Chapter 16 Holly #2
“Not since before Aidan was born. He was a front man—just as talented as Aidan,” I say, figuring it’s probably too late to turn back now. “Big star in a very small world. Always surrounded by adoring fans. You know the type.”
“Does that worry you?” he asks. “That your son might chase the same thing?”
“Not at all,” I tell him, and I mean it.
“Aidan’s father needed the spotlight. It fed him.
He loved to be onstage—any stage—because he loved to be adored.
” I pause, take a sip of my soda, and look back to Pridmore, who seems to urge me on with his silent attentiveness.
“Aidan doesn’t need any of that. He just wants to make great music with great musicians. That’s what feeds him.”
Nikki steps off the stage and heads toward the water jug at the bar. The saxophonist for the house band, Billy June, returns to the stage, and Aidan and the keyboardist launch right into an up-tempo piece I don’t immediately recognize.
“Ah, ‘L’s Bop,’ ” Professor Pridmore says, closing his eyes. “One of my all-time favorites.”
We listen for a while, enraptured by the wailing sax and smooth stand-up bass. Aidan is where he loves most to be, in the background, working his subtle magic to let the soloists shine.
“It’s lovely”—Professor Pridmore leans in, unnervingly close to me, to be heard over the music—“the look on your face when you watch him play.”
“I can’t help it,” I say, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks. “Even when the lead singer in his emo band is yelling at the top of her lungs and Aidan’s beating at the drums so fast I can barely see his arms and legs, I’m totally mesmerized.”
“I’d like to see that sometime,” he says, pulling back enough to look me in the eye, but still close enough that I can smell the leather and clove wafting off him. Does he notice the unexpected effect of his proximity?
“Screamo?” I say too loudly, right into the silence between the song’s last note and the thundering applause. “I can’t imagine you’d enjoy it,” I whisper, embarrassed. “I don’t think wailing, angsty teens and squealing guitars are your cup of tea.”
“You might be surprised,” he whispers back, as a trumpet player takes the stage.
We watch Aidan count in, and the band eases into the sort of slow, sexy tune that Chet Baker probably played at romantic hole-in-the-wall clubs across Europe.
“You should have seen me back when I was your son’s age,” Pridmore continues, smiling in a way that’s almost mischievous.
“What are you trying to tell me, Professor Pridmore?” I ask, feigning a scandalized tone. “Were you perchance a wild child like me?”
“It’s Hugh,” he says, then pauses to take a sip of his wine.
“And oh, how I longed to be. My Mohawk days weren’t my best look,” he says, grinning.
“But I don’t regret a moment of it. Frankly, the punk community saved me from myself.
” He leans back in his chair, and we both watch the bassist pluck gently on the strings of her instrument while grasping tightly to the neck, her eyes closed.
“Oddly enough,” he continues, turning to look at me, “it was a bunch of middle-aged punk rockers—not my scholarly parents or my erudite teachers—who set me on the path I’ve followed. ”
The bassist ends her solo to gentle applause, just as the trumpet eases into a lovely melody. I want to ask Hugh what he means, but I wait, listening to the music, hoping he’ll say more.
“I suppose it might be anachronistic,” he eventually continues, “but those old-school anarchists made me start asking questions about what it means to belong.” He pauses, seeming to sink into memories. “Hanging out with them also got me arrested a couple of times.”
“Noooo,” I exclaim, trying to imagine a Mohawked Pridmore in handcuffs. The mental image forms more easily than I would have expected.
“Indeed,” he says, his brown eyes twinkling. “Stealing Noam Chomsky from Borders.”
“You stole books?” I ask, holding back a laugh.
“Evil corporation and all that,” he replies, which makes us both laugh.
Hugh whispers conspiratorially, “But those blokes, and the books I stole with them”—he nudges my arm gently with his own, sending a lovely and unexpected sensation right down to the pit of my stomach—“they gave me purpose, gave my life meaning.”
“It’s funny how our supposed mistakes can set us on exactly the right path, you know?
” I suggest. He looks at me, searching, and an intense energy fills the air between us.
Over the next few tunes, I tell him more about my life—as much as I can that’s true, without having to restate the movie producer lie—about how getting pregnant with Aidan shifted my course; about how hard it’s been at times, raising Aidan on my own, without the support of family; about how despite all that, if given the chance, I’d do it exactly the same way again.
Wondering if I’ve overshared, I struggle to find a way to lighten things up.
“If you think I’m a hot mess now, you should have seen me before that kid came along,” I say, nodding toward Aidan.
“I don’t think you’re a hot mess, Holly,” he says, his voice low.
Smiling through the blush I feel rising to my cheeks, I reply, “Well, thank you, Professor Pridmore.”
“Hugh,” he urges. “Please call me Hugh.”
“Hugh,” I reply, and it feels good to finally say his name aloud.
We sit in silence, close enough that with any subtle movement we’d be touching. But neither of us moves. Instead, we listen together to the trumpet and piano, as their notes intimately intertwine, bringing the song to a gentle close.
When the applause begins, I look over to see Aidan, easing back on his throne, clapping slowly for his bandmates, but gazing directly at me, his expression searching.
Aidan and Jay leave the stage to make room for other musicians, and when they arrive beside us, Hugh gushes with genuine warmth about the quality of their playing.
“Have you been to the Monday night jam at the Switchyards Lounge yet?” Aidan asks Hugh. “You’d love it.” He turns to me, his expression eager. “Right, Ma?”
“I can confirm,” I say. “It’s a great jam.”
“You should take him,” Aidan says to me, grinning. Then he looks at Hugh and adds, “Monday’s her night off.”
I feel my palms begin to sweat—both at the implication of Aidan’s words and the fact that Hugh thinks I’m a movie producer, and as far as I know, movie producers don’t have nights off.
“Sadly, I’ve got to travel to London next weekend, and I’ll be there for a couple of weeks. But if you’re available when I return, It’s a date!” Hugh says cheerfully.
It’s a date? Dear sweet Jesus. I think my son just set me up on my first real date in years.