Chapter Five: Magic

Magic: to create change, all you have to do is disrupt something; whether the disruption is good or bad is of no concern. We are both victims and masters of magic…presto chango!

Three months and three days after the move to Emerald Cove, Robere fires Sam and Mimi for not showing up to work. Robere forgets that Sam and Mimi resign, effective immediately, the day before. The couple makes one last trip to The Emerald and Sam gathers his knives while Mimi, just to leave her mark, changes the hall flowers one last time. Warren is devastated by the departure of his mentor. “Sam, man, take me with you. Please don’t leave me here.”
Son, when I get a place of my own, you’ll be the first man I call,” assures Sam. “You have the potential to be a fine chef. Just stay off the juice.” Tears fill Warren’s eyes as he hugs Sam around the neck. Sam embraces Warren in a bear hug, lifts him off the floor and kisses him on the cheek. “I love you, boy,” Sam says gruffly. “Now get the hell off me.”
Sweet goodbyes are exchanged with the hippie. “Goodbye, Mimi. Goodbye, Sam. Safe travels,” the hippie says. “Goodbye Henry,” says Mimi. “Name’s Harry,” says the hippie, and winks. The Emerald hippie survives although the stone is loose in its setting.
Mimi exercises one of her many options by turning the wheel northeast and heading back toward home by the highway. “Our little house is empty,” she tells Sam. “We move back to our nest, fluff our feathers for a few days, and continue our search. We’ll be fine,” she tells Sam. “No worries, we’re on adventure!”
Sam, remembering the rehab counselor’s warning to protect himself from this very lifestyle, is experiencing change at a rapid pace. Is he opening to it, or is he shutting down? He can’t tell for sure. He knows two things: he’s anxious for home and routine, and Mimi’s driving too damn fast. “Why the hell did you wave to that cop? Are you begging for a speeding ticket? Geez, woman, you’re fourteen miles over the speed limit, in a fucking sports car. Slow your ass down!” The greatest progress comes through change, Sam repeats out loud, over and over again, for his own benefit. The greatest progress comes through change. Mimi turns the music up louder.

Four days of calm. Four days of no change. Four days before the phone rings with news of a restaurant for sale just forty-five minutes from Emerald City. Even Sam gets excited! “Mimi, listen to this: the aging owners are retiring and moving to Hawaii! The business is seasonal, so there’s time for vacations! A lovely apartment is included in the deal, and twenty-four raised bed organic gardens, and two acres of prime bottomland!” Mimi dances as she packs her road bag. “Hurry, Mimi. We can be there in two hours. This is our place, I feel it.”
The Fabrezios are gracious hosts and proud of their business. A tour of the property leaves Mimi breathless and Sam on a cloud. “You two are a perfect fit for this community,” the Fabrezios say. An afternoon of intense discussion ensues, and all cards are on the table. “Perhaps you would like to buy the building as well. Because we like newlyweds – we remember how that feels, don’t we, Connie – we’ll let you have everything, including the pizza oven, for two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars,” Tante Fabrezio says.
“Where do we sign?” asks Mimi. Sam cuts her a sharp look and responds, "Let us go home and think about it. We’ll put together a business plan and call you on Wednesday. We have to make sure this is financially feasible for us. But it sounds like a dream come true.” Mimi is ecstatic. She floats to the car after much hugging with the Fabrezios, and sits in silence until her next good idea.
“Pull in here, Sam. Here, the Bank of America.”
“Why, Mimi?”
“Just pull in,” Mimi says impatiently. “I’m going to set up an appointment for Thursday.”
Sam makes a quick left-hand turn and cruises through the bank parking lot. “Why don’t we go to our bank at home?”
“Because the business is here. It’ll only take a minute.”
He circles the building. “Woman, you’re wasting your time. Nobody in there knows you, or wants to talk to you. Calm down, little lamb.”
“Dammit, Sam, I know what I’m doing. Just park the car, please. It’ll only take a minute.” Typical Mimi, flying without a net. Sam pulls into a space right in front. “Go ahead then. Just make it quick. I’m leaving the car running.”
