Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(24)

I laughed. “Really? With all your staff? You ran out of conditioner?”

“Your husband was pouring it down the sink,” she said. “The joker. No matter how much Delilah bought, he dumped it or hid it.”

I caught sight of Eddie in a tan suit and red tie.

“Ed,” Eileen said. “Nice to see you.” They double-kissed.

“You too, Mrs. Drazen.”

I rarely saw Eddie Milpas in his social setting. He knew Jonathan from college, but to me, he was the guy in the engineering room who made everyone else nervous. So I nearly burst out laughing when he called Eileen Mrs. Drazen.

“Come to check on the catering?” Eileen asked.

“Came to steal away this lady,” he replied, cocking his head toward me.

“Do we have to talk about business?” I asked.

“If you’d call me back—”

“My cue to leave,” Eileen said. Without another word, she was gone, leaving me with Eddie and the constantly moving catering staff.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was going to call you on Monday.”

“Which Monday, exactly?”

“This coming—”

“Look, I know you have other things on your mind. So I’m not going to sit here and watch you fidget.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m not fidgeting.”

“Can I give you a piece of friendly advice?”

“No.”

“Professional advice then. One hundred percent free. Get yourself an agent to filter your damn calls.”

I laughed softly at the irony. That was exactly what I’d been trying to do when I met Jonathan.

Eddie continued, “If I wasn’t friends with your boyfriend—”

“Husband.”

“You’d miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime if I didn’t happen to be at this party.”

“Okay, you’ve got my attention.”

“Your EP is releasing in a few weeks. Right about then, Quentin Marshall is doing another charity song. Single cut. Wide distribution. Like the Christmas one for the drought in Australia. Everyone’s on it.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone. Omar. Brad Frasier. The Glocks. Benita. The list will knock you over. They have a space for a girl act like you, but here’s the thing.”

My heart pounded. That did sound like something groundbreaking for my career. Being associated with big names like that could get my name out to people who had never heard of me. It could give me credibility and standing. And if it was a little after the EP came out, even better.

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me the thing.”

“They have to herd all these cats, and that means it could record on a dime any time between the fifteenth and the thirtieth, and the big names? Well, they call the shots. They get there when they get there. The less-established artists have to be ready to go.”

“I’m ready.”

“Can you fly to New York tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? New York?”

“Quentin Marshall? Hello?”

My throat went dry. I wanted to go. I wanted to get on a plane immediately and sit in the studio waiting for The Glocks to show up. I wanted to hear Omar sing in a studio. I could learn so much from that guy. He had a sound no one could emulate. If I could watch him, I was sure I’d pick up some tips.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know?”

“I have to ask Jonathan.”

He put up his hands. “Fine. You have until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Music doesn’t take the weekend off.”

“Okay. I’ll call you by tomorrow night.”

“Noon. That’s the best you get. I have a line of people who would scratch your eyes out for this opportunity.”

“Monica,” Margie said, poking her head in. “We need you at the piano.”

I glanced at the counter before following Margie. The catering staff hovered over a cake, lighting thirty-three candles. It seemed like enough fire to burn the house down, but that was the point. A man who almost died at thirty-two deserved every single flame.

Stop.

I needed to stop obsessing over the transplant. I’d given my worry a wide berth, as if it was insurance against something bad happening, but I’d let a healthy concern metastasize into a cancer. I had been perfectly happy letting it take over my life until I dreaded singing “Happy Birthday” because it sounded like a dirge.

I knew where the piano was from my last visit, when Sheila had insisted I play. I’d thought she was trotting me out like a trained monkey, which I resented for a few seconds, but once my fingers hit the keys, I realized what she’d done. I’d played “Wade in the Water” for his family, and music did what music does: it brought us together and gave us something to talk about. It was a way into our shared humanity. I’d loved music before I loved my husband, and it would outlast the two of us.

As I stroked out a scale in the parlor with thirty people in attendance, I let myself love it again. I caught Jonathan’s eye across the room. He was fingering an apple with his nephew David. I knew the positioning. Split-fingered fastball. David, at ten, was too young for that. I shook my head at Jonathan and took my hand from the keys long enough to wave my finger “no no” at him. He smiled, winked, and showed David the whipping motion that would get the ball to split, along with his nephew’s young tendons.