16. Confidence, Baby
CONFIDENCE, BABY
CHLOE
“You’ve done it before! Of course you can do it!”
But I don’t know that I have the time to do it well.
That’s the issue. I’m trying to convince my mother that I’m not the right accompanist for her cabaret fundraiser, even though, yes, of course I’ve done it before.
My brother did warn me about her request, but I’m still not entirely prepared for the scope of it.
Just yesterday I met with her about the piano music, but she didn’t mention she wanted me to play along for every number.
“But you know the music, Mom,” I point out, in case she’s forgotten she knows how to play too.
She did teach me after all. I grew up on an eclectic diet of my mother’s music—from show tunes to her classic rock loves like the Beatles and her alternative loves like Pearl Jam and Nirvana.
I reach for my bag, which is hooked on the front-row seat of the community theater. I really should get to work.
“Of course I do. And I’m not just saying this because you’re my daughter, but the student became the teacher. You’re simply better than your former piano teacher.”
Mom crosses her legs like she’s given the last word.
“Thank you. I’m flattered.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s truth. Besides, you’ve done it before,” she says again, seeming undeterred.
“And you know plenty of the songs too. Noah is singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ for his final number. Plus, I want to close it with a fun little Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers jazzy dance interlude before he sings the final verse. He’ll offer you a hand at the piano bench, and you’ll stop playing and the pre-recorded instrumental break will kick in, so he can do a little dance number and dip you back onto the bench. ”
“So you want me to dance too?”
Mom sets a soft hand on my arm, squeezing playfully. She’s touchy, like most theater people. “You say that as if you didn’t take ballroom dancing for years. Dancing is easy for you, darling. So is playing. And you know ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ by heart.”
She’s making a good case, and I really hate to say no.
But I’m worried about taking too much on.
What if I can’t focus on my clients? What if I don’t have time for the potential Webflix gig, if I get it?
Worry twists through me. “I know, but I’m trying to grow my business, and now I have this space, and I have to make rent on it each month.
I’m always out there hustling for clients.
I have this meeting later today with Webflix.
At five-thirty,” I say, glancing toward the door of the theater.
Her rehearsal for another show starts soon. “This could be a huge opportunity.”
“Of course it is. But so is this,” she says, sweeping a hand across the auditorium. Her boyfriend Angelo is here too, but he’s off washing grapes for her. “Which is why I convinced Saffron to introduce the cabaret night.”
I blink. “What?” I almost want to ask if she stole my client, but it’s not like that with my mom. “How?”
“Darling, I’m very convincing. Now, can you do it? Just imagine how fun it’ll be—you’ll even get to play ‘It’s Raining Men’ when Angelo’s cousins perform that song. And it might be a little spicy.”
Right on cue, her boyfriend—twenty years younger, go Mom—walks down the red-carpeted aisle, all muscles, long curly locks, and glowy brown skin, wielding a silver tray of glistening grapes.
He parks himself beside her and offers her the tray with a flourish.
“Here you go, my Karenina,” he says, using the affectionate nickname he’s given my mom.
When he bestowed it on her, he said, “You’re not a Karen. You’re a Karenina.”
The guy adores her. He also says her name with a certain flair, rolling the R like he does when he occasionally speaks in his first language—Spanish, since he was born and lived in Panama for the first several years of his life.
“I was just telling Chloe how your cousins will perform ‘It’s Raining Men,’” Mom says and pops a grape into her mouth.
“Yes, and you will sound amazing together. You on piano, the other Riveras on pipes,” he says to me, playing his part in helping Mom make her pitch.
“Angelo’s helping me produce the show too,” my mom adds.
“Yes, I gathered,” I say.
“We think you’ll be…perfy,” he adds.
Oh, they’ve been hanging out with the actresses. That’s totally Veronica’s word. But it probably rubbed off on Saffron.
“And if Saffron opens the event, the crowd will be huge. We could even introduce you as the dog trainer who does double-duty as a pianist,” my mother adds, making a great closing pitch.
She’s good. She’s so good. I don’t know how she does it.
Or really, how they do it. But they’ve become quite the team.
Rivers and Rivera. It’s like it was meant to be.
Well, she’s a Taurus and he’s a Cancer, so of course they fit.
