Tender Deception: A Novel of Romance by Patti Beckman Page B

rotund, hard-drinking Irishman named Ted Riley. Riley bounced around the stand as he played, a bundle of exuberant energy.
    The musicians were polite to Lilly, but reserved. It was obvious they missed Tiny Smith and resented a newcomer trying to take his place. Besides, they were all tough pros and no doubt viewed her as an inexperienced amateur who was going to foul up the band. They were noticeably cool to Jimmy, probably wondering what had possessed him to hire a naïve girl from the sticks to play in a New Orleans jazz band.
    They took their places grimly. Nothing could ruin a band like a bad pianist. Lilly sensed they were bracing themselves against an evening of musical disaster. Charlie Neal took an extra large gulp of Maalox.
    Jimmy called the first tune, Jazz Me Blues , raised his horn, and tapped off the beat. An electric charge raced through Lilly. All her life, she’d dreamed of playing with a bunch like this. The group was tight and sure. They played with a fierce drive.
    Cemetery’s drumbeat was a solid rock. His snare rolls were crisp and clean. Jimmy’s golden horn punched out the lead with hot, smoking notes as Charlie Neal’s clarinet hemstitched a counter melody around it. Ted Riley bounced around, working his slide in a swinging tailgate style.
    Lilly knew what a band like this expected from its pianist—a good, solid pattern of rhythmic chords and not too much butterflying around when she wasn’t taking a solo. She gave them what they wanted. When the soloists improvised, she backed them with a clear line of chord progressions, occasionally punctuating one of their licks with an answer from her right hand. When Jimmy nodded toward her, she took her own solo chorus, more inspired than she’d ever been before in her life. She was in a state of euphoria, an ecstatic high. Creative ideas raced to her fingertips, electrifying them.
    The number ended with a drum break and a wild, eight-bar tag. She realized all the members of the band were staring at her. She turned numb. Had she done something terribly wrong?
    But Cemetery Wilson put his sticks down and said, with a note of awe, “Hot damn!” Ted Riley did a happy little shuffle. Charlie Neal scowled at her and said, “What is the chick trying to do—get on steady?”
    Jimmy grinned at her proudly. He winked and nodded. “Kid you’re really bad,” which in musician lingo meant she was terrific.
    Lilly’s spirits soared. Before the first break, the band had fallen in love with her, and she was in love with every one of them. They played King Porter Stomp , Back o’ Town Blues , That’s-a-Plenty , and High Society.
    Jimmy tried Lilly on a vocal. She belted out one of her Bessie Smith blues numbers and the audience applauded wildly. From then on, Jimmy featured her songs several times each evening.
    During the next two weeks, Lilly threw herself into the job with every ounce of her being. She slept until noon, then spent her afternoons writing arrangements. Timidly, she showed them to Jimmy one night.
    He leafed through the sheets of music manuscript paper with muttered exclamations. “ Chime Blues , Mabel’s Dream , Snake Rag.... Hey, these are some terrific old King Oliver tunes. Where on earth did you get them, kid?”
    “Off old records. That’s the only way you can find some of those classic jazz tunes. You know I have perfect pitch. I can hear a record and write it down the way most people write a letter.”
    “I know, but these aren’t just melody lines. They’re great arrangements. How did you learn to score a band like this?”
    “I studied arranging and orchestration when I was getting my music degree. I earned some of my tuition arranging for groups around the area where I was going to school.”
    Jimmy shook his head. “You’re something else, kid. You play knocked-out jazz piano, sing a mean blues, and then come up with these terrific arrangements. It was a lucky night for the band when you came walking in here!”
    Lilly