12. Chapter 12
In some long-ago interview Summoner recalled the security within the ritual around removing a vinyl from its packaging, handling it just so as he placed it on the player, moving the needle into place, and the satisfying hum of static just before the music started to play.
Nowadays, he still had a collection of vinyl, but he was just as comfortable consuming music from a playlist as anyone.
He pressed a few buttons on a tablet and mellow notes of jazz music floated through the room while Abbey Lincoln’s heady voice crooned us.
“Explains why I like your hair so much,” he murmured as we sat on the floor.
The off-the-cuff comment sent a tingle of electricity dancing down my spine. I wondered if he knew how his little comments affected me. His coy little smile led me to believe he was teasing. But the delulu part of me I tried to silence always hoped otherwise.
The muted sunset enveloped Summoner’s living room in a low, soft light. We sat across from each other on the shaggy rug, a chessboard on the coffee table between us. We sipped on some velvety, expensive red wine I couldn’t pronounce while basking in the warm glow of the fireplace.
When Summoner asked if I knew how to play chess, I scoffed.
As if a woman of such high culture as myself didn’t know how to play chess.
I learned in middle school because for a few months I was really into an anime about a group of chess players.
I didn’t tell him that. Summoner studied the game much more than a passing preteen interest, though.
He mentioned playing several games in the 80s with former grandmaster Garry Kasparov while Moore set up the board for us.
Moore shook his head at the name drop, and I realized at that moment I may have been out of my league.
With a wink implying mischief, Moore told us to have fun before leaving us idiots mostly unsupervised.
It took ten minutes for Summoner to beat me the first time.
I pointedly ignored his smug smile as I put the pieces back into place.
We started the second game, and I was able to assert dominance early.
Summoner remained composed, carefully thinking through each move.
Before I could get too cocky, he built a solid defense I couldn’t get through.
My brow furrowed as I studied the board.
My hand hovered over the pieces for a moment before I moved my bishop.
Satisfied with my move and feeling like a proper lady of class, I settled back on the rug, glancing up at Summoner, who sipped his wine, his face impassive.
Effortlessly, he sat aside his glass, reached for his queen, and captured my king. My mouth fell open.
“…I recall a certain young woman saying she knew how to play chess.”
I rolled my eyes. “I do know how to play!”
Summoner rolled his shoulders. “Losing two games in a row leads me to think otherwise.”
A good-natured scowl on my face, I grabbed my glass of wine and chugged the rest.
“Careful,” he warned. “You said you wouldn’t get pissed.”
My cheeks flushed with embarrassment at him recalling our agreement for drinking wine tonight was me promising not to repeat my drunken late-night visit. Sighing, I sat down my glass, flopped back onto the rug, and stared up at the ceiling.
Summoner chuckled at my dramatic display. “As always, takin’ defeat in stride, Poppy.”
Grinning, I turned my head toward him and quipped, “What can I say? I’m a gracious loser.”
A playful smirk quirked his lips. Following my lead, he stretched out on the rug. Fingers intertwined, hands resting on his chest, he looked at me. The piercing green of his eyes pooled warmth between my legs. I pressed my thighs together.
Does he know how hot he is?
One thing I couldn’t deny was how much I was attracted to Summoner.
Being around him was like being assaulted by constant little shocks of electricity, reminding you of something you couldn’t have.
After our trip to the Met, I sat on my bed with a notebook and harnessed the analytical part of my brain.
I wrote down all the reasons we couldn’t be.
The biggest one I wrote in all caps was THE AGE DIFFERENCE.
At 65 years old, Summoner was five years older than dad. He was old enough to be my parent. I was a year younger than his daughter and five years younger than his son. We were standing at opposite ends of a cliff, generations between us. The impracticality of it all...
How long could forever be with someone so much older?
“What’s on Poppy’s mind?” he asked softly, pulling me out the never-ending existential dread of my thoughts.
“Are you ever going to let me interview you?”
His eyebrows hopped up. “What are you going to do when I finally say no?”
What would I do?
He had said no before, but those were soft nos.
Playful nos. Nos left open to interpretation.
A definite no would dissolve things because things were built on a flimsy pretense.
I wouldn’t have a reason to be in his life anymore.
I tried not to think about it because things between us had evolved beyond that.
Spending time with him had become this strange comfort where we were ourselves.
Poppy and Summoner were surely an odd pairing, but one that worked.
There was never any pressure to be anything other than who we were.
When this, whatever this was, ended, I would be utterly devastated.
“…Is cry an appropriate answer?”
“I never want to make you cry, Poppy.”
