Celia on the Verge

Photo by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

It came to that in the end, Max needing someone and Celia not needing much of anything as far as he knew. If she had required real cash, he wouldn’t have approached her. And if she’d been successful in New York, she wouldn’t even have been in town again to ask.  Max expected her to jump at the chance but she played with him a few days.

“This little venue? I don’t know, Max. I could fit ten of these into one hole in the wall club in New York.”

“Yeah, but you’re not in the city, you’re back home to Marsh Cove after five years and it’s the beach, a hot tourist magnet now. At least you’ll have an audience who claps after a good stiff drink.”

That was a low blow but Max tended to tell it like it was. Though he could be wrong, it had been awhile. He wanted to take a chance on her.

She twirled coppery waves about a forefinger, studied the glossy ends as if they held a needed clue. “You’re still a piece of work, you know that, Cuz? I have to consult my weekly and monthly agendas. I’ve got plenty to do. And do not need any measly charity offering.” She tossed her head back, grinned at him with startling white teeth, narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t offering a dime, are you?”

Max shrugged, refilled her new coffee cup and brought her the last almond bear claw to gnash on despite having hidden it for himself before the breakfast rush. He knew it wouldn’t take her long. She missed singing, she’d confided in his wife.

Celia was, it was true, well occupied since marrying Van Gibbs, nursery and garden supply chain owner as well as aspiring county politico. He was gentrifying the crap out of their town, buying up this and that. They had met after Celia returned with her supreme confidence wrung out of her. Well, she wasn’t all that fabulous a singer from what Max could tell though he did possess what his wife called “the worst tin ear in the county” as he hummed about the house. He loved both those women, he was open to learning more.

It had been many years since Celia had sung in Marsh Cove. Bonnie insisted Celia was always underappreciated for her real talents. Bonnie insisted she had “a kind of charisma, sumptuous looks plus a supple, sultry voice that carried well.” That was Bonnie, lots of adjectives to cover the territory. Max thought, well, okay, no wonder Van Gibbs had taken to her when he’d settled into that huge glass and steel eyesore at the edge of town. And she, to be grudgingly fair, to him. Maybe it would work out.

Max had always thought his second cousin was more than just okay. She had a fast, good wit and that hair which he also got looked better on her. She was just a good egg. But he was primarily interested in drawing more people into Maxim’s, his medium-fine restaurant –and his wife’s bookstore, Bonnie’s Book Nookery–and Celia could work for peanuts. Bonnie tried to persuade him to call the tiny bar addition Max’s Rookery due to resident crows in trees at that end of their building. She said it was sure to go over big, she with the big vocabulary. (He worried she’d succeed in making them twins–Bonnie’s Nookery and Max’s Rookery?–as she’d tried a few times to buy them matching t-shirts.) He’d agreed to The Rook–that was an actual name of a crow, right? Bonnie kissed him. And they agreed maybe Celia could sing once or twice a week.

Three days later Celia came by one afternoon between lunch and dinner rush. Looked all over The Rook with Max trailing behind her.

“See, it’s got a piano now, we just need a player.”

“If that’s what you call a piano!”

She ran up and down the keys. He had had it tuned up so she couldn’t complain much.

“Where’d you get it, on the street corner?”

“Naw, Tim sold it to me for a pittance. He’s moving into a condo. It’s okay, then?” He wanted to encourage her without seeming too solicitous as he felt it very important they have music. His budget was slim to start up the bar.

Celia nodded absentmindedly as she wandered about, touching the tray of glasses readied, the few lamps, the attractive chairs and homely tables. “It feels cozy I agree, not too cute. With the lights low at night it might do. For the tourists, anyway…You know, I might do it for fun. For a break from Van’s constant politicking, having to do fancier cooking, helping with his schedule and calls and…” She turned, smiled wistfully. “Marriage, huh? A rusty roller coaster some days, but you know he’s a good guy.”

