Chapter 13

 

Paul held the violin bow up to the light. At one end, the normally cream-coloured hairs were a slushy grey. “You’re right, it does need help.” He smiled at the little girl on the other side of the counter, then met her mother’s eyes. “Just put some rubbing alcohol on a washcloth and run it over the hairs. You’ll get the worst of this out.”

He looked back to the girl. “And no more touching. Fingers are what made it dirty.” He winked.

She glanced at her fingers. “They’re not grey.”

Beside him at the other cash register, Eric chuckled. Paul tried to keep his face straight. “No, but the oil sticks to the bow hair and that’s what does it.”

She checked her fingers again, probably for drops of oil this time, and shrugged. Grinning, her mother thanked Paul and put the bow back in the violin case. As they left the store, the girl turned to wave.

Eric elbowed him in the ribs. “I wish I had what you’ve got, man. The girls all like you, even at that age, and you just ignore them. Maybe I should try that. Let me think... no.”

Paul straightened the stack of sale flyers on the counter and glanced toward the back room where Jubal was taking his lesson. Eric’s shift finished in five minutes. Paul would be alone when the older teen came out. Wednesday nights were slow, so they’d be able to talk.

His hand went to Harry’s letter in his back pocket. What would Jubal think? Paul watched his co-worker sign off the other register. “Have a good night, Eric. Leave the girls alone.”

Eric shot him a wicked grin on the way out.

Paul leaned his elbows on the glass counter-top. He’d read the letter four or five times and still couldn’t get his head around it. The man deserved a reply, he guessed, but he didn’t know what to say.

How could a killer like Harry speak of God and forgiveness? The letter sounded sincere, and maybe it was nice to think that even someone so terrible could start again. Thinking about it hurt Paul’s brain. Did he even want Harry forgiven? Shouldn’t the man pay for his crimes?

Forgive and forget. Would God do that after what Harry did? What did that make God? Amazingly strong or pathetically weak?

Paul checked his watch. He hoped talking to someone who understood God would help, but he couldn’t tell Tara-Lynn about Harry. It wasn’t fear of driving her away. He didn’t have time for a love life. How could he speak to a girl about what his uncle had done to those women?

Jubal seemed to have it all together, and if he went to Tara-Lynn’s church he should know God. Good thing Jubal took lessons twice a week. If Paul had to wait until Saturday he’d go nuts.

The letter weighed on his mind, but how to bring it up? Start with asking about God, then forgiveness. Build up to it.

The shop bell jingled and Paul smiled at the man who entered, although he wanted to frown. Why couldn’t this guy have come ten minutes ago, instead of now when Jubal was about to come out?

“May I help you?”

The man took off his faded Blue Jays cap, revealing salt and pepper hair cut in a mullet. Grey pouches under his eyes spoke of too many late nights in smoky rooms. “Your boss is expecting me. The name’s Donnie Leyland.”

“He’s just finishing a lesson, Mr. Leyland. Should be less than five minutes.”

“Thanks.” Steel-grey eyes studied Paul. “Are you the Daniels boy?”

Paul’s fingers tightened on the edge of the counter. Mom’s mystery caller wouldn’t have given a name. Just in case, he memorized the man’s features. “Paul.”

Mr. Leyland stuck out his hand to shake. “Call me Donnie. I used to play with your dad.”

Paul grinned, throwing away his suspicions, and clasped the man’s hand. “Cool. It’s good to meet you.”

The practice room door opened, and Jubal stepped out, followed by Mr. Morelli. Morelli’s face broke into a huge smile. “Boys, this is my good friend, Donnie Leyland. He’s a superb studio musician, and he’s played with more famous names than I can count.”

Donnie lifted one shoulder in a shrug and nodded to Jubal.

Jubal shook his hand, grinning. “Wish I could stay, but I’ve got to get to work.” He grinned at Paul and carried his guitar case out into the street.

Paul frowned at the closing door and tried to bury his rising desperation. Mr. Morelli tapped his arm. “Paul, will you join us in the back? If a customer comes in, we’ll hear the bell.” He led the visitor out of the display area.

