CHAPTER FOUR
Just as I finish with the children’s lessons, Amelia says, “Oh yeah, I’m supposed to tell you that you’re invited tonight.”
I frown. “Invited? To what?”
“The party.”
“What party?”
“Grandma’s hosting a party for her club. The Midnight Melody. It’s the biggest jazz club in New Orleans.”
She delivers the last line proudly.
“I see. Well, your grandmother hasn’t invited me.”
“She told me to invite you. She does this every year for employees of the club and some musicians and visitors.”
“Oh. Oh, I appreciate that, but I believe your grandmother means for it to be only for employees and patrons of the club.”
“No, she invited you,” Gabriel insists.
When I turn to him, he pales as though shocked that actual words escaped his mouth. I could well believe Amelia choosing to invite me herself, but if Gabriel corroborates her story, then I can believe that Josephine does want me there.
“Well, I’ll ask her, and if she says yes, then I’ll be happy to join.”
“Gabriel’s going to play,” Amelia says proudly.
Gabriel snaps his eyes to his sister. “Shh! No one’s supposed to know!”
“What? She isn’t going to tell.” She looks at me. “You’re not going to tell, are you, Mary?”
I hesitate before answering. The sensible thing to do would be to tell Amelia that I can’t keep secrets from her grandmother. Had the grandfather clock not picked that moment to chime and fill my ears with its ominous ringing, I might have been sensible.
Instead, I say, “Of course I won’t tell.”
“Good!” Amelia crows. “Grandma doesn’t like when people play on the piano. That’s why she always sleeps through our lessons. But she won’t tell him to stop in front of everyone, so he’s going to play that new music you found.”
A chill shoots down my spine. Something inside me screams to stop him, but really, this is too much now. Surely I don’t believe that playing a jazz composition on piano will cause something terrible to happen?
I’ve been superstitious enough about all of this. I do not consider myself flighty or prone to fancy. I must start to think rationally again, or I won’t be able to distinguish between the truth and a lie anymore.
“That sounds exciting! But are you sure it’s not unkind to your grandmother?”
Amelia scoffs. “It’s not going to hurt her. Besides, we miss Grandpa too.”
A part of me thinks she might be invoking his memory to get what she wants, but the emotion in her eyes seems real. I remember that the most confident children are often the most fragile as well.
“Do you want to hear Gabriel play because it reminds you of him?” I ask.
Gabriel shifts uncomfortably. “I’m only going to play the one song. But you should come. Grandmother gets upset easily when people decline her invitations.”
“Well, I will absolutely attend,” I tell him. “And I can’t wait to hear you play either.”
Amelia beams. “Awesome! Plus, you’ll get to meet Claude. He’s cool. I like him.”
“Who is Claude?”
“Mr. Durand,” she replies. “He’s the club manager. He’s cool. He’s like a Santa Claus type, but not creepy.”
I’m not aware of a creepy Santa Claus type, but I smile. “He sounds wonderful.”
“He’s cool.”
“Yes, of course.”
Josephine waltzes into the study room and says, “Mary! There you are. I meant to invite you to my soiree tonight.”
Amelia rolls her eyes, then says in a mocking voice, “Oh, yes, the soiree. You must come, Dahling.”
Josephine slaps her playfully on the arm. “Enough of that. The word party is vulgar. I’m not inviting her to drink beer and listen to pop music.”
“Oh, perish the thought!” Amelia cries in mock terror.
Gabriel chuckles at that, and Josephine rolls her eyes at both of them. The movement reminds me a lot of Amelia. I’m glad to see healthy banter between the three of them. I can’t express enough how important it is for children to be allowed to banter with their elders. It might seem trivial, but feeling safe to speak their minds—within reason—is critical for their self-confidence and esteem later in life.
“You two are having quite too much fun at my expense,” Josephine teases, hands on her hips. To me, she says, “You’ll meet Claude, my manager. He’s a sweetheart. His wife, Audrey is just darling as well.”
“Just dah ling,” Amelia echoes.
“You two hush. Go on and play.”
Amelia grabs Gabriel’s hand and leads him from the room. Josephine watches them leave, an exasperated smile on her face. “She has all of her father’s energy,” she says. “All of my energy, if I’m being honest,” she adds with a wink.
“You two clearly love each other very much,” I tell her.
“Yes, we really do,” she says. “It’s the most wonderful thing to be a mother. And a grandmother.”
Her smile fades after that. I wonder if she’s thinking of her estranged daughter or her deceased husband. Perhaps she is thinking of the twins who have lost their mother at such a young age. I don’t quite feel brave enough to ask, though. We are still only just acquainted.
She takes a breath and smiles again. “I haven’t told you about my club yet, have I?”
“No, but Amelia told me it’s the biggest jazz club in New Orleans.”