He didn’t know that for sure, they all had dinner only three times. Max thought Van was well on his way to seriously uppity. Max sincerely hoped his cousin would not follow the man’s lead. Max also felt his marriage was his true good luck charm. Bonnie and he never fought– well, maybe a few hours silent treatment that further aggravated the hell out of him. But they made up well.

“Look, I can give you maybe ten percent of the gross, if and when I can, that’s all for starters.”

“Oh, I don’t want that pittance, Max, I want a few hours to enjoy myself. Who do we have to accompany me or is that up to me to figure out?”

“What about Trusty ole Tim?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, alright, I’ll talk to him and see what he can still plunk out on the keyboard. But if he’s lost his touch, I’ll root out someone decent. You better pay the piano player, singers come and go but a good piano player….just can’t beat ’em.”

Max constrained his show of delight and just patted her fondly on the back, then they chatted about hours to stay open, number of customers for peak hours, which sort of drinks to offer. He secretly wondered if she would like to invest. He thought Celia had a great head for business despite an aversion to it. And she was all in as long as she got something out of it, too. It was a family trait. The LaLondes all did fine in business, even in small ways.

Van Gibbs might not even know just who he had married. But he was sure to find out.

******

Friday night, eight-thirty, and so far there were seven customers. The pace held thirty-six, tops. Max had poked his head in during a half hour break the restaurant. Tried to not panic, first night to open. He’d hired a bartender and waitress and when Tim bowed out they’d had to find another guy. Young Eddie came from Rock Point, forty minutes away. But he was playing good tunes, sounded darned good as far as Max could tell. He’d trusted Celia and Bonnie on that.

And there she was now, coming into The Rook with a dress on that Max imagined been worn during her few moments of glory in the city. It was a dark blue but shone in the dim light, yet still outdone by her mass of hair swept up high.

“Max, you need to keep the door open, open all the windows, too. Stuffy in here. Don’t you want people to hear the music down the street and come looking?” Celia tugged the point of his open collar and laughed. “Opening night jitters. Me, too, silly, isn’t it? I go on in a half hour, so what can I do now?”

She sat near the door, greeted anyone who stuck a noses in while Max checked on the bar. Soon there were two more, then four. It was a beautiful night cooled by salt sea air, jasmine drifting on the tail end of a breeze, and moon a glinting crescent. They needed a patio to the side, Max decided, then told himself: one thing at a time. He returned to the restaurant just as Bonnie came in but promised to come back in a minute.

“I’m here to cheer you on,” she told Celia, settling her bulk into a chair.

“I don’t know about this idea…I’m nervous, they can see me too well, maybe pull the closer tables back. Eddie is so good, right? We practiced but this kid just picks things up, amazing, really.”

“He’s not much of a stone’s throw from your age, darlin’. And you always improvised fine. It’ll be a kick for you both.”

“Okay then, I’m diving in, wish me luck.”

Bonnie kissed her chubby fingertips then tossed her one. Max walked back in just in time. Celia Lalonde was a sight up there next to the chambray-shirted young man who sported shoulder length, sun-spun hair. Bonnie thought they smiled warmly at one another and the gathering listeners. Fact was, he sounded much better than good; he had talent he needed to put to the test in the city, himself. Pity Celia came back after barely five years–but perhaps good for them, their bar venture. Well, the place looked good enough to start. Maybe sage green candles next time, candle holders of shells. Or small smooth stones. Or gold glittery stuff?

Max stodd before the piano. People loved to drink in order to talk louder and more in a bar, he thought, but they quieted enough as he welcomed everyone. The half dozen.

“I want to welcome you to my snug new bar, The Rook, one of the LaLonde family businesses in Marsh Cove and beyond! My cousin came back from New York,  lovely voice intact, and we are the better for it, as she sure sings pretty! Give a big hand to Celia LaLonde and the piano player from Rock Point, Eddie Reed!”