“Turn it off, Sam. We’re not here to rob them, okay?” Mimi puts on fresh lipstick, brushes her hair, presses the wrinkles from her jeans, throws a jacket over her fitted white blouse and squeezes out a short prayer for help. She blows open the bank’s front door and lights up the lobby. She’s on fire, and the receptionist warms to her energy. “Hi, I’m Mimi Killian. May I see your president for a moment?”
“Let me see if Mr. Marshall is available. Do you mind having a seat while I check?” Within seconds, the receptionist returns. “He’s on a long distance call, Mrs. Killian. But he asks that you wait. He won’t be long. Mimi takes a deep breath and plays with her lower lip – a relaxation technique that works wonders on horses, and usually on children, and sometimes on adults. Thank God nobody’s watching, except for that large man in the red power tie coming out of a corner office and heading her way. He smiles. “Hi, I’m Tom Marshall. Won’t you come in?” He extends a catcher’s mitt-sized paw, but grips gently. He must have a very old mother, Mimi thinks.
“Mr. Marshall, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Mimi Killian – it’s so nice to meet you. What a beautiful office! I don’t want to take up too much of your time today, as I really want to make an appointment with you for Thursday, if you’re available.”
Mr. Marshall lifts one eyebrow. “What’s this about?”
“Are you familiar with a restaurant called Poppies?” Mimi asks.
Tom’s warm chuckle puts Mimi at ease. “I know it well. Tante and Connie Fabrezio are dear friends of mine. My wife and I eat at Poppies at least once a week. Did you see the gardens? They grow most of the vegetables for the restaurant out back.”
“My husband Sam and I just met with them. We’re interested in buying Poppies, and the Fabrezios are interested in selling to us.”
Tom leans forward. “I know they’re ready to retire,” he says. “They have grandchildren in Hawaii and want to move there. Can’t blame them; mine spoil me rotten.” He reaches to the credenza behind his desk for a church photograph of his extended family. Mimi studies it for the prerequisite thirty seconds, smiles, and hands it back. Tom leans in closer. “How much are they asking?”
“Two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars, turn-key, including the real estate.” Tom sits straight up in his chair, takes a deep breath, and slowly releases it. He sounds like a balloon, Mimi thinks. “That’s an incredibly low number,” Tom says, frowning. “How did you talk them into that?”
“We didn’t,” Mimi answers. “That’s the number they quoted us. I think they’re looking for the right couple to fill their shoes. Sam and I feel solid about this opportunity. My question to you is this: will you consider making a loan to us? Our credit is impeccable.”
Tom doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, most definitely.”
“For how much?”
“For the entire amount, if everything checks out, and I don’t think you’d be here right now if there were problems.” Tom looks at his calendar. “Can you be here at eleven a.m. on Thursday morning? I’m stacked up in the afternoon.”
Mimi stands up. “Mr. Marshall, thank you so much. I’ll bring a copy of our business plan for you. We’ll be here at eleven Thursday morning.” Tom places his gentle hand on Mimi’s back and escorts her to the office door; the entire interview lasts less than five minutes. But, Sam waits a lifetime. He’s like a dog that way.
“Damn Mimi, that was a long damn minute,” barks Sam as Mimi opens the car door.
“Sam, listen to this. Bank of America will loan us the entire asking price.”
“You gotta be kidding me. Did you show him your tits?”
“Sam, really. Mr. Marshall, the president of the bank, is friends with the Fabrezios and says we’re getting an incredible deal on Poppies. He thinks they’ve underpriced the place – he as much as said so. Anyway, we have a meeting with him at eleven a.m. on Thursday. We need to formulate a business plan pronto because I told him we’d bring one with us.” Mimi puts on her shades, kicks off her boots, pops in a Sly and the Family Stone CD, and settles in for the ride home. Sam turns off the music, disengages the clutch, slams the brakes and pulls over. “Geezus, Mimi. How do we get a business plan together in three days? That’s nuts. We can’t do that. We’ll look like idiots. I knew I shouldn’t have stopped. Good God.” There’s a touch of whine in Sam’s voice, but Mimi ignores it.
