Chapter 16 Holly
It’s an hour past my bedtime, and I’m crammed into the Amsterdam, clutching my soda with lime, trying to score a table near the front. The venue is intimate, and the crowd is huge—all waiting for the Wednesday Jazz Jam to begin.
Luisa called me just as I was pulling into the parking lot. She flew into a frenzy about how far we had to go with Eli’s accent, and she assured me that we’d never get there.
I patiently tried to talk her off a ledge, but she has a point.
Operation My Fair Lady is our final phase of training, but will Eli be ready?
Luisa and I both agreed that before we throw our Tripp Bedford into the pool of sharks, we need some sort of final exam—a low-stakes trial run among the Southern elite, to be sure he’s got what it takes to hang with Griggs and his golfing buddies.
We need to take him to an event outside of Atlanta, but where?
Highlands? Cashiers, maybe? Too risky? I’m not sure.
I toss my phone to the bottom of my purse, urging myself to set all this scheming aside for one night and be fully present for my son.
Aidan came down from Athens for the jam, since he misses playing with all his bandmates from the Atlanta Youth Jazz Orchestra.
Ever since he was eight years old and first held a pair of sticks, watching my son play drums has been an experience of seeing him at his most true and authentic self, confident and relaxed, fully present.
A seat opens at a table near the front of the room, and I rush to snag it.
Aware of someone moving rapidly through the dark from the direction of the bar, I pick up speed and slide in to score the empty chair, just as none other than Professor Hugh Pridmore arrives at my side, holding a glass of red wine.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, wondering how in God’s name the highfalutin Professor Pridmore ended up in a Midtown dive bar, at a jazz jam for locals. He must be lost.
“Indeed,” he replies, bowing slightly. “And you’re fortunate that I’m too much of a gentleman to note that you’ve just stolen my chair.”
“Finders keepers,” I say, flashing what I hope is my most confident smile.
From the stage, the band director calls out for the audience’s attention, mercifully distracting Professor Pridmore and me from our awkward predicament.
He takes the mic and announces, “There’s extraordinary talent assembled here tonight, and I’ll do my best to give all the musicians a chance to play.
” He then gestures toward our table. “Jeremiah Goldwin, come on up to the stage and bring your tenor sax.”
Jeremiah is the adorable early twentysomething sitting next to me in a black beanie and very stylish kicks. He gets up and motions for the professor to take his seat. “All yours, Prof,” he says, an offer Pridmore very politely accepts.
“Jeremiah is one of my students,” the professor explains as he sits down to watch Jeremiah take the stage. “We bonded over our shared love of American jazz music the other day after class, and he invited me to the jam,” he tells me. “Not a chance I’d pass it up.”
I nod, although I wouldn’t have thought he’d be a jazz fan.
“And what brings you here?” he asks, his tone cordial if a bit stiff.
I spot Aidan coming through the door with a couple of his friends.
“That kid—the one with the shaggy hair, dressed like he shops at thrift stores.” I elect not to mention that he dresses like he shops at thrift stores because he, in fact, does shop at thrift stores.
I thank God every day that Aidan and his friends prefer thrifting over buying new, name-brand clothes.
Needless to say, my service-industry pay doesn’t quite support a label-conscious lifestyle.
“A friend?” he asks.
“My son,” I reply.
To his credit, Professor Pridmore doesn’t show the shock that I’m certain he must feel, to learn that a full-fledged adult is my child.
Before he can say anything, Aidan and his friends spot me and begin heading through the crowd toward us.
I stand to greet them, and Aidan enfolds me in a huge hug, lifting me off my feet.
He’s lanky, like his father, a foot taller than me.
“Hey, Ma,” he says into my ear. “I’ve missed you.”
I’ve missed him, too, so much that I squeeze him tight and don’t let go, my chest lightening in his presence.
But then I remember the secret I’m keeping from him, and a heaviness descends.
I don’t want to be overprotective or coddling.
But I also can’t bear the thought of him stressing about the house of cards we’re both living in, when there’s not a damn thing he can do to keep it from collapsing. That’s all on me.
He puts me down and, pushing my worry aside, I give equally warm hugs to his buddies Jay and Nikki, whom I’ve known since they were pimply middle schoolers starting out in jazz.
“You gonna introduce us to your friend?” Jay asks, smiling in a way that I know he thinks is real cute, but that makes me want to grab his ear and turn it.
