“That is . . . this is . . .” Nick murmured, the first to attempt articulation. “What the hell is this?”
Stu banged the table. “And it’s a goddamn Marriott!”
Each subsequent course somehow surpassed the last. Number seven arrived and was served with a beautiful orange wine which, until tonight, Sewanee hadn’t known was a color of wine that existed. The conversation partnered with the food and drink as if it had asked the meal for a dance.
Currently, they were discussing the June French project, and Nick’s relationship to his aunt, and what it was like being raised by a writer, which had Marilyn asking, “Have you ever wanted to write?”
“No. Well, I guess if you count songwriting then sure.”
“Hold everything.” Stu quickly swiped his napkin across his mouth. “You’re a songwriter?”
“Sort of.”
“And does that mean you’re a musician?” Stu smiled wide.
“I was in a band, in another lifetime.”
Stu beat his chest. “I used to have a band.” Marilyn chortled. “What? So it was in high school and a year or two in college, it’s still a band!”
Nick grinned. “What do you play?”
Stu twinkled all ten fingers. “Keys. You?”
“A little guitar. Sing a bit.”
“And you wrote your own songs? That’s huge. We never got that far.”
Nick nodded. “A few of the songs. My best friend was the lead singer and did a lot of the writing. He’s the real talent, I . . . I do what I can.”
“Did you have any success?” Stu asked, popping the last piece of perfection on his plate into his mouth.
“We had a record deal. A hit song. We were touring.”
“Oh, what I would’ve given. Living the dream! What happened?”
“Well. My best friend drove that dream faster than he could handle it. Crashed and burned.” Nick looked at his plate and Sewanee could feel him warming to the topic, could sense him wanting to tell this story. “’Course we had our ‘people’ saying, keep going, this is what makes it great. But I watched him almost die one night and that was the end for me. Got him to the hospital in time–pure luck–and as soon as they released him, took him straight to rehab. Burned a lot of bridges, broke a lot of contracts.”
“Did he make it out?”
“He did.”
“You still friends? You still play together?” Stu demanded, fully invested.
“Thanks for asking, yeah. He followed me into audiobooks, actually. Became my proofer then June scooped him up as her producer. He has one of those magic ears, you know? Perfect pitch and such. Gearhead, too, on the tech side. A total sound wizard.”
“That’s one hell of an impressive friend you got there. You saved more than a life, chief. You ever pick it up again?”
“Not for about five years. We’d noodle around when we were in the same city and send each other licks, random stuff, but we weren’t in it. Then, end of last year, after June . . . passed, he started talking about wanting to try again. I was thinking it might be worth a go. So we found a drummer. New keyboardist.” Nick tipped his head across the table. “Wish I’d have known, Stu.”
“You better watch yourself, Nickster, or you might have some old geezer show up sometime.”
“Anytime.” They shared a nod of musicians’ camaraderie, even if only one of them was a professional musician.
The next course arrived. Stu held up his hands. “Question: Anyone happen to notice the bread?”
Marilyn tried to, yet again, pull up his reins. “Stuuuu.”
“What? We’re on number eight and nobody’s said anything. I’ve been patient.” Stu turned back to the kids. “So, the breads. Anything?”
Sewanee entered in. “Well, I did notice them changing the bread a few times over the course of the dinner.”
“A few times? Every time! Every course comes with its own bread. You get what I’m saying? It’s like with the wine. They pair it! And again I have to say–”
And all together, they said, “It’s a Marriott!”
When he’d stopped laughing, Stu continued, “Okay, back to the band. You got a name?”
Nick took a bite. “We have a temporary name. It’s a joke mostly, an inside thing, a reference to spending the last five years doing Romance novels.”
Sewanee raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
Nick paused. “The Bodice Rippers.”