“I don’t need you here, Marco,” I told him, which was the truth but was also driven by irritation at having to explain to everyone what I was doing. I was a grown man, for God’s sake. I wasn’t a teen with a curfew. “No one in Grand Orchard is going to attack me. Go home. Take a vacation. Do something that isn’t me.”
“Is that really what you want?” he asked, easily reading how frustrated I was.
“Yes.”
He looked me over, waiting to see if I was going to tell him what was really bothering me, but when I didn’t say more, he just nodded. “I’ll run it by Lee and Garner and talk with Waterton to make sure they’ll have someone on-call for you here locally. Then, I’ll head out.”
“Thanks, Marco.”
“You’re sure you’re going to be okay? With Cassidy and Chevelle, I mean?” His face was emotionless, but I could have sworn there was doubt in his voice, too.
“God, not you, as well. Yes. I’m going to be fine. They’re going to be fine. I think I can handle looking after my sister and a baby for a few weeks.”
Marco chuckled at my childish tantrum. “Are you sure? I mean…it is you!”
I flipped him off but smiled to take away the bite before heading for the bedroom.
I threw my all but ruined Chucks in the closet and pulled off my T-shirt just as my eyes landed on the antique chest that Elana had left me. I balled the shirt up and tossed it in the hamper before grabbing the box and the key and bringing them to the bed with me.
I ran my fingers along the gold inlay etchings. It was beautiful. Old. I unlocked it and lifted the heavy wooden lid. The smell of vinyl hit me. Old records. A whole collection of them. I started sifting through them. Some were worth a chunk of change now. Classics, in good condition. Forty-fives and LPs. An eclectic mix of genres, including a flamenco album by one Manolo Morente.
My throat closed in on itself.
All of the albums, except the Morente one, were albums Elana and I had listened to, discussed, and torn apart. They were songs we’d hated and songs we’d loved, but they all had meaning to her. To me.
Below the records was a letter in Elana’s perfect handwriting. Almost as if it was a script font, the height of each letter hitting the exact same spot it should, as if she’d written it on the lined paper used when learning cursive in school.
Dear Cormac,
I put together this little collection for you a while back when I was cleaning out the storage formicariño. My father’s record is a self-serving gift. I wantsomeone to continue to appreciate him as much as I did. I had a heart attack recently, and suddenly, I’ve been presented with the fact that I just might die. That I might die and not get the opportunity to have the last word with you on several topics.
Like the validity of Charles Parker as the best jazz musician. He was. End of story.
I laughed, the heavy gloom that had settled over me lightening some.
“You’re still wrong,” I said to no one and wondering if she could hear me.
I apologize because I have a few requests to make of you. I promised myself I would never demand of you the things your mother demanded. That I would never make you feel like you owed me anything. And you still don’t. These requests…I’m hoping they are as much FOR you as they are OF you.
I hope by now you’ve met my granddaughter and my little Hannah. I wish it was under better circumstances. I wish it was at a time when you could see all the ways you and Tristan are alike. Your love of me being only one of them. ;-)
The first of my requests has to do with my girls. Please look out for my littleChiquita, my Hannah. If you could helpCarifind a music teacher who will not force Hannah to play only classical music, I’d be forever grateful. I don’t want anyone to dim the love that girl has for the piano. She is all classic rock, just like she should be, and if she is forced to play Bach for the rest of her life, she’ll walk away from it.
Next, if it hasn’t already happened yet, can you please make sure Tristan has help with the Music Fest? She’ll try to do it all on her own, and I know how impossible that is. I know now that I should have asked for help but was too stubborn to do so. Tristan is as stubborn as I was, so good luck. Maybe this should be the last festival. All good traditions come to an end at some point.
“Over my dead body, Elana,” I growled.
I know your childhood, your memories, and your heart are tied toLa Musica de Ensueñosjust as I know Tristan’s heart and memories of me will now be tied to it. But please don’t let her hold on to the store as a way of holding on to the memories and emotions. It is just a store. A store that should have been closed at least a decade ago. The memories will stay with you regardless of the physical space, and in truth, those memories are not even the most important ones. You both have new memories to make. Ones that will matter more.
I know the critics have continued to hound you about your last album, the words stale and old thrown around repeatedly, but don’t let them dictate your sound or your heart. Whenever YOU feel like you’re missing something, perhaps you can listen to some of these albums again, and they will help you discover whatever it is you think you’re searching for. Maybe the chords and notes and words can lead you to where you belong.
And one last thing. Life is so short. Even with me in my nineties, it seems to have flown by. It is too short to live with things hanging on you. So forgive. Both yourself and your parents.
I’m proud of you, Brady. Of not only the musician but of the man you’ve become. The heart you have. The gratitude for your fans and your life. Your loyalty. You deserve to be happy and fulfilled.
Which leaves me with this. Please love. Find someone who needs you as much as you need them. Someone who can be the center of your whole world. Someone who will be your inspiration and motivation. The reason you make notes.
With all the music in my heart, I send you my love now and always.
