“Nah,” Ginger said. “When I call him it will only be the second time we’ve talked since the divorce almost two years ago. It’ll probably be the last—I don’t expect Mick to have changed in any way.”
“How’d you let go so easily?” Peyton asked.
“Easily?” Ginger repeated. “Peyton, I stayed with a man who completely neglected me for three years longer than I should have. I left pregnant and alone, dependent on my parents at the age of twenty-eight. My baby died and had no father to grieve for him. There was hardly one more thing life could throw at me to convince me. It definitely wasn’t quick.”
“It wasn’t for me, either,” Peyton said.
“I had to acknowledge that I let Mick take advantage of me. That might’ve been the hardest part.”
“Again, me, too,” Peyton said.
“I’m not doing that again,” she said. “I’ll wait for Matt because I do love him. I don’t love some ridiculous fantasy man like Mick. I love Matt, the real man. But I’m not going to always play by his rules. If he wants a new life with a new wife, he’s going to have to assure me he’s completely done with the old one.”
Peyton took a last spoonful of her ice cream. “Have I mentioned Matt is incredibly stubborn?”
“And have I mentioned, so am I?”
* * *
Lin Su served lunch on the deck to Winnie and Charlie. Winnie had some small, bite-size sandwiches—easy for her to manage if she had coordination or trembling issues. For Charlie, a nice big one with chips. For both of them—fruit. On cool days Winnie liked soup, but that could be chaotic and if she spilled, it turned her mood foul. Of course she’d have no part of a bib or even a linen napkin tucked into her collar.
One of the most interesting developments was Winnie’s fascination with Charlie. They had formed an unusual friendship. They had lunch together almost every day and sometimes Charlie showed her TED Talks on his laptop, after which they would have a discussion. Not surprisingly, Winnie had become interested in some of the more spiritual and inspirational videos. She had watched the video of Jimmy Valvano’s last speech at the ESPY Awards several times until Charlie said, “You might have to start watching this in private from now on. It’s too sad.”
“You seem to be doing fine,” she said. “It’s inspiring.”
“Maybe if you’re dying.”
“Charlie!” Lin Su admonished.
“What?” Winnie said. “He’s right. It’s more meaningful to me for obvious reasons.” She looked at Charlie. “I haven’t noticed you crying or anything...”
“Of course I’m not crying,” he said. “It makes my throat hurt though. How about this TED Talk on the power of vulnerability? Sounds like the kind of thing you’d like.”
“But what would you like?”
“There’s one on the most important key to success—grit. And there’s one I like about a woman who survived a brain hemorrhage and had to rebuild her life, learning to talk and walk all over again.”
“When did you get so smart?” she asked him.
“When I couldn’t go outside. Or to school.”
“And when was that?”
“Before allergy shots, mostly. I was allergic to everything—grass, pollen, dust, animals, everything. Someone gave me a little computer and showed me how to look things up.”
“No Facebook,” Lin Su said. “The computer is for reading, learning, exploring, not for making jokes or picking on people.”
“I don’t think making jokes should be excluded,” Winnie said. “I don’t know this Facebook thing everyone talks about.”
“You might be too old,” Charlie said.
“Charlie!” his mother scolded. She shook her head. “I’m not going to be able to let you two hang out together if you’re just going to make trouble for me!”
“A computer was a good idea,” Winnie said.
Charlie was looking down the beach. A cyclist was riding down the beach road. He was bent low over his handlebars and was moving fast. He was sleek and muscular. “I’d rather have a bike,” he said, watching the rider.
The rider stopped right in front of the house next door, the house that was only recently finished except for the interior. He balanced on the bike without putting a foot down; he looked up.
Cooper appeared on the deck next door and waved at the cyclist.
The man dismounted, picked up his bike and jogged up two flights to the deck.
“What the hell?” Winnie said.
“Why didn’t he just lock it to the stair rail or something?” Lin Su said.
