A Song for Julia (32 page)

Julia jumped in. “We’re actually meeting with the head of White Dog Records tomorrow. Allen Roark set up the meeting for us.”

“I’m not familiar with him,” Mr. Thompson said. Carrie, however, looked at her sister, eyes wide. “Oh. My. God. You’re meeting with Allen Roark?”

Julia grinned and nodded. “We’ve got a flight out to LA first thing in the morning. Not a sure thing, yet, but … we’ll see.”

“That’s so exciting!” Carrie said.

Mrs. Thompson leaned forward in her seat. Like a cat, getting ready to pounce. “We? What’s your involvement with this, Julia?”

Julia froze and then looked away from her mother dismissively. “I’m managing the band. I told you that yesterday.”

Mr. Thompson said, “Well, then. That’s an interesting … hobby. Are you sure you have time for that? Getting ready for grad school must be taking a lot of your time.”

I felt a sinking feeling. This was not going well. Not well at all. I glanced over at the twins and the youngest sister. They hadn’t been introduced, nor had they spoken a word the entire conversation. Was this normal? May be. 

The dark haired twin, Sarah, saw me looking at her, and her eyes went wide. Then the funniest thing happened. She bared her teeth at me, like she was growling and then cocked her eyes, one open wider than the other. She was growling at me. Silently. 

I stifled a laugh, then returned the fierce grin, and she giggled.

“Sarah, be quiet,” her mother muttered.

Sarah’s growl instantly disappeared, and she looked back down at her hot chocolate. Her eyes darted back up at me a moment later, so I winked at her. She flashed a smile and went back to her drink.

That kid was going to be a handful one day.

Julia looked her father in the eye. “I know this is going to upset you, but I’m considering not going to graduate school right away.”

Her mother muttered something, I don’t know what, and her father said, “I wish you’d reconsider. If you’re serious about the Foreign Service, you need to get your graduate degree.”

“I’m not sure about the Foreign Service, Dad.”

The table was silent for just a second and then Alexandra said, “I’m hungry. When’s dinner going to be here?”

“Remember your manners, young lady,” Mrs. Thompson said.

Mr. Thompson was staring at Julia as if she’d grown an extra head. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You’ve always wanted to go into the Foreign Service.”

Julia looked directly at her father. “I don’t know where you get that idea. I’ve never, not once, ever, expressed any desire to do that.”

“Don’t be silly,” her mother said. “That was always the plan.”

Julia cocked an eyebrow. “Whose plan?”

“So what do you intend to do?” her father asked.

“Honestly, I’ve been very busy lately trying to figure that out.”

“So you’ve not made up your mind.”

Julia shook her head.

“What about Wednesday?” her mother asked.

“What’s Wednesday?” Julia asked.

Mr. Thompson looked a bit uncomfortable. He started to speak, but at that moment the servers came in the room, and he stopped.

Quickly, the restaurant staff laid out a huge meal. It was a Thanksgiving meal, I guess, but nothing like I’d ever had in my life. The turkey was sliced and glazed with some kind of caramel and unfamiliar herbs. And a gravy that I wouldn’t feed to the guys in the Pit at Harvard Square. It was all very artfully presented and completely lacking in any heart. I was glad I’d already eaten so much, because I was only going to be able to nibble this. Not to mention, the disapproval raining down from both ends of the table wasn’t helping.

We sat in silence until the servers had finished refilling wine glasses and laying out our meal. Once that was done, Mr. Thompson cleared his throat. “As you know, Julia, I leave for Baghdad next Friday as part of the negotiating team. The President has invited us to dinner at the White House, with a few select guests, on Wednesday evening.”

“I have a meeting on Wednesday,” Julia said.

I didn’t quite gawk at her. But close. She was being invited to the White House. Not something you turn down, especially for a meeting with a near bankrupt second-rate record studio.

“I cannot possibly imagine what meeting you may have that could be more important than an invitation to dine with the President of the United States.”