“Sure we can, Sam,” cajoles Mimi. Sam’s head is in his hands, and his hands are on his knees. He’s trying to kiss his ass goodbye. Mimi grabs a handful of hair and pulls him back to a sitting position. “Listen to me. We’ve been working on a plan since I met you. You can sit back and whine about this, or you can help me work it out. Have a little faith, Sam.” She flashes Sam a brilliant smile, and lifts her blouse and bra above her bosoms. Front row at the titi show! “What was I thinking?” says Sam. Everybody is a star.
A helpful retired volunteer at the Small Business Center gives an A+++ to Sam and Mimi’s business plan. Oh, the imagination and goal-setting; oh, the menu and food cost; and oh, your projected growth! You have left nothing out and I’m so happy to have helped and good luck, schmucks. And, oh, by the way, write three business plans. Present the bank with the best-case scenario, the current owners with the worst-case scenario, and keep the real deal to yourselves. But, these words are never spoken. The expert leaves this part out.
The Thursday meeting progresses with solid forward movement. No stalls, no balks – clear fences for everyone. Mr. Marshall loves the business plan; his enthusiasm is infectious. Even Sam is optimistic. Sam and Mimi leave the bank for Poppies, run through the plan with Tante and Connie, and can tell they are surprised and impressed by the effort. “We are moving confidently toward our goal,” Sam tells them. “We’ll talk soon,” says Tante. “You are just what this restaurant needs,” gushes Connie. “We couldn’t have found a better couple to take over! Next week, we’ll sign the papers and get the ball rolling. Sound good?” Sam says, “Sounds good. It’s a go.” Handshakes and hugs all around, goodbye for now, ciao ciao. “They love us,” shouts Mimi to Sam as they drive down the mountain toward home. Connie and Tante Fabrezio are in conference with bank president Tom Marshall before Sam and Mimi cross the county line.

If houses could smile, the Killian pad would wear a perpetual grin. Sam and Mimi walk through the welcoming, arched door, kick off their shoes, race down the shiny wood hall, and slide into the bedroom – a ritual that brings out Mimi’s competitive nature; she always wins. Quickly they change into pajamas – sweats for Sam, long tee-shirt for Mimi – then hunker down like rabbits in a warm hutch. Reflecting on the week's rapidly escalating events, they sit shoulder to shoulder in the red overstuffed double chair that fills a corner of their colorful and softly glowing den. Double doses of comfort are imperative in the Killian household. They eat pimento cheese sandwiches and double-fried, crispy potato chips, not too mindful of the crumbs.
Sam hits the mute button on the TV’s remote control as the phone rings in the kitchen, and clumsily arises with Mimi’s push from behind. He looks at Mimi with wide eyes and whispers, “It’s Tante, Mimi. Get on the other line.” Mimi, plate in hand, hurries to the bedroom. “Hold on, Tante. Mimi’s picking up the extension.”
Mimi absentmindedly rubs her lower lip. “Tante, hi! We didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.” She covers the receiver as she bites into her sandwich. “Sam, Mimi, Connie and I have looked over your plan again. It’s brilliant! Can you meet with us tomorrow? It’s short notice, but we are very excited. We’d like to suggest some options that may actually work out better for all of us. We can sign the papers next week after we reach a solid agreement.”
Sam walks into the bedroom, hand over the receiver. “What the hell?” he whispers. “Should we?” whispers Mimi. Sam nods and holds up ten fingers. “We’ll be there by ten, Tante.”
Tante laughs. “Good, good. We’ll have coffee and a sweet surprise waiting for you, so come with an appetite.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” Sam responds. “Bella note.” They hang up and meet in the den. “What’s that all about?” Mimi asks. Sam pauses. “I’m not sure, but have your game face on,” Sam advises, and pops a fistful of potato chips into his gaping mouth.
