Page 27 of A Sky Painted Gold

“It’s honestly fine,” I say, patting his arm. “I can find my own way back.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, looking down at me.

“Oh, yes.” I laugh. “I know my way around this place pretty well.”

“Well, OK, then.” Charlie smiles. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight,” I call over my shoulder, already making my way out of the orchard and towards the house.

I’m surprised to come across a man on the front steps, hunched forward and smoking a cigarette. A pool of light from the open front door falls over him.

“Hello,” I call as I walk towards him.

The man lifts his head and smiles at me; his smile is a friendly flash of white teeth that reveals a perfect dimple in his right cheek, his eyes are large and dark, his skin is burnt umber. It’s the singer from the band. I hesitate a little. Penlyn isn’t exactly a melting pot, and outside of my beloved jazz records we don’t see a lot of black faces here.

“Hello,” he replies, jumping briskly to his feet as I get nearer. “Sorry for sitting here in the dark, I’ll get out of your way.” His careful politeness leaves me thinking that he saw the hesitation in my face, and a wave of shame washes over me.

“Don’t be silly,” I say, returning his smile. “How can you possibly be in my way? These stairs are wide enough to support a full marching band.” I eye the stairs speculatively. “Although, now that I think about it, some of the guests are weaving about enough to need the full range of the space.” I peep back at him. “Not me, though. I only had one Mary Pickford.”

“Mary Pickford?” the man repeats, and his nose scrunches up in confusion.

“Those pink drinks,” I clarify. “The ones that people have been knocking back with a little too much abandon.”

The singer laughs, and even his laughter is musical. “Oh, yes.” He nods. “I’ve … er … noticed a few people enjoying the benefits.”

Just then, as if perfectly timed, a loud retching sound emanates from some nearby shrubbery.

Our startled eyes meet and we both dissolve into a fit of giggles that we try – unsuccessfully – to keep quiet.

“We shouldn’t laugh,” I whisper, remembering with a lurch the morning after the ginger wine. “They’re going to feel dreadful in the morning.”

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” the singer says then, holding out his hand to me. “I’m Lucky.”

“Lou,” I say, placing my hand in his.

“Lou, huh?” Lucky’s nose crinkles again, and his voice is quiet but friendly. “Is that short for something?”

“It’s short for Louise,” I reply.

“Oh.” His eyes light up. “Like the song?”

“Yes.” I nod. “Like the song.”

“We didn’t play that one tonight.” He tips his head to the side a little. “I wish I’d known. I’ll have to owe you one.”

“You’re really wonderful, by the way. I love the way you play,” I say breathlessly, cringing a little at how unsophisticated that sounds.

“Oh, yeah?” He looks pleased.

“Yes,” I say foolishly, because I don’t really have any words for what the music has meant for me tonight, for the way it seemed to respond to the restless need in me, for the sense of freedom it gave me to dance. I think he understands, though.

“That’s always nice to hear.” Lucky’s voice is warm, and I feel a bit less silly.

“We don’t get to hear a lot of jazz in Penlyn,” I say. “Only on the record player.”

Lucky looks surprised. “You’re from here?” he says. “You’re not…” He trails off and his eyes dart back towards the last remnants of the party. There are still enough people dancing and talking to make quite a bit of noise.

“One of them?” I say, and I force my voice to sound relaxed. “No.” It hurts a little, but it’s the truth. My evening of pretend is almost over, and the thought cuts through me.