Dead to the Last Drop (23 page)

“Why are you smiling?” I asked.

“Watch . . .”

Stan put down his sticks and swung himself around to face the piano’s cabinet, which he began thumping like a drum with his bare hands.

“He learned that when his dad was stationed in Germany,” Gard whispered. “Keith Jarrett’s Köln concert recording is legendary over there—brilliant!”

Finally, Stan began playing the keys with Abby, commanding the bass notes while she danced along the treble. Soon their hands were crossing over in a fast and flawless stride.

Before long, the pace slowed to a melancholy finish, quiet, contemplative. Stan spun around to his drum again, quiet sticking, and then silence as he let Abby’s final, sweetly haunting notes linger in the air.

The entire room sat stunned.

No one had seen—or heard—anything like it. And they absolutely loved it. The roar of applause, shouts, whistles that came next was deafening. The first floor was applauding, too, and then I heard the noise on Wisconsin Avenue. From the second-floor window, I saw the crowd clapping and shouting.

Abby grinned so widely I thought she would burst. Stan said something in her ear and she laughed, threw her arms around him, and kissed him on the mouth. He looked a little surprised, but he didn’t hesitate. He kissed her right back!

The crowd went crazy.

Together they stood and bowed—and called Gardner’s band members back to join them.

I thought the remarkable show was over.

But as the audience chanted “More, more, more . . .” the band looked to Gard, who had a surprise. First he waved to those musician friends at the front tables, and they quickly moved onto the stage—trumpets, trombones, and two more saxophones.

As Gard took his place as the conductor, he signaled to two people who’d been waiting for their cue. When I saw them, I nearly fell off my low heels.

Tucker and Punch strode into the room and onto the stage.

The two were no longer in their waiter’s uniforms. Using their theatrical bag of tricks, they’d transformed themselves into Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga—an odd couple in the music world, who’d paired up to record jazz duets.

Tuck and Punch (as Tony and Gaga) each grabbed a mic. Then Gard faced his band and pointed to Stan, whose pulse-pounding drum solo opened a bold, brassy, brilliant performance of Duke Ellington’s—

“It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)”!

Tuck and Punch were pitch-perfect as they sang through the song’s bouncy lyrics, having fun with each other and the audience, the same way they did in their New York cabaret shows. Then they stepped off the stage and the jam began. Abby’s grin was cheek to cheek as she traded hoppin’ solos with Stan and the rest of the band.

Some of the crowd clapped along, others stood up, arms waving.

Suddenly, I felt a hard tug and realized someone had hooked me at the waist and was spinning me around.

“Matt! What are you doing?”

“Just look,” he demanded, dancing me to the window. “Look at our new neighborhood!”

When I did, I finally felt the tears well up. I couldn’t help it. After all we’d been through, it felt like a dream. And it was, a dream come true.

Our Village Blend, DC, literally had Georgetown dancing in the streets.

S
ixty-one

“A
toast!” Madame declared, raising a flute of chilled champagne.

For a brief moment, the backslaps and fist bumps ceased, as everyone in the greenroom turned their attention to our club’s octogenarian owner.

In a flowing Fen pantsuit of electric blue, a whimsical silk scarf of musical notes draped around her regal neck, and her silver pageboy in an elegant twist, my former mother-in-law stood before the fireplace, her proud gaze sweeping the crowd. I knew that behind those vibrant violet eyes, a million memories lurked.

For more than half a century, the indomitable woman had kept the Allegro family’s iconic Greenwich Village coffeehouse business going through recessions and riots; taxes and turmoil; greed and gentrification.

Through it all, she’d forged affectionate relationships with some of the most influential artists, writers, poets, and musicians of the twentieth century. And, in her toast on this very special evening, our beloved grande dame evoked an old memory while acknowledging this brand-new one—

“Tonight, my dear Abby, you brought back a treasured memory of my son’s late father.” She tipped the glass toward Matt. “Antonio and I were lucky witnesses to pianist Erroll Garner’s performance of jazz at Carnegie Hall. A momentous night for music—and for America. I felt the same tonight, my dear. None of us will ever forget your brave and brilliant performance.”

