CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 26
Ian paused long enough to tell the lighting, sound, and camera crews gathered behind the bar that they would be starting a few minutes late. Then he slipped through the crowd and climbed the stairs and entered the apartment occupying the old building’s upper two floors. Marcela and her husband lived there now. But Ian suspected Sylvie Cassick still considered it at least partly hers. She and Connor were sprawled on the living room floor with their twins. The sunset’s final glow illuminated Connor’s drawn and weary features. His eyes looked haunted to Ian. Sylvie made the twins laugh in a vain attempt to engage her husband and lighten his mood. Ian doubted Connor saw anything at all. The three backup singers were gathered in the kitchen alcove, casting glances at Connor and talking quietly. The other band members and Danny and Arthur were scattered about the room. Watching Connor. Silent. Stressed. Worried.
When Ian appeared, Danny pointedly glanced at his watch. But before the producer could speak, Ian declared, “I need a minute.”
To his surprise, Arthur smiled and nodded. The uncommon expression rearranged every line on the old man’s face. Danny saw it, too, and whatever he was about to say went unspoken.
Ian asked Sylvie, “Could you excuse us for a moment?”
Sylvie looked at her husband. When Connor nodded, she gathered up the kids and climbed to the upper floor.
Ian asked the backup singers to join them. He then glanced at Arthur, who smiled a second time and said, “Danny, how about a cuppa?”
“I’m good. And we really need—”
“Danny.” Arthur stood and gripped the producer’s arm. “In the kitchen with you.”
Ian opened his case and drew out his guitar. He gave the ladies time to find places with the band, then said, “This evening is a dry run. It’s important, but it’s mostly a practice session. We know what to do and when. We’re all professionals. We go downstairs, and we play straight through our entire set. Any mistake or offbeat—and there are bound to be some—we make a mental note. Tomorrow morning we meet at Arthur’s studio and break things down. Song by song. Any ideas about how to make things better, we try them out. Then we run through the set a final time. I think Danny should film our studio work, but that’s up to him. Again, no breaks, no talk. A full run straight through.”
He gave that a beat, then went on, “After that, I leave for Miami. I would advise you to take a break and not work on anything. Discussions, changes, all that is behind us. Give yourselves a couple of days off. Then we meet up. Anybody who likes is welcome to come see me perform with the orchestra. Kiki, the festival director, has promised me the hall’s largest box. The next night is our night. The next time we perform will be on the festival stage.”
Connor asked, “They’re really moving us to the main hall?”
“That doesn’t matter. It has no place in our conversation.” Ian met his gaze. His voice hard now. Firm and totally in control. Doing his best to dominate the room and the crew’s mood. “From this point on, it’s all about the music. What venue, the lights, the shoot, we leave that to the other professionals.”
Connor gathered his legs and sat up. Opened his mouth. Shut it again.
Now that Ian was committed, he had rarely felt more certain about anything. He lifted the guitar into position and swiftly checked the tuning. He knew an instant’s lancing regret for the lonely absence at the center of his being. He wondered if this was how an amputee felt when the missing limb pretended to ache. Then he pushed it all away. This was not about him.
He refocused on the group. Bringing them together.
He played a quick introductory riff, three minutes of fire and brimstone. Enough to bring the ladies to their feet. Push the band members off the wall. Then he stopped. Looked around the room. Met each gaze in turn. Connor’s last of all.
“Everybody with me now,” Ian said. “You give me fever.”
Lilliana said, “Honey, you take the words right out of my mouth.”
He liked how the crew laughed in unison. All but Connor. But even he showed a spark to his gaze. “On three,” Ian said. “One, two . . .”
* * *
They went downstairs. They climbed onstage. They counted down. They played.
The set’s first two songs had been selected by Danny, then approved by Connor and, more importantly, Arthur. Ian thought the choices made sense. They were both renditions of music from the film and had been taped during multiple sessions in the studio. By this point, Connor and his band could play them by rote.
Ian thought Connor’s voice lacked resonance and his playing was somewhat mechanical. But the actor hit the right notes, and in the final refrain, he showed a trace of his customary strength.
The applause after that second song seemed to startle Connor. Ian watched as he stared out over the gathering as many stood and shouted. He did not smile. Nor did he offer one of his customary jokes. But when he launched them into the third song, Ian heard the man’s fire come back to the surface.
In a conversation following one of their multiple sessions, Connor had asked if his band had a personal favorite they might like to include. It had been an almost idle question, and clearly, the actor had expected them to come back with one of the melodies they included in their regular evening sessions. Instead, their response had been unanimous and had come so swiftly, Ian suspected they had long wished for this chance.
The song they’d wanted was Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love.”
Connor had initially balked at their request, for the song had a sharper edge than the sort of music he preferred. But Danny and Arthur both leapt at the idea. They felt the performance would have a far stronger appeal if the pace was varied. Reluctantly, Connor agreed to give it a try.
Within minutes of starting that first trial run, it was clear the idea held real potential. They played it in the original manner, but unplugged—a term that had become popular with any number of rock-jazz bands, who did sessions where all electric instruments were set aside. When the trio started singing their backup, Ian felt chills.
The same thing happened now onstage.
The song was introduced by a powerful punching drum solo, only this time it was played with brushes. The three ladies were squeezed between the piano and the rear wall.
Despite the lack of space, they managed to put some real rhythm into their dance. “Bring me a higher love,” they sang. The audience responded with shouts of approval.
Initially, Connor and the ladies sang while Ian carried the melody on his own and the drummer beat out the strident tempo. Then the sax player added a tambourine, and the bass player lifted a steel-beaded swivel called a cabasa. Midway through the first verse, the ladies added castanets and maracas.
By the time they reached the first refrain, Connor and the bassist and the sax player could easily drop their percussion instruments and start playing, because the audience was clapping and beating time. Gradually, tables rose to their feet and danced in place. They shouted in time to the ladies. Bring me a higher love.
Danny’s two cameramen stood on short stepladders, swaying in time as they shot the band, the crowd, the night. The producer and Arthur and the techies stood behind the bar, grinning and singing with the crowd.
Which was when it all came together for Ian. This sort of experience had once been a given, reaching a point in every session where he took a giant step away from the event and melded with his music. Only this was the first such experience he had known in over a year, and the impact was monumental. There was no crowd, no cameras, not even the band or the singers as individuals. It was just the one entity, totally unified, utterly focused. “Bring me a higher love,” the ladies sang, and Ian never wanted the song to end.
And yet end it did. The crowd stood and shouted and applauded and whistled. Ian brought the night back into focus, in time to catch Connor’s eye and share the night’s first smile.