Jobynas blues, p.11
Jobyna's Blues, page 11
“Maybe he’s just way ahead of us all.” Clair took Jobie’s elbow and steered her toward a line of white vans. “We can take the tram to where I’m staying, if you like. They’ve given us rooms in the Vanderbilts’ summer cottage. It’s a grand old mansion with a terrace that overlooks the harbor. Very pleasant.”
Clair picked a path for them through the fans milling around, hoping for a close encounter with their idols. The two women signed a few autographs, and then found a van with its motor running. Clair stuck her head in to ask the driver, “Can you drive us to The Breakers?”
“Sure thing.” The driver headed the van for the main road, maneuvering carefully around groups of fans and musicians loading equipment.
They drove south down the peninsula that jutted into Newport Harbor. To their right, the sun was beginning to set, inflaming low-hanging clouds with oranges and yellows. They rode in silence, Clair seeming preoccupied with her own thoughts, and Jobie was reluctant to interrupt her.
Jobie sneaked occasional glances at Clair’s profile against the van window. A slight hump in her nose marred the perfection of her features, making her looks even more interesting to Jobie. Her silver hair, parted in the middle, hung perfectly straight to her shoulders. She had a habit of tossing her head to punctuate a point or emphasize a musical phrase. When she did, her hair rustled like silk fringe.
The van rounded the tip of the peninsula and headed north along the water for a few more minutes, finally turning into a circular gravel drive in front of an enormous Renaissance-style palazzo built from honey-colored stone.
Jobie looked up at the façade of the three-story mansion. “I thought you said this was a summer cottage. I pictured something a little more rustic and modest.”
“I know. Summer cottage is what the Vanderbilts called it. Whether they were being serious or ironic has been lost to history. Wait till you see the inside. The youngest Vanderbilt daughter donated the estate years ago to the Preservation Society, furnishings and all, so you have the feeling of being in a time warp, back to the turn of the century. The festival organizers gave the two guys and me rooms in the family quarters, so we’re not on the visitor’s tour during the days. Let’s go out on the terrace, and I’ll see if I can find us something to drink.”
Clair led Jobie through the opulent formal sitting room and out French doors onto the terrace. The back of the mansion faced east, and the sun was already setting behind the red tile roof of the house. “We can look east over the water, or we can turn our chairs west and catch the last rays of the sunset over the top of the roof. What’s your pleasure?”
Jobie gazed out across the perfectly groomed back lawn that led down to a narrow strip of sand, and beyond that, the Atlantic. The water, in the daytime clear blue, had already darkened to indigo, except for glittering whitecaps that broke placidly on the shore. “Water view,” Jobie said.
“Good choice.” Clair disappeared into the house and came back with a bottle of white wine in one hand and two stemmed glasses in the other. “I hope white’s okay.” She held the label forward with a flourish for Jobie to inspect, mimicking a sommelier in a fine restaurant.
Clair moved a chair next to Jobie’s, close enough that the arms touched. She filled two glasses with wine, settled back in her chair and blew out a long breath. “I don’t know about you, but I’m glad to see this week done. Cheers!” She held her wine up to Jobie’s for a toast, and their glasses rang with the clear tone of crystal.
They sipped their wine in silence for a time, watching a flock of seagulls land on the lawn and peck in the grass until one, as if reacting to some signal, took flight, drawing the rest with him out to sea.
Jobie asked, “You haven’t enjoyed the festival this year?”
“Oh, don’t mind me. It’s just that Mel and Don and I have done nothing but squabble the whole time about what to sing, Mel wanted to do our tried and true book, and Don wanted more of the new stuff. We’ve even argued about what I’d wear on stage. Can you imagine?”
Jobie was surprised by Clair’s talk of discord in the trio. She admitted to herself that, like the public, she took the group’s close vocal harmony on stage for an indication that they got along in private. “It must be a challenge sometimes to be in synch with two other entertainers, but why would they think they could have an opinion about what you wear?”