Julia said, “I think I’d prefer to drive a nail through my own forehead than meet with this President.”

Mrs. Thompson gasped, then said, “Julia … do not use that language in front of your sisters.”

The little girls were gawking. They clearly weren’t used to seeing anyone defy their parents. Carrie’s eyes were darting back and forth, between me, Julia, her parents.

Mr. Thompson simply smiled. “Very colorful, Julia. But, in the event you do decide to go into the Foreign Service … or for that matter, anything else that may ever involve the government … this could be a smart thing for you to attend. After all, the President will likely win a second term. Not to mention, even if your politics disagree with his, it’s still an honor.”

Julia shook her head. “Seriously, Dad. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you being part of the negotiating team. But, don’t you get the feeling that it’s all preplanned? That you going to Baghdad is just window dressing? They’re already activating troops for deployment. Crank’s dad just got called up, and he’s leaving for Kuwait next week. I don’t see how you can stomach working for that man.”

Mr. Thompson frowned. “I’m sure you know an ambassador’s role is to be nonpartisan, Julia.”

“So, why exactly am I going?”

“Alexandra and the younger girls are too young, but you and Carrie are coming. And I expect you to behave diplomatically.”

Julia looked at her father. “I can be diplomatic when I have to, Dad. But if you want my honest opinion? I think it’s all cooked up. The President wants to go to war in Iraq, and it doesn’t matter what you do, what the inspection teams do, what the UN does. I … I wish you could step back and not be a part of that.”

Mr. Thompson closed his eyes. “I will do what I can to prevent that.”

“Okay. But that doesn’t change my original concern. I have a meeting on Wednesday at noon.”

Her father shrugged. “That we can deal with. Dinner isn’t until eight, so we’ll get you on a three o’clock flight. All right?”

“I suppose.”

I sat back in my chair, pretending to eat, and looked at this family. I thought my family was screwed up. But some things here just made my skin crawl. The absolute silence required of the younger kids, especially. Even Carrie hadn’t spoken much, and Alexandra and the younger ones, not a peep. That would never have flown in my house.

I tried to get my mind around it, step back from the Julia I knew. This was Ambassador Thompson, discussing dinner at the White House with his wife and daughters. I’m generally not intimidated by anything. But this was like being on another planet. Was I making a mistake getting involved with Julia? She was brilliant, attending Harvard, and if she wanted, she could have a future attending dinners at the White House, a future traveling all over the globe, a future as a possible ambassador or … who knew? 

What did I have to offer that matched that?

Not a damn thing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Don’t say yes to anything (Julia)

“Why the hell do we have to be there so early?” Crank asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Security, Crank. Ever since last year,” I answered. Had he been living under a rock since September 11? I’d dropped him off at home after dinner and told him I’d be back at four A.M. to pick him up.

When I got there, in
not
the best neighborhood in the world, he was still asleep. I pounded on the warehouse door, but they couldn’t hear from all the way upstairs, so I started methodically calling him, then when he didn’t answer, Serena.

She picked up on the first ring.

“What is it?”

“It’s Julia. I’m supposed to be picking up Crank for a flight to LA. Where is he? Sorry to wake you.”

Ten very long minutes later, Crank showed up at the door, dragging a backpack. “Sorry, babe,” he said.

“Don’t call me babe,” I replied. “We’re late. Get in.”

He gave me a not very friendly look, and we were on our way.

At the airport, we checked in and headed for the security gates. Neither of us checked any bags, since it was a one-day trip. It was going to be a long one. In the security line, I took off my shoes, got my laptop out of my bag and put my coat in another box. Then had to stop and show Crank what to do.

“Haven’t you flown before?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “What’s with the shoes?”

“Um … shoe bomber? Pled guilty last month? It was in the news.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. What the heck is up with that? Lighting your shoes on fire?”

We made it through security and finally got to the gate, with about twenty minutes to spare before boarding. “Watch our bags?” I asked and went to find coffee. A few minutes later, I was back with two large, steaming cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

“Oh, God,” he said. “You’ve answered my prayers. I’ve been sitting here checking out everybody’s shoes.”

