Coming Home (3 page)

 “You’re tremendously talented.  Are you going to just throw it
away?  Give it all up for love, like your mother did?”

The man was a steamroller.  She should have been angry, but she
wasn’t, maybe because in some hidden part of her, she knew he was right.  She
studied those blue eyes, so straightforward and determined.  “I’ve written
more,” she said.

The gleam in his eyes intensified.  “Can I see them?”

“You could, if there was anything to see.  But there’s nothing on
paper that would mean anything to you.”  She shrugged in apology.  “I don’t
read music.”

He raised both eyebrows.  “Your mother was a concert pianist, and
you never learned to read music?”

“I had a natural ear and perfect pitch,” she said.  “I took the
easy way out.”

He tapped his fingertips against the tabletop as he considered the
situation.  “It doesn’t have to be a problem,” he said.  “Rob’s brilliant at
transcription.”

“Who’s Rob?”

“Rob MacKenzie.  He’s a bloody genius, that’s who he is.  He
composes, he arranges, and he plays guitar like he was born with it in his
hands.  Here’s what I’m thinking.  We can sit you down at a piano with
MacKenzie and a stack of manuscript paper.  You play, he transcribes it onto
paper.  The end result would be the same.”

“I’m flattered,” she said.  “Really.  But I’m getting married in
four weeks.”

“Come to Boston with us.  Just for a few days.  I’ll introduce you
to Rob, see if the two of you can work together.”  He smiled, and something
happened deep inside her, something sudden and unexpected and startlingly
beautiful.  Her heart began a slow thudding as she thought about Jesse.   About
missed chances.  About her wedding, just four weeks away.

And about her father, who would heartily disapprove of her taking
off for parts unknown with this blue-eyed stranger.  In all her eighteen years,
she’d never done anything Dad would disapprove of.

But Danny Fiore believed in her, believed in her talent, when
nobody else had ever given it a second thought.  She was eighteen years old. 
Old enough to decide for herself what she wanted to do with her life, instead
of what Dad or Jesse wanted her to do.  And what she wanted was to follow this
ride as far as it would take her.

“Mr. Fiore,” she said, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Ziggy’s was a dark, dank cellar hole near Boston’s Kenmore Square,
marked by a chartreuse neon sign and a heavy wooden door that belched waves of
music onto the sidewalk every time it opened.  Danny Fiore whisked her past the
bouncer and into the turmoil within.  She’d never seen so many people crammed
into so little space.  Squeezing between bodies, she put her trust in Danny’s
navigational skills and followed those broad shoulders toward an unseen
destination.

“The place is packed,” he said over the steady boom-boom of a
Doobie Brothers recording.  “Do you mind standing?”

Casey looked out over a sea of occupied tables.  “I guess I don’t
have a choice,” she said.  “Is it always this crowded?”

“It is,” he said, raising one corner of his mouth in a wry grin,
“when we play here.”

He left her leaning against a splintered wooden support beam
carved with graffiti. 
Lizzie loves Jeff.  TE & PF 4-ever.  Impeach
Nixon.
   She flagged down a waitress and ordered a Coke, then studied the
people around her.  They were for the most part college kids, dressed in jeans
and an abundance of hair, and they congregated in noisy groups whose boundaries
were continually shifting.

The Doobies wailed their finale.  Into the ensuing silence rushed
the clink of glasses and the steady buzz of conversation.  The lights went out
abruptly, plunging the room into a blackness so palpable she could taste it. 
Conversation skidded to a halt.  A smattering of applause rippled through the
expectant hush, and Casey’s fingers tightened on her glass.

Sound and light erupted simultaneously, and Danny Fiore stood in a
pool of amber, all long silky hair and skintight jeans, one booted foot tapping
accompaniment to the familiar driving rhythm of a rock anthem immortalized by
the McCoys.  The gold chain around his neck sparked and caught fire, and he
tossed back all that tawny hair and jumped in headfirst.