Sleep is a distant cousin; Mimi and Sam wiggle and squirm and run through a barrage of questions. Finally, Sam’s breathing becomes irregular and the snoring begins. Mimi gets out of the quilt-covered bed, throws on her full-length terry cloth bathrobe, pads to the spacious kitchen in her bare feet – room for a dance party there – and puts the kettle on. She brews a cup of Sleepy Time tea, grabs some gingersnaps from the pantry, and picking up a copy of the business plan, settles into the kitchen’s brightly striped oversized chair. What options? What do they see that we don’t? Morning comes too soon, and the mountain road is shrouded in dense fog – an omen, thinks Sam, but he doesn’t mention his intuition to Mimi; she is mysteriously quiet for once, and he likes the silence.
“Coffee?” Connie asks, shaking slightly as she pours thick dark espresso from an ancient pot. “Please, have some panettone. It’s not Christmas, I know, but we make our own and love it any time of the year.” Connie piddles with the exquisite cake while Tante watches. Tension building, he abruptly instructs everyone to take a seat at the table, and softly begins to speak. “We have looked at your business plan,” he states. “It’s truly brilliant. Only thing is, Connie and I have decided to stay here another year or two. But, we want you to come to work for us. Then, in two years, we will sell the business to you. You can start paying us now as part of the agreement. We project that two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars will be much too low in two years and have been advised to increase the asking price to four-hundred ninety-five thousand.” He takes a sip of espresso, waves his hand in the air, and continues. “See, by agreeing to this plan, you can move forward with your loan and be very ahead of the game by the time we transfer ownership. What do you think?” He looks from Sam to Mimi. Connie drops her head.
Sam kicks Mimi under the table. Mimi squeezes the blood out of Sam’s hand. He looks at her from the corner of his eye and notices her mouth open wide enough to catch a swarm of flies. He reaches over with his free hand and pops her jaw back into its proper place, slightly nodding his head. “Well, Tante, Mimi and I will have to discuss this new offer.” Cake and coffee untouched, he stands up and pulls Mimi to her feet. “Thank you for your time. The cake was delicious, Connie. We’ll be in touch.”
They leave without another word, and drive in complete silence for thirty minutes. Halfway down the mountain, Mimi comes to life. “Pull over, Sam,” she orders. “Why?” Sam asks without taking his eyes off the road. Lingering fog and the dense logic of the meeting turn this ride into a chore, not a pleasure. Sam’s bird-dogging for home.
“Just pull into this parking lot!” Mimi yells. “If I don’t get out this car right now my brain will explode!”
“Good idea,” Sam says as he makes a sharp right into an empty, littered parking lot. I need to throw some rocks anyway.” God grant me the serenity, Sam recites silently as he pitches rocks into the side of an abandoned gas station. Mimi is a tornado of motion and emotion – beautifully, almost violently out of control. After a twenty-five minute rage, the storm passes. Mimi sleeps all the way home. Sam drives very carefully, so not to wake her. He’s not in the mood for discussion.
For Sam, there is no peace in the valley. As he washes his face, he looks in the mirror and questions his worth, his desire for another restaurant. Mimi, standing beside him brushing her teeth before bed, is steadfast in her belief of options – they will always have options. Giving up on their biggest collective goal isn’t one of them.
“But I don’t want to do this anymore, Mimi. It’s been a good run and all, but it’s over. Nothing we look at works for us. Let’s cut our losses while we still have a roof over our heads.” Sam dries his face and turns to the door, but Mimi, toothbrush in hand, blocks his path. She sticks the wet weapon in his wide chest and looks him dead in the eye. “Sam Killian, you are the best at what you do. You are at the top of your game. You’ve forgotten more about the restaurant business than most chefs in this town – no, in this world – will ever know. Think about that before you give up. You are the best! Nobody can touch you. And your customers, Sam, think about them. We have a built-in clientele just waiting for you to make a move. It’s your time, Sam. I can feel it!”
“Yeah, well maybe it’s time to renew my contractor’s license and get back into the construction business. I can make a really good living with half the headaches. We can renovate this little house for starters. Wouldn’t you like that?” Sam is deflated.
