Small Change (17 page)

What kind of trouble was Chad Alvarez hiding in his back pocket?

B
y the time Rachel stepped back inside the house Jess had managed to calm Tiffany down from sobs to sniffles and a pile of Kleenex sat in her lap. “I can't blame Brian for leaving me,” Tiffany whimpered. “I'd leave me, too.”

Still, to up and walk out. It seemed so heartless. Jess found it difficult to match that behavior with the man who had fixed Rachel's minivan for free. “I have to admit, I thought he was one of the good ones.” But you never really knew about people, especially males. Even the best of them had faulty mental wiring.

“You're so lucky,” Tiffany said to Jess. “You have the perfect man.”

“That is an oxymoron,” said Jess. She scooped up the tissues and tossed them in Rachel's garbage.

“That's encouraging,” said Rachel, taking another chocolate. “Maybe I shouldn't see Chad again.”

“Yes, you should,” said Jess. “For all you know, he might be one of the good ones.”

“I'm beginning to wonder if there are any,” said Rachel.

“There are,” Jess said. “Hang in there,” she told Tiffany. “Things will work out with Brian. He loves you.”

This made Tiffany break into fresh tears.

“It'll be okay, Tiff,” Rachel said, rubbing her shoulder. “I've got an idea. I got a comedy from Netflix. Let's kick back and watch that. It'll do you good to laugh.”

Tiff shook her head and stood. “No, I'm going home. I need to finish listing my stuff. I'm going to make money and pay off those credit cards if it kills me.”

Making money, there was a novel idea. The thought of going for it and finding a band to play with tickled the back of Jess's mind. One last time, it was so tempting. Except she was so over the hill.

Over the hill, yes, but she wasn't all the way into the damned valley. Was she?

Tiffany was marching for the door now. “I'm going to prove to Brian that I can do more than spend money.”

“I guess I'll watch the movie by myself then,” said Rachel. “Unless you want to stay,” she said to Jess.

Jess shook her head. “No. I'll take your picture. Then I'd better get back to my not-so-happy home.

So the pity party broke up, and Jess returned home to find that Michael had relocated from the family room to the living room and was now seated at her piano, reading her song-in-progress.

He looked up, a crooked smile on his face. “I guess I'm going to be celibate for a while.”

Instead of joining him at the piano, she settled on the couch. “The thought crossed my mind. It's hard to get in the mood when I'm mad at you.”

He pressed down a piano key, making the instrument echo a
solitary note. “You know our son and I have always settled our differences.”

“This was not a difference. This was a shouting match with you doing most of the shouting.”

Michael took in a deep breath. “I promise if we haven't heard from him by the end of the week I'll call him. Fair enough?”

Her husband hadn't been fair in the first place, but she nodded.

“Now, how about eating dinner with me?” he asked.

“I don't know. I am right in the middle of writing a song.”

He joined her on the couch and slipped an arm around her. “I know it will be a hit with every married woman in America.”

“Probably.”

“But could you give your man a second chance?” Michael asked humbly.

“Only if my man promises to follow through and make things right with our son by the end of the week,” Jess said sternly. “You really hurt him, Michael.”

He sighed. “I'll make it right, I promise.”

That was one of the things she loved about her husband, he was a man of his word. “Then okay,” she said, and they sealed the deal with a kiss. But he was smart enough not to expect more than that, and she didn't offer. Forgiveness was one thing, but wholehearted sex would have been quite another. One thing Jess had learned in her forty-four years on the planet: men were like puppies, and the woman who wanted hers to behave properly only rewarded good behavior.

The following morning, before going to work, Jess got on the computer and checked out several musicians' classified ads sites just for
the heck of it. She knew it was a long shot, but she also knew that if she didn't at least try she'd regret it. On one, she found an interesting ad.
Wanted: keyboard player for all-girl band. Classic rock/country. Must be able to sing lead and BGV's.
Background vocals? Yes! She loved singing harmony.
No drugs, no booze, just music,
the ad concluded. That worked fine for Jess. What she wasn't sure would work was her age.

What the heck. She had nothing to lose … except twenty pounds. Knowing it was a long shot, she sent off an e-mail extolling her talent and then ran to get dressed for a day of hopping around on mats at the gym.

Gene, the gymnastics instructor, had actually been working with her and she was looking pretty darned good mounting the beam now. She could probably work at the Park Department forever, and that would be okay. She enjoyed working with the kids.

But the thought of getting to be in a band again was what really got her blood pumping as she climbed into the truck.
Please, oh, please, let me find an e-mail when I get home.
Thinking about the possibility of getting to play to a crowd again took her mind off the sad fact that she was not in her little red VW anymore and some-where a cute, blond college student was now tooling around in it with the top down and the radio up.

