We both look over to where she’s standing, her hands on the hips of her tightest black jeans, talking to the Ray Ban guy.
“I don’t think she’d care.”
“No?” Joe gives me a look like he wants to ask more. I’ve already said too much, gotten too comfortable. He’s easy to talk to, and that’s a problem. What happens between me and Mom stays between me and Mom.
I begin packing up the guitar and tasseled rug we unroll for performances.
“Thanks for the joe, Joe,” I say.
“Was that a joke?” He makes a shocked “oh” face, and I laugh, because the caffeine has kicked in and I’m happy my job is done for the day. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Stay cool, Louise,” he says, and walks back into the café, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder.
Oh no. Mom is leading the fancy spandex couple over, and I immediately tense up. I guess I’m not quite done for the day after all.
Mom starts the introductions.
“Louise, I’d like you to meet Howard Maze.”
“Howie. Please.” Howie sticks out a big hand with stubby fingers. I can’t do it. A shake is too much. I give a little wave instead. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“This is my wife, Margaret. Maggie.”
Howie and Maggie. Same height, same glasses, same dark hair. They could have been cartoon supervillains.
“We’re a husband-and-wife talent team—the Maze Agency. We’re a family business, and we’re in the business of making families’ dreams come true,” Howie says like he’s in a commercial. “And we love your sound.”
“You’ve really got something, honey,” Maggie chimes in, lifting her glasses and eyeing me up and down. “Kind of raspy, like a modern Stevie Nicks.”
“A tiny dynamo, like Amy Winehouse,” Howie adds.
“But fragile-looking,” counters Maggie, “like early Taylor Swift.” This is too weird. I feel my jacket getting tight again. Mom nods. She’s been following the two of them as they size me up like it’s a tennis match. But I’m white-knuckling the coffee cup for all I’m worth. I can do this. I can be calm. Please, please don’t let the Mazes try to touch me.
Just as Howie’s reaching toward me like he wants to try that handshake again, Mom bumps Howie’s shoulder with hers like they’re old friends and says, “I told you you were in for a treat.” He drops his hand as she keeps talking. “And this is just a taste. Wait until you hear her miked and in studio.”
What is Mom doing? I study my toes while the three of them look at me. I have never set foot in a studio in my life. She’s making promises I can’t keep.
“Yeah, I believe it. I like her sound already. And the acoustics out here are zilch. I’m thinking commercial jingles at first. Then we’ll talk singles. She’s young yet. Does she act? Could she do Disney?”
The idea of television makes me want to puke. I consider puking right here to prove my point, but he keeps talking, more to himself than to us.
“Never mind, never mind,” he says. “This is vacation, not business, and believe it or not, we like to keep the two separate.”
It’s the first thing he says that makes me think I might like Howie Maze. Maybe he really is a family guy, and it’s not just a line? Disney’s a joke. Commercials of any kind are a joke. There’s no way a camera pointed at me would turn out well. But could I handle being alone in a studio? I picture it. A black box with nothing inside it but me and the music. It sounds soothing, like a sleeping bag zipped all the way up. But he ruins the dream with what he says next.
“We can’t tell anything until we get her into our offices back in LA. We’ve got a studio there, and we’ll see how she reads and looks on camera. Do you have a headshot?”
For just one second Mom looks as panicked as I feel. But then it’s gone. “Ah no. Sorry, Howie. Left those on the plane, I’m afraid. It was a rough transfer from Chicago to Reno.”
We have never been on a plane in our lives.
Maggie taps my shoulder, and I flinch. “Here, honey, you take this.” She hands me an ivory card with THE MAZE AGENCY printed on it in big blue letters. “Call us at the office, and we’ll set something up when we get back.” She turns to her husband, who is snapping to-go lids on both their lattes. “What do you think, Howie, end of next week?”
“Next week. Yeah, that should work. Vacation first, then work.”
“Excellent. We’ll check our schedule and get back to you,” Mom says like we’re on tour. But the Mazes are already making their way through the doors and back out into the Tahoe morning.
I swallow the last of my coffee and stare into the bottom of my cup. This was supposed to be free coffee and enough of a gig to keep Mom happy for another few weeks. Despite all her pep talks over the years, I never thought I’d actually have someone think I was good enough to sign. I love to sing because the sound of my own voice in my ears steadies me. It makes me feel stronger than I am. I try to imagine doing that in front of cameras and crowds and high fives and handshakes and applause. An acidy burp escapes my throat and burns. As soon as the Mazes disappear, I grab Mom’s hand.
“Mom, we can’t go to LA next week.”
“Why not?” She’s smiling and clicking her fingers together like there’s a song playing I can’t hear.
“Because… you have a job here.…” Because I like the mountains and the quietness of this place, I think. Because if someone tries to fit me for a Disney costume, I will implode.
“A job?” She stops and points to a stool so I’ll sit. “You mean the minimum-wage, no-insurance, waitress job? Yeah, tough decision there.”
I shake my head. I hate it when she gets sarcastic with me. The deck is almost empty now that the free entertainment’s over. I move to set my cup on the stool next to me, and it wobbles because my hands are shaking again. She sees it and leans her shoulder, as carefully as always, into mine. I sigh with relief at the weight of it. If either of us were to pull away, we’d both topple over.
“It’s about a seven-hour drive down to LA,” she says in a low, calm voice. “How about this—we go next week, see what happens?” The way it comes out, she sounds like she couldn’t care less if I get it or not. But I know better. “And then, hey, if they love you as much as I think they will, we’ll sign a big contract, make this our home base, and fly back and forth like fancy jet-setters?”
There it is. Her not-so-secret Hollywood dream life. But I can’t pretend I don’t like the idea of making Lake Tahoe permanent.
“Like with a real house here, maybe?” I ask, against my better judgment. “One of those cabins by the water near Commons Beach?”
Mom smiles. “Why not, baby girl? You’re a fighter, and you’ve fought your way almost to the tippity top. With your abilities, we could buy a McMansion in Beverly Hills.”
I smile too, because if I ignore the whole performing-in-public part, I can kind of see it. Not the McMansion. I see the rich people who fly into Tahoe for the weekend, with their shiny SUVs and ten-dollar lattes. They’ve never clipped a coupon or wondered where they’d sleep at night. But they don’t look any happier. I just want a little cabin with my own bedroom where I can pin pictures to the walls and pick out a quilt for the bed. We would have a kitchen—a real one, not a camp stove—and a refrigerator that would always be full. There’d be a path to the water, too. A place of my own.