Chapter 21 - The Show #2
It was mid-April. Seven months since she’d left Minnesota.
Seven hard months. Sunday morning. She’d forgotten to make the coffee last night, so she stood, barefoot, at the kitchen counter, in her long nightgown, measuring coffee.
All the windows were open, and she heard the birds waking up and the deep hum of a big container ship coming into the harbor behind her.
This house. The bright spot in her life.
The one inarguably good thing she had done.
And it was because of her dad’s advice to always buy waterfront property — “God’s not making any more” — and his money, her inheritance.
While the coffee brewed, she walked out to the street and got the paper, her part to support local journalism and not miss any news.
When she got back, she took a mug and the paper out on the porch.
She’d taken a long walk on the beach yesterday, had the idea for the charter school angle, come back, worked, and went to bed late with windblown hair and sunblock still on her skin.
She should change the sheets, but she knew she wouldn’t.
They’d stay sandy and smelling like sunblock till . . . whenever.
The phone call! The middle-of-the-night phone call.
Was that real? Check her phone. If it was, was she going?
No point thinking about it till she could look at the phone.
She put her coffee down and went in search of it.
And Jacob Dylan? Who could she know who knew Jakob Dylan?
She liked his music — remembered Robby playing one of his songs.
Her mother’d loved The Wallflowers, but Dylan was practically old enough to be her father. Maybe was old enough.
She found the phone under the sheet, so she knew before she looked, the phone call had happened.
Yes. Private Number. Two calls. The first at 2:28.
Then, she realized she couldn’t cancel if she wanted to.
She couldn’t text a private number. All she could do was refuse to go if the ride showed up.
Big if . . . But why not go if it did? Unless the car and driver looked really sketchy.
It could be interesting. Something she could write about.
She wasn’t going to get her hopes up though, because the whole thing was pretty far-fetched.
The day passed like Sundays usually did.
She started out thinking, “It’s Sunday. I have the whole day.
” Then, suddenly, it was 4:00. And all she’d had to eat was a hardboiled egg and a beer.
Back to her divorce diet. She’d better eat something now, before the show — if that was for real.
But what? PB&J would do, except she didn’t have any bread.
There might be saltines, though. Yes. Problem solved.
And a beer. She’d stopped buying wine. Once a bottle was open, it was too easy to drink too much, and then it would be too easy to start smoking again.
So far, she had resisted that. She was tired and it could be a late night, but she should wash her hair and get the sunblock off her skin.
When she got out, she put a towel around her head, her robe on, and laid down on the bed.
The windows were open, the breeze rustled through the palm tree on the street side, and the whir of weekend motorboats came in from the harbor side.
Knocking. Knocking in her dream. Then she heard someone calling her name.
She sat up. Again, a male voice called, “Grace. Grace Wheeler.” Now she could hear a car engine, practically under her bedroom window.
She looked over. Sure enough, she could see a long, shiny, black roof.
“What the hell?” Grace grabbed her phone.
7:32! “Oh my god.” She jumped up, the towel fell off her hair, she retied her robe, and ran to the door, an old half glass-half screen stormdoor that was always unlocked.
There stood a tanned college guy in a pink polo shirt, madras shorts, and dock shoes.
He broke into a grin and said, “Grace Wheeler?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Condon. Here to take you downtown to the Azalea for the Wallflowers show.” He looked at his watch and added, “Which starts in about an hour.”
“But I haven’t decided if I’m going. I fell asleep.”
“Well, I was told not to come back without you, and I’m being paid by the hour, so I’ll wait. Take your time.” He turned and went quickly down the stairs.
Grace pulled on a black denim skirt, buttoned up a pale, sleeveless blouse, and slipped into leather sandals.
She looked into the bathroom mirror, bent over, shook her hair, tried to run her fingers through it, then tossed it back.
It was almost all the way down her back.
Lip gloss, silver hoops, a turquoise ring, phone in one back pocket, debit card and driver’s license in the other. She was out the door.
“Wow! That’s gotta be a record! Can’t wait to tell my girlfriend. Buckle up.”