Miracle of miracles, there was an e-mail waiting for her when she arrived home, and it was good news. “Yes, we're still looking for a keyboard player,” wrote Amy Burke. “Our band is called The Red Hots. We're practicing tomorrow night at seven if you want to come jam with us. Let's see how it works.” She gave her address, then added, “Bring your keyboard.”

Jess suddenly felt sick. The Red Hots? She was more lukewarm. They'd take one look at her and laugh her out of the room.
Her keyboard didn't look any better. It was an ancient Casio that had been hot stuff when she'd played in her band. Back when the pterodactyls flew. Did she want to show up for an audition with that thing in tow?

The answer to that came quickly. So, again, into the city she went, this time to Gig Land, where she looked at everything from Casios to Rowlands. She wound up choosing a Yamaha Motif for a small fortune, reconciling the cost by getting in touch with her inner Tiffany and reminding herself it was on sale. She had just saved five hundred dollars.

But look how much she'd spent to save that five hundred!

She chewed her lip as the clerk began ringing up the sale. Okay, this was ridiculous. How fancy a keyboard did she need? In fact, did she really need a new keyboard to go to an audition? It wasn't the instrument; it was the player. A good player could show off her chops on anything. Of course, when the other band girls saw her vintage keyboard they'd fall over laughing and start singing “Hit the Road, Jack.” But they could as easily reject her when they saw she wasn't twenty and then she'd have wasted a big chunk of change. She'd make do with what she had and if her equipment wasn't good enough then this wasn't the band for her anyway.

“I've changed my mind,” she said.

The clerk's eyebrows shot up. “This is a sweet deal.”

“It's only a sweet deal when you've got the money,” Jess said, more to herself than him.

“We can set up a payment plan,” he offered.

If she got in the band maybe she'd do it. Or maybe she would learn to make do. Now, there was a novel concept. “I'll think about it.” Long and hard.

Tiffany had not only listed her garage sale finds on eBay, she'd also listed half the contents of her house. If everything sold she'd have a nice chunk of money for paying down her credit cards, and she'd have a lot less clutter, too. Now that she was on a roll, she wanted to go even faster. Maybe she could run a special on nails and pick up some new customers.

“So, how's the eBay biz going?” Cara asked as they visited during a lull at the salon.

“Great,” said Tiffany. “I'll have my charge cards paid off in no time.” And Brian back, too, so there was no point in mentioning that he'd moved out. He still loved her and she loved him. This was just … what was it? She wasn't sure, but whatever it was it wouldn't last.

She gave two more manicures and a pedicure and then it was time to quit for the day. No more appointments. Time to go home to her empty house.

But first she had to make a quick grocery stop. Not that she had much appetite. She had managed to present a smiling front to everyone who came into the salon, but inside she felt sick. Ginger ale and crackers were about all she could handle. And chocolate.

Maybe she'd grab some chicken, too, because, after all, Brian could decide to come home tonight and she'd have to have some-thing on hand to feed him.

It was a slender thread of hope, but she clung to it for all she was worth as she left Salon H and prepared to cross the street. An older woman was waiting to cross, too, and someone stopped his Jeep to let her go.

His Jeep! Of course, it was Brian. She saw him and he saw her. But he pressed his lips into a thin line and looked the other way.

Mortification set her face on fire and she blinked back angry tears as she hurried across the street. This was the man who had stood in a church filled with family and friends, vowing to love her for the rest of their lives? What happened to “till death us part”? Last time she looked her heart was still beating. When the going got tough he got out.
Thanks a lot, Brian
. She was so not getting that chicken.

She picked up phad Thai from the deli (heck with the stupid ginger ale and crackers) and a bag of mini Hershey bars. She'd go home, have a feast, and check to see how many bids she had on eBay, and she wouldn't give Brian even one teensy-weensy thought. So there.

It was a good thing she'd found out what her husband was really like before they had a baby. She didn't want to have children with Brian. She didn't want to have a life with Brian. And she sure didn't want to have any bills with Brian. She was so done with him.

To prove to herself that she was serious, when she got home she removed their wedding picture from the dresser in their bedroom. To think she'd gone to sleep the night before looking at that picture and wishing Brian would come back. Well, no more. She stuffed it in the bottom drawer to suffocate under her jeans and shoved the drawer shut. Then she threw herself on the bed and cried.

E
verything was ready for Rachel's dinner with Chad. The chicken had been marinating in teriyaki sauce and the barbecue was fired up. Her potato salad was done and so was the tossed salad, and she had French bread warming in the oven and some cheap white wine cooling in the fridge. She had picked raspberries at her friend Elsa's house and now a freshly baked raspberry pie sat on the counter. The patio table looked pretty with her best dishes and flowers from Jess's garden. Rachel had even broken down and mowed the lawn and it looked beautiful.

So did she. She was wearing her new navy top with her new shorts and sandals, and Tiff would have been proud to see that she was wearing her hair down—no horsetail. The scene was set. All she needed was her male lead.

