BlueHour
I wake with a jolt.
Music. The sweet sound of a guitar, someone playing far away, outside. The tricky run at the end of Graham’s “Three,” the last song on the album of the same name. I’d been humming along with the melody in my half sleep, my right hand tapping the piano accompaniment on my left.
I’d been dreaming about the Kingstons. The three of them sitting together in the sunny field. Graham, playing, with Willa on one side and Angela on the other. My uncle was like a lion, so hulking and proud. So adored. Willa was smiling at him but reaching out to me, inviting me over.
But it’s quiet now. No sound except the rustling leaves. Even Toby, draped over my feet on the stiff parlor daybed, is silent. He seems as content as he is at home in Boston.
Unlike me.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. Or why Angela chose me as her heir.
We hadn’t spoken in decades. Surely there was someone else she could have picked. One of her old theater friends, or Graham’s music people. She must have known how hard coming here would be for me, that I wouldn’t want the money. And Angela was never unkind. At least not back then. It doesn’t make any more sense now than it did when the FedEx deliveryman rang my bell in Boston, asking in a bored voice for me to sign. As if its jaunty orange-and-white “Tear Here” strip wasn’t an explosive fuse, about to blast apart my carefully constructed life...
I shiver, wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders. It was probably a car stereo blaring outside the gate. One of the fanatics the estate attorney warned me about on the phone. That’s the word he’d used to describe my uncle’s devotees, the ones who leave flowers and engrave the waterfall sign with their messages. Not fans, fanatics. A few have tried to trespass over the years.
Maybe it was simply a trick of the wind.
But the next morning, as I’m unlocking my rental car, parked just outside the gate on the wide swath of gravel, I hear it again.
I squeeze the key chain. It’s real. It’s no radio, no dream. Someone’s strumming the same fragment of song I heard last night. So beautiful—and so familiar. Graham’s sound remained consistent from song to song, decade to decade. A tiptoeing start in the key of G, the abrupt shift from major to minor a full two minutes in, later than you’d expect.
“Hey,” I say. It comes out barely above a whisper.
The sound gets richer, more intricate. Mesmerizing, fast as sudden raindrops against the window.
A neighbor? No. The playing is too close. The nearest house is half a mile away, down the hill on Gull Lane.
Of course. They’re in the meadow. The little poppy meadow just outside the fence, to the left of the road. I run across the gravel and scramble up the muddy, root-tangled path through the trees, toward the music.
A man sits cross-legged, guitar on his lap. His eyes are closed.
Mussed dark brown hair, stubble, black jeans, a faded black concert T-shirt under an old black suit jacket. He’s younger than me, maybe not even thirty. Lanky and angular—half the width of my uncle. His face is what Kate would have called “pretty before the first beer.” He’s got to be one of the many interested parties who have crowded my voice mail over the past week, one of the “intriguing offers” the lawyer said I should definitely consider: “Magazine walk-arounds, fan club visits, photo shoots.”
I wonder which of these three this guy wants.
Sensing my shadow looming over him, the stranger opens his eyes, hands frozen on the strings. His face cycles through emotions, expressions coming as quick as his playing—startled, confused, sheepish, worried. The worried look sticks. He knows he’s hurt his case, whatever it is.
Like the sliver of cliff holding the trail to the waterfall and beach, this is officially state land, not the Kingstons’. (Correction: not mine.) But even without breaching the fence, it feels like he’s trespassed.
He scrambles to his feet. “Jacqueline Pierce? I’m sorry. I left you a bunch of messages at your house. Nobody at that law office would give me your mobile number.”
“Probably because I don’t have one.” I exhale slowly, still trying to control my ragged breathing from running. “Were you playing here last night?”
“You heard that? Shit. I didn’t think the sound would carry. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I’m not sure if I’m more relieved or annoyed by the unasked-for serenade, but it explains my ability to replicate Graham’s song down to the eighth note in last night’s dream, even though I’ve avoided his music for two decades.
“I’m staying at the campground down the highway and there’s not much to do, so I couldn’t resist hiking up... The field’s still exactly like the picture, the one inside Three, with the crew...in the liner notes? It must’ve been shot from a ladder or—of course you know it.”
He frowns, unstrapping his guitar and setting it inside the case at his feet, as if it alone was responsible for offending me.
“Mr....?”
“Oh hell. I haven’t even introduced myself? I’m not normally so obnoxious, swear. It’s Shane.” He pats himself down for a business card, finds one in his pocket and hands it to me:
Shane Ingram
BlueHour Music
100 Capitol Dr., West Hollywood, California
“I’m sorry about Angela,” he says, looking me in the eye. “We were sort of friends.”