As usual, Mimi has an answer. “Tell you what. Will you go away for a weekend to study with some people I know?”
Sam sneers. “I’m not going back to school. What do you mean, studying with people? Do I know these people? People, people! I fucking hate people.”
“No, you don’t know them.”
“Why the hell would you think I’d want to do that?”
“Because I spent a year there one weekend; because it’s hard in all the right ways.” Mimi’s toothbrush is as animated as a conductor’s baton. “It changed my attitude about my own capabilities, just like that.” Sam snorts, but pays attention. “If you come back and say you want to be a rocket scientist, we’ll move to Houston. If you decide you want to be a ski lift operator, we’ll move to Colorado. If you want to change your career, I’ll back you up and help you make it happen. But, I bet you’ll come back renewed and ready to find the little restaurant that’s waiting on your particular brand of genius.”
“How much is this gonna cost us?”
“Nothing, Sam. They owe me a free class.”
“Geezus, Mimi. How can this make sense? It makes no sense.”
“Trust the process. All will be known in due time. I’m calling tomorrow.”

Sam ships out on Thursday for Sedona. He breaks boards and learns Japanese business techniques and writes love letters to Mimi; he gains enthusiasm and wishes for a drink and sings God Bless America at the top of his lungs in front of ninety-five strangers while standing in the middle of the desert in his chef whites. Before Sam and Mimi return home from the airport, George Landis calls and leaves a message. He hears through the grapevine that Sam is looking for a restaurant. George is looking for a buyer. His hip little joint is located seven miles from Sam and Mimi’s front door. Yeah. Just like that. Just like that, the Universe grants Sam passage.
…

Jake celebrates his fortieth birthday on the same night Sam returns from Sedona. Julie invites the neighbors over for a cookout in Jake’s honor. Look at my beautiful wife, Jake thinks. Look at my beautiful house with my beautiful dog in my beautiful yard. Julie kisses Jake, stands with her arm around his waist, and exudes warmth. She is one happy woman, Jake fantasizes. Listen to her beautiful laughter. She loves me truly and deeply, seven times deeper than the ocean, or I wouldn’t feel as good as I do right here right now, regardless of the number of tokes I’ve taken.
Right Now Jake and Not Now Julie move upstairs to the bedroom after the neighbors stumble home. Julie and Jake make love. Julie makes love with the same amount of passion it takes to pull a car into the service station. Beige, Julie thinks, while looking at the bedroom wall; I think I’ll paint it beige.
Jake is natural in his grace and movement, his rhythm impeccable. Julie is uneasy; she envies Jake’s loose sense of style and is beginning to despise it. Conventional Julie, progressive Jake. Why can’t Jake be more like the man I fell in love with, Julie asks? Uh oh. Who’s changed? Is it Jake? Wait a minute, Julie thinks. Wait a doggone minute…Julie paces, paces as she thinks out loud. I fell in love with a doctor, not a musician. Do I still love Jake? I don’t know! I love the house and the vacations. I love my car. But Jake bores me. Oh my God! I’m so on the verge of losing my mind. Jake, oh God. Shit! How does he stand me? I am hateful. I need help.
Julie paces, paces. She paces up and down the cream-carpeted steps six times, just to feel her feet moving. She thinks maybe if she falls, she’ll feel something loosen deep inside her. But her brain won’t let her body go. She climbs the steps one more time, turns the corner, and throws her body on the bedroom floor. Feeling overly-dramatic and unsatisfied with this unnatural reaction – she can’t even squeeze out a crocodile tear – Julie stands, emits a small sigh, tucks her tailored pink and lime green, button-down blouse neatly into her size two Calvins, walks into the bathroom, and puts a little lipstick on. Then she calls her best friend, her oldest friend in the world, who happens to be her next door neighbor. “Betsy, it’s Julie.”
