“How about the day after New Year’s?”
“Perfect,” said Emilia Mae, trying to hide her smile. A fifteen-year-old at the Neptune Inn? Yup, there’s a girl who’d get noticed.
Part 2
Snow, like a bridal veil, draped the mountain peaks in winter. In spring, the braided green mountains shouldered the clouds while in summer, wild columbine set the mountains ablaze. Each sunrise renewed its vow of beauty, and when the sun set, it was as if the earth had split open to reveal its deepest colors.
Measured against any other place on earth, Skyville, North Carolina, had no peers. It was the kind of place that defined and inhabited a person no matter if they were born in it or serendipitously stumbled upon it. While they were there, it devoured them; when they weren’t, they craved it. In its isolated beauty, Skyville was a place that heaven might have called a neighbor.
Or so they said.
Chapter 3
After Beau Fox’s car broke down outside of Asheville, North Carolina, in 1929, he found himself a small log cabin on the edge of a town called Skyville. The cabin had two small bedrooms; a tiny kitchen with a wash basin, an icebox, and a two-burner stove; a bluestone fireplace; and, miraculously, built-in wooden bookshelves in the living room that held all of his antique musical instruments. The place was dark and small and had no land to speak of, but the price—$8 a month—suited Beau just fine. When he lit a fire, the room took on a permanent sunset glow. Beau said that glow was all he needed and bought no furniture except for a used bed.
The first time Beau brought Lily Doucet to the cabin, she threw her primrose shawl onto the dingy bed and said, “You need color; this will have to do.”
Beau had met Lily at the La Salle pool hall two miles outside of town, where she was a waitress and where Beau would hang out when he wasn’t on the road. He took notice of her one evening, when the song “After You’ve Gone” was playing on the gramophone. He saw that Lily stood in place by the kitchen door, closed her eyes, and sang along. She knew all the words and sang with brazen sadness and a wad of gum in her mouth.
After you’ve gone and left me crying
After you’ve gone, there’s no denying
You’ll feel blue, you’ll feel sad.
You’ll miss the dearest pal you’ve ever had.
He moved to the side of the room where the kitchen was so that when she opened her eyes, he was standing next to her. “That was pretty,” he said.
“Marion Harris,” she answered, without looking at him.
“That gal sings from her heart,” he said. “So do you. Anyway, how in the world do you know about Marion Harris?”
Lily smiled impatiently. “Everyone who knows anything about the blues knows Marion Harris. I aim to be a blues singer like her someday.”
Beau had never met a woman who’d ever heard of Marion Harris, much less knew about the blues. “I understand a thing or two about music,” he said. “I’d say you haven’t far to go.”
“You in the record business?” she asked, tilting her perfectly square chin toward him. Her cinnamon eyes lit up as her baby lips curved into a flirtatious smile. Beau was tempted to say he was, just to see what else her mouth and eyes would do, but he knew from experience that women like this always saw through his flimsy lies.
“Nah, I’m just a guy who sells antique musical instruments. I can play a bit, but I wish I had a real ear for music.”
“Well, at least you’re an honest man. I like that.”
“And you’re a beautiful woman,” he said even though he didn’t think she was. Her teeth were yellowed and her knees knocked, but she had that mouth, a perfectly square chin, and a body that was generous in every way. That counted for something. Plus, she spoke her mind and had more music in her than any woman he’d ever met.
She looked him up and down. Older, much older than she was. Saw that he was short and slim and powerful, with no waste on him. He had a tiny beard like a grackle’s tail, but there was truth in his blue eyes, and sweetness in his smile. So when he said, “I know a place we could go to hear real blues and drink real booze. You care to come along?” Lily did that thing with her eyes and mouth and said she could be ready by ten.
Beau took her to a place that was hidden under Pack Square. If you hadn’t seen it in daylight, you’d never find it at night, just a green wooden door with windows shaded. Beau knocked several times before a gray eye appeared in the peephole in the door. “Password,” said the eye, and waited for Beau to breathe the secret word.
“Dillard,” whispered Beau.
“Say it again!”
“Dillard!” he shouted.
The man unlocked the door. The place was filled with smoke and smelled of stale whiskey and peanuts. People sat in chairs or parked themselves on stools; some even sat on the floor. Beau and Lily found an empty wall near the stage and leaned against it. It was hard to speak over the chatter and noise of the band. Beau motioned lifting a glass to his lips and mouthed “Gin cocktail?” to Lily.
She nodded and held up two fingers. She downed the first two quickly and didn’t say no when he offered her a third. She knew all the music being played and tapped her fingers in time against the wall. She sang along softly at first, but as the gin cocktails took hold her voice got louder. She carried the tunes perfectly, and once she sang along to “I Ain’t Got Nobody,” Beau noticed there were tears in her eyes. The trumpet player standing to the left of them came over to Lily during the break and asked if she knew the words to “Baby Won’t You Please Come Home?”
“Course I do,” said Lily.
“Good, come on up and sing it with us, after the break.”
She turned to Beau with a confused expression.
“Go on,” he urged. “You’ll knock ’em dead.”
“Sure thing,” Lily said to the trumpeter. “After the break.”
She handed Beau her primrose shawl, took out a mirror, put on lipstick, powdered her face, and popped a Chiclet in her mouth. When the band returned, the trumpeter gestured for her to come forward. “Well, here goes,” she whispered to Beau.
“Look who we have here,” the trumpeter shouted into the microphone. “A special guest. What’s your name, darlin’?”
“Lily. Lily Doucet from Chattanooga.”
“Lily Doucet, the Chattanooga Songbird,” said the trumpeter. “Give her a big hand, she’s gonna join us in ‘Baby Won’t You Please Come Home.’”
The few people who weren’t holding drinks in their hands clapped. Some hoisted their glasses. Beau let out a “Whoop!”
Lily threw herself into the song. The trumpet and clarinet players riffed along with her, and they fell into an easy rapport. When it was over, the trumpet player stepped forward, gave Lily a hug, and said to the audience, only half of whom were paying attention: “That was Lily Doucet, the Chattanooga Songbird. You can bet your bippy you’ll be hearing more from this young lady.”
When Lily came back to Beau, he put his arm around her. “Told ya, you’d knock ’em dead.” Her face was flushed, and her body was steamy.