And of course I’m convinced, since the fundraiser not only helps a good cause—science research at the local university, which has been hurt by terribly deep cuts—but also the cause of, well, me.
“Fine. Fine. I’ll do it. But on one condition,” I say.
The twinkle in my mom’s eyes is triumphant before she turns serious as she says, “Anything, darling.”
“Tell me what I need to do to win this deal for the TV show,” I say, shifting from pianist daughter to nervous strategist. We’re meeting the producers later today in Linus’s office. I give her more details about the show and the opportunity.
My mom bites into a grape, then points it at me like it’s a mic. “Confidence, darling. That’s what sells. It’s like an elixir.”
“A daring perfume you can’t help but notice,” Angelo says, reaching for Mom’s hand and stroking it dotingly.
She really scored when he pursued her a few years ago, a little after my father officially came out of the closet.
Angelo is a heavy-metal artist—he crafts steel and metal sculptures—and he’d been pining for my mother for years.
Every time he saw her walk by his studio, he was transfixed, he said.
Now she’s his, and he couldn’t be more obsessed.
“Just don’t forget to walk in like you’re the one they should be pitching to. ”
I roll my eyes. “I meant real advice.”
Mom stares sharply at me, those rhinestone glasses practically burning a hole in my heart. “That was real. But also? Be yourself. That’s what’s gotten you this far.”
But have I come far? I’m barely scraping anything together.
All I have is luck, and sure, it’s landed me a few high-profile clients.
I’ve been in the right place at the right time, including a lake while wearing a white dress.
Now I need to capitalize. “Thanks, Mom,” I say, then push up to leave at last.
“But there is one more thing. Let them see you in action,” she adds. “That’s how actors win roles.”
“They must audition,” Angelo says, sounding serious.
“Yes! You should audition without them knowing that’s what you’re doing.”
I stop in the aisle, letting that nugget soak in. And…it’s actually kind of brilliant. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner, but I’ll have to bring a third party to the meeting.
When I leave, I text my brother.
Chloe: You were right about the fundraiser.
Jay: I’m not doing ‘Islands in the Stream’ with you.
Chloe: Trust me. That’s on my list of things that’ll never happen.
Jay: Mine too. But what specifically was I right about?
Chloe: She roped me in, hook, line, and piano-accompanist sinker.
Jay: For the whole show?
Chloe: Yup.
Jay: She’s good. She’s really good.
Chloe: She’s a mistress of flattery, and it gets her everywhere!
But as I head to work, I noodle on that talent of my mother’s. Is it flattery, or is it just taking the time to compliment people? To highlight what they’re good at? Find their strengths? And really, isn’t that something we all should do for each other? Cheer others on?
I imagine her cheering me on for my Webflix meeting, and that feels pretty damn good.
* * *
Later that day, I’m working from home on training reports for clients when my phone pings with a text.
Sawyer: Want me to pick you up for the Webflix meeting? We could go over any final notes in the car together.
Hmm. Is he thinking about my shitty car door? my inner skeptic wonders.
But the other inner voice adds, Or maybe it’s just a good idea?
I read the message again, looking for hints he feels sorry for me but finding none.
What will he think of my home though? It’s a tiny one-bedroom.
It’s not even truly mine. My dad’s boyfriend rented this little bungalow from his uncle, who lives in Greece.
When Luca moved in with Dad, he offered me the sublease for his place for a screaming-good deal.
I’m not sure if he felt sorry for me because I wasn’t making a ton of money as a bartender-slash-nightclub-piano-player-slash-dog-trainer then, or because he knew I was eager. Either way, I leapt at the chance.
Now, I’m aware of how small it is, and how sad my car is. Sawyer can probably afford a couple of these homes with pocket change. Well, I did eventually look him up. Dog Tails does well. He has an eye for business.
But I swallow my pride as I reply.
Chloe: Do you like dogs in your car?
Sawyer: In and out of it.
That works for me, so we set a time—in the late afternoon.
When he arrives ten minutes early, I’m already waiting outside my home.
It’s easier that way. No need to show him around or let him see pieces of my life.
We’re business associates—partners in a way.
He doesn’t need to see the dog place mats on the floor, or the vintage rubber ducks scattered on the coffee table, or the millions of serums on the vanity, because, well, a girl’s got to have a guilty pleasure, and I doubt I’ll regret skin care.