“Hear! Hear!” Gardner cheered.

“She is brave,” Stan gushed, “and brilliant!”

“Brava,” Jackson agreed.

Madame’s gaze met Abby’s tearful eyes. Then she hoisted her glass
even higher and exclaimed, “To the brightest star in our nation’s capital tonight, Abigail Parker!”

Grinning shyly, Abby only sampled her champagne. Already euphoric, she didn’t need further stimulus. We all felt that same euphoria, and the boisterousness of our celebration threatened to burst my mural-covered greenroom’s walls.

Gardner kept shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe our good fortune, and Stan’s grin was so wide his upturned cheeks kept displacing his eye patch. (And I was pretty sure Stan’s bliss had as much to do with Abby’s kiss as it did with the success of their performance.)

For Abby it was a triumph she never imagined possible. And me? I was big on relief—happy to stand back and quietly watch iced bottles of Dom Pérignon passed around for refills. I clinked glasses quietly with Luther, too.

“The White House chef was here tonight,” I informed him. “She complimented your menu.”

“Our menu,” he said, clinking my glass right back. “And, as you well know, we sold clean out of everything.”

I gleefully nodded, having heard raves all night about our food—as well as our coffee and specialty drinks. But it was our improvised menu that I was sweating, and the success felt sweet.

When Abby saw us, she broke from her well-wishers—including a brace of journalists vetted by the White House press office—to take me by the hand. She grabbed Stan’s hand next. Then she motioned for Madame, Luther Bell, Gardner, and the other members of Four on the Floor to join our circle.

“I’d like to propose my own toast,” she declared. “To Clare Cosi, Gardner Evans, and my dear Stan. To Four on the Floor, and Chef Luther Bell. But especially to Madame DuBois, who had the faith to invest in this space. This has been—and still is—the happiest night of my life, and I owe that happiness to all of you! I can’t ever thank you enough!”

Hugs, kisses, laughter, and another round of champagne were interrupted by the White House Deputy Press Secretary. With a tight smile, the woman reminded Abby that reporters were waiting to interview her.

She led Abby to two chairs in a quiet corner, near the room’s fireplace. Abby sat down in one, waiting for the empty chair to be filled.

As the reporters in line were politely reminded that their interviews would be limited to five minutes each, I noticed a familiar face in the group—our enigmatic Ponytail Man with the trimmed gray beard and piercing dark eyes.

“Mystery solved,” I said, sidling up to him.

He tensed. “Mystery?”

“I already knew you were a fan of Abby’s. Now I see you’re a journalist.”

I extended my hand, and he took it.

“My name is Clare.”

“Bernie Moore. I write for
Jazz Beat
.”

That intense gaze of his drifted back to the First Daughter, who was speaking with a woman from the
Washington Post
. Gard and the other band members quieted down their chatter, but their grinning continued. Like a band of big brothers, they were proud to see Abby finally getting some star treatment.

“Are you planning to write a feature about Abby?”

“Of course. It’s clear she’s been keeping her light under a bushel. Her gift should be shared with the world—”

“Please! One more question,” the
Post
reporter begged after the press secretary announced her time was up.

“Abby, why did you decide to play in Georgetown, here at the Village Blend, DC?”

“The management sent me a personal invitation,” she replied. “The week the club opened I received a little postcard advertising Open Mike Night.”

We sent out invitations?

This was news to me.

S
ixty-two

“D
ID you send an invitation to Abby?” I whispered to Gardner, who looked equally confused.

“I sent out nothing.”

“Then who did?”

I couldn’t wrap my mind around this. Nobody at this club knew the President’s daughter had an ability to play piano, let alone jazz piano.

Gardner didn’t have any answers, either. He quietly asked his bandmates, but they were clueless. And since Abby believed
we
invited her to play at our Open Mike, she couldn’t shed light on the mystery, so I simply let it go.

“I was thrilled to come,” Abby continued. “I’d been practicing alone for years. That invitation is what got me out of my room. Gardner and Stan were so encouraging. I could never have done it without them!”