It’s the first genuine condolence I’ve received since I found out my aunt had passed away. “Thank you.”
“So. I’ve got this...interesting project I’d like to talk to you about. I sent the details to that lawyer but...look, can I buy you breakfast somewhere and explain? It’s kind of complicated.”
I’m hungry—the remains of my ham sandwich from the airport didn’t do much for me this morning—but I don’t need West Hollywood breakfasting across from me. Turning on the charm, working on whatever it is he’s working on. Me, it seems. “Thanks, but I have a lot to do and not much time. I’m sure you can explain your project here.”
“Right. Of course.” He breathes deep and gives me his pitch. “I’m hoping to record an unusual sort of...tribute album to your uncle. Here, in his old studio.” He turns to face the house.
I follow his gaze; the white tip of the shell spire is just visible over the tree line.
His voice is reverent: “Where we can do it right. A special album for the thirtieth anniversary of Three coming up next year. Something really beautiful he would have been proud of.”
“Covers?”
He turns back to me. “Yes, a few. But most of the tracks would be new. Eight brand-new Graham Kingston songs after all this time.”
With the pride of someone presenting a VIP ticket, he reaches inside his guitar case and hands me a pale yellow notebook. “His unrecorded lyrics.”
My breath hitches—Graham’s idea book. It was always tucked into his jeans. He was never without his guitar and the notebook, the way I was never without my diary, the summer I spent here.
“Angela gave it to me. I visited her to ask if we could do some Three covers, and she offered this, too. Look, she inscribed it.”
I flip the notebook over and there on the back is Angela’s loopy handwriting:
Dearest Shane,
With my love and gratitude,
A. K.
“The thing is, Angela went downhill so fast at the end...I don’t have anything else in writing.”
Relieved, I hand the notebook back. Ticket denied. “I’m sorry, then. It won’t be possible.”
“Don’t you even want to look inside?”
I shake my head.
“Just to see one or two songs? Why not? Angela loved the idea.”
Because this is hard enough. Coming here. Opening the gate, opening the door.
He continues his pitch, something about how these lyrics are poetry and can’t stay buried forever, but I’ve tuned out. He needs to go. Every minute I spend here in the field listening to his pleas is a minute I should be packing this place away. Saying goodbye for good.
He stares at the sky, searching there for the perfect words. “...Graham even put in some chord progressions...and the unfinished music practically wrote itself. I’m not kidding myself that what I’d make is anything more than...a...a frame.”
At last, he’s done talking. In spite of everything, I pity him, standing here holding the notebook gently as a sacred text.
And even though I don’t want to, I believe him. Angela was always mercurial and trusting. This seemed just like her.
But that didn’t mean I had to go along with it. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can see that you care about my uncle’s lyrics. But I really have to go now.”
I head back down the narrow path through the trees.
A minute later he’s at my heels, a sharp snap-snap-snap as he hastily shuts his guitar case. “Please!”
I pick up my pace, trying to block out his voice by running through a mental list of everything I need to do this week, when I hear skidding sounds behind me, twigs cracking. He mutters, “Shit.”
Shit.
I slow and look back at him. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” He emerges from the bushes unhurt, mud on his jeans, a cluster of salmonberries on his chest like a boutonniere. “Please let me buy you a coffee,” he says.
“I don’t have the time. I only have a week to pack up the house.”
He stops in dismay. “So you’re selling. You’ve already decided. By fall this place’ll be some god-awful housing development.”
This stings. I’ve been trying not to think about what will happen after I hand the keys over to the real estate agent Saturday. I can’t let him see. “Maybe you should buy it. Then you can keep every stick in place. Interested?”
“I don’t have that kind of money. I’d buy it if I could.”
He sounds so disappointed that I can’t look at his face. I turn away and continue across the gravel to the car, faster now, though I feel myself softening despite how much I resent his judgment, and his presence. I should go up to the house and find some memento to hand him as a consolation prize. A button pried off of the dusty mixing board. A knot of fringe snipped from a studio rug. He could put it on an altar and worship it. And then leave.
I don’t want any Kingston music memorabilia. It can all go to fans like him, to people whose link to this family is as uncomplicated as it is imaginary.
I pull out my car keys. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ingram. Careful walking back down to the campground. That T intersection on the coast road can be dangerous this time of year.”
“Wait, Jacqueline. Please?” His voice breaks. He sets his guitar on the gravel, trying desperately to slow things down. “Okay. I get it. You’re worried I’m a leech. But it’s the last chance to do this right.”
He paces between the fence and my car. Faces the house, hooks his fingers in the chain-link and arches back, gazing up at the house. He looks for all the world like a kid locked out of an amusement park.
