“Tonight, I’ll be singing ‘The Man I Love’ with the assistance of my friend, Bix Bismark,” Sade continues.
“What? What is she talking about?” I ask Paul.
But he only shrugs.
From the stage, Sade holds her arms open, smiling.
More than a few people look in my direction, though I don’t see Slayer or Rafe or Sterling anywhere. Now the pressure is on. I take a deep breath and join her on the stage.
Paul motions us over. “I’ve got an idea on how we can orchestrate this impromptu set in a way that makes sense. You girls know call and response?”
“Like in church?” I ask him.
He nods. “Something like that. Here’s how we’re going to play it. Sade, you start as you always do. But Bix, when she’s finished the top part of the song, you sing the response in Bix style.”
I shake my head. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You bebop it. Skat it. Interpret the words Sade sang in your own way.”
I look at Sade. “Do you know what he means?”
She nods. “Exactly. And it’s brilliant. Just follow my lead, Bix.”
Paul gives the band a signal, and they begin the familiar strains of the song.
Sade sings in a beautiful, husky, deep voice, pouring her soul and entire being into the man she loves. Her voice carries the weight of longing, of searching, of hoping for connection.
A few audience members stop their chatting to turn to the stage.
While Sade sings, I swing my hips and my long strands of pearls in opposite directions. I feel the rhythm in my bones, the way Lola taught me.
And when it’s my turn to sing, her magic leads the way.
CHAPTER 41
SLAYER
Ileave Rafe talking with some friends and venture back to the party to find Bix.
The crowd has shifted since I left her, and I scan the gathering for her distinctive blonde curls. I’m still not used to how different I feel after this afternoon. Lighter somehow, like I’ve shed a skin I’ve been wearing for years.
But before I can find Bix, Valentina appears, cutting off my path.
“Darling,” she says, her kisses accompanied by a flash of red silk and a cloud of perfume. “I’ve been looking for you all evening.”
“And here I am.” I try to look past her, still searching for Bix.
“Just in time! An Italian television crew has come all the way from Milan to interview you. They want to talk about our high school days.”
I glance at her. “Really, Valentina, that was so long ago...”
“To me it is but an instant, darling. Please be kind.” She places her hand on my arm and captures my eyes.
When Valentina looks at me like that, with those same dark eyes that made me fumble for words at seventeen, I can’t refuse.
Against my better judgment, I allow her to drag me toward amakeshift soundstage set with chairs, a table, even tiny espresso cups to make it seem like we’re on a morning talk show.
“Valentina, I don’t know,” I say, realizing this will take more than a minute. “I have to work the crowd. My concert’s tomorrow.”
