Opening Act (42 page)

When she'd settled back in, showered, and changed, Loni came out to the living room and joined Zee on the sofa. Zee had a bottle of chardonnay and two glasses waiting. “In honor of your triumphant return,” she said.

“Not so sure I'd call it a triumph,” Loni said as she flopped down onto the cushions. “More like a strategic retreat.”

Zee poured her a glass. “So, you're really not going back?”

She shook her head. “No. Finally realized teaching's not for me. And since I quit as Byron's TA, I can't afford graduate school anymore.”

“Couldn't you be somebody else's TA?”

“I don't know anybody else. And I don't
want
to, Zee.”

“Well…what
do
you want?”

She shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

Zee laughed. “Here's to that!” They clinked their glasses and sipped the wine.

“Mm,” said Loni, settling back into the sofa. “Feels like I never left.”

“So, was it awkward with Byron?” Zee asked.

“A little. He cried, which was embarrassing. Kept saying how sorry, sorry, sorry he was. Like he's been saying for three months.” She drank another mouthful of wine. “And of course he begged me to come back.”

Zee almost spat out her wine. “You're kidding!”

“I don't mean to
live
with him,” she said. “Just to be his TA again next year. Funny enough, once I'd moved out, we got along much better than we ever had. He knows he's going to have trouble replacing me. No one wants to work for him, after…you know.” She touched the scar on her forehead. It was really a very small one, far smaller than Zee would have thought given that it had taken eleven stitches.

“But…didn't he already have some woman lined up who wanted the job?” Zee asked. “The one he offered it to, before you took it?”

“You mean Tammi Monckton?” She shook her head. “He lied about that.”

“What?”

“I called her,” Loni explained. “A couple of weeks ago. I thought Byron might offer her the job again, and I figured she might have heard about the whole domestic violence thing and would maybe turn him down. So I thought I'd do the decent thing and talk to her, set the record straight, let her know the whole thing was largely accidental. She wouldn't have to worry about him going off on
her
.”

Zee nodded. “And?”

“And she didn't want the job. She never had. Byron had completely made that up to try to pressure me into accepting the position back when I hadn't made up my mind yet.”

Zee's jaw dropped onto her chest. “You're
joking
.”

“Oh, there's more,” she said. “He also lied about writing the online reader comments for my book. I went and e-mailed a thank-you to everyone who posted a review, just to see what happened. And I got back some nice replies. All from real, actual people.”

When she could manage to speak again, Zee said, “He really is a steaming turd of a human being, isn't he?”

Loni laughed. “Oh, I wouldn't go that far.”

“Well,
I
would. On your behalf.”

She shook her head. “Don't bother. There's no punishment you could inflict on Byron that's worse than the one he's already suffering. He has to get up every morning and
be him
.” She raised the glass to her lips. “Trust me, the guy's his own worst enemy.” She took a sip. “But enough about him. Let's talk about a
real
man. How's Lockwood?”

Zee curled her legs up under her and gave a coquettish little purr. “Fine. Still a total sweetheart.”

“He's treating you right?”

“Oh, hell
yes
.”

They laughed. “And didn't you mention he's got a new band in one of your e-mails?”

“Not so much a band,” she said. “It's a small ensemble—more urban folk–type stuff. But really beautiful. It's just him, a pianist, and a bass player. They're called Agency of Record.”

Loni smiled. “I like it.” She raised her glass. “To Agency of Record.”

“I'll drink to that,” Zee said, touching her glass to Loni's.

“So, no vocals, then?” Loni asked after she'd taken a swallow.

“Oh, the piano player sings,” Zee said, as she reached for the bottle to refill the now nearly empty glasses. “Really well, in fact.”

“I'd love to hear them sometime.”

“You can,” she said, reaching over to top Loni off. “Tonight, in fact. They're doing a set at Jehoshaphat's.”

“The coffee bar?” Loni said, holding the glass steady. “That's going to be interesting. Slugging down some java after a bottle of wine.”

“They serve alcohol after six,” she said, replacing the bottle in the ice bucket. “And Agency doesn't go on till nine. We can have dinner first.”

Loni ran her finger around the rim of the glass. “So…no hope of an Overlords reunion then, huh?”

Zee sighed. “No. Unfortunately, that's pretty much dead. As I think I told you, when their manager stranded them in LA, Baby, Jimmy, and Trina just decided, okay, this is where we live now. So they started up a new band, hired a few new members, and now they're kind of a
thing
out there.”

“Oh, yeah,” Loni said, crossing her legs on the cushions. “What did you tell me their name was?”

“Kid Daredevil,” said Zee. “Trina's the front man. Front woman.” She waved her hand. “Front person. Take your pick.”

Loni laughed. “She sings?”