And the bottom dropped out of the world.

As he wove the story of a girl named Sloopy, that dark, velvet
voice caressed the lyrics, slow and deliberate and naughty, infusing them with
meanings never before intended.  She should have been prepared for the power of
that vibrant tenor.  But she wasn’t.  She should have expected to be swept up
and torn into pieces.  But she hadn’t.  She should have run from that blatant,
smoldering sexuality.  But she didn’t.  Casey’s heart ricocheted off her ribs
like a ping pong ball out of control as those blue eyes captured and held hers
for a single instant.  And even though she knew it was an illusion, part of the
act, for that instant she truly believed he was singing just to her.

With a deliberate toss of his head he sent all that silky hair
flying to surround him in a golden halo before it fell, in slow motion, to his
shoulders.  Casey tried to swallow, but all the moisture was gone from her
mouth, and her hands were trembling so hard she couldn’t raise her drink to her
lips.  With the last shreds of her rapidly disintegrating sanity, she realized
that she was seeing the first budding shoots of greatness, the beginning of a
legend, a phenomenon. 

His words came back then to haunt her: 
I’m going to be a star.

Oh, yes.

She joined enthusiastically in the thunderous applause.  Danny
paused to catch his breath.  “Thanks,” he said, trying to be heard above the
commotion.  “Thank you.”  He gave up then, scooped the long hair back from his
face with one hand and waited for the noise to subside.  “I really want to
thank you all for coming here tonight,” he said.  “We haven’t played here for a
while, and we thought it would be fun to let you get into the act.  So give us
your requests, and if the boys here can play ‘em, I’ll try to sing ‘em.”

A blonde near the stage yelled, “Your phone number!”

“My
what
?”  He flashed that billion-dollar smile.  “Come
on, lady, give me a break.”

There were titters from the audience, then a voice from the back
of the room shouted, “Sing something dirty!”   There was a burst of laughter
from the area surrounding the woman who had spoken, and Danny shaded his eyes
with his hand, trying to see past the lights and the crowd.

“Sing something dirty?” he said in mock disbelief.  More titters
from the audience.  “I must be in the wrong town,” he said.  “Somebody told me
this was Boston!”

He turned to the lanky blond lead guitarist.  “Hey, Rob, do we
know any dirty songs that won’t bring the cops in?”

Rob grinned and mumbled something, and Danny turned back to the
audience.  “How about
Brown Sugar
?” There was immediate cheering and
foot-stomping.  “And if that’s not dirty enough for you, honey,” he said, “you
haven’t listened to the words!”

Forty-five minutes later, amid boisterous applause, he left the
stage and made his way through the crowd to where she’d finally snagged a
seat.  He grabbed an empty chair from the next table, pulled it up beside hers,
and straddled it, arms dangling over the back.  His hair was damp from the
intense heat of the spotlight he’d been under, and he swept it back from his
face with one hand.  Rattling the ice cubes in his glass, he watched them swirl
around.  “So,” he said, still examining the contents of his glass, “what do you
think?”

“You don’t need me to tell you how good you are.”

“I know what I think.”  His level blue gaze met hers, and Casey
felt a shock run clear through her.  “I want to know what you think.”

She looked into those incredible blue eyes and wondered just what
she was getting herself into.  “I think,” she said, choosing her words
carefully, “that you’re too good to waste your time singing in places like
this.”

He raised his glass and took a sip.  “It’s called paying your
dues.  It’s a necessary evil, like death and taxes.”

“And how long do you have to pay before you start getting
something in return?”

He crunched an ice cube between perfect white teeth.  “You work
your ass off and hope and pray for a lucky break.”

She frowned.  “I believe in making your own breaks.”

“That’s a lovely theory, he said, “but it doesn’t work well in
practice.”

“Do you have a manager?”

He snorted.  “So I can pay him ten percent of nothing?”

“Maybe all you need is someone who can focus you in the right
direction.”