The doorbell rang, making her pulse jump. There he was. Good grief, she felt like she was fifteen again. She took a deep breath and hurried to the front door.

It was like opening the door on a work of art. In jeans and a simple tee, Chad Alvarez put Michelangelo's David to shame. A
perfect body, a perfect face with the most mesmerizing brown eyes she had ever seen, he looked too good to be true. She sure hoped he wasn't.

He held out a bottle of white wine. It wasn't the cheap brand she had chilling in the fridge. “I hope this was a good guess.”

“Perfect,” she said, and took the bottle. “Come on out to the kitchen. I was just about to put the chicken on the barbecue.”

“How about I put it on for you?” he offered.

“Great. Thanks.” Here was a pleasant surprise. Aaron had never been much help in the kitchen. Aaron had never been much help, period. She'd been so hurt, so angry when he wanted to wiggle out of his marriage vows. Now, for the first time, she wondered if her mother really was right when she said God never closed a door without opening a window.

Chad slipped out onto the patio to man the barbecue and Rachel opened the wine and put some brie and crackers on the patio table. She handed him a glass and he tipped it her direction with a smile. “Here's to a memorable evening.”

Her mind immediately played word association. Memorable? Kiss! Very good, said her hormones, and her heart rate jumped.

“You look nice, by the way,” he added.

She looked down at her hot self. “I do, don't I? I found this outfit at Bargain Boutique.”

“You are a smart shopper,” he approved.

“I don't know about that,” she said, “but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think it would be nice not to have to struggle with money so much.”

“Sometimes the struggling makes you appreciate it all the more when you get it,” he said, giving the chicken a turn.

“There is that.” She realized that, while her life was fast
becoming an open book, she still didn't know much about him and what he did. “So, do you struggle?”

He smiled. “I work hard. Does that count?”

“I'd say so.” Rachel cut a piece of cheese and offered it to him along with a cracker and he popped both in his mouth. “Kind of a tough market around here for selling real estate right now,” she observed.

“It's been better.”

Having just invested in the house next door and with no renters, his budget had to be tighter than hers. She felt a fresh appreciation for all the effort he'd put into giving her a romantic date.

“Things will turn around,” he predicted. “They usually do if you wait long enough.”

She thought of her love life and smiled. “I think you could be right.”

A few moments later, Chad judged the chicken ready to eat. She brought out a platter and they set it on the table along with the rest of the food. He scored more points by declaring her potato salad the best he'd ever eaten. And he earned her sympathy by admitting that he hadn't come off of the romantic battlefield unscarred. She'd already guessed as much on their date when he'd mentioned having an ex. Even though he brushed over the subject quickly now it wasn't hard to hear the pain. He said he'd been single for several years. Was he still in divorce recovery? Had he had girlfriends since?

“You never wanted to get back on the horse?” she asked.

“You get kicked hard enough and it makes you think twice,” he admitted. He set down his wineglass and regarded her. “It would take a very special woman.”

“Define
special.
”

“The right values, the right heart. I'm not in a hurry, Rachel. Are you?”

After what she'd been through with Aaron? “No.”

“But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to you and that I didn't want to take this relationship further.”

It wasn't hard to figure out what he meant by
further
, not with the way he was looking at her. That look in his eye started a sizzle in her that had nothing to do with the hot July evening. Her mouth felt suddenly dry.

He reached for the bottle of wine and poured more into her glass. “How about you, Rachel? What do you want?”

She wanted her prince to come. She wanted to never get hurt again. She wanted to feel loved, protected, and safe. But she didn't tell him all that. She said, “I want you to kiss me.”

Amy Burke, the leader of The Red Hots, had given Jess an address in the Shoreline area, which lay south of Heart Lake and north of Seattle. Being directionally challenged, Jess had Mapquested it; thanks to the step-by-step directions, she was sure she'd be able to find the place. She had just loaded her keyboard in the back of the truck when Michael returned home from a late afternoon interview in the city.

She had half hoped to miss him, preferring to leave him a note explaining where she was rather than tell him in person. She was out to land a part-time job that would leave him abandoned on the weekends. Of course, Michael was supportive of everything she did, except he was more supportive of some things than others. She'd been in a band when they first met. She'd joined another band when their kids were small. He'd been a good sport, watching the kids at
night while she went off to play, but eventually he'd convinced her that she didn't want to be on a different schedule than the rest of the family, showing up at Saturday morning soccer games looking like a zombie or needing a nap on Sunday afternoons to recharge her batteries. But now it was just the two of them and she didn't want to be convinced out of even auditioning.

She forestalled the inevitable by asking, “How did the interview go?”