“Oh, it’s just general unease about our place in the business right now. You don’t look old enough to have much experience on where we’ve been since 1960. You saw what happened with Dylan today. None of us knows the future of our music between the so-called British Invasion and the Motown sound.” Clair filled Jobie’s glass and her own.
“If you look at the charts, the songs are all the Beatles, the Stones, Petula Clark, the Temptations. It’s either British pop or Motown R & B, not folk. The only place The Travelers are still doing well is on our college tours. Even there we don’t always play to full houses. Our album sales are still okay, but who knows for how long? My manager wants me to go solo with a pop album.”
Clair tossed her head, making her silvery hair shimmer in the moonlight. “Let’s change the subject. I didn’t invite you for a drink so I could complain about the music business, but I have to admit it’s nice to have someone to talk to. That’s the end of my rant.” Clair lightly patted Jobie’s hand, and the touch turned into a light caress. “Tell me about you. Do you live in New York?”
Jobie nodded. “On Washington Square.”
“Nice.”
“Yes, and way beyond my means. I moved north after high school and slept on people’s couches for a year. Once my break came, and I signed with the record label, I splurged on the apartment. Optimistic.”
“Seems to be working for you. Tell me about your break.”
“Totally out of the blue. A girl singer at the Gaslight came down with the flu, throwing up in the ladies’ room. I borrowed her guitar and sang a half-hour set. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to be nervous. There was an A and R guy there from Columbia.”
“But you’re with Vanguard, right? Why did you decide to sign with them?”
“I had to choose between Vanguard and Columbia. It was a hard choice, but I guess I’m okay with the one I made.” Jobie sipped her wine and watched the seagulls fly out to sea then circle back toward land again. “I chose for such a superficial reason. Columbia’s halls are lined with gold records and Vanguard’s walls are bare. I thought that meant that Columbia would be all about money and Vanguard all about music, but I’ve learned that every record company is in the business more or less to make a profit. I think Vanguard is better about letting me play mostly small venues, like coffeehouses, and not so insistent that I tour.”
The thought of tours took her mind back to London, then to Deedee and their discussion about the trip to South Africa. She rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, listening to the steady wash of small waves against the sandy spit of beach beyond the lawn. Clair was close enough that Jobie could smell the subtle drift of a floral perfume, and underneath that a clean scent of soap.
“Do you live alone?” Clair’s tone was neutral, but the question held more intimacy because it was asked almost in a whisper.
Jobie opened her eyes and looked at Clair’s smiling face, only barely visible in the gathering gloom. “Yes.”
Clair nodded, and her silvery hair ruffled in a slight breeze and reflected the moonlight.
Jobie reached a hand toward Clair’s hair and hesitated. “May I?” Clair nodded again, and Jobie ran her fingers through Clair’s hair. “I’ve wondered if your hair could possibly feel the way it looks. It does.”
Clair smiled, leaned toward Jobie, and placed a kiss lightly on her mouth. Her lips were cool and dry on Jobie’s, and the kiss felt as chaste as one you might give a sister. “And I’ve wanted to know how your lips felt all evening. Turnabout is fair play.”
Jobie nodded, but Clair made no move to kiss her again. “You live alone, but I’m guessing you’re involved.”
Jobie puzzled over how to respond. Would she call a weekend meeting and a month of phone calls with Deedee “involved”?
“I think I may be.” Jobie surprised herself by responding that way.
“Figures.”
The French doors behind them opened and Clair’s two trio partners, Mel and Don, came through. “Here you are,” the taller one said. “We wondered where you’d got off to.”
Clair introduced Jobie to Mel and Don and rose to go into the kitchen for another bottle of wine and glasses while the men pulled up chairs to create front row seats for watching the gathering dark over the water.
“Hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Don said. “We’re too used to pushing into each other’s business, I suppose.”
“No, we were just talking about Dylan’s performance tonight and where the business is going.”
