Page 30 of Foster

Bowie Jane pulls free and runs to Mazzy, throwing her arms around her waist. “I’ll miss you.”

My heart squeezes painfully over the deepening affection my daughter has for her nanny. I wonder if some of it is transference from the lack of what she’s receiving from her mother.

Mazzy wraps her arm around Bowie Jane’s shoulder, bends down and kisses her on the head. “I’ll miss you too, munchkin.”

CHAPTER 12

Mazzy

I love playing at Sola because it garners big crowds on the weekend. I wasn’t lying to Foster when I told him I do this because I enjoy performing. It’s really the only reason I do it. Looking out over the crowd, seeing faces lit up with appreciation—that is the validation I crave. After all the years I put into my music, this is worth something far more valuable than money, especially since I’ve chosen not to make it my career.

This isn’t work for me, but play.

Leo and I set up on the stage efficiently, having done this many times before. We each have a stool and a microphone stand in front of us. Although Leo prefers the electric guitar, that’s reserved for nighttime performances, so today we’re strictly on acoustics.

I was against it, but Leo talked me into putting a sign up on the corner of the stage that has our names on it along with our Venmo accounts in case people wanted to send us cash rather than throw bills in our guitar cases.

“No one carries cash anymore, Mazzy,” he explained.

I thought it crass, especially since the owners of Sola pay us a gig fee to be here. But then I had to remind myself that this is how Leo makes his money and he counts on every dollar to pay his bills.

While Leo and I are best when we perform together, there are times that we have individual gigs—Leo more than me since my schedule is less flexible. The one thing we have learned over the years is that we earn the most tips when we play together. Sure, he gets all the women swooning over him, but there is no doubt that he and I are magical together. We have honed and perfected our harmonies and the chemistry in our music is undeniable. We are constantly told that we should try to record something but again, not my dream.

As Leo plays beside me, his smile is brighter than usual. I suspect that’s because I committed to him to play next week as I’ll have all the evenings off. Foster is entering into the last week of practice before the regular season starts and he said he would be home by early afternoon each day and that I could have the rest of the day off. I gladly took him up on that because once the season starts, it’s going to be hectic.

Before I left, we went over the schedule and Foster’s needs are all over the place. One week he might be on a four-day road trip where I’ll have twenty-four-seven care of Bowie Jane and the next he might be home and only need coverage for a few hours in the morning. There’s nothing consistent about it but Foster is committed to making sure I don’t work more than forty to fifty hours a week. He assures me he has a slew of babysitters and other team parents who can step in to give me time off.

I tried to assure him I wasn’t worried about it, especially since a good chunk of my job involves sleeping in the bedroom across the hall from Bowie Jane. A slight argument ensued but we ultimately agreed to play the first month a little loose with set days off until we see how things pan out.

As Leo and I wind down “More Than Words”—which we don’t duet but harmonize the entire song—and get ready to launch into our next one, my attention is taken by a tall man walking into the coffee shop. I’m stunned to see Foster, Bowie Jane trailing behind him, her hand firmly engulfed in his. His eyes come directly to me and he gestures a greeting. Bowie Jane waves enthusiastically and I can’t help but grin back at them.

I have no clue what they’re doing here, but I can’t deny the pleasure it gives me to know they cared enough to come see me perform.

Leo starts strumming the introductory chords for our next song but I reach out and put a hand on his arm to still him. He looks at me curiously but I lean into the microphone, staring across the crowd at Bowie Jane. “I’d like to dedicate this next song to the cutest little ten-year-old girl I know.”

Her eyes widen with surprise to be mentioned, although not by name because I won’t violate her privacy. I wink at her as I start the opening chords of “Shallow.” The patrons in the coffee shop recognize the song and we get a rousing cheer before we even start singing. As Leo and I play, I keep an eye on Foster who leads Bowie Jane up to the counter. He orders a coffee and she gets some type of berry-colored drink along with a chocolate croissant.

They wind their way over to an empty spot on the side wall to a built-in counter with tall bar-style stools. Foster picks up his daughter and sets her on one, then stands behind her with his elbow resting on the counter and his eyes pinned on the stage.

For some reason, I feel the music coursing through me with more clarity than usual and I make extra effort to hit all the notes perfectly. It’s a beautiful song and Leo and I kill it every time, but when we finish, it’s not the crowd in general that suffuses me with happiness with their cheers. It’s seeing Foster and Bowie Jane clapping enthusiastically, and then Foster wolf-whistles, making me laugh.

Leo leans to the right, covers his microphone with his hand and asks, “Who’s that?” His eyes slide over to Foster and Bowie Jane.

“That’s the kiddo I’m nannying and her dad. I’ll introduce you if they stay until the end.”

Leo nods and then turns to the crowd, speaking into the microphone. “It’s that time, folks… let’s see if you can stump Leo and Mazzy.”

This is my favorite part of when we sing together and the regular customers who come to listen clap with excitement.

I glance at Foster and see that he’s confused but he’ll get it soon enough.

Leo leans over and grabs a glass bowl the owner sets out with a pad of paper and pencil beside it. Inside the bowl are folded notes that the customers have written on. He rummages around inside and pulls one out, opens it, and reads it aloud. “‘Blackbird’ by the Beatles.”

Leo scratches his head and turns to look at me, a faux look of bewilderment on his face. “‘Blackbird’ by the Beatles? Have you ever heard of this song?”

I give a tiny shrug. “Maybe. I mean, the Beatles have a lot of songs.”

Someone from the back of the coffee shop yells, “We finally got ’em.”

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