A spattering of applause, a whistle or two, glass clinking about in glasses. Max took a seat by Bonnie. How could he even know if Celia still had it? It was only a little bar but it was to be his bar. He wanted it to work. He wanted Celia to make good on finishing touches, make it happen, he couldn’t say why exactly, maybe how she avoided talking about her nine months old marriage. Unless it was to note her husband’s progress financially and politically. There was something unsettling in her eyes despite the megawatt smiles. He felt she would like this bar to pan out as much as he, though she’d made light of it.

Eddie ran his hands over keys, those opening notes, and Celia grasped the mic, wide eyes roving over tables, willing empty spots to fill. Was she an absolute idiot to try to sing again, even in tiny, now trendy Marsh Cove? All she needed to do was two, thirty minute sets, that was it. Eddie had agreed to an hour more if Max gave him the cue. She closed her eyes. Her bright lips parted and she took a deep breath in, then let it loose and like that she set off to rise on a crest of song. And there she was getting a hold on the notes, stuttering a bit, then soon a-glide.

People leaned into their drinks as they looked up at her; talked softly, then stopped. Max watched a man slip his arm around his lady and hug her close. Saw a couple stand in the doorway, then come in and seat themselves, eyes on the musicians, then a younger man slip in, sidle up to the barkeep. Celia’s voice slipped over space like an incoming velvet tide, that’s what Bonnie thought as she, too, closed her eyes so as not to catch Celia’s gaze and make her anxious. And to feel those smoky notes move closer, linger inside her weary head. She hummed along. Max watched his wife some then kissed her cheek and headed to the restaurant. He had made a pretty good decision. They all had, he thought, as he threw a last look at his surprising cousin.

Eddie was playing the heck out of the piano but he was also watching Celia, seeing nuances taken in, felt while forming in her body, her mind. Her voice rang clear and rich, a thing of magic like molasses poured on anything, a ticket to somewhere better in any way you might want. He was captured by chords his hands made and the center of her lustrous notes, overcome by piano and vocal music becoming one. He leaned into the ebony and ivory keys, gave it his all. People were coming in, listening. He was playing with a singer who knew about the soul of songs. He felt something free up, flew into sound.

She had found it again, that spot, that moment, the center of things. The note fluid, vibrant, revealing to her the parts that moved in joyous balance. Moved her. Held her together. Celia surrendered so the music danced and beckoned and soothed, voicings of dark and light, of sorrow and longing and a thrill of happiness. Her eyes fell upon Eddie’s and they somehow knew what came next, next, next. They were making such music and it remade them as they went, reached out to listeners, found them there.

Van Gibbs entered the amber-shadowed rooms. He felt his strong pulse rise, the heat of summer and desire gather in his veins. He saw her there, apart. Listened long and deeply. Celia filled up the whole room. She made it a secure refuge, a testy ride, a tinder box, a cave of want and need. Who was this woman who was singing of moody life, chances found and lost, that silver magic of a big old moon? Had he married her and not even known the real story? Was she in a simple disguise with him, her true self revealed in a spotlight?

Beside her sat Eddie, pounding keys with precision, teasing them with delight. He kept an eye on her, sometimes on the room. He was so skilled and attuned that Van knew the two of them together could even become extraordinary. It shook him up, Van the wily guy, the rich guy, right then and there.

He saw this and knew he could lose his new wife. To this music. Or that piano player. He ordered a drink and pulled up a chair in a paltry little humid room that was filling up, a room rowdy with applause and cheers. Rested his chin in his hands, wondering.

Celia laughed, shook out the thick fall of red hair, bowed slightly. Face hot, eyes clear, mind razor sharp. Every cell was responding. She dabbed her forehead with a napkin then nodded at Eddie. He began again and she joined in. Her voice melded with the piano’s and off they went.

It was a modest bar in a beachy place, her funny hometown. But she was on the verge of enchantment again, one song after another. It was all Celia needed to be content in the entire world, that was certain. For now. For one finely suspended moment.

 

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