Lou has never looked happier since I have known him. He offers Sunny a flute of champagne and smiles proudly as she takes a sip. He’s giving her exactly what she wants, complete adoration. Exactly what she deserves.
When she glances our way, her expression turns calculating. She sucks in her cheeks and disentangles herself from Lou’s arm, striding toward us in her preternaturally slinky, ageless way.
“I’m so very happy for you, Maxwell,” she purrs imperiously.
She likes to mispronounce my name slightly, like it is made of two words, stressing the well. When I asked her about it as a teenager, she said Max Well was a much more interesting name than the one Sherry had seen fit to give me.
“Did I ever tell you how Louis and I came to be acquainted?” she begins in her inestimable, practically patented way.
“Oh!” Clarissa exclaims excitedly, then tries to conceal the fact she ever knew anything about their history. “No, uh… you never told us. Well, me. You knew each other?”
“Mmmmm, yes,” she nods mysteriously.
For effect, she pauses to twist and look over her shoulder toward him as though appraising her favorite racehorse or a suit of Peruvian armor.
“You might not suspect it now, but back in the 1950s, Louis Tolliver was a band leader at The Green Mill.”
“The jazz club?” Clarissa gasps. “Seriously? He’s a musician?”
“Of course,” Sunny scowls haughtily. “Of course I would take only musicians as lovers then, until 1972, when musicians simply disappeared from the earth.”
“Musicians disappe—” Clarissa begins, but stops herself.
“I used to go and see him every Saturday night,” she sighs wistfully, twisting the stem of her champagne flute between her fingers. “Louis not only played the jazz flute, the also had the most marvelous tenor voice I ever heard outside of Milan. He would dedicate a song to me every night, and that is how I knew that we would meet after closing for a drink. It was one of the most romantic encounters of my entire life.”
“Wow,” Clarissa breathes, enraptured.
“What was the song?” I ask.
Sunny purses her lips disdainfully, as though somehow this detail is too personal to inquire about. I mean, she has told me far too much about her love life, but this key imagery will not be revealed?
“I’m not sure I should say…”
“Stormy Monday?” Clarissa ventures boldly. “April in Paris?”
Sunny simply rolls her eyes dramatically, but the silence is cut by a tenor voice, undeniably earnest and well-trained, crooning behind her.
“When Sunny gets blue… Her eyes get gray and cloudy…” Lou sings softly, making her gasp in theatrical embarrassment. “Then the rain begins to fall…”
“Oh, Louis!” she cries out loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t! It’s too much…”
But old Lou Tolliver is only encouraged by this, and in fact it seems to be like a scene they have played out for audiences before. His voice strengthens with each note until he is full throated, singing with gusto to the rafters.
“Pitter patter, pitter patter…” He continues, taking her hand in his and holding it to his chest. “Love is gone so what can matter… No sweet lovin' man comes to call…”
Everyone begins to gather around, their mouths agape with shock. Lou is about as romantic an old bastard as I can imagine, and I am enjoying the show.
“When Sunny gets blue… She breathes a sigh of sadness… Like the wind that stirs the trees…”
Clarissa takes my hand and holds it tightly.
“Wind that sets the leaves to swayin'... Like some violins are playin'... Weird and haunting melodies…”
Sunny’s eyes are downcast, but I know she can see everyone watching them. It is just like the old days. Just a perfect moment for her.
“Hurry, new love, hurry here… To kiss away each lonely tear… And hold her near when Sunny gets blue!!”
Everyone explodes in roars of applause and howls of approval. Lou takes Sunny in his arms and gazes into her eyes, wet with tears, before kissing her gently.