He said that with a straight face. I sighed, sat down next to him, and said, “Sorry I was so … cranky.”

He snickered at my awkwardness and said, “It’s all right. Sorry I didn’t wake up. I slept right through the alarm. This is the time I normally go to bed.”

A few minutes later, we boarded the flight. I didn’t usually fly first class, unless I was traveling with the whole family, so this was nice. Crank and I had big, comfortable seats right next to each other in the second row of the plane. Of course, we’d be paying through the nose for that, and if we didn’t get a contract out of it, there would be a very real problem. I didn’t want to think of what my father would say when he saw the bill for these tickets. But sometimes you have to take a chance. This was one of them.

Crank was like a kid who had just discovered candy for the first time. First, he played with the seat belts, then the lights and air conditioning nozzles. Next, he slid the plastic window shade up and pressed his face up against the window, looking out into the darkness at the other planes.

The seatbelt sign came on, and a few moments later, the plane started moving. The first class attendant stood, just a couple of feet away since we were in the very front, and began giving the safety briefing. Crank dutifully opened the airline safety instructions and followed along. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat.

A moment later, he poked me in the side. I opened one eye and looked at him. He had a concerned expression on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s the safety briefing. This is important.”

“Leave me alone. I’ve sat through five hundred of these.”

The expression on his face was almost comical. And it was also the mirror of concerned expressions his father occasionally gave both Sean and Crank. It was cute and endearing, and at five o’clock in the morning, damn irritating. I closed my eyes again, but I could feel myself smile just a little.

Shortly after, we were in the air. Crank spent the whole time fidgeting and looking out the window. I spent the whole time yawning. Finally, we reached altitude, and they turned out the cabin lights, and I said, “I’m going to sleep.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. But if you flew as often as I had, one flight pretty much looked like another. I shoved the arms in between our seats up, then lay down, leaning against him, and went to sleep.

Four hours later, we were in Los Angeles. 

It’s always a little disorienting going from one climate to another. For weeks in Boston, it had been dim, cold, and the light grey and attenuated. I’d never been in LA, but the moment we got off the plane, I knew I was going to love it. Late November, and the sun was shining, and it was bright outside. Crank and I made a beeline for a coffee stand, then out the security gate.

As soon as we were through security, I saw our driver, a man holding up a sign with my name on it. We waved and headed over.

“Do you need to pick up luggage?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, “we just had carry-ons.”

Twenty minutes later, we were clear of LAX and headed into the city. In the car, I reached in my purse and took out my heels and swapped them for the flip-flops I’d been wearing on the flight. 

“This is crazy,” Crank said. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s your music that earned it,” I said.

“So what’s the plan?”

“I want you to be charming and friendly. Don’t say yes to anything. You’re the good cop. You be nice and accommodating and make friends. I’ll cut the deal. Does that work?”

He chuckled. “All right. You don’t trust my negotiating ability?”

“It’s not that at all. You hired me for this. Plus, this way you get to make friends with people you need to be friends with. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” he replied. He looked out the window, and then looked back and said, “Julia? Thanks.”

Ten minutes later, the driver said, “Here we are. Seventh floor. Suite 720. We’re a little early, so let the receptionist know you’re here, and they’ll take it from there. And good luck.”

I smiled at the driver, and we got out.  

Crank stopped outside the door of the building. Traffic rolled by in the street in front of us, and pedestrians were crowding by us.

“We’re early. I need a smoke.” He lit up and started pacing, his long legs taking him back and forth with nervous strides. After a minute, he turned around, and said, “What if this doesn’t pan out? What about all the money you just spent?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “My dad will have a heart attack, that’s for sure.”

“You took that big of a risk for me?” he said.

I took a breath then shook my head. “No.”

He took a drag off his cigarette. “I don’t understand.”

I bit my lip, looked at the ground, and said, “It’s like this. Who do you think picked the piano for me when I was two?”