Chapter 15 Not Long Ago
Not Long Ago
Paloma spent the morning attempting to be calm.
She went for a walk on the beach, listened to three different guided meditations, and journaled.
When that all failed miserably, she ate half a gummy, trying her damnedest to visualize a positive outcome.
Instead, her mind raced through scenarios worthy of a Lifetime melodrama: verbal tirades, buckets of tears, squealing tires as Jace drove away in bitter agony, then took a wrong turn and ended up at the bottom of a gulch, not that there were many gulches in Michigan.
A few minutes ahead of schedule, Jace’s black Escalade pulled into her driveway. Paloma stayed seated on her couch, repeating “Stay cool, stay cool, stay cool” in a low, measured voice. Then the doorbell rang, and, much to her dismay, she jumped.
Paloma opened the door to find Jace standing on her porch, holding a brightly colored mixed bouquet and a bottle of wine in a gift bag, as if they were about to have the first date they’d never gotten a chance to experience. Jace’s eyes went wide. “Wow,” she said. “It’s you.”
Paloma was caught in the same sense of disbelief, as if a ghost had put a hand on her shoulder. She managed to manufacture a smile and responded at last. “Hi. Come in.”
Paloma had coached herself to stay pleasant: nothing more, nothing less.
But once Jace entered her home, it was clear it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Something as simple as thanking her for the flowers and wine needed an extra second of forethought to accomplish.
The situation was complicated further by the fact that Jace looked amazing: healthy, fit, and meticulously dressed in an ice-white tee, a sandy cargo jacket, and jet-black jeans.
She even smelled fantastic, a combo of herbal bodywash and some sort of citrusy, unisex cologne.
She had become the accomplished adult she’d aspired to being in her late twenties, and it suited her.
Meanwhile, Paloma’s style had devolved from the snug thrift-store finds of her concert days to a closet full of oversize tops, ragged Levi’s, and well-worn Vans and Converse: Middle-School Chic.
She’d scaled up a notch today, opting for the plum-colored, long-sleeved tee that made her green eyes pop, a pair of white capris, and the bright pink flats that served as her dress shoes.
As they chatted about Jace’s drive up from Clawson and the endless construction on Interstate 75, Paloma didn’t know where to focus. Looking Jace in the eye was more than she was ready to do quite yet. She busied herself with filling a vase with water.
“I was wondering the whole way up here, Why Stone Beach?, and now I see why,” Jace said, moving toward the French doors facing the water.
“That’s some view, and the sound of the waves is so peaceful.
Not like the sirens going twenty-four seven in Woodbridge, huh?
” She took in the high-ceilinged living room and open-concept kitchen, which Paloma had installed after watching hours of HGTV and spending numerous weekends in Home Depot.
“This is a beautiful place, too. How’d you find it? ”
“You remember me talking about Bobbie Morrie, my chorus teacher who took me in when my parents kicked me out in high school?”
“Yes.”
“She and her husband retired here, and after New York, I came to stay with them for a while. When the house next door to them went up for sale, I decided to live here full-time.”
“I see.” Jace came over to the kitchen island and stood across from Paloma.
“When I was trying to find you after you—after New York—I grilled every one of our friends for leads. I called your parents several times. They never answered the phone, of course, and Dustin finally called back to say he was going to pick up your stuff but wouldn’t tell me where you were. ”
“He didn’t know; I didn’t tell him.”
“Oh. Well, it never occurred to me to look up Mrs. Morrie.” She watched as Paloma unwrapped the flowers and began trimming the stems. “I’m sorry about Dustin, by the way.”
“Thanks, but we weren’t close,” she said, placing snapdragons and echinacea into the vase stem by stem.
“Are your parents still living?”
“I don’t know.” She saw Jace’s concern and knew she had to redirect the conversation to save her energy for more important topics. “Do you ever come up north for vacation?”
Jace visibly relaxed. “I used to come up to Petoskey with Joyce and her kids almost every summer when they were growing up. We’d rent a place for a week so the girls could swim and eat their weight in chocolate-covered cherries.
She’s been talking about us doing a sisters’ weekend and going on a wine tour, but I’ve been so busy. ”
“With Function Fest?”
Jace smirked. “You’ve looked me up online.”