“What’s up, Little Pokey?” Betsy asks. Julie is bothered by the pet name, but it’s well-deserved, as everyone knows that in a road race, the tortoise beats Julie to finish line, every time. Julie once was cited for driving too slow, but only Betsy knows this. “Dammit, Betsy, I hate it when you call me that.”
“Too bad, you earned it. You’re the original slow-moving front. What’s up? Walk over for a glass of wine. I’m sitting on the deck in my mu-mu enjoying a nice breeze up the skirt. Come keep me company.”
Julie drops the bomb. “Betsy, I need the name of a marriage counselor.” Betsy almost drops her glass. “Whoa. What happened? Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. My marriage sucks.” Julie tries to sniffle, but there’s nothing to sniffle. She wants to cry, but she’s dry.
“Is Jake running around again?”
“No.”
“Are you?”
“Hell, no, but I’m thinking about it. Listen, you know I treat Jake like a dog. You’ve seen it. I never cook dinner; I never go to his gigs. I hate sleeping with him. I’m the worst kind of wife a man like Jake could possibly have.” Julie pauses, and reaching for a tissue, wipes her still-dry eye.
Betsy says, “I’m listening.”
Julie continues. “I don’t know if I love him, Betsy. I don’t support him, he bores me to tears, and right now I hate every little thing about my life with him. I have to get out of this before I kill myself, or die trying.”
“Easy, Pokey; I’m coming over right now.” Betsy hangs up the phone, grabs her glass of cheap merlot and bolts down the back steps. She’s at Julie’s door in fifteen seconds flat. “Julie? JULIE!” Betsy’s deep voice is familiar to Molly, who wags a hello, but doesn’t move from the cool spot on the floor. Betsy rubs Molly with her flip-flopped foot as she steps over her, pausing just long enough to drain her glass.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Julie yells back. “Wine, or coffee?”
“Wine, red if you have it,” says Betsy. “White’ll work, though. What do you mean you don’t love Jake anymore?” Betsy pulls two slims from Julie’s pack, lights them both, and hands one to Julie.
“I didn’t say I don’t love him. I said I don’t know.” Julie draws deeply and looks at Betsy, shrugging her shoulders. She turns on the stove vent and pulls up a stool. She studies Betsy’s broad face, and finds no judgment there.
“When’s the last time you talked, I mean really talked, to Jake?” Betsy asks. “Heart to heart?”
“The day we got married,” Julie says as she pours two glasses of even cheaper merlot into expensive crystal glasses. Julie dresses up the swill in party clothes because plastic is a buzz-kill. Betsy ignores Julie’s cynicism. “I just saw you guys last weekend. You were wrapped up in each other. You looked happy.”
“Looks are deceiving. Didn’t mean a thing, at least not to me.”
“Does he know how you feel?”
“How could he not? I’m rude to him!”
“But, why, Julie? Has he done something bad?”
“I honestly don’t know. And I don't give a damn if he has. It'd make my decision easier.” Julie’s face drops, and darkens into hollow undertones. For the first time, Betsy sees Julie’s pain. She pauses before speaking her mind. “Julie, you’re walking a thin line here. You have affair written all over you.”
“Believe me, Betsy, I know.” They take a deep united breath, and chase it with a long pull. Betsy straightens her mu-mu. “Okay, here’s what you do: forget we ever had this conversation. I’ll go on home and let you figure this out.” She smiles at Julie. “Oh, by the way, did I mention that Ben is playing golf in Charleston this weekend and Megan is spending the night with a friend? And that I’m yours for as long as you need me?”
Julie looks up. “Betsy, I love you.” She says the words she cannot speak to Jake, and they ring true. “Thank you so much.” Betsy reaches for Julie’s hand, and Julie, utterly devoid of affection on most given days, allows and embraces her kind touch. Betsy squeezes Julie’s hand three times, drops it, and says, “I love you too, Little Pokey. Now, dive into the deep end. I’ll be your lifeguard. But first, pour a little more of that juicy juice, willya? And I need a snack, too.”
Julie passes the bottle to Betsy and opens the refrigerator. “How about cream cheese and olives on rye? It’s left over from Jake’s party. Should be good, right?”
