polished to a brilliant sheen. The house recalls the grandeur of New Orleans, and the antiques give it character. At any moment, you half expect a Southern belle with a hoop skirt, or a flapper from the 1920s, to walk down the stairs… or Sadie to return to life.
I pulled another plate out of the china cabinet. The plates had been imported from France at the turn of the twentieth century by my great-great-grandmother. It made me nervous serving on them. Each of them, hand-painted with a pattern of tea roses, was probably worth more than the band pulled in on a Friday night, but my grandmother doesn't believe in saving the good china for fancy occasions. Her motto is: "Having your friends gathered around your table is occasion enough." We'd lost a plate and a saucer or two, as well as several teacups—three when we opened our house to a Christmastime historic-homes tour—but we still had most of the pieces, and the table did look spectacular each Sunday, with ivory-colored linen napkins and stemware sparkling beneath a chandelier dangling with Austrian crystals.
After setting the table, I went up to my room to wait for Tony.
Tony lives for the blues. Every Sunday he and I listen to music for hours before dinner. This Sunday, he arrived disheveled as always, his shirt crumpled. He wears his hair close to bald, shaven down, which makes him look like a tough guy. His black eyes twinkling as he poked his head into my room, he gave me a crooked grin. He has a pair of dimples, pale Irish skin, near-perpetual five-o'clock shadow and a small, ragged white scar over his right eye. He's our bass player, and he moonlights as a limo driver—mostly airport runs. He doesn't say very much in a crowd, but he clearly loves Nan, as he always brings her a bouquet of magnolias or jasmine when he comes. He's an amateur horticulturist, and beyond that, we don't know much about him. I tell Jack I think he's in the witness protection program. He never misses a Sunday Saints Supper—and occasionally, after several glasses of wine, his brogue considerably thickens as he sings ballads for us. He's closemouthed about how he got from Dublin to Louisiana, of all places, or even when he came to the United States. This has led Jack and me to a new conclusion that he's actually an
IRA
gunrunner hiding from Interpol.
"Brought you something." He walked in and put a flat, square package in my hand.
"Hmm… what could this be?" I joked, though it could only be a record. Tony haunts a used-CD and record store, always digging up rare finds. I pulled the album out of the bag. "A Mildred Bailey."
"I hope you don't have it." He said, his brogue a lilt that made every sentence, even those that weren't questions, end on a rising note.
"No… I don't. But then again, I think you know my record collection better than I do. Thanks, Tony." I jumped up and kissed him. He flushed, the pink almost translucent on his skin, and moved away.
"Put it on."
I went over to my old stereo, a Philco that had belonged to my Dad. I know CDs are scratch-free and sound… perfect, but I like listening to old albums. They take me back in time. Mildred came on singing, a true blues goddess. Tony came over closer to me.
"What a voice."
I nodded.
"You're just as good. One of these days, you're going to have to leave the band and go sing what you feel, Georgia."
I shrugged. "I know."
"We could go to Ireland."
I turned to face him. "What?"
"Go to Ireland. Play the blues… I miss Ireland. Dreary sort of place sometimes. But I'm homesick, Georgia. Miss the green grass. Really is emerald. Leprechauns, too."
"Sure. Four-leaf clovers. Pots of gold."
"You're talking now. And ale. Very good ale."
"You would go back there?" I had gotten used to Tony. He was, besides Red, the only person who understood the blues. We didn't have to speak just shut our eyes and listen.
"Someday."
"And what do you mean
we
?"
He stammered. "Nothing… Nothing. I didn't mean a thing. I guess I
I pulled another plate out of the china cabinet. The plates had been imported from France at the turn of the twentieth century by my great-great-grandmother. It made me nervous serving on them. Each of them, hand-painted with a pattern of tea roses, was probably worth more than the band pulled in on a Friday night, but my grandmother doesn't believe in saving the good china for fancy occasions. Her motto is: "Having your friends gathered around your table is occasion enough." We'd lost a plate and a saucer or two, as well as several teacups—three when we opened our house to a Christmastime historic-homes tour—but we still had most of the pieces, and the table did look spectacular each Sunday, with ivory-colored linen napkins and stemware sparkling beneath a chandelier dangling with Austrian crystals.
After setting the table, I went up to my room to wait for Tony.
Tony lives for the blues. Every Sunday he and I listen to music for hours before dinner. This Sunday, he arrived disheveled as always, his shirt crumpled. He wears his hair close to bald, shaven down, which makes him look like a tough guy. His black eyes twinkling as he poked his head into my room, he gave me a crooked grin. He has a pair of dimples, pale Irish skin, near-perpetual five-o'clock shadow and a small, ragged white scar over his right eye. He's our bass player, and he moonlights as a limo driver—mostly airport runs. He doesn't say very much in a crowd, but he clearly loves Nan, as he always brings her a bouquet of magnolias or jasmine when he comes. He's an amateur horticulturist, and beyond that, we don't know much about him. I tell Jack I think he's in the witness protection program. He never misses a Sunday Saints Supper—and occasionally, after several glasses of wine, his brogue considerably thickens as he sings ballads for us. He's closemouthed about how he got from Dublin to Louisiana, of all places, or even when he came to the United States. This has led Jack and me to a new conclusion that he's actually an
IRA
gunrunner hiding from Interpol.
"Brought you something." He walked in and put a flat, square package in my hand.
"Hmm… what could this be?" I joked, though it could only be a record. Tony haunts a used-CD and record store, always digging up rare finds. I pulled the album out of the bag. "A Mildred Bailey."
"I hope you don't have it." He said, his brogue a lilt that made every sentence, even those that weren't questions, end on a rising note.
"No… I don't. But then again, I think you know my record collection better than I do. Thanks, Tony." I jumped up and kissed him. He flushed, the pink almost translucent on his skin, and moved away.
"Put it on."
I went over to my old stereo, a Philco that had belonged to my Dad. I know CDs are scratch-free and sound… perfect, but I like listening to old albums. They take me back in time. Mildred came on singing, a true blues goddess. Tony came over closer to me.
"What a voice."
I nodded.
"You're just as good. One of these days, you're going to have to leave the band and go sing what you feel, Georgia."
I shrugged. "I know."
"We could go to Ireland."
I turned to face him. "What?"
"Go to Ireland. Play the blues… I miss Ireland. Dreary sort of place sometimes. But I'm homesick, Georgia. Miss the green grass. Really is emerald. Leprechauns, too."
"Sure. Four-leaf clovers. Pots of gold."
"You're talking now. And ale. Very good ale."
"You would go back there?" I had gotten used to Tony. He was, besides Red, the only person who understood the blues. We didn't have to speak just shut our eyes and listen.
"Someday."
"And what do you mean
we
?"
He stammered. "Nothing… Nothing. I didn't mean a thing. I guess I
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