Chapter 17 Not Long Ago #2
“Why do you care anymore?” Jace asked dismissively.
“You are punching way below your weight here. You ought to be performing your own material instead of selling your songs to other musicians. You ought to be playing to a full house in an actual concert hall, not a half-empty restaurant. So many people want to see you, Paloma. They love your work.” She leaned closer. “They love you.”
Hearing Jace say “love you” while looking straight into her striking blue eyes hit Paloma hot and hard, like she’d been zapped by an electric fence. She was mystified that Jace could still devastate her like that.
Looking down at her hands wrapped around her pint glass, she sighed. “I have my reasons.”
Jace shared a crooked smile, her voice a whisper. “It’s been over twenty years. Whatever mistakes you made, you are forgiven.”
Paloma looked up, certain that if Jace knew the truth—knew the complete backstory for why she left—she wouldn’t be so ready to forgive.
Jace sat back, confident and cocky. “I have three reasons why you should do this benefit,” she said, ticking them off with her fingers.
“One, you can come out of hiding. No more P. D. Smith. You can be Paloma Doralle, the legendary singer-songwriter-guitarist–international phenomenon again. I mean, it must have been stressful over all these years, worrying that someone was going to blow your cover. If you blow your own cover, you’re free. Am I right?”
Paloma had to admit that Jace was right. All these years in, she was tired of looking over her shoulder, tired of her Stone Beach friends not knowing her real name. “Point taken. What’s number two?”
“Two, you can inspire the next wave of musicians, especially the queer ones. Those poor souls are trying to make their mark in a world that sees their music as content, not an artist’s blood and guts. You were a trailblazer in your heyday, and they can learn something from you now.”
“I’m not sure I want to be a role model. I’m a mess.”
That prompted one of Jace’s megawatt smiles. “I’ll bet more than one musician will be glad to see they can be their messy selves, too.”
Paloma hadn’t considered that there might be an aspect of being famous that wasn’t toxic. Being able to pay it forward felt hopeful and redemptive, and that intrigued her. “And number three?”
Jace raised a third finger. “Reclaim your legacy. After New York, all these other shit stirrers—reporters, bloggers, former colleagues—co-opted your narrative because you weren’t there to stop them.
Now that ‘Heart Fire’ is everywhere, it’s happening again.
Back in the nineties, you hated being forced into being someone you weren’t.
If you do this concert, you can return to the limelight on your own terms and correct the record.
Otherwise, the lies are going to outlive you. ”
Now that Jace had made her case, Paloma had to level with herself.
She was so sick of hiding and subverting her own music to play things safe.
And talking to an older-and-wiser Jace who seemed like she was willing to listen in a way she hadn’t before made Paloma realize how lonely and isolated she’d been for way too long, and how that needed to change.
“Think about it, okay?” Jace took a twenty out of her wallet and set it on the table. “Thanks for making sure our server gets this. I have to get back to Traverse City.”
She’d barely gotten to her feet before Paloma was standing in front of her, as if she’d been pushed by an irresistible force. “I’ll do it,” she said.
For a moment, Jace was sputtering with delight, moving in for a possible hug then pulling back, her words tripping over each other. “Oh, this is great! This means so much to me—to everyone—me included! I’ll call you in the morning to give you more details, okay?”
“Actually, I’m tied up over the next few days. Could we talk Monday?”
“Monday it is, then. Oh my God, this is going to be…ooh!” Smiling too wide to finish her thought with mere words, Jace hugged her quickly and tightly then practically skipped toward the parking lot.
Paloma watched the Escalade pull out into the street before heading to her own car, her nerves buzzing between conviction that she’d done the right thing and dread that she might have actually made things worse.
Bobbie was walking her bulldog mix past Paloma’s house when she pulled up. “Hey there!” her neighbor called out. “How’d things go with Jace?”
“I agreed to do the benefit,” she replied, each word feeling strange to say out loud.
“Good for you!” Bobbie said, patting Paloma on the arm. “I’m glad you two cleared the air and worked things out the way you wanted.”
“I guess so,” Paloma hedged.
The dog gave a gruff bark, pulling Bobbie’s attention down to ground level. “Are you ready for bed, Buford? I know I sure am.” Giving the leash a gentle tug, she and Buford walked home as she sing-songed, “Good niiiiight.”
Paloma looked up at the night sky, took a long inhale, and groaned.
She went into the house, locked the front door, and was on her way to putting her guitar in her office when she saw a familiar sight: a lanky young man in a blue hoodie and frayed jeans sitting on her couch, hunched over his phone and bopping his dark, curly head along to whatever music was blasting through his earbuds. He looked up and smiled.
She set her guitar down. “Hey, Kaden,” she said.
“Hey, Mom.”