murmured. “I do gigs like this for extra cash. My parents aren’t exactly thrilled that I’m pursuing a degree in music. They’re afraid I’m going to wind up a teacher making peanuts for the rest of my life.”
He chuckled. “My parents thought the same thing.”
“Yeah? I bet they feel different now that you’re a big Broadway star.”
He wouldn’t shatter her I-told-you-so dream with his realities. “They felt a lot better about my career choice when I became successful. I’m sure the same will be true for you.”
“We’ll see...” She fluffed her short bangs with her fingertips. “I’m also taking business courses—just in case.”
“That’s smart. You’ll need to understand basic accounting, tax law, how to read contracts, and other business skills when you’re working full-time as an artist. Too many of us are easily duped by scoundrels and crooks because we trust the wrong people with the financial aspects of our lives.”
“Uh-huh. And if I don’t make it in music, I’ll have a career to fall back on. At least, that’s what my parents tell me.”
“You? In a cubicle? Working nine to five?” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “That’s not for you. We both know it. Your parents do, too. They’re just afraid. You’ve got a rare gift. I’m sure you’ve been told that before.”
“Once or twice.”
“Well, I’m making it a solid three times. As a fellow musician, this isn’t easy for me to admit, but I will never be as good as you are already. No one in the Ungrateful, no one I’ve ever played with in any orchestra has the ear and fluidity for his or her instrument I heard from you today. Talent like yours comes around once or twice in a generation. You’re the real thing, Kaycee.”
“You really think so, Mr. Knowles?”
A rosy blush colored her cheeks, and the bartender returned at that precise moment with whatever the girl had ordered to drink in a clear plastic cup with a straw.
“Here you go, Kaycee.”
“Thanks, Ralph.” She slipped the straw between her lips, and Spence saw the motion as a signal their conversation had ended.
After asking Ralph for another beer for Maia, he pointed to where she sat, and she dutifully waved. “I’ll be sitting at that table over there. That’s my friend, Maia. We’ll be here for a while longer. Take your time, think about what you want to do, and if you decide to take me up on my offer, stop by our table and let me know.”
Ralph handed over Maia’s beer, and Spence slapped some cash on the table.
“Keep the change.” He turned sideways to push off the bar when Kaycee grabbed his arm.
“Wait! I’m interested. Definitely. I’ll get my demo. I’ve got an EP on CD, thumb drive, QR code, and at a couple of online sites.”
The initials she rattled off swam in his brain and he scrambled to mentally translate. EP was an extended play album. CD was obvious, of course. QR, though? Those black boxy things you held your phone up to that opened up a link to a website?
His bewilderment must have shown on his face because she rubbed a hand over her nape. “I want to have all my bases covered, so I’ve pretty much blanketed every media available. Which version do you want?”
“Smart again,” he replied with open admiration. “I’ll take a CD if you can spare it. Maia and I are driving cross-country, and I’d like to listen to it while we’re on the road. Be sure to include the link to one of the online sites, so I can share it with the rest of the band. And your contact info—”
“All that’s on the CD cover, along with a copy of the QR code. I’ll go get my stuff. Thank you! This is... amazing!”
While she raced back toward the stage, he met Maia’s questioning gaze and held up the cup of beer in salute. Her smile beamed like a laser, warming him from head to toe. Whereas Kaycee had looked upon him with an expression akin to hero worship, Maia’s face reflected a sense of camaraderie, as if to say, Look what a great pair we make. We should team up all the time.
