So I don’t need to worry about Dad, but I still have plenty of qualms about this outing.
If you are going to venture out to a concert the night before your mother’s funeral in a small town where everybody knows everybody, then the last thing you want to do is go with a tall, dark, sizzling-hot fireman. In his black leather jacket and well-fitting blue jeans, he looks like he belongs in one of those Hot Fireman calendars they put out. Probably naked and holding a cat. This image does things to both my imagination and my body that are not safe for public consumption.
The brewpub inhabits a warehouse. There are two levels, but it’s open all the way to the roof, and the upstairs is more of a railing-enclosed mezzanine. The downstairs part of it, where the stage is set up, has long trestle tables and chairs. Only a couple of the tables are occupied when I arrive, fortunately not by anybody I know. A group of teenagers is playing pool, completely oblivious to our arrival.
I select a table upstairs, near the railing, where I figure I can get a good view of Marley without being in her direct line of sight.
“Are you sure you want to sit all the way up here?” Mia asks. “We’re early. We could sit front and center.”
Tony rescues me. “I think she’s doing incredibly well to just be out of the house. Maybe front and center isn’t the best idea for tonight.”
I go with this. It’s true enough. The very thought of loud music and laughter sends a full-body cringe running through me. And I want to avoid being seen by anybody in town who might recognize me. But the real reason I’ve chosen this particular spot is that I want to watch Marley without her watching me.
“I’d like to be closer,” Elle says. “Probably. Maybe we should hear them first. They might suck.”
They don’t. Elle has been playing YouTube videos all week. I’m not crazy about country music, but as far as I can tell, this band is tight and smooth. And Marley has a voice that could be described as smoky and sultry, a whiskey voice. The sort of voice that stirs the emotions in your belly like a spoon stirring cream into a coffee cup, but then maybe that’s because she’s my sister.
The waitress who comes around apparently went to school with Mia, and the two of them chatter about the fact that the band set up and did a sound check earlier, then zipped out to grab a bite to eat somewhere else. They left their sound guy to watch the equipment. She points him out, a man leaning against the railing to the left.
I glance in his direction, trying not to stare. Buzzed head. Bulging biceps and pecs stretching the limits of a black T-shirt with a skull on it. Full tattoo sleeves on both arms. I wonder what this says about Marley, whether he’s a part of her life or a hired hand who happens to be good at his job. Tony orders us pizza and a pitcher of ale, with a root beer for Elle.
“Anybody want to play pool?” Mia asks. “Since we’re going to be waiting.”
“Me!” Elle says, bouncing up as if she’s been ejected from her chair. “I always wanted to play. Can you teach me?”
“Absolutely. I’m fantastic at pool. Anybody else? Maisey?”
Her dark eyes sparkle, and she holds a hand out to me. It’s a genuine invitation, and somewhere, beneath my layers of shock and grief and anxiety, I’m touched by it and want to respond.
But I shake my head. It’s bad enough to be here at all, and I don’t think my knees would hold me if I tried to walk right now. Ale is probably a bad idea, but the waitress arrives at this exact moment, setting a pitcher filled with foaming amber ale on the table. She pours a mug for me and sets a glass of water down in front of Tony.
“Thanks, Cass,” he says.
“You got it, babe.” She smooths her hair as she smiles at him, and then sashays away with a sway of the hips that tells me she has not failed to notice his hotness. Hell, they know each other. Maybe they’ve dated. Maybe they are dating now.
And why should that matter to me? Still, I watch her with a tiny shard of envy pricking at my heart, wishing I’d been born with those sorts of curves, that easy ability to smile and chat and be amusing.
Tony lifts his glass. “Cheers,” he says.
“She forgot your mug.” I gesture at the pitcher and his half-empty water glass.
“She remembered just fine.” He says it casually, but there’s a flat finality in his tone that means this topic is closed for conversation.
I ask anyway. “Not a drinker?”
“Not so much.” He smiles, but it’s not a real one this time. His eyes drop to the table, and he grabs a handful of peanuts and starts shelling them, making a little pile of shells on one side, peanuts on the other.
I pick up a peanut of my own, but just turn it over and over in my fingers. The vibe between us has shifted into a minor, discordant key. My fault for persisting with the nosy question. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter whether I’ve pissed him off or why he doesn’t drink. But the people I know who swear off alcohol are all either former alcoholics or severely religious. If I’m going to have Tony around Elle, I tell myself, it’s important to know. For Elle. Not that it matters to me.
“My father was a drinker,” Tony says, glancing up and meeting my eyes with an intense blue gaze. “A very good drinker. Meaning he could consume more than his temper could handle on a regular basis. Kind of put me off the stuff for myself.”
“I’m sorry.” Whether I’m apologizing for my having asked, for his father having been an angry drunk, or for the messed-up state of the universe altogether, I’m not entirely sure.
And then it doesn’t matter because the door opens down below and a group of people come in, carrying instruments.
The band has arrived.
I’m on my feet and leaning over the railing before I realize that my body has decided to relocate. There are two men, one with a dark ponytail down the middle of his back, the other wearing a baseball cap. But I have eyes only for the woman.
I get only a quick glimpse of her face before she sails up the steps onto the stage. She walks like my mother, with the same quick, confident steps. It’s instantly clear that she’s the boss. The men defer to her, listen, follow her lead like sunflowers follow the sun.
Marley waves to the tattooed guy at the sound booth. A smile changes his face from thug to lover in a heartbeat. And then her head turns, and her eyes scan the rest of the balcony, casually assessing.
What if she recognizes me? What if she doesn’t? I hold my breath, waiting, but her eyes pass over me as if I’m invisible. She says something to her companion. He laughs and opens his guitar case. My legs have turned to mush, and my fingers have grown roots into the railing. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t anything.
And then I feel Tony beside me. Breathe in the scent of leather and shampoo and a hint of wood smoke. “Excited?” he asks. “You must have access to way bigger bands than this, coming from Kansas City.”
“We don’t get out much,” I tell him. Maybe later I’ll tell him the truth. Maybe I won’t.
Mia and Elle join us, surrounded by an energy cloud of enthusiasm and excitement. Mia is holding a glass half-full of ale, clearly not following in Tony’s path of abstinence.
“I put the eight ball in the corner pocket,” Elle says. “Oh wow. There she is. Right up close and personal. She looks fantastic, don’t you think?”
There is no doubt that my sister looks amazing.
She’s wearing a sparkly black shirt, form-fitting, and spandex pants with cowboy boots. Either she’s spent more time at the gym than I have, or she has inherited better genes. Her blonde hair is braided in a thick rope. She has one of those expressive faces made for the stage.
The lights come up behind her, the band starts checking the tuning on their guitars. Marley doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t introduce the band. Just plays a chord, makes eye contact with each of her band members in turn, and starts to sing.