By the time Paul locked his till and followed, the two men were comfortably settled in chairs in the practice room. He took the chair Morelli indicated, trying not to stare at the musician who’d not only known, but played with, his father.

Neither man minded staring at him, though. Paul swallowed and looked down at his interlaced fingers. Mr. Morelli handed him a guitar. “I was bragging to my friend about my star pupil. When he learned you were Skip Daniels’ son he asked to hear you play. The arrangement you passed last week would suit well to begin.”

Paul gulped. Star pupil? Most ranted-at, more like. With each rant, Morelli tugged at his wiry grey hair, until Paul expected handfuls to come out. Come to think of it, his teacher’s hair looked pretty wild now. Jubal’s lesson must have been rough.

Morelli’s black eyes twinkled in an expressionless face. “Don’t disappoint him.”

Paul slid forward in his seat and rested the guitar on his leg, one hand cradling the neck, the other resting against the strings. He closed his eyes, feeling the instrument, letting it grow into an extension of his hands.

He breathed in through his nose, remembering the musical score. Although rock was his thing, the lessons included complex classical pieces and theory. Mr. Morelli insisted a well-rounded background enriched every sound.

Ignoring the two men, Paul warmed up with simple chords and fingering, then segued into the difficult classical number that had caused so much damage to his teacher’s hair. His fingers stumbled a few times at the beginning, but he’d nailed this one last week and his confidence grew.

Paul played a tricky exercise he’d been perfecting for a month and eased into some classic Beatles. Another guitar joined his. He muffed the beat, recovered and flashed Donnie Leyland a grin. “Sweet harmony.”

Donnie inclined his head gravely and concentrated on his playing. Paul hadn’t heard this counter-melody before, and he tried to memorize it with one ear while keeping up the main tune. They ended in a crescendo of strumming and laughter.

The shop bell sounded, and Mr. Morelli pressed Paul’s shoulder. “I’ll see to it.”

Paul looked at Donnie. “That was fun. Could you show me again?”

“Sure.” The older musician held Paul’s gaze. “Son, you’ve got everything he had, maybe more.”

Paul heard his boss talking with the customer. “When did you play with Dad?”

“I was with the band for about four years. Left a couple years before he died.”

“Why did you leave?”

Donnie rested his arms on the guitar body and studied Paul. “Skipper was too high-maintenance. The guy was good, but knowing it ruined him. And he didn’t want to be a musician — he wanted to be a star. Spent more time chasing women than perfecting his music.”

Paul didn’t look away. If Donnie wanted to make him flinch, it wasn’t going to happen. “Did my mother know?”

“Skip wasn’t subtle. How is she?”

“Mom? She took it pretty hard when my younger brother died, but she’s doing okay.”

“I read about that. I’m sorry.”

Donnie played a complicated riff that seemed to take his full attention, then looked up. “If you want to play this thing, really play it, you’ve got to serve the gift. It’s hard work, but it’s the best. If you just want to follow in your father’s footsteps, don’t waste your time. It’s too much grief, and there’s easier ways to meet women.”

Paul’s splayed fingers tapped a gentle rhythm on the guitar body. “This comes first. Right now, a girl would just be a distraction.”

Donnie’s eyebrows rose. “You sure didn’t get that from your father. Let me run through that harmony for you again, and then the maestro and I have some catching up to do.”

As they positioned their instruments, the older musician looked up at him. “I’d prefer you didn’t mention me to your mother.”

