Chapter 2 Not Long Ago
Not Long Ago
When her iPod Classic went silent in the middle of “Cry Me the Detroit River” by Exclamation and the Points, Jace Randolph sucked in her breath. Suddenly, a POP! burst through her dashboard speakers, the song resumed, and she exhaled. The world was back in balance.
The iPod cut out again at Grand Boulevard, and after wiggling the cable didn’t work, she huffed an aggravated sigh and turned on NPR.
She had faith that the device would come to its senses before she drove home eighteen hours later, once the black-tie fundraiser she was producing was over. That was its usual MO.
Pulling around to the back of Little Caesars Arena, Jace waved a pass at the card reader and parked in a space on the ground floor.
It was nearly six a.m. on what promised to be a beautiful April Saturday, not that she’d see any of the sunlight.
Any minute, her crew would arrive in a fleet of black vans emblazoned with the Function Fest logo and start to unload their banks of video gear, sound boards, and laptops preloaded with looping PowerPoint tributes to the Adoption Academy, their client and host of that evening’s “Holding Hands” benefit.
The nonprofit was dedicated to matching children of all kinds to parents of all sorts, building families from a rainbow of races and genders, an array of physical and mental abilities, and more.
Adoption Academy had helped her sister Joyce adopt Olivia and Kristi as a single mom more than two decades ago; through that connection, the agency became Jace’s first major client when she launched Function Fest as an event management company shortly afterward.
Since then, Jace’s business had grown into a very profitable enterprise.
The agency had kept her on retainer even when no one was having galas during the pandemic.
She owed them a lot, and she was thrilled to be back yet again.
Actually, “thrilled” was way too strong a word.
Obligated, maybe. Frustrated—definitely.
More than a bit antsy. Kind of tired. She was thankful that Adoption Academy turned to Function Fest year after year, but lately Jace had been feeling less than inspired by a career that relied on her producing the same events the same way over and over.
It was a far cry from supporting artists who were blazing their own trail.
“But tonight is for the kids,” she told herself, bumping her fist against the steering wheel for emphasis. “Kids like Livvy and Kristi who need parents like Joyce. Pull it together for them, for fuck’s sake.”
Her affirmations complete, Jace checked the rearview mirror.
She was grateful that her hair was graying tastefully—a little on the sides, a sprinkling through her wavy, chin-length shag.
She was also glad her tortoiseshell horn-rims concealed a lot of the things she refused to plaster over with makeup or Botox: the under-eye puffiness, the frown lines that stuck around even when she was happy, the age spot above her left cheekbone that her dermatologist insisted on calling a “mark of character.” She then pulled her computer bag and travel mug out of her SUV and headed toward the back entrance to the arena.
Playing this kind of venue hadn’t even been on the wish list for most of the acts she’d managed in the ’90s.
None of them would have wanted to play this 20,000-seat behemoth, with its hydraulics and wraparound sound system and massive screens making it possible for folks in the cheap seats to experience the concert as if they were watching TV.
To the old guard of the indie community, that was the epitome of selling out.
Besides, what fun was doing a show if you couldn’t sweat directly on your entire audience?
A question appeared, unbidden, in Jace’s brain: Was that why Paloma dropped out of the public eye back in 2001? Did she think she was selling out? It hadn’t seemed so at the time. More than twenty years later, Jace still didn’t have a definitive answer.
After going through security, Jace made her way into the arena.
There had been a Red Wings game the night before, and even though the ice was well below layers of flooring and carpet, she felt a slight chill in the stadium.
She adjusted her black cashmere sweater over slim-fit jeans and straightened the chunky silver rings she wore on her right hand.
“Morning, boss!”
Jace looked up to see Louis Martin, Function Fest’s senior producer, striding toward her, followed by a caravan of technicians in black polo shirts pushing carts of equipment into the arena.
He had been Jace’s first hire after she watched him jury-rig sound systems out of wooden crates and Radio Shack speakers at the dive bars where she’d booked Paloma at the start of their careers.
He had an engineer’s brain for solving technical glitches and kept his cool even when clients were screaming at him about why they looked like gorgons on the jumbo screens.
He was a round-bellied, mustachioed sweetheart.
