“But I do feel like we need a chaperone for the studio sessions. I mean, wedon’t, but we do, you know?”
“I would offer to do it, but I need to be here next week, doing some wrap-up. How about asking Gretchen Miller?”
The idea was jarring, but also… galvanizing? Like a bee sting.
Or a mosquito bite.
“You think?”
“Yes, she knows Anna; Anna knows her. It’s perfect.”
It was perfect. Except for the part where Gretchen didn’t want to have any more involvement with me. But maybe shewould see this less as involvement with me and more as involvement in Anna’s artistic and career development.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
Given that I wasn’t going home to New York, I hitched a ride to the Twin Cities with Jack.
“You want to come back next summer?” Marion asked as she hugged me goodbye.
I started to demur—if things went to plan, I would be busy next summer on the new album—but she said, “Don’t answer now. Just think about it.”
“All right,” I said. Not declining outright was the least I could do. Marion’s invitation to come to Wild Arts, even though I’d had no idea what I’d been saying yes to, had changed my life.
“You’re not going to invitemeback?” Jack said, drawing our attention. I’d thought he was serious—Jack was always serious—but he shot Marion a wink. Could have knocked me over with a feather.
“There are two kinds of artists,” Marion said. “Those who thrive when you take away external distractions, and those who don’t.”
“And I don’t?” Jack said.
“Am I wrong?”
He chuckled. Wow. Maybe Jack had been having tea with the artistic fairy godmother, too.
“In fact, I think what you need,” Marion said, eyeing Jack, “is a part-time job. A brainless one, but one that sucks up twenty hours a week. Starbucks or something.”
I expected Jack to object—God’s gift to the literary world was going to sling Frappuccinos?—but he said, “Maybe.”
“What was that about?” I asked as we pulled away.
“Marion’s been giving me some advice.”
“And you’ve been taking it?”
He smirked. “I’ve been not rejecting it outright.” I whistled, and he added, “What can I say? My inability to write this book has humbled me.”
Jack and I settled into the companionable silence we seemed to have mastered. When we got to the outskirts of the Twin Cities, he asked, “Where am I dropping you?”
I’d made a hotel reservation, but instead of asking him to drop me there, I said, “I don’t suppose you have Gretchen Miller’s phone number?”
“Why do you need Gretchen’s number?”
“I’m going to ask her if she can help with a recording session I have scheduled with one of the music kids from the first session.” I was, right? I hadn’t exactly decided what to do. I should have just asked Marion for Gretchen’s number. Or I should have had Marion ask her on my behalf. I had myself all tied in knots, wanting to respect Gretchen’s desire not to hear from me, but also just… wanting her to chaperone me. Us. Anna. Whatever.
“The kid who played the banjo?” Jack asked.
“Yeah.”
“She was phenomenal.”