“Don’t listen to Clair and Mel on that subject,” Don said. “They’ll make you think the sky is falling. We’ve all had a great run so far. We’ll always find our audience, as long as we want to carry on with this mad rat race.”
Clair came back with the wine, and Don continued. “We’ll do fine as long as we can keep Clair looking sexy and Mel writing great songs.”
“So, what does that make you—” “What about you—” Mel and Clair shot back over each other.
“I’m the only one who can play a decent guitar and sing harmony.” He ducked as Clair threw the wine cork at him. “I think we’ve been incredibly lucky, no matter how much longer our popularity lasts. Who else gets to stay for free in a spread like this? Where did they put you?” he asked Jobie.
“North of here, inland. It’s called the Bell House. Much more modest.”
“And less like staying in a museum,” Mel said. “I’ll trade with you.”
The four of them finished the second bottle of wine, and Jobie declined when Clair offered to open another bottle. “I need to find my way to Bell House. I’m going back to New York tomorrow and playing at Café Wha? tomorrow night. As Don would advise, I need my beauty rest to try and keep my audience.”
Don pitched Clair his car keys. “It’s parked in the drive out front.”
The engine of Don’s car, a red Jaguar sedan, started with a throaty roar. Clair expertly navigated the car through the deserted streets of the peninsula. Pulling up in front of Jobie’s place, Clair shut off the engine and turned toward Jobie. “I believe we live within a few blocks of each other in the city. Would you like to get together for dinner some night?”
This time it was Jobie who leaned across the console to Clair. The kiss began tentatively but deepened as Jobie felt Clair overcome surprise and return the pressure of her lips. They squirmed to get closer together, thwarted by the console, and Jobie pulled Clair across it into her lap. She held the kiss with her hand at the back of Clair’s head, feeling the silken flow of her hair down her forearm. Clair pulled back to catch her breath and looked at Jobie.
“Before we get carried away, what about your being involved?”
“That’s a long story. Well, not really long, but maybe unclear is a better word. I met someone in London a few weeks ago. I was there just for a weekend. A TV appearance.”
“Okay.” Clair rested her back against the dashboard and waited for Jobie to go on.
Jobie smoothed the cowlick at her hairline. “I think I have feelings for her, but I couldn’t really after just meeting her and with nothing having happened between us. Could I? And I suspect she may be involved with someone else.”
Clair climbed back over the console to the driver’s side. She had kicked off her pumps when Jobie began kissing her. Before responding, she bent to retrieve them. “How old are you, Jobie?”
“Twenty-two.” She tossed off the response, careful to keep her tone matter-of-fact. “Not that much younger than you, I think.”
Clair smiled and nodded her head. “Give yourself some time to find out what your feelings are for her. The dinner invitation still stands.” She opened the glove compartment and fished around until she found a pen and a scrap of paper. “Here’s my phone number.”
Jobie stood on the edge of the lawn and watched the taillights of the Jaguar disappear as Clair turned the corner, headed back toward The Breakers.
Chapter Twenty
SUNDAY MORNINGS IN WASHINGTON Square were Jobie’s favorite times in New York. Growing up in Tennessee, she dreamed of coming to the big city with the sureness of a premonition. She stepped out of the door of her brownstone apartment and paused at the top of the steps to take in the view of the park across the street, beyond the arch where Fifth Avenue dead-ended at the square. She carried her sketchbook and charcoals, planning to find a sunny bench across from the fountain where she could sit and draw. These days, it was rare that she could devote time to her passion for drawing and painting. Since signing with the record label, she felt duty-bound to spend all her free time practicing or preparing for appearances.
She had expected a call this morning from Deedee, since she hadn’t heard from her the day before. Jobie could picture her recording into the early morning to get every line and every measure perfect. During their last call, she said that the album would be wrapping up any day.
