Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Berk
I have no fucking idea why those words spilled out of me, but they did.
The expression on Astrid’s face is one I’ve become accustomed to seeing whenever I mention Layna’s death.
It’s come up in business and with friends I haven’t seen in years, but I’ve never told a woman I barely know that my wife passed away.
None of the three women I’ve had one-night stands with since Layna’s funeral had any idea I’m a widower.
All they knew was that I was looking for a good time and nothing else.
“I’m so sorry,” Astrid says softly. “Truly, Berk. I’m sorry.”
I can tell that the words are spoken with sincerity.
They’re not empty as they often are when a new business associate asks me if my wife and I are free for dinner or when I run into an old acquaintance on the sidewalk that isn’t aware that Layna died.
“Thank you,” I utter because I’ve never quite figured out what to say in response to someone offering condolences.
I wait for Astrid to follow it up with the expected questions about when and how it happened, but that doesn’t come.
Instead, she studies me carefully. Her green eyes drift over my face before settling on something behind me.
“Have you ever listened to anything by Lulu Jenkins?”
I’m slightly taken aback by the sudden shift, but I go along for the ride. “I haven’t. Who is she?”
“A jazz singer from Liverpool.” A smile plays on her lips before she takes off toward the front of the store. “I found a copy of her debut album this morning in a box of records I bought. I think you might like it. I’ll put on one of my favorite songs, and you can give it a listen.”
I watch as she slips an album out from the middle of a stack perched next to a turntable.
She removes the record that’s been playing since I walked into the store. Carefully, she replaces it with another before the soft sounds of horns, and a soulful voice fills the air.
Astrid’s hips circle in small movements as she turns back to face me.
“It’s beautiful, right?” Her hands jump to the center of her chest. “I’ve always felt that song in here.”
Her eyelids flutter shut as she starts to sing along to the lyrics.
Jesus. This woman is breathtaking in every sense of the word.
My breath stutters somewhere between my lungs and my lips as I stand in place, listening to her croon along to the song.
“It’s beautiful,” I repeat her words, but mine aren’t related to the music. Mine are all about the vision in front of me.
Her eyes open a touch. “The entire album is like this. It’s warm and soothing. There are parts that are sensual and one song….well, when I listen to it, I can feel it in my soul.”
I take measured steps toward her. “You’re an incredible singer, Astrid.”
She doesn’t shy away from the compliment or try to talk me down. Her shoulders push back, and her chin lifts. “Thank you.”
I step even closer. “Have you always been a singer?”
One of her hands drifts between her breasts to her stomach. “It’s part of me. It’s always been.”
I catch a glimpse of a small tattoo on her left wrist. It looks like a bird.
I tear my gaze from that and glance at her hips. She’s still swaying to the music. Her movements are slow but torturous to witness.
All I can picture is her moving like that beneath me.
“I already own this album, so this one is yours if you want it.” A smile slides over her full lips. “You can listen to it and then tell me what you think.”
It’s an invitation for another face-to-face that I’m not about to pass up.
“I’ll take it.” I glance to the right, and the rows of record stands. “And any others that fall into your favorites category.”
“Do you have a truck?” she jokes with a raise of one of her blonde eyebrows. “I have hundreds of favorites.”
“Let’s start with your top three,” I counter. “I’ll give them a listen, then drop by again to report back on what I think of them.”
She nods. “I’ll be anxiously awaiting your critique.”
I’ll be awaiting the chance to see her again.
“A record player?” My cousin, Gaines, repeats back. “You show up here before I’ve had my first coffee of the day because you’re on your way to buy a record player?”
I huff out a laugh. “The store isn’t far from here. They don’t open until nine, so I thought I’d stop in and surprise you.”
“Is Stevie suddenly interested in records?” he asks as he steps aside to let me enter his apartment. “I thought her current obsession was dolphins.”
“Dolphins, whales, starfish.” I take a breath. “Anything marine life related is my daughter’s obsession at the moment.”
He taps the face of his watch. “I need to be out of here in the next fifteen minutes, Berk.”
I glance at the gray suit he’s wearing. “That’s a little much for a shift in the emergency room, isn’t it?”
Gaines is a cardiologist. I’d call him the best in this city, but he’d correct me and tell me that title belongs to his mentor.
We were born just a few days apart.
Our lives have taken very different paths, but we’ve always been close.
In addition to being my cousin, I consider Gaines one of my best friends.
“I have a meeting with the hospital board.” He leaves it at that. “Tell me why you’re buying a record player at the crack of dawn. Don’t misread that as me bitching about you showing up out of the blue, but I’ve seen you twice in two weeks. You rarely venture to this part of town.”
He’s right.
My world is small.
Most of my time is divided between my home on the Upper West Side and my office on the Lower East Side.
I went home last night with three records in my hand and no record player in sight. A quick online search revealed that a store near here has a few on hand.
I plan on having a personal listening party tonight, so I need that record player today.
“I bought some records yesterday,” I announce without any context attached.
Gaines rubs at his chin. “Why?”
“Why not?” I counter. “Dutch loved records.”
Our grandfather’s influence on our lives was far-reaching. He died when we were in our late twenties.
It hit us both hard.
Dutch was a force of nature. He had a thousand stories about his life that we’ve never quite pinned down as fact or fiction.
When Gaines and I were old enough, he sat us down and told us to drop the Gramp endearment. He wanted to be Dutch to all of his grandkids. Dutch Morgan was an incredible father to my dad and his brother and the best grandfather any kid could ask for.
“He loved lemonades with gin, and those are shit,” Gaines points out. “He also wore a fedora with a feather whenever he went to the bodega. I don’t see that in your future.”
I laugh. “The old man was eccentric.”
“So, you’re sliding back to the what…the seventies, or the eighties… and ditching the streaming services for vinyl?”
I shrug. “It can’t hurt to try it out.”
His blue eyes lock on mine. “I can steer you in the direction of a free record player if you want to keep your credit card in your wallet.”
“Where?”
“My guest room.” He jerks a thumb to the right toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Dutch left his to me. It’s been in a box in the closet since he passed. It’s old school, Berk. Ancient, but as far as I know, it works. There’s a pile of records there, too, so you’re all set.”
I catch him glancing at his watch.
“I’ll grab the record player now, Gaines. I can swing back around for the records when you have more time.”
He rakes a hand through his short brown hair. “I’ll deliver the records later this week. I need some Stevie time.”
I can’t blame him. My daughter owns the heart of every person in our family.
“We’ll do dinner on a night when you’re not saving a life.” I pat him on the shoulder. “I know you need to run, so point me toward the record player.”
He sets off in the direction of the hallway. “Dutch would be over the moon happy that you’re taking an interest in something he loved.”
Guilt jabs at me, but I don’t confess that the real reason I want that record player is so I can go back to Vinyl Crush to see Astrid with some basic knowledge in hand about some of her favorite albums.