With the
Post
reporter’s question answered, the deputy press secretary signaled Bernie Moore to take the vacated chair.

“I’ve got to go, Clare,” Bernie said, “but it was nice to meet you.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

When he introduced himself to Abby, the girl reacted strangely.

“I’m sorry to stare,” she said after a pause. “It’s just that you look familiar to me. Spooky familiar. Have we met?”

“I’ve been in your Open Mike audiences for weeks.” Bernie smiled. “I guess you saw me out there applauding.”

“No, that’s not why you look familiar,” Abby insisted. “I know! I saw
you on campus—up at American University. You were on the steps outside Bender Library, right?”

“You’re right,” Bernie said. “I was chasing a story.”

That’s strange
, I thought.
What story would a professional music industry magazine writer chase on a college campus? Unless that story was Abby . . .

Bernie barely began his interview when they were interrupted by the deputy press secretary, ushering over a silver-haired older man in an open-collared sports shirt and custom-cut jacket.

“Abigail, you remember Grant Kingman, CEO of Consolidated Television Network—”

The seriously tanned exec swept past the woman and took Abby’s hand. “We met during your father’s first Presidential campaign!”

“Yes, I remember—”

“I was mighty impressed by your performance, Abigail. Fantastic! Our network would be honored if you’d play something on
The
Good Day Show
.”

Abby’s eyes went wide. Stan and Gardner beamed like proud parents, and Jackson and Theo made noises that sounded a lot like “Whoo!”

But the happiest reaction seemed to come from the forgotten man sitting across from Abbie. Bernie Moore’s grin was wider than Alice’s Cheshire Cat.

“
The Good Day Show
is the top morning broadcast in America,” Kingman continued. “And I think all of America would appreciate hearing you play.”

Abby exchanged a giddy glance with Stan.

“Thank you, Mr. Kingman,” she said. “I think I speak for every member of the band when I say we would be delighted to perform on your show.”

Kingman’s CEO suave melted into perplexity. “Oh, no. You misunderstand. A
solo
piano appearance is what we’d like from you, Abigail. I spoke with the First Lady by phone earlier, and she’s agreed to make the appearance with you, so—”

Abby stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kingman, but I performed with
this
band tonight.” She gestured to her friends. “I won’t play without them.”

S
ixty-three

K
INGMAN’S perplexed expression deteriorated even further, into naked annoyance. “My dear, don’t you know? You mother is planning to—”

Before he could say another word, the deputy press secretary surged forward. “Mr. Kingman, please don’t trouble yourself with these mundane details. Arrangements like these will be finalized through the White House. Doesn’t that make good sense?” Wrapping the executive’s arm around hers, she deftly herded the high-powered CEO away from the First Daughter.

Meanwhile, Abby and Stan put their heads together—a position they clearly enjoyed. Stan rested his carved forearms happily on Abby’s shoulders and she smiled widely.

Jackson bumped fists with Gardner and Theo. “Imagine us on
The
Good Day Show
?” Jackson gushed. “Between our mothers and aunties, we’re gonna have all of Baltimore watching!”

“We should play something brand-new,” Abby told them, her eyes radiating excitement. “Why don’t we come up with—oh, wait!”

Suddenly, she remembered the journalist, waiting quietly in his chair.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

“My last name’s Moore, Abby.”

As she sat down again, his smile for her was genuine, without a trace of impatience.

She nodded. “Why don’t you ask me those questions now?”

Before Bernie could speak, the press secretary reappeared, sans CEO.

“Time’s up, Mr. Moore.”

Abby objected, and the press secretary apologized, but insisted that
Abby stick to the schedule. Bernie Moore’s shoulders slumped, his smile disappearing, but he vacated his chair without protest.

“We’ll see one another on campus, Mr. Moore,” Abby earnestly promised. “Then you can ask me all the questions you like!”

The next journalist swept Bernie aside in his lunge for the hot seat, and immediately began firing questions at Abby. She was so focused on her answers that she didn’t notice the commotion on the stairs.

“Come on, guys, make way, make way!” Agent Sharpe’s deep voice called. Then he burst into the greenroom with a smile on his face and a handsome blond man by his side.