“It would take eight weeks, nine, tops,” he says, then glances over his shoulder at me. “To honor your uncle’s memory?”
I’m already in the car, but when he comes over and stands by the door, I give in and lower the window.
He bends so we’re eye level and says it so softly I’m not sure I even heard correctly: “You don’t have to do it for me. Or Graham, or Angela. But what would she have wanted?”
She.
Willa.
I start the ignition, press the automatic window button. He jerks his hands from the fast-rising glass and hops back.
Even with the window closed and the engine rumbling, I can hear how his voice cracks again with regret: “Jacqueline, wait! I’m sorry I said that! Let’s start fresh, just talk...”
He’s still pleading, reaching out to the car as if to draw it back, as I drive off.
At the bottom of the hill, where no one can see me, I park under a thick stand of coast redwoods.
And only then do my hands begin to shake.
I’m down at Glass Beach; it’s late afternoon and I’ve been here for hours, walking back and forth along the water. After driving aimlessly up and down the highway, I dialed my Boston machine from a pay phone:
There was a hurt-sounding message from Paul. “Just checking that you arrived safely, sweetheart.” I’d forgotten to call him last night.
An excited one from the estate lawyer. He’s received a proposal for the recording studio. The project—Shane Ingram’s, I take it—could be “quite lucrative” if we draw up the right agreement, and he’d be more than happy to oversee things this summer so I can get back to my life in Boston.
And a kiss-assy one from some reporter at Rolling Stone: “We’ve all heard about the anniversary album that’s happening at the estate this summer, and I understand Bree Lang is attached. It sounds absolutely phenomenal and I’d love to set up an interview...”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
There’s a new tribute to Three for you, Shane Ingram.
I hung up the pay phone in shock and somehow ended up here, gathering sea glass—trash made pretty only after tumbling in the waves for decades. There are fewer pieces glinting in the sand than when I was last here, when it could take a whole morning of hunting to get a decent haul. But the small beach still holds a smattering of treasures, still deserves its name, derived from local legend that it was completely blanketed in the ’40s and ’50s. I sit at the tide line, my bare feet numb and pruned up, my collection of three cloudy pieces, two the pale yellow of Vaseline and one the color of cola, before me. I don’t remember where I left my shoes, and the hem of my gray dress is drenched from ankle to knee.
I pick up a piece of the sea glass and turn it over in my hand. So. I’m supposed to let a pack of strangers spill bourbon on Willa’s window seat, screw in Angela’s garden, snort blow off of Kate’s beloved marble pastry counter? Talk to reporters who’ll probe me for dirt on the tragic family? All for the sake of Graham Kingston’s art? His nascent fandom?
I could have the attorney write a cease and desist letter, or whatever legal jargon would scare Shane Ingram away. I could say that he stole intellectual property from Angela. Except I know in my heart that’s not true.
His question comes back to me.
What would Willa want?
Nothing else matters. Not money or listing timelines or logistical hassles. Not what Angela may have agreed to at the end of her life, sentimental and lonely, or stoned out of her mind on painkillers. Not Rolling Stone printing stories that make me sound like a villain if I say no, a hero if I agree. Not how the teachers back in Boston will talk about me when I return. Certainly not what this Shane Ingram thinks.
And not how hard it would be. Staying here. Inviting visitors in.
It’s Willa I’m here to serve. I’m only her custodian.
What do you want me to do, Willa?
“Are you okay?”
I glance up, shading my eyes with my hand. It’s him, drenched from sweat and fog, like he’s just washed ashore. He’s tied his nice black crepe suit jacket around his waist as if it’s an old sweatshirt.
But the worry in his eyes hasn’t changed; it’s still convincing. His eyes are old-looking, wide-set, large-lidded, under expressive brows. They amplify his every feeling, and I have to look down.
I examine the sea glass in my hand. “I’m fine.”
“May I?” He unties his crumpled jacket and offers it to me but I wave him off.
“Come on, you’ve got to be freezing. Your teeth are chattering.”
“It’s refreshing.”
“Well, I’m boiling. I ran all the way to the top of the waterfall trail to look for your car. Then when I finally saw it parked on the highway I ran down even faster so I wouldn’t miss you. I think I need to work out more.”
He sits next to me, tents the ruined jacket over his knees. “This was supposed to impress you. Make me look professional. Thirty dollars, secondhand. I haven’t spent so much on a piece of clothing in years.”
“I thought you music industry types spent thirty dollars on a bottle of water.”
“Maybe I pick the wrong projects. I let my sentimental nature cloud my judgment. Actually, I’ve been thinking about that all day.”
The wind whips us and I catch his scent. Mixed with the smell of the ocean, it’s strong but not unpleasant.