“So good to see you!” Jace said as she hugged him.
Ever since the pandemic put meetings online, she rarely saw her staff in person anymore.
As much as she liked working from home in sweats instead of getting into business drag and going to the office, she missed being around people. Especially her people.
Soon, she and Louis’s team were huddled over their laptops, confirming every detail: when the stage build would be done, how long they had for each speaker to rehearse, the number of peonies in each centerpiece.
As CEO, Jace’s main role for the evening was to be chief schmoozer, liaising with the clients so her team could get their work done without tripping over any egos.
Hours later, as the doors opened and guests streamed in, the arena looked as if Adoption Academy was hosting a royal wedding.
Rosy lighting focused attention away from the thousands of empty stadium seats and onto the main floor, which was abloom with floral arrangements the size of Roman columns and set with dozens of round tables and hundreds of folding chairs slipcovered in creamy brocade.
The stage shimmered, its silver and blue backdrop framing the podium.
Guests were nibbling crab cakes and mushroom wellingtons and sipping champagne as servers navigated the growing crowd.
Jace hung back at the tech table at the rear of the space. She’d changed into her black tuxedo, shirt, and tie, which was essentially a more expensive version of the all-black outfit she’d been wearing all day, headphones on so she could stay connected with the team.
About a half hour after the doors opened, Jace spotted Sabine and Mo at the bar.
She gave them comps to Holding Hands every year so her friends could enjoy a glitzy night out on the town, and so they could all gossip about every detail of the event the next day.
Leaning into the “black” of the black-tie dress code, Sabine was wearing a vintage high-necked sheath with long sleeves and lace and sequin details that made her look like a tasteful raven, her pearl-gray hair speared with ebony sticks into a French twist. Mo wore a red brocade tux jacket, black velvet pants, and a starched white shirt with black piping around the points of the collar, a bit of pomade in her steely crew cut.
Given that she was typically in scrubs before and after her shift at a physical therapy clinic, Jace almost didn’t recognize her.
Pulling her headset down around her neck, Jace hugged them both. “Thanks for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Sabine said, raising her glass of champagne.
“You clean up well,” Jace said to Mo.
“I’m surprised this getup still fits,” Mo said, running her thumb under her waistband. “I swear, every day, part of my body’s gone further south. Boobs, belly, ass. If I sneeze, stand back—this is all gonna blow.”
“Who’s covering for you at the Artemis tonight?” Jace asked Sabine.
“Rennie.”
Mo snorted. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“They’ve worked for me for three years,” Sabine said between sips. “They’ve handled everything from tending bar to breaking up fights. They’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but did they bring their guitar?” Mo asked. “Please tell me they didn’t bring their guitar.”
“They brought their guitar,” Sabine said.
Jace and Mo groaned simultaneously. “Rennie is a sweet kid but a terrible musician,” Jace said.
“Give them a break. They’re just starting out,” Sabine retorted.
“They’re the only guitarist I’ve ever heard who gets worse the more they practice,” Mo said.
“Rennie has a bold, one-of-a-kind sound and an electrifying stage presence,” Sabine corrected with a disapproving look. “They may not be to everyone’s taste, but neither is any other musician. Cut them some slack.”
“I’m not sure they’re to anyone’s taste,” Mo said, setting her club soda and lime on the bar.
“It’s a wonder that you two never dated,” Jace said with a fond smile.
Mo laughed, then said, “Oh my God, listen! Can you believe what song they’re playing?”
Jace tried to focus on the background music amid the chatter and clinking of glassware. “I can’t hear it. What are they playing?”
“It’s ‘Heart Fire,’ ” Sabine said gently.
“Ouch,” Mo said, grabbing some nuts from the bowl on the bar.
Jace closed her eyes and listened harder.
Sure enough, that was “Heart Fire,” Paloma’s biggest hit.
The song that got her national, then international, attention.
The song she played on Late Show with David Letterman in 2001, which ended up being her last public appearance, professionally and personally.
The song that Paloma had said was inspired by her love for Jace, which now seemed like a sick joke.
Jace opened her eyes and put on a brave smile. “I told the DJ to focus on recent hits. I’m surprised this got on the playlist.”