“Oh, well, n-not exactly my friend,” I stutter. “This is Dr. Hugh Pridmore, a professor at Emory.”
I see my son’s eyebrows shoot up. Pridmore’s not exactly my type, historically speaking.
But I don’t see a good way to correct him, since Pridmore and I are very much not on a date.
Plus, can I even have a type, when I can count on one hand the dates I’ve had since Aidan was born?
I know my priorities, and dating simply hasn’t been among them.
Now that Aidan’s in college, I sometimes wonder if I should try to get back in the game, so to speak.
But it all seems so exhausting and time-consuming, and I question whether dating is really worth the effort.
“I recently had the chance to work with your mother in a professional capacity,” the professor says, falling deep into his Pridmore self. “I was so pleased to run into her tonight.”
Aidan looks over to me, puzzled. Just as I’m trying to figure out how to explain what on earth I’m doing working with a linguistics professor, Pridmore, clearly sensing that I need to divert the conversation, jumps in to tell Aidan he’s here to see Jeremiah.
He gestures toward the stage just as the band launches into Charlie Parker’s “Ornithology.”
We all fall into a trance, watching Jeremiah play.
I find that I’m involuntarily letting my shoulders sway along with the snappy tune.
Beside me, I can feel Professor Pridmore watching me, and I sense that he, too, is swaying to the rhythm.
With my focus trained intensely on that sax, I’m suddenly reluctant to look at the professor, feeling a little disoriented by this new jazz-loving, toe-tapping version of Hugh Pridmore.
Jeremiah leaves the stage to thunderous applause, then comes to join us.
Of course, he knows Aidan and his friends already.
Much like the country club world, the world of young jazz musicians in Atlanta is small.
Their chitchat is easy, relaxed, and to my great surprise, Pridmore is right in there with them, asking all the right questions and listening intently.
Hugh Pridmore knows a thing or two about American jazz music, much more than I can claim to know, but he doesn’t, as the esteemed Professor Pridmore would himself say, “pontificate.” Rather, he expresses real interest in what the kids have to teach him.
It’s strange, but not in a bad way, to hear Aidan and the professor chatting comfortably with each other.
“I’m spotting not one but three of our talented young musicians that have gone away for school,” the band director calls out when the next song ends. He’s pointing toward our table. “Come on up here, Aidan, Jay, and Nikki. It’s great to have you back in the ATL.”
Jay grabs his guitar case, Aidan clutches his sticks, and the three of them head up to the stage, confident and relaxed. They greet each member of the house band with hugs and fist bumps, chatting as they set up.
“ ‘Blue Skies,’ ” Nikki announces, heading toward the mic.
“Tempo?” Aidan asks, already settled on his throne, as drummers call their stools.
“Let’s go medium up,” Nikki says, and then my heart soars as Aidan launches smoothly and comfortably into an opening fill and the pianist drops in with the melody. They’re off and running and I’m awed, once again.
“Damn, they’re talented,” Pridmore asserts from beside me.
“Don’t I know it,” I say, looking over at the professor.
Tears have filled my eyes, as they always do when I watch Aidan play.
Pridmore notices, but he just smiles. He’s wearing a buttery leather jacket, and I feel an intense urge to reach out and stroke it.
Could it be as soft as it looks? I judiciously focus my attention on Aidan instead.
I can tell he’s now fully in what he calls “the pocket”: eyes down, mouth hanging slightly open, hands and feet moving each to their own beat, in ways that appear so effortless, but also somehow impossible.
When the song ends and the applause is over, the band huddles to discuss their next piece, and conversation swells around us.
“I’m guessing you’re a musician, too,” Pridmore says, gesturing at Aidan up onstage. “That kind of talent runs in the family.”
“Oh no, not me,” I say, turning back to smile at the professor. “I’m not quite tone-deaf, but I can barely carry a tune.” I laugh. “And my hand-eye coordination is for shit.”
He laughs, deep and throaty, throwing back his head. “That makes two of us,” he says. “But we appreciate the gift that natural musicians have, while they often assume that, with effort, anyone could achieve their skill level.”
“It came naturally to Aidan’s father, too.” As soon as the words slip from my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I have no business chatting with this man about my personal life.
“Not in the picture anymore?” Pridmore asks, in a way that feels casual, not probing.