I nod and gulp down the rest of my water.
“That was great, Lyn. I think the band is going to love it.”
It was great. It was a perfect afternoon, singing again.
His chest heaves and he stares out the front windows. “I don’t know what we’re going to do after this—with the band, I mean. With Pascha gone, nobody’s happy. Maybe it’ll settle after we get through the Halloween shows, but maybe…”
“It’ll never be the same.”
He turns to me and his lips thin. “I spoke to our booking manager, Jamie, last night to tell him we found you—an awesome fill-in for Pascha. He said he’d let the venues know and smooth it over with them. Apparently, he even gave Pascha a contact name and number for someone she could stay with in Nashville. It’s like everybody knew she was leaving but us. I could see why she’d do it to Cline, but she really screwed the rest of us. She knew it was our voices together that got us these bookings.”
“Maybe she was worried you’d talk her into staying? It seems like she left early. Sometimes big moves come with big anxiety, and she didn’t want to be talked out of it. You said she and Cline fought after the last show and broke up. It could have been the excuse she needed to leave—or the finality of the breakup was the only thing she had to do before she left. Either way, I’m sure she didn’t mean to leave you high and dry.”
He rubs his chin and cocks his head to the side. “I guess. I just never figured her for mainstream.”
“What’s wrong with mainstream?”
“Nothing.” He sits forward in the chair, pursing his lips and raising his brow. “Just not her style. She loves the intimacy of the small shows. Like your dad did.”
He loved the smaller crowds, but he yearned for bigger ones, too. He never told anybody but Mom, but he did.
“Maybe she does and maybe she also wants more. Maybe she wants her songs heard by a lot of people—a lot more people—no offence.”
He frowns. “They’re not all her songs, though. She wrote some of them initially, but even those, we fine-tuned together. The rest we wrote together with different members of the band or with a writer Jamie brought in from Nashville. That’s actually who Pascha’s recording with, apparently.”
“Well, I’m grateful for this opportunity.” I pick at a string hanging from my blouse. “I can understand if she wanted to try a solo career. It’s an exciting opportunity.”
“It sounds like something you want, too.” He leans forward and sighs.
“What’s that?”
“Your songs to be heard by a lot of people.”
“Yeah, I never thought it could be a possibility, and now I’m playing with Haddonboro and opening for Midnight Voices.” We exchange funny grins. “It’s really a dream come true, and I know how trite that sounds, but—”
“Are you serious?” He laughs. “You think I don’t remember? You’ve always wanted your songs heard by the masses and I’ve always believed in you. I was really surprised you didn’t stick with it.”
“Had bills to pay,” I mumble, rubbing my arms as the cool breeze of the late fall afternoon sweeps through the thin fabric to my skin. “It wasn’t a practical dream. That’s what my parents said.”
“That’s bullshit. I’d have expected that from most parents, but not yours. Not your dad.”
He really teeters on the edge of speaking ill of the dead, and he doesn’t seem to even realize it. He looked up to my dad, but I don’t expect him to treat him like his hero or anything. That’s how everyone talks about him. Like he was a star on the rise, burnt out by one of his own fans. How easily they confuse stalking with admiration and ignored the headlines with Byron’s ill words about my father.
Stokes doesn’t need to see him as some infallible hero, but some respect would be nice.
“My mom said she just wanted me to be happy but urged me to get a degree in something practical, and my dad…” I play with the little gold heart ring on my finger he and Mom gave me for my sweet sixteen. “He didn’t want me anywhere near this business.”
He didn’t think I could handle it. He wanted to spare me the heartbreak, sweat, and tears I’m sure, and he did—over music at least. He’d be so happy to know that.
Stokes scratches the back of his neck and stands. I join him. “I guess I’m surprised by that. Playing at Rosalie’s, we had a great time, and he loved when you sang, especially his songs. He got a real kick out of it—remember?”
I nod and shrug. “That was just fun. He struggled a lot with his career, more than he ever let on. He had a bit of a toxic relationship with alcohol for a while, before I met you, and I know he felt guilty that my mom was always the main provider.”
“Really?”
“He wanted to be successful. Sometimes what he had was enough, knowing he was a success in our eyes, but he never got big outside of Toronto. He worked that job at Rosalie’s to help make ends meet after my mom started her dental practice. She supported his dreams, he supported hers, and…”
No one supported mine.
Stokes seems to wince at me, filling in the same blank I did. He clears his throat and shakes his head, turning away from the moment of vulnerability between us—a familiar pattern. “Anyone who saw you sing had to have known how passionate you were about music. He’d want you to be happy—I know that.”
He wanted me to let go of my illusions and stick to something I could do well. He was proud of the work I did to help my mom and the dental office, and ecstatic to know I’d found a businessman who was well-off with a great work ethic. If he’d made it to my wedding, I wonder