“Mom, I think he’s a pro. He’s wearing logos and Nike stuff. That bike probably cost a lot. Bet he sleeps with it.”
“He ran with it,” Winnie said.
“He’s an athlete,” Charlie said.
“And a show-off,” Lin Su said.
The man did leave the bike on the deck, however. He shook hands with Cooper, then they talked. Cooper was pointing, gesturing with his hand, explaining things. Then they went inside together.
“Hmm, interesting,” Winnie said. “New neighbor maybe?”
“That would be cool,” Charlie said. “Let’s look up that bike. I bet it’s worth a billion dollars.”
Seventeen
Ginger talked to Matt at least once every day, despite the tension they’d had while she was in Portland. He was with his father and a couple of brothers and as many cousins as could be rounded up at Sal’s vineyard to deal with harvesting early grapes. He could have ridden with Paco and George but he drove himself so he could spend one night with her before going home. He was so tired, she could hear it in his voice. This was the hardest yet most fulfilling time of year.
She tried to imagine being his wife through weeks like this. Not surprisingly, she could, and she saw it as a very satisfying job. What a monumental achievement it must be to bring in a year’s worth of healthy crops, do it with your own hands, with your family’s support. She not only envied him, she longed to be a part of it. Every night after talking to him she prayed he would resolve his issues soon so they could work together, so they could be together.
And then there was Mick. She called him from Grace’s cell phone—a blocked number. “My mother delivered a message that you need to speak to me.”
“Ginger. I do. Where are you?”
“I’m not in Portland, Mick, and we’re divorced so there’s no need for you to have a phone number or an address. What’s the emergency?”
His voice was kind of weak. It even cracked. “I really have to talk to you face-to-face. I’ll go wherever you are.”
“Mick, just tell me what you need. I probably can’t help you anyway...”
“Ginger, I had the worst news I’ve ever had and you’re the only person who could ever make sense of things for me.”
That certainly wasn’t part of her memory. “Are you sick?”
“Oh, I’m worse than that, I’m not kidding. I’ll fly to Houston if you’ll just talk to me for—”
That’s right, she thought. She’d told him she was in Houston. It had been sarcasm, but of course he wouldn’t have realized that. “Listen, Mick, I can’t be helping my ex-husband. I have someone in my life now, someone I love.”
“Yeah, no surprise. It’s not about romance, Ginger. It’s bigger and more important than that.”
“And you can’t tell me on the phone?” she pushed.
“No. No, I can’t. One time, that’s all. I need your advice. It’s life-or-death.”
She sighed heavily. “How much time is this going to take?”
“I don’t know. An hour or two, give or take,” he said. “I’ll come to you, it’s that important.”
“It must be,” she said. He was coming to her for advice. She suspected a brain tumor or something equally terrifying. Perhaps he wanted her advice about treatment options. “There’s a casino in North Bend. They have a coffee shop inside. I’ll meet you there at three tomorrow afternoon and you can have a half an hour.”
/> “Jesus, Ginger, what’s happened to you?”
She nearly laughed but stopped herself...in case it was a brain tumor. “You have to ask?” she said. “Three o’clock. That’s the best I can do. I have a job, I have an important man in my life. Take it or leave it.”
She talked it over with Grace and while Grace couldn’t even begin to understand why Ginger would accommodate him at all, she agreed to cover for her.
Mick was already in the coffee shop, staring into a cup of coffee when she arrived. When she got to his table, he stood. He was peaked, his features drawn, and he appeared thinner. She thought, Oh, God, it is cancer! I have to make my peace with him so I’ll have no regrets when he dies!
“Ginger,” he said, reaching toward her.
She withdrew slightly. “Come on, Mick. This isn’t a happy reunion. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“Let’s get you some coffee. Okay?”
“Sure,” she said, sitting down. “Is it your health? What’s this about? If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look so good.”