“My focus isn’t flawed.  It’s more a matter of being in the right
place at the right time.”

 “Where do you get all your confidence?” she asked him.

His grin was devastating.  “It’s all a front,” he said.  “Inside,
I’m a quivering mass of Jell-O.”

“You terrify me,” she said.  “You make me hungry for things I’m
not sure I have a right to want.”

Bluntly, he said, “Nobody has the right to tell you what to want.”

Why did she have the feeling they were no longer talking about his
singing, her songwriting?  He stood up, and she realized that the band was
already back on stage, tuning their instruments and sending pointed looks in
his direction.  He held out his hand.  “Deal?”

For a moment, she lost herself in those blue eyes.  Then she gripped
his hand firmly.  “Deal.”  Already, she knew it wasn’t enough.  But she had no
right to ask for more.  She would have to settle for what she could get.

She felt as though she’d spent her entire life settling for second
best.

***

With one hand buried in the tangle of golden curls and a lit
cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Rob MacKenzie studied the
penciled notations on the paper in front of him with total absorption.   He was
silent for so long that at last, unable to bear the suspense any longer, Casey
spoke.  “Well?  What do you think?”

He looked surprised, as though he’d forgotten she was in the
room.  And then he flashed a grin.  “You’ve got a winner here, kiddo,” he said.

Her pulse quickened.  “You really think so?”

He flicked an ash from his cigarette.  “I know so.”

She liked Rob MacKenzie, liked the strong Irish jaw and the
sunshine smile and the devil-may-care attitude.  Tall and gaunt and bony, he
reminded her of a young golden retriever that hadn’t yet grown into its feet,
and she had felt an instantaneous rapport with him.

Danny clattered down the cellar stairs.  “Careful,” he said,
handing her a mug of coffee.  “It’s hot.”  He passed one to Rob.  “This should
jack you right back up.”  He perched on the arm of Casey’s chair.  “What do you
say, Wiz?”

 Rob stretched out lanky legs and took a sip of coffee.  “If all
her stuff is this good, Dan,” he said, “we’ve hit the motherlode.”

“Let’s try one more before we crash.”

Casey tried to stifle a yawn, but wasn’t quite successful.  Rob dropped
his cigarette into a nearby ashtray.  “Give the girl a break, Fiore.  It’s
five-thirty in the morning.”

Danny looked surprised.  “No wonder I’m starved,” he said.  “I’ve
been running on adrenaline for the past twelve hours.”  He leaned toward Casey. 
“I have this friend,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “who just happens to
make the best pizza in Boston.  And there’s even better news.  His place is
open all night.”

Her smile lingered and warmed.  “Don’t say pizza, Mr. Fiore,
unless you mean it.”

“Wiz?  Want to come with us?”

Rob shook his head.  “This boy’s headed for bed.  You would be,
too, if you had any brains.”

“I’m too high.  I’ll come down eventually.”

“After you’ve driven the rest of us nuts.”  But there was
affection in Rob’s voice.  “Stand up to him,” he told Casey.  “If you don’t,
he’ll walk all over you.”

***

He was right about the pizza. 

Casey crumpled her napkin and let out a sigh of contentment.  “How
did you ever find this place?” she said.

“I’m a third-generation North End wop,” Danny said.  “This is my
home turf.”

“You don’t look Italian,” she said, studying his face.  “Where on
earth did you get those blue eyes?”

“From my old man.”  Danny toyed absently with a tomato-stained
sheet of wax paper.  “He hung around just long enough to get my mother knocked
up, and then he split.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, taken aback.

He shrugged.  “It’s hard to miss something you never had in the
first place.”

“No stepfathers?”

“My mother died when I was five.  My grandmother raised me.”

She tried to picture him as a child and could not.  He seemed so
much larger than life.  Watching him fold and refold the sheet of wax paper,
she was struck by the lean elegance of his hands.  “I’ve never had pizza for
breakfast before,” she said.