Chuck, wearing a checked, short-sleeved button-down shirt and long-sleeved cardigan, totally channeling Ritchie Cunningham from Happy Days, was chatting up one of the bartenders.
A couple of old dears parked near the stage in adjacent wheelchairs sang a song of their own composition, slightly off key.
Even Edith, the lady with the Bible, seemed to be laughing.
Clearly, Barbara Jean was among friends.
After the last notes of the song died away, two of the wait staff scurried about, helping to break down the set so Barbara Jean and her band could stow it away in their van. That done, they began tugging urgently on cables and wires, working them into new configurations. A custodian, hunched over and pushing with both arms, rolled the enormous flat-screen Wii into the room and positioned it near the stage. Additional cables and wires appeared, connecting the screen to an array of tall, black box speakers. One of the waiters, dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck, sat down behind a control board and began fiddling with the dials.
Karaoke Night at Calvert Colony was about to begin.
Elaine Broering got the ball rolling. Her boots were made for walking, and we’d better watch out.
Tyson Bennett, like Frank Sinatra, stood tall, faced it all, and did it his way.
I smiled to myself. So true.
Tyson handed the mike off to the receptionist who stumbled her way through ‘I’m a Believer,’ which was popular at least two decades before the poor young woman had been born.
The party was in full swing when Paul brushed his lips against my cheek and whispered in my ear, ‘I think it’s time to go.’
But something had caught my eye. ‘Wait, Paul! Look over there!’
Halfway across the room, Jerry had gotten to his feet, taken Nancy’s hand and was tugging on it, urging her to join him up on the stage. She shook her head but he tugged harder, and she shrugged and finally got up, too. There was no telling what would happen next.
While Nancy stood with her back to the audience, nervously wringing her hands, Jerry had a brief consultation with the DJ, which seemed to satisfy him. Then he grasped Nancy by the upper arms and slowly turned her around until she was facing into the spotlight.
He leaned into the microphone. ‘Ready?’
She giggled. ‘Ready whenever you are.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘You go first.’
‘No, you.’
I was beginning to worry that this exchange would go on forever when the DJ flipped a switch, the music started and the words to the song, in white letters so large they could be seen from outer space, began scrolling up the screen. The song was a long-ago classic by Sonny and Cher.
‘Babe,’ Jerry sang, ‘I’ve got you babe.’
‘I’ve got you babe,’ Nancy sang in reply. The two sang the familiar refrain together, twice, three times. When they got to the part about kissing goodnight and holding tight and not letting go, well, I have to admit that I completely lost it.
Paul handed me his napkin and I buried my face in it, sobbing.
‘I guess we’ll stick around a little longer, then,’ he said, signaling the server that his wine glass required attention.
‘We need to make an appointment with Hutch,’ I said as I drove Paul home.
Paul laid a hand on my knee. ‘Why? Thinking of divorce?’
‘After your performance tonight, I should.’ One of the residents – an impeccably dressed woman who was well past her ninetieth birthday – had taken a shine to my husband, handed off the karaoke microphone to him and he’d spent several unsteady minutes wasting away in Margaritaville looking for a lost shaker of salt.
‘What was I to do?’ Paul drawled. ‘As the song says, there’s always a woman to blame.’
‘That’s why I relieved you of the car keys, stud muffin.’
‘Why do we need to consult Hutch, then?’ Paul wondered. ‘Now that the museum is going to return the paintings to Izzy and her family, what else is there to talk about?’
‘This has nothing to do with paintings, Paul. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about those advance directives we signed, gosh, over ten years ago now, back when we both thought I was going to croak.’
Paul squeezed my knee. ‘Hush, Hannah. I never thought that breast cancer was going to get the better of you. I’ve never known such a fighter.’
‘I have excellent doctors.’ I turned right at the intersection of Bay Ridge and Forest Drive and headed into Eastport.
‘I’m sure Emily can’t even imagine that her aged parental units are still having sex,’ I continued as we sailed through the green light at the Eastport Shopping Center. ‘But, I’d like to add a clause to our advance directives that makes sure that if we end up in a nursing home, nobody will make us stay in separate rooms or get in our way when we decide to have sex. Because…’ I paused. ‘I’m quite sure that I’m going to want to have sex with you even if I have no idea who you are.’ I reached over and patted his cheek. ‘You’re a handsome son of a gun, you know.’
‘You’re not so bad looking yourself,’ he said, nuzzling my neck.
I swatted him away and adopted a more serious tone. ‘And, should I shuffle off this mortal coil before you, I want you to know that it’s OK if you want to have a girlfriend. I’ll hate her, of course, but it’s OK.’
‘No thank you,’ Paul drawled. ‘You’d come back to haunt me.’
I beamed a smile at him. ‘You can count on that, sweetheart.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcia Talley is the author of five previous books featuring Hannah Ives. A winner of the Malice Domestic writing grant and an Agatha Award nominee for Best First Novel, Ms. Talley won an Agatha and an Anthony Award for her short story “Too Many Cooks” and an Agatha Award for her short story “Driven to Distraction.” She is the editor of two mystery collaborations, and her short stories have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies. She lives with her husband in Annapolis, Maryland.
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