Emery hit record on her phone and answered their questions as best she could. No, she didn’t know what happened to her or why she walked away from a stellar career. Yes, she’d love to know the rest of the story too.
“As far as I know,” Emery said, “she’s been running a motor motel in Sea Blue Beach for the last four decades.”
“Tell her to get in touch.” Mike handed over his card, then Bruce’s. “I wish she was here tonight. We’d pull her on stage.”
“My mom said there was no voice like Delilah in the late sixties, early seventies.” Emery tucked away their cards, treating them like gold.
“All true. Her last album had a sound that lives on,” Mike said. “Samson thought he was the brains and talent, but when they split, he never produced anything worth listening to again. Delilah was the genius behind their success.”
The mention of Delilah had turned the green room into a living room, and for thirty minutes, Mike and Bruce told stories. About their early days. About Bruce filling in for Brian Wilson in 1965. About how the two of them toured longer than any other Beach Boy.
When their muscled man finally said, “Boys, you have to move on” for the third time, Mike and Bruce hugged Emery as if she was a long-lost friend and shook Caleb’s hand, looking at him like,Were you herethe whole time?
Emery braved a request for a picture, which Mike granted, handing her phone to a hovering assistant. The four of them squeezed together, smiling. She exited the green room into a sour-faced huddle of print and TV reporters. She’d stolen their time. Sorry, but bazinga, she had a stellar story for theGazette. And for Delilah.
“You were magic in there.” Caleb grabbed her hand.
“Mentioning Delilah did it.”
“Maybe Delilah got you in the door, but the rest was all you. They were comfortable. You have that effect on people.”
“Do I?” Being tutored by a man with hard-news sensibilities, she’d viewed herself more of a gentle bulldog. Get the story. Convey the facts. Ask questions. Challenge the answers. Think through problems and situations. She’d never considered herself comforting. After losing Mom, she considered comfort a luxury.
Heading down the ramp to their seats, they passed a group of men in polos and pressed khakis. Bobby Brockton stood among them, with a lovely woman and another couple.
“Caleb?” Bobby said. “What’d you do, sneak backstage?”
“No sneak to it.” Caleb raised his press pass. “Emery was interviewing Mike and Bruce. Great guys. You remember Emery Quinn, editor-in-chief of theGazette?” He introduced her to Bobby’s wife, Wren, and her brother, Tommy Lake, and his wife, Dani. “Tommy owns JIL Architects. He’s good, gets all the West End jobs.”
“Nice to see you all.” Emery shoved Caleb toward their seats inthe center of the second row, bumping him with her hip. “Don’t antagonize those guys. He’ll tell Mac Diamond not to give you the golf course clubhouse.”
“Very funny. I’m not interested in his clubhouse. Nevertheless, it’s true. JIL wins just about every West End job.”
“Forget them. Caleb, we just spent thirty minutes with two men from one of the most iconic groups of the twentieth century. I’m buzzing. I don’t even care anymore about the paper’s missing ads.” Emery started typing in her Notes app. She’d just thought of a great opening line for her story.
Caleb announced his need for concessions and headed off, returning with hot dogs, chips, and two large souvenir tumblers of Diet Coke. She took a bite of her dog and a sip of her drink before going back to her notes.
“I can’t think with all this noise. I should listen to the recording, but I didn’t bring my AirPods.”
“Want me to tell everyone to pipe down?” Caleb said.
“Would you?” She patted his arm without looking up. “That’d be great.”
“Em, you’re in an outdoor amphitheater with ten thousand people waiting to hear the Beach Boys. Stop working. Have fun. Soak up the atmosphere.”
She looked up, smiling. “I’ve not had a story this fun since my crime and corruption piece on Ohio’s Speaker of the House.” She started typing, then looked up at him. “I don’t want to forget anything, hearing how it was in the early days of rock-n-roll, how they developed their sound, how it feels to have such an enduring legacy. I’m going to weave in a bit about Delilah Samson.”
An older couple took the seats on the other side of her. The man leaned in to say, “We fell in love dancing to the Beach Boys. Fifty-eight years later, asking her to dance was the best decision of my life.”
She shook his hand. “Emery Quinn, editor of theSeaBlue Beach Gazette. Can I ask you a few questions?”
She interviewed two more couples before the opening act, Dave Mason, brought the crowd together. The noise amplified, so Emery tucked her phone away and tried to escape into the music, but the story—the story—beckoned her.
When the Beach Boys took the stage, she tried for photos from her seat—she should’ve hired Kadesha again—but the angle was weird. She nudged Caleb to get some shots of the crowd.
“Can’t we just enjoy the concert?” he said.
“Darn it, I wish we had a Monday edition,” she said, snapping a picture of Mike Love, then tapping a note on her phone. “The crowd went wild when they sang ‘wish they all could be Florida girls’ instead of ‘California girls.’”
