When the last note died, the room was silent. Finally, a blonde with a deep fake-and-bake tan, and the unfocused eyes of a woman who had drunk well if not wisely, cuffed Zack on the arm. “How can you be such a bastard in the courtroom and play piano like that?” she asked.
Zack picked up his snifter, drained it, and smiled. “You know what they say about Miles Davis. He played the way he’d have liked to be.”
The woman splayed her hands on the piano and leaned towards Zack. “We’ve had enough show tunes,” she said. “I have a request.”
“I aim to please,” Zack said smoothly. “What’ll it be?”
“Anything by Paul Anka,” the woman said.
Zack’s smile grew deadly. “So many possibilities,” he said. “Since your name is Kim, ‘Diana’ doesn’t work. ‘Puppy Love’? Hardly. With respect, I believe we’d both agree that you’ve wagged goodbye to your puppy days. I personally have been present at the kickoff of three of your marriages, so the sheen of ‘I Went to Your Wedding’ has grown a little tarnished. How about that old Frank Sinatra showstopper ‘My Way’?”
Kim pouted. “I hate that song.” Leaning over the piano, heedless of the breasts spilling out of her silk halter-top, she was visited by inspiration. “Play ‘Havin’ My Baby.’ ”
Zack bowed to her. “A provocative choice, madam,” he said. “But your wish is my command.” He placed his fingers on the keys and played the opening bars of “Havin’ My Baby.” After a moment of astonished silence, people began to sing along, tentatively at first, then as liquor released inhibitions, lustily. Kim’s choice was cruelly ironic, but it did the job.
“Havin’ My Baby” was as remote from Noel Coward as it was possible to be, but as one who understood “the potency of cheap music,” Coward would have recognized the phenomenon taking place in that room. An old and cheaply sentimental song was melting the ice of grief and releasing real emotion. When the music was done, people began – finally – to talk about what they had lost. Nowhere in their remembrances was there a hint of the spectral sadness I’d seen in the man in the gazebo. Their Christopher Altieri was a man of joy and shuddering energy, warm, thoughtful, funny, brilliant. As I picked up my coffee cup, I found myself wishing that I had known him.
The funeral was at three o’clock Saturday afternoon, but I drove into the city just after breakfast. I was alone. Saturdays were the Point Store’s busiest days. It would have been difficult for Leah and Angus to get away, and there was no particular reason why they should. Fate had spun Angus into the vortex of Chris Altieri’s death, but my son had not been a part of Chris’s life. Taylor had stayed behind, too. Rose was bringing Gracie and Isobel into the city, but Taylor had already been present at too many funerals in her young life, and I was relieved when Leah suggested she could spend the day helping out at the store.
It was good to be alone. I needed to get away from everything and everybody. In the past week, the name of an old TV quiz show called Who Do You Trust? had nagged at me. I was growing genuinely fond of my neighbours at Lawyers’ Bay. Despite what must have been a devastating shock, they had made every effort to be kind to my family and me. They had been Kevin Hynd’s friends for twenty-five years. He trusted them, and I trusted Kevin. But try as I might, I couldn’t shake off Alex’s warning to tread lightly among these people. Nor could I dismiss the questions I had about Alex himself. Why had he spent so much time at Lawyers’ Bay the previous winter? And what was the nature of his relationship with Lily Falconer?
The grass in front of my house on Regina Avenue was too long, the hanging baskets were parched, and the flower beds needed weeding. That said, when I opened my front door I felt a burden lift. It was good to be back on solid ground. I riffled through the mail
Zack picked up his snifter, drained it, and smiled. “You know what they say about Miles Davis. He played the way he’d have liked to be.”
The woman splayed her hands on the piano and leaned towards Zack. “We’ve had enough show tunes,” she said. “I have a request.”
“I aim to please,” Zack said smoothly. “What’ll it be?”
“Anything by Paul Anka,” the woman said.
Zack’s smile grew deadly. “So many possibilities,” he said. “Since your name is Kim, ‘Diana’ doesn’t work. ‘Puppy Love’? Hardly. With respect, I believe we’d both agree that you’ve wagged goodbye to your puppy days. I personally have been present at the kickoff of three of your marriages, so the sheen of ‘I Went to Your Wedding’ has grown a little tarnished. How about that old Frank Sinatra showstopper ‘My Way’?”
Kim pouted. “I hate that song.” Leaning over the piano, heedless of the breasts spilling out of her silk halter-top, she was visited by inspiration. “Play ‘Havin’ My Baby.’ ”
Zack bowed to her. “A provocative choice, madam,” he said. “But your wish is my command.” He placed his fingers on the keys and played the opening bars of “Havin’ My Baby.” After a moment of astonished silence, people began to sing along, tentatively at first, then as liquor released inhibitions, lustily. Kim’s choice was cruelly ironic, but it did the job.
“Havin’ My Baby” was as remote from Noel Coward as it was possible to be, but as one who understood “the potency of cheap music,” Coward would have recognized the phenomenon taking place in that room. An old and cheaply sentimental song was melting the ice of grief and releasing real emotion. When the music was done, people began – finally – to talk about what they had lost. Nowhere in their remembrances was there a hint of the spectral sadness I’d seen in the man in the gazebo. Their Christopher Altieri was a man of joy and shuddering energy, warm, thoughtful, funny, brilliant. As I picked up my coffee cup, I found myself wishing that I had known him.
The funeral was at three o’clock Saturday afternoon, but I drove into the city just after breakfast. I was alone. Saturdays were the Point Store’s busiest days. It would have been difficult for Leah and Angus to get away, and there was no particular reason why they should. Fate had spun Angus into the vortex of Chris Altieri’s death, but my son had not been a part of Chris’s life. Taylor had stayed behind, too. Rose was bringing Gracie and Isobel into the city, but Taylor had already been present at too many funerals in her young life, and I was relieved when Leah suggested she could spend the day helping out at the store.
It was good to be alone. I needed to get away from everything and everybody. In the past week, the name of an old TV quiz show called Who Do You Trust? had nagged at me. I was growing genuinely fond of my neighbours at Lawyers’ Bay. Despite what must have been a devastating shock, they had made every effort to be kind to my family and me. They had been Kevin Hynd’s friends for twenty-five years. He trusted them, and I trusted Kevin. But try as I might, I couldn’t shake off Alex’s warning to tread lightly among these people. Nor could I dismiss the questions I had about Alex himself. Why had he spent so much time at Lawyers’ Bay the previous winter? And what was the nature of his relationship with Lily Falconer?
The grass in front of my house on Regina Avenue was too long, the hanging baskets were parched, and the flower beds needed weeding. That said, when I opened my front door I felt a burden lift. It was good to be back on solid ground. I riffled through the mail
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