High-pitched squeals of children playing in the fountain bounced off the encircling buildings in the heavy autumn air and drew her attention back to the park. Two elderly men were hunched over their chessboard with the intensity of opposing generals planning a real war. A young man strummed an acoustic guitar and blew on a harmonica in a neck holder, his guitar case open in front of him to encourage donations.
Jobie remembered busking the same way in the park during the first year she came to New York. If she were honest, she’d have to admit that she enjoyed music more back then. She skipped down the steps, jaywalked across the street, quiet at this time of the morning, and paused to drop a dollar bill into the young man’s mostly empty case. The smile he gave her was so beautiful that tears sprang up behind her eyes. She nodded to him and hurried east past the park toward Veniero’s Bakery, a fixture in the East Village since the nineteenth century and her favorite place for a morning coffee and pastry.
The tiny brass bell over the door tinkled as she entered the shop that had changed little in seven decades. The marble floors, etched glass, and hand-stamped tin ceiling were original from when Antonio Veniero first began selling his grandmother’s old country recipe biscotti in 1894.
“Ah, bella cantante.” Frank, Antonio’s great-grandson, greeted her from behind the lighted glass case of rainbow-colored confections. “Your usual today?”
“Yes, Frank, but I’ll take it to go. The weather’s too beautiful to sit inside this morning.”
She headed back across Second Avenue and toward the park, looking for a vacant bench that offered a view of the fountain, the arch, and Fifth Avenue north to the Empire State Building. Out of habit, she glanced across the street toward her apartment building and saw someone sitting on the steps leading up to her front door. She could hardly believe her eyes. It was Deedee. They met in the middle of the street. Jobie swept Deedee up and twirled her around. She fumbled with her pastries, coffee, sketchbook, and key, and drew Deedee up the steps and inside the front door of her apartment.
“How did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? What if I had been gone?”
“Then I would have sat out there on your front stoop until you came home. It’s a spur-of-the-moment trip. I’m desperate for the right tune to finish the album, and Burt Bacharach is my last hope. I’m meeting him tomorrow morning at the Brill Building. Want to come?”
“Of course, I’d love to, but I have a meeting at Vanguard.” Jobie pulled Deedee down on the sofa.
“Cancel it and come with me.”
“Deedee, you can’t just show up and expect me to drop everything.”
“I wanted to surprise you. I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
“Of course, I’m glad to see you. I love it that you came all this way to see me, at least partly to see me.” She noticed that she was still clutching the bag of pastries from Veniero’s. “Are you hungry? Your internal clock must say it’s teatime. I’ll make us some tea and you can share my pastries. I guarantee they’re delicious.”
She went to put on the kettle in her small kitchen.
Deedee picked up the sketchbook from the coffee table where Jobie had left it. “May I?” She thumbed slowly through Jobie’s sketches of Village life and portraits of characters she saw on the streets. Deedee raised her eyebrows. “These are wonderful. Especially the portraits. Why didn’t you tell me you’re an artist? I have so much respect and even envy of anyone who can do this.”
“It’s a hobby. I don’t spend as much time on it as I’d like.”
Deedee patted the couch cushion next to her. “Forget the tea for a while. Come over here and sit with me, Jobie. I’ve traveled all the way across the Atlantic to see you.”
Jobie set the kettle down. “I have to ask you a question first.”
“What?”
“When I was in London and I saw you and Kate together, I thought maybe that the two of you might be involved. Marilyn hinted as much.”
Deedee sat forward with her elbows on her knees. “Please, come over here and sit down so I can talk to you.”
Jobie crossed the room and sat on the sofa.
“You’re right. Kate and I are very close. She’s always been my biggest fan. She encouraged me to go solo when I was too afraid to leave the group I was singing with. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to go out on my own without her encouragement. She and I share a love of R & B music and the Motown sound. I told you she’s going to work with me to produce a special Motown show on TYLS. Now she’s trying to convince me that she should be my manager. I think she’s right, but I would feel a big responsibility if she left her TV career to be with me full time.”