He lifted a hand to the waitress and when she came, he ordered another coffee. “I don’t feel so good, either. My life is falling apart. I’m at the bottom. This is the end. I’m forty-two. I’m bottomed out.”
“Explain,” she said. Her coffee arrived immediately.
“Remember Buster Kleinman?” he asked.
She frowned. “Why does the name sound familiar?”
“Why? I talked about him all the time! He’s one of the biggest agent/managers in the music business. He’s tight with every recording studio in the country. He’s represented some of the biggest names in the industry.”
“So?” she said. “You already have an agent.”
“Not a big agent. I need some power behind me. Mort’s small-time. But I got an in to see Buster, to take a meeting and play for him. I sent him CDs all the time but finally Rory Denison, six Grammys, number one on the charts, he forwarded one of my CDs to Buster and I got an appointment. We really hit it off, me and Buster. We had some drinks, some dinner, talked for hours and the next day I went to his private studio and played for him.”
No, she thought. This is why I drove to North Bend? She told herself not to throw hot coffee on him. It would be poor form, especially after her stand-off with Matt about anger. “Congratulations,” she said. “And this concerns me how?”
“You know me better than anyone, Ginger. We were together for years. You know as much about my music as I do. We talked about my playlist after every performance. You told me which songs were my best. You listened to my backup musicians and singers. Your ear is almost as good as mine.”
“This is about your music?” she asked, astonished.
“He said I just wouldn’t work for him, that I have a good voice but no magic. He said I don’t have what he’s looking for, that he needs to see more passion, more emotional instinct. I lack passion? Have you ever known anyone in the business with more passion? Do you know anyone who wants it more, anyone who would do more to get to the top? He said my desire isn’t translating, isn’t tracking. He said I was a perfectly good entertainer but good isn’t enough. How am I supposed to deal with that? What’s he talking about? I’ve been taking every gig I can get for twenty years, jamming whenever I can, traveling, pouring every minute and every dime into it, reaching out to every famous musician in the business, sending every person with any clout sample CDs. No one has more passion than I do! And he wouldn’t even talk about it.”
Ginger felt a little numb around the ears and neck. She was completely flabbergasted. “What in the name of God do you want from me?” she asked, keeping her voice level.
“Tell me what I did wrong because I know my sound is good. I know my performance is at the top of my game—people follow me, just to hear me play. They stand in line! I know a hundred singer/songwriters in the business who aren’t as good as I am who are getting more breaks!”
“This isn’t happening to me,” she said, her fingers on her temples, slowly massaging.
“You’ve always leveled with me, Ginger. What the hell could he mean? I think if I figure it out, I’ll get one more shot with him because he liked me. If I give the right impression, he’ll listen to me once more. I won’t rush back—I’ll make sure he thinks I really put some time and thought into it, but I know he’s wrong. I have presence. I’ve been told I could be number one. Probably I didn’t take the right music, didn’t choose the right songs. I should probably include some more Lynyrd Skynyrd. And believe it or not, Neil Diamond works pretty well in auditions. Maybe I should beef up my own music, some of the stuff I sold, but that stuff didn’t really score on the charts. Still, I think it was the way it was performed, not the music...”
“Oh. My. God,” she said. She stood up and turned to walk away. She was about three feet from the table when he cried out for her.
“Ginger! Please! I know you can tell me what to do! This could be the chance of a lifetime.”
She stopped walking and just stood there for a second. “I really am too nice,” she said softly. “Maybe Matt is too angry and I’m too nice.”
“Ginger, come on, baby...”
She whirled on him. How dare he call her baby!
Her eyes must have flashed in rage. “Whoa, Ginger,” he said. “Just want your thoughts. I mean, who else would I ask? I want to give him what he wants. He says I don’t bring enough emotion to the music.”
She’d driven an hour. She had her pregnant boss covering for her. There was very little hope that she could get anywhere with Mick, but...