His voice was syrupy sweet. But it was the sentiment that held me tight. A jolt to counter the sedative haziness from the wine. My left thigh muscle twitched as I pressed my legs together desperately.
“I do want to know why this interview is so important to you?”
I sighed. “Because it would change my life.”
“How?”
“Like I told you before, an interview with you would be my entry into serious journalism. I could write real stuff instead of bullshit clickbait.”
“An upgrade.”
“Exactly! An upgrade in topic would equal an upgrade in pay, then I wouldn’t need so much help from my dad.”
“Parents usually don’t mind helping out their kids. God knows the things I’ve paid for over the years.”
“True. My Dad never says anything, but I know he’s stretched thin. Not having the burden of supporting Poppy might let him sort out the other things in his life.”
His brow furrowed. “Other things?”
“Yeah, we’re a broken bunch.”
Summoner nodded his understanding. “Everyone is a bit broken. At least, I think so. We can’t always see it.”
“Maybe.” I shrugged.
“Are you and your dad close?”
“Yeah, kinda.” I swallowed, pushing down the obligatory lump that crowded my throat whenever I thought too much about my family. “…Do you help your kids a lot?” I asked.
“Not so much anymore. They’re more settled in their lives these days.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but…” I took a moment to mull over my choice of words. “…how does that work? I mean, you’re kind of a recluse. I can’t picture playdates and spur-of-the-moment brunches were a thing.”
“Yeah, we made things work. Thankfully for everyone, the kids were a bit older during the worst of things. We created a story that worked for us.”
“A story?”
He nodded. “It was unofficial of course, but the easiest thing was for the kids to tell people their dad was dead.”
Dead?
My stomach dropped. There was such a finality in that word.
Summoner laughed. His brightness pushed away the darkness.
“Told you it was easy. We kept our circle small and yes, there was a ton I couldn’t do. School runs and the like. But we made it work.”
“Are you okay with that?”
His fingers wiggled. “I had to be. In some ways, I already wasn’t there for them. Touring and recording albums took me away. So, retreating from the public took that piece out of things.”
“A trade off?”
“Fame can be a very Faustian sort of deal.”
My nose wrinkled. “Faustian?”
“You gain money and adoration, but people treat you like a product to be consumed rather than a person.”
“They got their dad back from the public.”
“Exactly. Things are good now. I’m close to my kids and we talk and visit tons.”
My mind tried to conjure up images of Summoner as a parent.
Was he the fun dad, or the stern dad? Did he stay up late with them when they were sick?
Did he offer sage advice? What I envisioned was blurry.
An incomplete picture. From everything I read, I knew his kids never talked about him to the media.
Interviews either abruptly ended at the mention of him or they spoke in postdated generalities.
“Do you wish you could do more?” I asked.
“Of course I do. But someone is helping me a lot with that.” With a playful twinkle in his eyes, his face broke into a contagious grin.
I felt the smile on my face as my cheeks heated. “Am I really, though?”
“She thinks she is, so there’s that.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Summoner’s smile pricked a pin in all the mock ire I had. I couldn’t help smiling; his softness made my body warm.
My heels dug into the carpet. “You’re so funny.” I stuck my tongue out at him.
“I’m hilarious.” He crossed his eyes.
We both burst into a fit of laughter. Everything else forgotten outside this cocoon we found ourselves in together.
This is contentment.
I bit my bottom lip. Summoner’s laughter faded, and his face softened as he looked into my eyes.
“…I really enjoy our time together.”
My heart backflipped. The air between us was suddenly heavy, with words unsaid and thoughts unexplored. I searched his face for any signs of jest but found none. My mind and heart raced in tandem.
I managed to whisper, “…Me too…”
This was an unexpected and dangerous place.
Almost on cue, I redirected us. “Did you know when you get mad, your voice changes?” I quickly sputtered.
“Does it now?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah!” I nodded. “What’s up with that?”
“Ah,” his lips jutted out in a thoughtful pout. “…That would be my true accent.”
My eyes widened. “True accent?”
“When I moved south to London, I disguised my voice. I didn’t want any judgement from some arsehole ‘bout being some poor northern kid. Over the years, it’s become my natural speaking voice, but there are times when it slips.”
“When you’re mad!”
“Yes, what pain in my arse might easily make me angry?” he mused.
“Can I hear it?! Please?!” I pleaded.
“You wouldn’t understand it.”
“Please?” I rolled onto my side and pressed my hands together in a prayer.
Summoner rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “…The daftest bloke’s reet grateful te be in the room with te most bonny lass.”
His cheeks pinked.
Lass means girl, so it was something about me.
He was right. I didn’t have much of an idea of what he said.