***********
Condon drove downtown to the back of the old art deco theater located in the high-end shopping district, right across from Louis Vuitton.
He got out and before Grace could get her seat belt unbuckled, had her door open and was offering his hand to help her out.
She inwardly winced and wouldn’t’ve been surprised if he’d tried to kiss her.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out socially, much less downtown.
She followed Condon to a heavy, black metal door, feeling the entire back of her blouse sticking to her skin.
Her hair. Still damp from the shower. Oh well.
Condon knocked and the door immediately opened.
A burly guy in a tight, black t-shirt with EVENT STAFF emblazoned across the front, stood in the doorway. “This is Grace Wheeler.”
“Ahhh. Right this way. Been waitin’ on you.”
Grace followed the event guy up two flights of rich green, deeply carpeted stairs into a long hall with the same carpeting and only a few doors.
She began to believe the call had been legitimate but had no idea what was going on.
Or maybe she was dreaming. The guy knocked on a door with an embossed placard, GREEN ROOM.
They could hear the noise inside — laughter, voices, and music.
He knocked a second time, more loudly. This time a laughing young man in red-and-white-striped, jersey bell bottoms, no shirt but a shiny brown leather vest, and a tasseled brown leather hat answered the door.
When he saw Grace, he stopped laughing and shouted, “Jakob! Showtime. She’s here.
” The event guy disappeared, and Grace had the fleeting sense she was about to step through a portal.
The laughing young man looked back at her and grinned.
“We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival. ”
Grace began to wonder if somehow this wasn’t an awful ruse, then Jakob Dylan was walking toward them, his trademark hat tipped back. “Grace,” he said with a flourish, “you can’t imagine how glad I am to see you. I’m Jakob,” he said, offering his hand.
“I’m glad to meet you too,” Grace said, almost stuttering.
Every eye in the room was on her. There must be thirty people, maybe more, men and women — young women, all attractive.
And everyone, female and male, was dressed stylishly .
. . exotically . . . many to extreme. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. ”
“All will be revealed soon,” he said, putting his arm around Grace’s waist and guiding her past a long, white-clothed table where she glimpsed cheeses, a sliced turkey, potato salad, deviled eggs, tabouli, and a mound of brownies.
“Now,” he said, turning to her, “you and I are going to have a conversation — somebody get Grace a glass of — of what, Grace? We have everything.”
“Pinot noir?”
“Pinot, for the lady,” he said to no one in particular.
“So, you stand like this,” and he put his hands on her shoulders and angled her body slightly, so her back was to the room.
He did so looking very serious but somehow delighted at the same time.
“And I’ll stand here,” and he stood very close in front of her.
“Oh, good. Thank you,” he said, taking a wine glass from a beautiful, Mediterranean-looking girl, and handing it to Grace.
“Drink some.” She took a sip. “More.” She took another.
“Here, let me help,” and he took the glass and gulped down half of it.
“We need it to appear you’ve been here for a while. ”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Nothing bad . . . I assure you. You’re playing a part.
We all are.” He made a dramatic gesture with his arm, encompassing the whole room.
“Now what shall we talk about?” His face was very close to Grace’s.
How had she not known he had blue eyes? “I know! I hear you’ve got some connection to the place where my dad grew up.
What’s the connection?” He looked at her expectantly, then noticed her wine glass.
“Drink your wine.” He touched her hand, lightly raising it and the glass toward her lips.
“Sip. Relax. We’re having fun. Getting to know each other, right? ”
Grace nodded, confused. “Didn’t your dad grow up on the Iron Range . . . in Minnesota?”
“Yes. Hibbing,” Jakob said, nodding encouragement.
“It was my family that started the mines — the mines that provided the money for your dad’s high school. The first stage he performed on?”
“And was taken off of, at least that’s the version he always told us.
I had no idea that was the connection. I love Minnesota.
We have a farm there, with horses. This is more interesting than I thought.
Shoulda known.” His gaze shifted past Grace momentarily, and he put his left hand on her upper arm and turned her slightly more toward him and away from the room.
He kept his hand on her arm. “So, what are you doing here, in this lovely city?”