“It certainly was,” she agrees, “when Marcel was alive. It was his club more than mine. When he performed, he would draw crowds that rivaled the largest nightclubs in the city. Even in the age of electronic music and raves and LED lights, people would still cram every corner of the Midnight Melody to hear him play.”
There’s a touch of bitterness when she says that, though. I risk a soft probing statement. “You must miss him very much.”
She laughs, not quite a scoff. “Of course I do. I was married to him for thirty-three years. You don’t stay married to someone that long unless you’re in love with them or you need their money. And I never needed his money. I had my own.”
I notice that she says had her own money and recall Etienne’s argument the night before about the club facing ruin. I wonder how much of her money was wrapped up in Marcel’s career. It would certainly explain some of her bitterness.
“But we don’t get to choose when our loved ones leave us, do we?” she says.
My sister’s face crosses my mind. “No, we don’t.”
She takes another deep breath. “Well, he left us this beautiful home, the club, and a wonderful legacy. Not many can say that. We must go on for his sake.”
“And for your own,” I add. “It’s all right to consider your own needs.”
“All right, yes,” she agrees. “Simple, no. But I don’t wish to bore you with my complaints. I have some work to do to get ready for dinner, so I’ll leave you to recover from your day’s work. I look forward to seeing you tonight.”
She leaves, and I head to my room. I don’t really need to rest, but a strange disquiet comes over me at the thought of the dinner tonight. I can’t put my finger on it. There’s really no logical reason for me to feel worried about a party. A soiree, dahling.
I do what I usually do when I’m worried, and I don’t know why. I call Sean.
He answers on the first ring. “Hello, my love. Tell me, what great mystery have you discovered this time?”
Heat climbs my cheeks. “I didn’t say I’ve found a mystery.”
“Ah, but you didn’t say you haven’t. So now I know you have. Mary, Mary, you are nothing if not predictable.”
“I love you too,” I say drily. “I’m so glad I called to talk.”
“Me too,” he says cheerily. “But don’t keep me in suspense. What juicy secrets have you discovered about the Lacroix family?”
“I don’t know.”
“But?”
“But that’s it. I don’t know. Marcel died, but he died in a performance in full view of a crowd of people, and his death was ruled a heart attack. There are no other skeletons in their closet, nothing except an old composition.”
“Composition?”
“Yes, a music piece.”
“I know what a composition is, Mary. What kind of composition is this one?”
“A jazz one, I assume.”
“My, my, what an astute observation. Your detective skills truly amaze me.”
My cheeks heat further. “I’m not a musician, Sean. It’s just… I get a feeling around this composition.”
“Like the feeling you got when you saw an old playbill and decided to look for work in New Orleans?”
“Stop teasing me!”
He chuckles. “I will never stop teasing you. But I’ve also learned not to discount your feelings, no matter how emotional, illogical, flighty, baseless—”
“Watch yourself, Mr. O’Connell,” I warn him.
“Silly, whimsical, fantastic—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“All right, all right,” he says placatingly. “I’ll stop. But seriously, much of what you say makes no sense to me. Then, somehow, it eventually does. My only question to you is does this musical composition have anything to do with Annie?”
“It… I don’t think so, but… when I looked at it, I remembered her. I mean, I remembered her again. She played saxophone.”
“A lovely instrument. The American version of the bagpipes. I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”
“But I never remembered that before. I mean, I never remembered that she played music. How could I have blocked that out?”
Sean hesitates before answering. I trust him with everything about me, but he is still uncomfortable at times addressing my past mental health challenges. I don’t blame him. I am equally uncomfortable if not more so.
But this sense of dread I feel continues to grow with each passing second, and I need to know why. I need to know what makes me feel this way on the basis of evidence that even I can admit is whimsical and baseless.
“That’s not a question I can answer, Mary,” he finally says. “But if the memories are pleasant, then I don’t see a reason not to explore them.”
“That’s just it,” I tell him. “I don’t know if they’re pleasant.”
He hesitates again, then says, “If you’re looking for me to tell you what to do, I can’t do that. But I know that you’re going to do what you feel is right already. In my experience, it usually is right, even if it’s not comfortable. Call me if you need a shoulder to cry on when you uncover what’s behind that door.”
I smile. “I will. Thank you.”
I hang up feeling somewhat better. The unease I feel hasn’t gone away, but it means the world to know that I don’t face it alone.
I think of Josephine and my heart softens toward her. She has lost her partner. Perhaps what I interpret as bitterness toward his memory is only the natural anger one feels when one of the pillars of one’s life crumbles. Heaven knows I still feel anger towards Annie.
Oh, Annie. Where did you go? Did you find what you were looking for?
Or did your pursuit lead you to your death as Marcel’s led him to his?