“I haven’t been trolling your Instagram account, if that’s what you’re wondering. I wanted to see what you’ve been up to lately, and up popped your website.” Paloma finished the arrangement then placed the vase toward the end of the island. “Pretty impressive business you’ve built for yourself.”
“I’m just glad I could find a line of work based on my particular set of skills.”
“You didn’t want to stay in talent management?”
“I tried for a while, but when your hottest act bails on the entire music industry, it’s hard to get anyone to take your calls.” Jace quickly changed the subject. “What about you? What are you doing these days to pay for this amazing place, or are you living off your royalties?”
Paloma intuited that Jace was trying hard not to sound bitter. “If I tell you, you have to keep this confidential, no matter what happens with the benefit.”
“Of course,” Jace said.
“I’ve been ghostwriting songs for other performers, using an alias.”
“Really? What’s your pen name?”
“P. D. Smith. People up here call me Petie.”
Jace chuckled.
“I have a knack for writing what indie bar bands want to sing on their fifth or sixth albums, and there are a lot of those bands out there. I’ve had a few songs end up on TV dramas. One of them climbed the country charts, if you can believe it.”
“I believe it,” Jace said warmly.
Paloma smiled. Now as before, Jace believed in her talent.
“It’s nowhere near the money I used to make off of merch and ticket sales, but it keeps the lights on.
” Paloma took a large, green ceramic bowl of bright yellow curried chicken salad out of the refrigerator and removed a layer of plastic wrap before walking it over to the table opposite the kitchen.
“Since it’s not pathetic enough to work in one creative industry, I’m working in two.
Over the last ten years or so I’ve also been a freelance columnist and critic, writing concert reviews and articles about music culture.
” She pointed toward the counter. “I have some ciabatta to go with the chicken salad. Could you put it on a cutting board and get a bread knife out of the block in the corner there, please?”
Jace did as she was told then brought it all over to the table. “You’re doing concert reviews? What bands play up here?”
“Who said I have to stay in town? I go to Chicago or the East Coast for a lot of them, depending on where the magazines send me. What would you like to drink: tap, sparkling, flavored, something stronger?”
“Tap water is fine, with some ice if you have it,” she replied. “Back to what you were saying. Magazines: You’re doing print journalism?”
“The internet is a hungry beast that needs to be fed regularly. Plus, if the act is popular enough, my editor can scrape together a few hundred bucks to fly me out.” She put two glasses of ice water on the island for Jace to set on the table then got a bowl of watermelon and feta salad out of the fridge.
“Do you cover Coachella and Bonnaroo and that sort of thing?” Jace asked.
Paloma brought the melon to the table and sat down.
“Nope, I’d had enough of the festival circuit when we were a part of it.
I prefer to write about rising acts playing in smaller venues, but even that can be a grind sometimes.
The audiences seemed to be more focused on getting photos of themselves at the events than actually listening to the bands. ”
“I can’t believe no one has recognized you,” Jace said, sitting across from Paloma.
Paloma tsked. “Maybe people know my singing voice, but my face?”
“There are so many clips of you online, though.”
“Those were from twenty years and twenty pounds ago.”
“Before you became a redhead.”
“Right.”
Jace pointed toward Paloma’s face. “And before you closed the gap between your front teeth.”
Paloma quickly covered her mouth with her napkin, as if she’d been unmasked. “I finally had time and money for an orthodontist.”
“Not because you wanted to eliminate one of your most distinctive facial features?”
Paloma put her napkin back in her lap and smiled without apology. “Let’s just say you’d be surprised how little attention you get if you aren’t looking for it. Dig in.”
Jace took a large bite of chicken salad, closed her eyes, and mmmed. “This is so good.”
“I haven’t made it in ages. It’s one of those recipes that everyone was making for a few years then, suddenly, no one was anymore.”
“I remember you being so proud of yourself when you learned how to make this,” Jace said, pointing to her plate.
“Now that I’ve had more time at home, I’ve figured out how to make a lot of better dishes. I just didn’t have time to throw anything else together.”
“No worries. You’re way ahead of me. I can’t do much more than order takeout.” Jace smiled, her eyes bright. “You are a woman of many, many talents.”
Paloma’s defenses went up. She knew Jace well enough to know she was using flattery to test her resolve and see if she’d warmed up to the idea of performing again. She put her fork down and looked straight at Jace.