I pick up the rest of the sea glass, piece by piece, and drop each onto the sand between us, forming a little pile. Each piece makes a sweet clink as it strikes the others.
“So, I got a message from Rolling Stone,” I say. “But that’s not a surprise, is it?”
“What?”
He seems genuinely mystified, but I can’t keep the bitter edge from my voice: “Rolling Stone. They left a message for me about the album. Everyone’s talking about it. Everyone’s really psyched about it. So if I don’t agree, I’ll forever be the bitch who killed the great Graham Kingston’s legacy. Somewhere on the spectrum of music villains between the town council that bans dancing in Footloose and that purple octopus in The Little Mermaid. That was part of your plan, right?”
“I—” He sighs. “Jacqueline. I didn’t tell Rolling Stone.”
If he’s lying, he’s masterful at it. “I guess someone else put the word out, then.”
“I guess. I haven’t exactly kept it a secret. And I’m not the only person who thinks Graham’s lyrics were...exceptional, and not meant to be hidden away.”
This hurts. Like I’m one of the “suits” Graham despised. The industry people who heard only his numbers, not his words. “I don’t think that. I’ve never thought that.”
But there are hundreds of other places he could record this album.
“And I don’t think you’re a villain for saying no. It must be overwhelming for you, being back here with them gone.”
“I didn’t know them that well.”
“No? Sorry, I thought... Because you and your cousin were around the same age. I was wrong.”
We sit in silence for a minute, facing the ocean. The fog is thinning, and the sun peers through the clouds at last. I stretch my legs out so my chilled, pickled feet can catch its precious warmth.
Shane breathes deeply. “Well, listen, I’m truly sorry about how this morning went.”
“I am, too.” And I mean it. So he’d overstepped a bit in his excitement. He couldn’t possibly understand how complicated this is for me.
“No, it’s not your fault. I blew it, tramping around like that so close to the fence. And coming at you so hard. Mentioning your cousin. Making assumptions. And the embarrassing thing is, I rehearsed talking to you a ton. I probably should’ve gone only through your attorney, like all the rest.”
“You have a single-minded obsession about a project that’s important to you and you’re trying to do everything in your power to get it done.”
“That sounds awfully sterile.”
“It’s not a bad thing. You could take it as a compliment, actually. I respect focus.”
“Because you’re a teacher?”
Ah. So he’d done his homework on me.
“I’ve always respected focus,” I say.
He examines the small pile of sea glass between us. “Nice little collection you’ve got.”
“Hmmm. There used to be a lot more here in the old days. It was practically wall-to-wall. Is it the same in LA? Is that where you grew up?”
“I... No. I never noticed much of it down there.”
I pick up a yellow piece and brush sand from its smooth surface.
“Diamonds are made by nature and polished by man,” I say. “Sea glass is made by man and polished by nature.”
Willa told me that. Twenty years ago, sitting not far from here. The wind whipping her hair so it escaped the lace she’d always used to tie it back, tendrils blown across her cheeks, her gentle smile.
She also told me this: It starts out ugly, but after a long, long time, it turns into something beautiful.
And I know what I have to do.
“So, here’s what’s going to happen, Shane Ingram of BlueHour Music. I’ve decided that you can make your record. You’ve got your eight weeks.”
“You’re kidding,” he sputters, joy animating the taut planes of his face. “Really? I mean, you were so against it just a few hours ago. Was it the Rolling Stone thing?”
“It doesn’t matter why. I’m not going to stand in your way. Your people can even crash here this summer, if that’ll help you wrap it up faster. There’s plenty of room.”
“That’s wonderful, just perfect, I can’t thank—”
“The place goes up for sale soon, and I’m donating the studio equipment, so I’d appreciate it if you’d be careful.”
“Of course—we won’t wreck anything. I’ll make sure everyone treads lightly. But...I don’t want this to be weird for you. I don’t want any...friction.”
“There won’t be friction. You and your crew do your thing, and I’ll do mine. I’ll stay for a few weeks while you get settled.” My voice sounds more certain than I am, but I can’t hand the keys over to the realtor. Not yet. I have unfinished business here, no matter how painful it may be. “After I fly home, my real estate agent will keep an eye on things for me. But I have some conditions.”
“Shoot.”
“One, all the profits go to charity. Not ‘a portion’ or ‘a majority.’ Every cent. A charity I select.” I watch his face carefully, expecting it to collapse in disappointment.
But his expression doesn’t change, and he says, “Of course!”
“Two, if someone lets my cat escape into the woods this week, I’ll kill them.”
He waits for more.
“That’s it? Those are your terms?”
“That’s it.”
He smiles, offers me his hand. “It’s a deal.”
“Don’t make me regret it.”