“This wine’s not picky,” Betsy says, reaching for two paper towels.
Julie sits across from Betsy, sipping and dipping, sorting the olives out of the cream cheese, searching for a clue. “How long have you known me, Betsy?”
“Let’s see…you and Jake moved here when Megan was four and she’s twelve now. Eight years.”
“Have I changed?” Julie’s sniffles are productive this time.
“Well, I’ve never seen you cry before. That’s a change. That’s good! Here, blow your nose.” Betsy hands Julie her paper towel.
“I didn’t know I was crying. God. That feels different.” Julie dries her eyes. “What else?”
“Let me think for a minute. Okay, here it is – I never see you outside anymore. Jake always walks Molly.” Betsy chooses her next words carefully. “Now, don’t get mad at me. You seem to be more focused on your manicure than your flowerbed, know what I mean?”
“Maybe I need to get more dirt under my fingernails.”
“Would that bring you closer to Jake?”
“Jake washes his hands before taking a shower. He hates dirt.”
Betsy stands up and walks to the refrigerator. Nothing’s left but a jar of pickles. She moves to the pantry and finds a bag of pita chips. “Okay, there’s your problem,” she says. “Ya’ll need to turn on the sprinkler and roll naked in the mud one time.”
“Are you out of your mind? No way.”
“Come on, Jules. You think linearly when you need to think spatially. Too far gone to recognize a good metaphor when you hear one?” Julie rolls her eyes at Betsy and pours more wine. “Here you go with the philosophical bullshit. Are you going to suggest meditation next? Have a talk with God? Keep a secret journal?” Julie pounds her fist on the counter. “Solid, Betsy. I need solid. Give me some direct answers, please. Hold the New Agey crap. Geezus.”
“Listen to me, now. Are you listening? Because this is important. It seems to me as if you’ve lost your heart connection with Jake, and probably with most of what you hold dear. Here’s a question for you: when you were a kid, how did you spend your time?”
“What is this, some kind of test? Because if you’re trying to prove I had a rotten childhood, I didn’t. My problems are adult problems.”
“Stick with me here. What did you like to do when you were a kid, Julie? It’s not a trick question. There’s no wrong answer.”
“Alright. I read all the time.”
“What else?”
“I spent almost every weekend at my grandparent’s farm.”
“Doing what?”
Julie smiles. “Making vanilla pudding from scratch, and plucking chickens, and riding Granddaddy’s old mule double bareback with my cousin Amy. And playing the piano and painting in my room.” Julie shakes her head and grins. “I used to see faces in the pine paneling and paint them. I had an extended family of wood people. Kind of weird, now that I think about it.”
Betsy laughs. “It’s not weird to me. I had a poster of Del Monte canned peas on my bedroom wall. Each pea had a face, a name, and a personality.”
“What kind of drugs were you on?”
“None! I was in between experiences. Now, of all those activities, what did you enjoy most?
Julie doesn’t hesitate. “I enjoyed everything but plucking chickens.”
“And which of those activities do you enjoy at present?”
“What are you, Betsy, an attorney? Where are you coming up with this stuff? Reading. That’s it. I don’t have time for anything else.”
Betsy makes her case. “See, Julie, that’s fucked up. Do you and Jake ever play piano together?”
“No, he used to ask me to, but I never did. He finally stopped asking. I haven’t been in his studio in over a year. All he does is play the same weird stuff over and over and over. Fusion, he calls it. I call it a mistake. It gives me a headache.” Julie stabs one cigarette to death and lights another.
“No, it’s your chain-smoking that gives you a headache, dummy.” Betsy fires one up, takes a drag, and blows three perfect smoke rings. Julie sticks a finger in all of them, breaking up the circles. “This is the way I see it,” Betsy says. “You are so busy succeeding with your head that your heart is failing. You are on the verge of a nervous breakdown and the only way to prevent one is to engage your heart immediately. Get some brushes and paint some faces. Put down the book and make some pudding. Go down in the studio and play piano with Jake. Do something to reconnect with your spirit, and you’ll reconnect with Jake’s. Does that make sense?”