 

~~~

 

By Thursday’s supper rush, Carol had caught up on the last of Tuesday’s café baking. She put on a clean serving apron and tucked a fresh order pad in her pocket.

She’d enjoyed baking at Patrick’s, except for the talk at the end. A catering business would be fun, but it was a risk she couldn’t afford to take. Maybe once Paul finished college. In the meantime, Patrick’s fee would help with the college fund.

Carol checked her reflection for flour smudges before heading into the dining area. Dark semicircles under her eyes taunted her about last night’s dreams. Thank God for Joey on the other end of the phone.

Most of the tables were occupied, and a friendly buzz of conversation filled the café. Carol took orders, chatting with the regulars. Lily encouraged a home-style atmosphere at Sticky Fingers, and it made for a happy place to work.

It didn’t feel as safe since the anonymous phone call, but who could suspect elderly Miss Calhoun, who came the nights she wasn’t serving at the soup kitchen? Or the Termolis, with their photos of a gorgeous baby grandson? Estella sat alone tonight, but her eyes sparkled. “My Leo gets out of hospital tomorrow.”

Carol pressed her hand. “I’m so glad.”

When she brought the Italian woman’s bill, Carol set a polystyrene container on the table too. “Fresh cinnamon rolls, one for Leo and one for you. A welcome-home treat.”

As she stepped away, Carol saw Patrick slide into a booth in her section of the room, a rolled-up newspaper in his hand. She pulled her order pad from her apron and went to his table. “Hello, Patrick. How was your dessert evening?”

His polished smile flashed. “My guests were most complimentary. Thank you again for Tuesday.”

“It was a pleasure. Lily has a wonderful home-style beef stew for the special tonight, if you’d like some comfort food. That wind is raw.”

“That sounds perfect. I don’t eat a lot of red meat, but on a night like this it won’t kill me.”

Health-conscious, self-controlled, rich, and gorgeous. Too bad he couldn’t get over his wife’s death and be happy again. He’d make someone else happy, too.

The remaining tables filled, and a few satisfied patrons ventured back into the cold. When Carol brought Patrick’s coffee and fruit cup the pace had slowed. More than one regular had asked for coffee or tea refills to put off the inevitable.

Patrick’s green eyes looked cooler than usual. “Have you spoken to your friend Joey recently?”

“Last night, why?”

He unrolled the newspaper and flattened it on the table. Frowning, she glanced at him. Patrick was a National Post person if she’d ever met one, or maybe Globe and Mail. Why would he even pick up the local tabloid rag?

The headline burned into Carol’s brain. “Toronto Deejay’s Drug Conviction Exposed.”

It couldn’t be Joey, it just couldn’t.

Popular overnight radio personality, Joey Hill of City Classics FM, hasn’t always been as clean as he’d like us to think. Carol gripped the edge of Patrick’s table to hide her tremors as she read. The article sensationalized his disastrous car stunt and public humiliation. And his jail time.

Carol let out a shaky breath. Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t dare look at Patrick.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to bring bad news. I hoped you’d already seen this. But it’s best to know the truth.”

“I knew about the accident, that he’d been in jail.”

“Not about the drugs?”

Her glare burned past the tears. “No.”

Patrick’s smooth expression didn’t change. “I didn’t want to be right about this, Carol. But I do want to see you safe. A man with drug connections, asking about...” His eyes darted sideways and he dropped his voice “...about Silver.”

Carol crossed her arms tightly across her chest. To signal distance, or to keep her heart from ripping out?

“Joey is my friend.”

“You might want to rethink that.”

Retorts boiled on Carol’s tongue, but she clenched her teeth. Sticky Fingers was no place for a shouting scene, and she needed her job. Finally she hissed, “I should have known better than to trust either one of you. Not Joey and not you, with your smug I-told-you-so.”

Carol stormed into the kitchen, fury hammering in her veins, and soaked a towel in cold water to press against her eyes. The mother of all migraines brewed in her skull, but it was better than hysterical sobs.

A hand touched her shoulder and Lily asked, “Are you okay?”

“Headache. I can make it until seven, just give me a minute.”

“Take your time. I’ll do up Mr. Stairs’ bill and the Uxleys’. Everyone else is finished.”

“Thanks, Lily.” Carol kept her forehead and eyes buried in the cool towel for a count of one hundred deep breaths. She tossed the towel in the laundry and swallowed some painkillers from her purse.

Carol checked the mirror and smoothed her hair. How could she be screaming on the inside and still look the same? She peered through the window in the kitchen door. Patrick had gone.

She took a tray and began clearing tables. Mindless work, anything to keep from thinking. The re-rolled tabloid lay at Patrick’s place, along with a folded page torn from his notebook. Opened, it read simply I’m sorry. If you need to talk, please call. Below the words lay the precisely drawn digits of his phone number.

He’d left a twenty-dollar tip for an eighteen-dollar meal. Carol folded the money and stuffed it into Lily’s collection can for the children’s hospital. The note and tabloid landed in the recycle bin.