“Kind of talk-sings, apparently. But well enough for it to work. She's more of an all-around stage animal than a singer.”

“Well, good for them. And…they didn't ask Lockwood?”

“They did ask Lockwood,” she said with a coy grin. “But he had better things to do.”

Loni tried to modulate her voice to be as casual as possible. “And Shay?”

Zee shrugged. “Ask Lockwood. He'll know better than me.”

She furrowed her brow. “Saying he'll know ‘better' means you must know
something
.”

Zee raised her glass to her lips, repeated “Ask Lockwood,” and downed a mouthful of wine.

Loni was, of course, wildly curious to find out what Shay was up to. She'd Googled him intermittently over the past few months, but after the Palladium gig and a few solo sightings in LA, he seemed to have disappeared off the face of the planet.

But as eager as she was for news of him, she didn't want to
seem
that way to Zee. So she quietly finished her wine and counted the minutes till she could, in fact, ask Lockwood.

By the time they sat down at a table in Jehoshaphat's, Loni was mindful of having already drunk a half-bottle of chardonnay, so she ordered a sparkling water for the show. But the slight wooziness she was feeling seemed to swell into sudden hallucinatory intoxication when the musicians came onto the
stage—and Shay Dayton was one of them. Shay Dayton, in a white collarless shirt and skinny black jeans, with his hair pulled back and knotted at his nape. Shay Dayton, who then sat down at the piano.

Shay Dayton sat down at the piano.

Loni turned to shoot an inquiring look at Zee, but instead caught her exchanging a thumbs-up with Lockwood, who sat grinning behind his drum set.

“Hi,” said Shay into a mic that angled over the center of the keyboard. “We're Agency of Record, and this is our second Thursday night at Jehoshaphat's. Thanks for coming out. Tell your friends.” A light dusting of applause.

Shay adjusted the mic a little, then said, “This first tune is kind of special to me.” And he cleared his throat and played a few mournful yet achingly lovely opening bars. The bass player—an angular, dark-haired woman Loni didn't recognize—joined in, and then, very subtly, so did Lockwood on snares.

And then Shay sang.

       
I live in a glass house, and it's not thrown stones I fear

       
But the hurled glances of passersby

       
My feet are its foundation, and its hearth becomes my heart

       
Casting light on my folly in every part

       
I live here alone, bathed by moon and burned by sun

       
Exposed to the world, yet truly seen by none,

       
Exposed to the world, yet truly seen by none.

The words, which cascaded into the room, propelled by his rich, creamy tenor, burned Loni from the inside out. How…how was this even possible? The bass player took an extended, gorgeously resonant solo, and then Shay came back in to repeat the lyrics. He held the last note as the bass line spiraled away from him, and Lockwood's percussion retreated like the flap of a swallow's wings heading for the horizon line.

Loni realized she hadn't breathed for the entirety of the song. She exhaled now and felt light-headed, like she might float away.

After the applause died down, Shay said, “Those lyrics were a collaboration between myself and someone who is—who has been for some time—my muse, my inspiration, my…well, my anything else she wants to be. No terms, no conditions. All she has to do is ask.”

And with that, he turned and looked right at Loni.

She felt her heart galumph around her chest, like a pony loping the perimeter of a corral. Her face felt scorched. Moments passed, and other people began to turn and look her way. Finally, Zee nudged her and whispered, “
Say
something.”

Loni, panicking—but in the happiest way imaginable—said, just loud enough to be heard, “I'll consider the offer.”

He smiled—sweet Lord baby Jesus on a Vespa, that smile!—and said, “Good enough for now.” He turned back to the piano.

And the songs that followed! Brilliantly constructed, ingenious without being showy—the word that kept coming to Loni's mind was
athletic.
Shay's playing was spare but bold, and ravishingly masculine. His singing was shatteringly beautiful.

But it was the words! The lava flow of lyrics, all so wonderfully textured, so evocative, so
arresting
. Loni was thrilled down to the core. Each song was like listening to the pages of a diary, condensed into a few brief lines—reduced like a sauce till what was left was the most concentrated, most potent flavor possible.

She lost track of time. She lost track of herself. The room around her—the context of time and place, her orientation in the universe—all melted away like mist. There was only Shay, and his voice, and his melodies, and his words.

And then, “Thanks, you've been great. We really appreciate your enthusiasm.” They were ending! “We're Agency of Record—Senga Florin on bass, Lockwood Mott on drums, and I'm Shay Dayton. We're here every Thursday. Stick around for Joanna Kehr.”

And in the next moment, he was coming down from the stage and heading her way.

Zee got up and said, “Excuse me. I'm going to go give a smooch to Lockwood. I won't be long.” As she stepped away she added, “Just thirty, forty minutes tops.”