“We have a special guest joining us tonight,” Connor said. “I can’t hardly believe I’m saying these words. But here goes. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my genuine pleasure to introduce Ian Hart.”
Their first song was one written by Carole King and her husband for the Drifters: “Up on the Roof.” As soon as Connor Larkin counted them down, Ian sensed his aunt slipping through the audience and settling at the table the trio had vacated. He cast his invisible friend a silent greeting. Memories flooded in, only this time they carried the bittersweet flavor of his aunt’s smile.
His parents had departed from Ian’s life when he was just four. A mother’s suicide, a father’s swift descent into the dark pit of drug-addled sorrow. His father’s parents had been the only so-called stable family available, so they had reluctantly made room for their grandson. Sort of.
Three weeks after his sixth birthday, they shipped him off to the Annapolis boarding school. They never visited. Amelia became his only connection to family. His aunt traveled down from her Philly home at least twice each month, always bringing with her those singular rays of love and sunshine. She treated him to a day of whatever suited their fancy. Christmas and twice each summer, he secretly made the trek north. Amelia faked the school’s letterhead and wrote her parents that Ian was on a school holiday, spending time with another student’s family, whatever. She always added that additional funds were required to cover the period. They both took secret delight in stowing the money away, adding to what Amelia gleefully called his runaway fund.
Once that first spring, Ian asked her why her parents were that way. Colorless. Silent. Settled into tight little grooves that shaped their every waking hour. A couple who could go days without speaking. Who considered Ian’s presence a noisy and distasteful invasion of their tightly perfect world.
For once, Amelia lost her brilliant smile. “It’s not you, if that’s what you’re asking. They were the same way with me. And your poor dear father. We both ran away, in our own secret hearts. They loathed your mother. Thought her the worst possible choice of a mate. Which made her perfect in your father’s eyes.” It was doubtful Amelia could see him any longer. “You know your grandparents both worked in the Department of Agriculture.”
Ian nodded. “When I was little, I thought it was called the Department of Oatmeal.”
Amelia had a bell-like laugh, a musical shout. “I love that! It’s perfect!” She wiped her eyes. “Is it okay if we don’t talk about your grandparents? Not ever again?”
Ian only ever mentioned them once more. He was ten and was entering his second year of study under Lachard, whom Amelia referred to as “the discipline freak.” Far too much like Ian’s grandparents for her taste. Lachard was tolerated only because of the fire he strengthened in Ian.
Amelia was a fanatic when it came to Broadway musicals. But show tunes of any kind left Ian cold. They attended a couple of live performances and saw a few musical films. Ian barely tolerated the experiences. Finally, Amelia admitted defeat. “I hate throwing away a hundred bucks. The problem is, I can’t take you to a classical concert.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you like the performance, you go into a trance. If you hate it, you are a total pain to be around.” She shifted her large frame around in the ice cream parlor’s chair, like she had an itch she couldn’t reach. “This is you when you don’t like the music.”
“I like the music. I just don’t like what they’ve done with it.”
“Same difference.”
“I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
She smiled with genuine pleasure. “Your sphinx act might fool most people. But not your aunt Amelia. What other kind of music do you like?”
“I don’t know any. Granddad and Grandmother hate all kinds . . .” He stopped when a shadow flitted across her broad features.
Amelia said, “Let’s not taint a perfectly good afternoon with their poison.”
“All right.” And that was it. The last time those two people ever came up in polite conversation. “Lachard says I can listen only to my assignment. Plus, he hates modern music. He calls it amplified trash.”
“I’m liking this tyrant of yours less and less.”
“He’s teaching me a lot.”
“Maybe so. But a little bit of tyrant goes a long way in my book.” She reached for his half-finished sundae and thought her way through two spoonfuls. Then, “What about jazz?”
“I don’t know it.” It was only then, as Ian watched her consume her second sundae of the day, that he realized feeding her bulk was Amelia’s way of cushioning the hurt she carried from her own early years. The new awareness brought such a surge of emotions, he almost wept. “Lachard says jazz is a corruption of the classical discipline.”
“Well, he’s at least partly right.” She waved her spoon in a broad arc, dripping chocolate across the tabletop. “Do you see Lachard around here somewhere? No? So I want you to forget everything the little Frenchified tyrant is force-feeding you.”
“Okay.”
“I bet the man likes yogurt.” More sundae. “I’ve never met a yogurt lover who wasn’t hiding something twisted in their personal closet.”
“I have no idea what that even means.”
She pushed his sundae aside with a satisfied sigh. “Let’s go see if we can find some undisciplined degenerates playing jazz.”
Over the years that followed, Ian grew to love jazz and a great many directions and artists of contemporary music. This was partly due to how they released him from the rigorous discipline and artistic snobbery present in so much of the classical music world. Now, though, as he softly accompanied Connor Larkin and his band, Ian found it easy indeed to remember only the good. Only the laughter. Only the rich joys that remarkable woman had brought into his life.
Next they performed a lighthearted rendition of Paul Anka’s “Tonight My Love, Tonight,” followed by the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody.” For each selection, they made room for one member of the group to perform a solo. Piano, sax, Ian, bass, then a rousing version of Ray Charles’s “Hit The Road, Jack,” where the drummer brought almost everyone to their feet. The longer they played, the more clearly Ian could see Amelia’s smile.
Afterward, Connor spoke into the mike. “We’re going to take a short break. Before we go, who here thinks it’s time we give our guest a chance to stretch his wings?”
During the applause that followed, Connor covered his mike and leaned toward Ian. They had a swift discussion about song and tempo and key. He played a soft chord. Another. A third. Then he nodded to Ian and mouthed the word,Fly.
The song was another by Carole King, “Will You Love Me Tomorrow.” A folksy blues number with enough jazz undertones to remain one of Amelia’s absolute favorites.
Ian created a continual riff from that awful question, one he had seen in the gazes of far too many lovely ladies. But tonight was not made for sorrow, especially after Amelia left her comfortable perch, climbed onto the stage, and settled in there beside him. Which brought to mind her reaction whenever sadness had threatened to overwhelm him; Amelia had cradled his head in both strong arms and drawn him close.
Close to the heart that beat no longer.
He was scarcely aware when the trio joined in, soft murmurs of accompanying music and beat. Then Connor began to sing, and finally the song ended, and Ian forced himself to look out over the restaurant and smile at the applause. Though he could scarcely see anything beyond prisms of memory and love.