“I've had better,” he confessed. “I suspect they're going to hire from within.” He took in her tight jeans, ribbed black top, and dangly rhinestone earrings, along with her moused hair and freshly painted red toenails peeping out from behind her favorite red flower flip-flops. “Got a hot date?”

“Got a band audition.”

His brows drew together. “Band audition? When did this happen? This is the first I've heard of it.”

“Well, it might be the last, too. I didn't want to tell you since I may not even be what they're looking for.”

“If you're not, they're nuts. But, Jess, I wish you'd talked to me about this.”

“What's there to talk about?”

“How about whether I want you to do it or not?”

“Since when do I need your permission to make money?” Of course, this wasn't really about the money. The old Bangles song “If She Knew What He Wanted” came to mind. Only with them it was more a case of if
he
knew what
she
wanted. Except Michael knew. He simply didn't like giving it.

He held up a hand. “You don't have to say it. That sounded controlling.”

“A little,” she said sarcastically.

“But I remember what happens when you get involved in bands. I'll never see you.”

“As of tomorrow you're unemployed. We'll be seeing a lot of each other.” Maybe even too much. Probably joining a band couldn't come at a better time.

“I'll be getting another job,” Michael said. His tone of voice told her she'd insulted him.

She stepped up to him and rubbed his arm. “I know, Michael. But we don't know when. You could be out of work for months.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said grimly.

“I just want to do my part to help. And as we both know, I don't have a lot of marketable skills.”

“Fine,” he said grumpily. “Go.”

They both knew she was going to, no matter what, but she played along with the charade, kissing him on the cheek and thanking him for being so understanding even though he didn't really understand. People who weren't musicians couldn't.

“But here,” he said, letting down the truck's tailgate and pulling out her Casio. “Take the car. You'll use less gas.”

“There's lasagna in the oven,” she told him as he loaded it in the trunk. Then she kissed him one last time and got in behind the wheel. He watched her, looking resigned. Life was about change. He would adapt.

Maybe he wouldn't have to. Maybe she wouldn't get the gig. Maybe they'd laugh her out of the room. She gripped the steering wheel and swallowed hard.

Jess was glad she'd allowed herself plenty of time to find where the band was practicing since, even with the directions, she'd managed
to get lost. But now she was standing with her trusty keyboard and amp at the front door of a split-level house in a middle-class neighborhood. Out-of-control azaleas crouched around the front porch while on the front lawn a sprinkler made a feeble attempt to keep the grass from turning brown under the July sun. An ancient Honda sat in the driveway, blocked in by two other vehicles that Jess guessed belonged to the other band members: an SUV and a Volkswagen bug that triggered a sentimental pang. A boy's bicycle leaned against the garage, evidence that Amy Burke had at least one child. From somewhere deep inside the house Jess thought she heard the thumping of a bass. She rang the doorbell and the chime started some sort of small dog yapping. Kids, dogs, and a messy front lawn— it reminded Jess of her own life a few years back.

“Killer, stop!” commanded a female voice. The front door opened wide and there stood a pretty thirty-something blonde, holding a Chihuahua. The dog took one look at Jess and started barking all over again. “Oh, stop,” said the woman in disgust. “He is wound way too tight,” she explained. “You must be Jess.”

“That's me,” said Jess, trying to inject as much good cheer and youth into her voice as possible.

“I'm Amy. Come on in. Everyone else is down in the basement. Careful you don't trip over the shoes.”

Jess maneuvered her equipment through the narrow landing and past a pile of tennis shoes—okay, Amy definitely had more than one child—and down the stairs. She wound up in a huge rec room that housed a battered pool table at one end and a band at the other. She quickly took in her possible future bandmates.

At the drums sat a skinny blonde with the face of an angel who looked like she was barely into her twenties. Her long hair was caught up in a sloppy bun and she was wearing soccer shorts, a
baggy T-shirt, and tennis shoes. The bass player stood chatting with her and twiddling her instrument. She didn't look much older than the drummer. Jess took in the stylish clothes, maroon hair, the sleeve tattoo, and the multiple ear piercings and suddenly felt old. These women were too hip, too hot. They'd never want to play with her. She must have been out of her mind to think she could do this.

The bass player smiled at her. It was an open, friendly smile. Maybe she needed glasses and couldn't see that Jess was the only one in this room who was over the hill.

“Well, this is us,” said Amy. “You obviously know who I am.” She motioned to the drummer. “This is my baby sister, Kit Mason.”

The drummer saluted Jess with a twirl of her drumstick and said, “Hi.”

“And I'm Melissa,” said the bass player.

“You don't even want to know her last name,” added Amy. “Her husband's Czech and none of us can pronounce it, not even her.” She motioned to a small cooler. “If you get thirsty, we've got Diet Pepsi, Dr Pepper, and Starbucks fraps. That's about as wild as we get. You saw the ad. We don't do drugs and we don't drink when we're playing. Ever,” Amy added sternly.