She went back to the table and sat down. She looked into her cup for a moment and when she looked up, he was staring at her expectantly, his eyes huge, waiting for some magic formula that would change everything.
“It’s not your sound. It’s not your choice of music. It’s you.”
“Huh?” he asked, thrown back in his seat.
“It’s just you.”
He was silent for a long moment. “You’re still really pissed, I guess,” he finally said. “Thanks for nothing.”
“No, I’m not pissed,” she said. “It’s the truth. It’s you. You have nothing to give. You have a lovely voice and you’re very entertaining. I bet you’ll play for people your whole life. In fact, you’ll always work, always. But you don’t have that incredible, indescribable ecstasy when you play, just pulling the wonder out of the music, because the music is less important to you than being a star. You don’t create relationships with the people you play for, you play at them. You get ecstasy from schmoozing with stars, from your big dreams. You don’t work at getting better—”
“I practice all the time,” he argued, cutting her off.
She held up a hand, her eyes closing gently. “You perform all the time. You run in a crowd of fans who live to hear you play, hear your stories, praise you, worship you. You name-drop. You’ve sent out so many CDs to superstars begging for help to make you a superstar, the number is probably too high to count. Every time you hear of a new producer, you shoot off your CD before you even find out if it’s a good match. You carry them with you everywhere you go. You don’t ask people how they are, you tell them all about how great you are. I mean, here you called me all the way to North Bend and you don’t even care how I am!”
“Course I do...I just...”
“You don’t feel the music in your bones. I bet The Boss has a closet full of your CDs and has never listened to one. You never ask how you can make your music better. And let me guess—when you were at dinner with this Buster character—I bet you mentioned every famous musician you’ve ever known even if you just ran into them once in the men’s room.”
“Hell, a lot of that is résumé material, you know... I’ve played with some of those famous musicians, you know!”
“Not with, Mick! You opened for a few! You don’t get happiness from your art, you want money and fame. The agent is probably looking for someone who’s pouring love out, not sucking it
in. A singer who gets so much satisfaction from his music he doesn’t care if he ever gets paid. All you want is to be a star. Instead of telling this Buster guy how grateful you were for an opportunity to play for him, you tried to show off.”
He was speechless for a moment. “It’s important, you know, who in the business you’ve met, who you’ve jammed with. And if I’m a star won’t that mean I’m memorable and satisfying?”
“You have your cart before your horse. Your priorities are all wrong. You can’t infuse your music with love until you’ve loved, deeply and unselfishly. You can’t bring joy to the music until you’ve poured it into life. Same with grief, agony, ecstasy, fierce desire, loss...It’s like method acting—drawing on your own life experience to relate as closely as possible to the music, to the lyrics. You have to have those feelings in your life before you can have them in your music. Instead of sacrificing for the sake of a good life, life you can bring to your art, you’ve been sacrificing for the sake of fame. As you get older you get more desperate, more arrogant. You’re looking for your break, not your insight. There’s no question in my mind you would do anything to be number one. You’d sell your soul for it. I think you have! And from all I hear, fame isn’t that much fun.”
“Yeah,” he said with a hollow laugh. “Right.”
“Well, I promise you money and fame won’t hug you on cold, lonely winter nights... Buster saw it. Your passion is for notoriety, not for art. It’s empty, Mick. It’s not real. But great music and feeling joy from creating it, conveying authentic feelings, that’s real. You should learn to pull up the emotions of an experience, like meeting or losing the love of your life, and it should be so real you cry! The best sound, the most unique voice, the beauty of your instrument. Emotions you’ve experienced. That’s real.” She shook her head. “If you start with your life and your art you won’t have to talk about all the great singers you met in the men’s room or how many stars have your CDs because it won’t matter. Hard, hard work, focus on real living and real emotion, not on the stature you want. It’s not just marketing, it’s talent. You’re not authentic, Mick, that’s the problem. You have a good voice and a lot of arrogance. And you’re selfish. That doesn’t translate well.”