THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twenty-Four
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twenty-Four
I kept quiet as we pulled out of the parking garage and into the streets, distracting myself by absorbing the lights of London. Why does he have to be like this? So enigmatic and distant at times, so curious and boyish at others. As we made our way out of the city, it grew darker, and only the glow of an occasional streetlight framed his profile, the angular nose, the square chin, and the broad forehead, where disobedient strands of hair had broken free to grace his temples. Oh my gosh, Lucy, you’re doing it again! Stop staring at him! I gulped and broke my gaze, pretending to be fascinated by the colors of the stoplight in front of us.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Adam asked, breaking the silence.
“Oh, yeah, so much! Thank you for inviting me. And for paying and everything.” Had he noticed me staring at him?
“I’m glad you agreed to come.” He gave me a little grin. “I had no idea you were such a fan of jazz music. You seemed rather taken by that first song especially. What was it, the one about the lost kitten?”
“‘Misty.’”
“That’s it. One of your favorites?”
“Sort of.” I rubbed my thumbs against each other in the dark, remembering the tune. Could I tell him about it? I glanced sideways, and saw him, curious and relaxed. The sphinx had disappeared. What could it hurt? a little voice whispered.
“Actually, it was one of my dad’s favorites,” I began. I waited and watched for a reaction.
“Your father was fond of jazz too?”
“Yeah. He grew up around this fantastic music scene in Chicago in the sixties and seventies, and he sold sound equipment to a lot of the venues, so he just loved all kinds of music but especially jazz. He had this amazing record collection. I mean, everything from big band to lounge, and even some of the really experimental out-there stuff. My mom was never a huge fan, but I loved it, and on Saturdays when she slept in, I would come down to the living room and sit on his lap, and we’d listen to records for hours.”
I was lost in my memory, gazing at that faded old Ella Fitzgerald album, when Adam’s voice softly interrupted.
“He’s … passed, if I understand?”
I nodded. “He died in a plane crash on the way to some conference. Ten years ago, this summer. I still have his albums, though. My mom was going to sell them in a yard sale, but the night before I went down and snuck them out with the record player and hid it all under my bed. I’m pretty sure she figured it out but she never said anything about it. And now I have my favorites on my iPod, so I can take them with me anywhere.” I felt like I’d been talking for a long time and suddenly wanted to change the subject.
“I guess you’re into more alternative music? Like Oasis?”
“Me? I suppose.” He furrowed his brow, then relaxed. “Oh, you must be thinking of my t-shirt. Yes, I went to a lot of concerts when I was younger. We’re fairly close to the city and Wembley and things like that. Got to see a lot of good bands. Most of which you’ve probably never heard of.” He gave me a playful look, as though daring me to contradict him.
“Oh, I probably have,” I said, without thinking. “I’ve got pretty eclectic taste.”
“Really?” Adam raised an eyebrow. “Tell me one alternative song from the 1990s.”
Of course, my mind immediately went blank. “Uh …” I floundered around, trying to remember anything I’d seen or heard during middle school that wasn’t a pop song. Alternative, rock songs, Oasis … ooh, an Oasis song! “Easy! ‘Wonderwall.’”
Adam chuckled. “I think my grandmother knows ‘Wonderwall.’ But you know, good try.”
“I know others. It’s just hard to think of something off the top of my head,” I pouted.
The corners of a wicked grin began forming across his face. “Alright then, how about a game? I have something of a mix CD in here. I’ll play a song, and you guess the title and artist.”
“Cool. What do I win?” I said, feeling cocky.
“Hmm. Loser buys coffee for the winner tomorrow.”
“Great! I love coffee.” I smirked.
“And I love free drinks, so this will be fun,” he taunted back. “Alright, rules: No peeking at the display. And you have to guess before the chorus. Fair?”
“Fair.”
“I’ll even give you a sporting chance.” He reached over the dash to push buttons on the CD player. “All top hits, no indies. Best two out of three wins.”
I closed my eyes and held my hands over them, my pulse quickening with the thrill of competition.
“First track,” Adam called, and I listened hard through the darkness to the first tones of melodic reverb, fading into dissonance like distant chimes, instantly cut over by drums and a strumming guitar.
“Ooh, I know this one! It’s … argh …” I scraped at the corners of my brain for the title. “It’s the milk carton song. Is it … Blur?” I dropped my hands and looked at the display on the CD player. “Blur—Coffee and TV.”
“Watched a lot of MTV as a child, did you?” Adam asked, looking amused. “Alright, a half-point for artist only.” He went to tap the stop button.
“Wait, can we listen to the rest of it?”
“If you like.”
I nodded, and the strumming guitar carried out the tune with an almost conversational vocal lead, until the chorus. I puzzled over the lyrics, which I’d never paid much attention to before when watching the music video of the little lost milk carton. What was the big deal about getting married? I couldn’t figure out what that had to do with the rest of the song, where everything seemed so grotesque and alienating. Was that supposed to fix something?
The song faded out, and I covered my eyes again for the second track. More reverb guitar this time on the intro, except higher pitched like ringing handbells, and then cut over by a single guitar line until the solo vocal. It was passionate, half-breathless, as though the singer was in some sort of agony of heartbreak.
“I’ve heard it before, but I don’t know the band,” I said, dropping my hands to look at the display. “‘Bush—Glycerine.’ Hmm. Who’s Bush?”
“It’s Gavin Rossdale’s band,” he said. I shrugged. Adam tried again. “He’s married to Gwen Stefani?”
“Oh, okay. I love No Doubt!”
“I’m sure you do.”
I wrinkled up my nose at him, which left him looking only more pleased.
We let the track play out, an anthem of regret carried by soulful strings at its bittersweet conclusion.
“Final song,” Adam announced. I covered my eyes again. There was the familiar twang of acoustic guitars as I immediately recognized “Wonderwall.”
I dropped my hands. “Seriously?”
“Oh, you know it?” Adam asked, feigning innocence.
“You’re mean.”
“That’s unfair. I did give you a sporting chance. Too bad you’ve still lost.”
“No, I didn’t! I got one and half points. We’re tied.”
“Mmm, no. You didn’t name the title and artist of the last song.”
“Really? You knew I knew what it was!”
“Alas, the rules are the rules. And I told you, I do enjoy free drinks.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and pretended to look away. “Fine. Whatever.”
“Oh, don’t be a sore loser, Lucy. Come on, everyone loves this song! You can even sing along if you like.” And with that, he turned up the volume and started to hum along.
Of course, I wasn’t really mad. As he kept making faces at me and singing along with the track, I couldn’t help but join in—a little timidly at first, but we were both full-out, top-of-our-lungs shouting by the last chorus. By the time the keyboard hook finished off the song, I had this exhilarating feeling about being with Adam. Surely it was less than love, but it was definitely more than friendship.