“What if I just smoke some pot instead? Is that an option?”
“Whatever moves you, but you should always remember to share with your girlfriends.” Betsy and Julie eye each other.
“Betsy, tell me if I’m crazy, but I have an overwhelming need to look at Jake. Let’s smoke a joint and go to the club. It’ll tip him over. He won’t believe it when he sees us. It’ll totally flip him out!”
Betsy looks at her watch, and drains her glass on her way to the door. “It’s 9:15. I’ll take a quick shower, and be ready to walk out the door at ten.”
“I’ll drive,” says Julie.
“No way, Pokey. I’m driving. Be on the porch at ten sharp!”
“Betsy, you’re wasting your time as an accountant. Why aren’t you a counselor?”
“Because there’s more money in accounting,” Betsy says. “And, I can think linearly and spatially at the same time; not everyone can do that, you know.” She looks at Julie, and bestows a silent, calming blessing upon her angst-ridden soul. “I’m outta here,” shouts Betsy. “Get your game face on.”

…

Jake and the band are taking a twenty-minute break between the second and third set of what promises to be a typical high-energy gig, the usual Friday night scene at the Firedrake and the Dragon. Return of the Brecker Brothers revs up the bartenders and increases the volume on conversation from front to back, from up to down, from all around. Above it all, Mimi can hear the ching-ching of the register from her seat on the patio, can feel the vibe of the register as it slams shut. Or, maybe it’s the righteous groove of track two, “King of the Lobby,” that makes her want to dance.
A competent Amazon-sized red-headed cocktail waitress with a no-nonsense attitude takes their order of two ice waters without flinching and delivers within five minutes. Sam tips her five dollars. The waitress doesn’t know who they are and won’t until next Wednesday, but Sam and Mimi agree she’s a keeper. Sam is counting covers and watching the dollar exchange with sharp, slow motion vision. “I think bluegrass will do well here,” Sam says. “I think anything will do well here,” Mimi responds. “Jazz certainly does.”
“Did you look upstairs?” Sam hasn’t left his seat, but Mimi is a wanderer.
“Briefly, when I went to the ladies room. It smells stuffy up there. And hot. Pretty grungy-looking, too. Whole place needs a good scrubbing. It looks like a roach motel.”
Sam grunts. “We won’t think about that until Monday, Mimi. And we clean on Tuesday.”
“Did you make dinner reservations for tomorrow night?” Mimi asks.
“No, let’s just show up at seven and see what happens.”
“What time do we meet George on Sunday?”
“Eleven a.m., upstairs. We bring pastry, he makes coffee.”
“Decaf, too?” Mimi needs no extra palpitation. She throbs all by herself.
“Yep, I told him.” Sam looks at Mimi for the first time during this exchange. She smiles at him and touches his face gently. “Let’s hit the road, Jack. I’m feeling a fade coming on.”

Julie spies Jake standing outside by the fence surrounded by his fellow band mates and a few groupies. A mass of humanity stands between Jake and Julie, but Jake feels her; he turns and draws a bead into his wife’s eyes from twenty paces. He makes his way to her and they kiss solidly on the mouth before he moves onto the stage to prepare for the next set. “I’ll be awake when you get home,” Julie whispers. Julie’s 210-volt light switch is on, really on for the first time in months, and Jake fires up; he feeds off her energy boost. The rest of the band is coming in the door. The bartender looks at her watch; right on time. “I love these guys,” she says aloud.
Julie and Betsy sit outside at the table recently vacated by Sam and Mimi. Jake can see Julie from his piano bench. He can’t take his eyes off her, but when he does, she disappears.
If she sits very still with both feet on the ground and closes her eyes, Julie can feel Jake’s heartbeat through the concrete patio floor, feel the deep bass notes of his heartbeat laying down the bottom line and stretching the groove so far out that it echoes and Julie feels it in her pulse from the distance of twelve traffic lights. Jake’s beat carries her home.