Page 80 of Puck Daddies
“Here. Siena is in. The label is in. They know about us. It’s not a problem.”
“No New York?”
“Not anytime soon.” I pull around the counter to be closer to her. “I want to be here. With you. For you. You’ve done nothing but support me this whole time, and I want to do the same for you. If you’ll let me.”
A strange look comes over her. “I still remember when you texted about your voice when you got sick. How I made you some chicken soup and brought it right over. How you swore it’d help get you fixed up…” Her fingers slip into the edge of my shirt’s neckline. “Do you think my cooking made your voice worse?”
I laugh so hard that it rattles the walls. “No, amor. I do not.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ve been wondering about that ever since you guys told me about my eggs.”
I kiss her forehead, and she lets me hold her. “It was the virus that ruined my voice. All the doctors said so. Your chicken soup had nothing to do with that.” Not sure I should admit this, but we’re being honest with each other these days… “Besides, I didn’t eat it.”
She pushes back to stare up at me. “You didn’t?”
“Amor, the chicken was pink. Can you blame me for not wanting salmonella on top of everything else?”
Meg snickers. “You mean it’s not supposed to be pink?
“How are you still alive?” I pause. “For that matter, how did the chicken stay pink in hot broth? What kind of wizardry was that?”
Her giggles are the best music. “I mostly eat takeout or whatever you guys cook for me. Everything else is toast. As far as the chicken goes, I was high when you texted me about your voice, freaked out, made soup, and took the bus to your place as soon as I could. There’s no explaining high cooking, Rocco.”
Shaking my head, I wonder aloud, “Will you let me teach you how to cook, so I don’t have to worry about you if I ever do go to New York?”
“I’d be honored. And speaking of honored…” She glances around, no doubt mentally tallying everything that must be done before Friday. “We’ll make the gig work.”
We block out a map on a notepad. Chairs in rows, a small aisle, a rope by the espresso bar so no one touches anything. Aqua on the mic as hostess. Tom, at the door with the list. Anthony on signs and the floor plan. Bex on greenroom food that doesn’t stain. A volunteer to watch the bathrooms. We set a hard out at ten for the neighbors.
It’s all falling into place.
Siena sets a coach session for the next morning. We work on the new song on Zoom. She fixes one line where I squeeze a consonant. “Let the word open.”
She’s right. I take her advice, and it’s like breathing.
“Let’s talk press,” she says at the end. “We’ll invite two outlets. Rules—no questions about the court beyond the order in the public file. No bedroom questions. We keep it on the music and the room.”
“Perfect.”
I walk the room with John and Oliver for power schematics. Two dedicated circuits for audio. One for lights. No espresso during the set. No grinders after five. We test every outlet. We run a snake path and tape points. Oliver brings a small distro so we don’t trip a breaker. We mark the piano corner. We build a small platform out of pallets and a rug to decouple the pedal noise.
The day before the recording, Reid calls. “You sent us the poly disclosure. Thank you. I’m going to say one sentence here and be done. We stand by you. If someone tries to pitch a hit piece, we’ll point to our lawyers and to the work you’re doing for your community. Our lawyers handle it after that.”
“Appreciated.”
The way everything is coming together, things start clicking in my head. The rest of the song comes pouring out of me onto the paper. It’s finished before I even realize it. “Honey Light.”
The morning of the show, I carry chairs. I fix a squeak in the back door hinge. I steam my shirt at the shop because I don’t trust the iron at home. I write a set card for the stool and tape it down so I don’t knock it with my knee.
Just because I sing doesn’t mean I can’t do everything else.
Doors at six. People come in quiet like church. It isn’t church. It feels like a room where you learn how to listen. Aqua does fiveminutes of housekeeping and jokes and then tells everyone to turn off their phones.
The pianist flexes his fingers and nods to me. Aqua gives me the thumbs-up for power. Oliver stands by the back door. Hudson and I meet eyes once, and he taps his chest likebreathe. His new mantra. Meg stands by the espresso bar with her hands around a mug she doesn’t drink.
Aqua says my name. I walk to the mic, nod to the room, and sing.
The first piece is one I can sing in my sleep. I keep the vowels long and the consonants clean. I ride the line and don’t add anything smart. It’s good. Sharp.
