Her Two Kinds of Light

By Susan K. Coleman

Singer/songwriter E.P. James had been appearing regularly throughout the Hudson Valley and New York City, where his performances garnered him praise in the music press and a growing, loyal following. After many such shows at festivals and in small clubs, he begins to notice a strange glow within his audience, often hovering in one spot, at other times moving slowly throughout the darkened rooms. E.P is perplexed when he discovers that his lighting engineer, band, and roadies have never witnessed the glow. As the light’s frequency and intensity increase, so do his concerns about where it’s coming from and why he seems to be the only person who can see it. His search for its source leads him to Gloria Grayson.

Glory's greatest passion is music, but even she is unaware that the joy she feels when watching E.P. James in concert has taken on visible form. What at first creates a unique and thrilling bond between fan and artist eventually threatens their relationship, E.P.'s career, and even Glory's life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan K. Coleman
• Release date: May 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301247769

Susan K. Coleman

SUSAN K. COLEMAN studied English and German literature at Indiana University and the University of Pennsylvania. She currently resides in the Bronx. After working for almost 15 years in the publishing industry, she decided to self-publish her own work. “Her Two Kinds of Light” was started during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in 2010. It is her first novel.

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Synopsis

Singer/songwriter E.P. James had been appearing regularly throughout the Hudson Valley and New York City, where his performances garnered him praise in the music press and a growing, loyal following. After many such shows at festivals and in small clubs, he begins to notice a strange glow within his audience, often hovering in one spot, at other times moving slowly throughout the darkened rooms. E.P is perplexed when he discovers that his lighting engineer, band, and roadies have never witnessed the glow. As the light’s frequency and intensity increase, so do his concerns about where it’s coming from and why he seems to be the only person who can see it. His search for its source leads him to Gloria Grayson.

Glory’s greatest passion is music, but even she is unaware that the joy she feels when watching E.P. James in concert has taken on visible form. What at first creates a unique and thrilling bond between fan and artist eventually threatens their relationship, E.P.’s career, and even Glory’s life.

To my mother, with gratitude for her constant and loving support

 Introduction

There are two kinds of light—the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures.

—James Thurber

The display on the dashboard clock showed 9:15pm. E.P. squinted at the readout and then through the fog brushing past his windshield. Philip Grant watched the time too, giving E.P. James another five minutes, after which he’d pour himself a generous glass of scotch and retreat to his study.

About two weeks prior, E.P. contacted Frank Berkley, Philip’s partner at the firm Berkley, Howard & Grant. Though few details came out of that initial call, Frank gathered E.P. needed the firm’s assistance in sorting out his divorce. Frank had been very close with E.P.’s parents, his father in particular, so there was no question BH&G would represent him. As this area was Philip’s strong suit, he was called upon to set up a meeting.

He offered to go over the particulars with E.P. in the firm’s midtown Manhattan office, but E.P. insisted the meeting not take place in such a high-profile location. Reluctantly, Philip agreed to meet in the home he normally reserved for non-work, non-lawyerly pursuits. It was made clear to Philip that every courtesy should be extended to this client, whenever and wherever necessary. The wherever turned out to be Philip’s house, which lay in a scenic area of the Hudson River valley. The whenever had been set for 9:00 Tuesday night. At 9:19 Philip dropped three cubes of ice into a glass. He held the bottle of scotch poised over the glass’s lip for the next minute and, by 9:20, with no sign yet of E.P. James, he poured his drink.

The liquor’s warming effect had just reached the knot at the base of his skull when he spied a glimmer of headlights pulling up the drive. Oh, hell, he said aloud. Though he’d not yet met the man, Philip had already formed some pointed opinions of Mr. James. After more than twenty years of dealing with celebrity divorces, celebrity contract litigation, and celebrity bullshit, he didn’t hold out much hope in finding a decent, sympathetic character in his perspective client. At the sound of the doorbell, Philip made his way to the front of the house, clocking a pace that reflected his level of enthusiasm for the evening’s meeting.

The figure at his doorstep was not at all what he anticipated. Meager, was the word that immediately leapt into Philip’s mind. E.P. was slight at best, not in height, but in attitude and presence. Tall and lank, his longish, dark hair was speckled grey at the temples. His features were fine; the face reflected a combination of the better parts of each of his prominent parents. Nevertheless, Philip had trouble picturing E.P. as a frontman for a band, standing mid-stage, engaging an audience.

Mr. Grant? E.P. questioned softly.

Yes, Philip answered, a little shocked at how booming his own voice sounded by comparison. Please, it’s Philip.

Thank you, E.P. acknowledged as he entered Philip’s home. I’m very sorry to be so late. Somehow the time just got away from me this evening.

Not a problem, E.P. Is that what I should call you? Philip asked. Do you go by E.P.?

Yes, thanks, he said, that’s generally what people call me.

OK, please come in. We can get started right away.

Philip led E.P. through the dining room and into the kitchen so as to reacquaint himself with the bottle of scotch left standing on the counter. He pulled another glass from the cabinet, filled both it and his own with ice, and only after pouring did he ask, Would you like to join me in a drink?

Oh, yes please, E.P. responded, looking more nervous than grateful. Probably a waste of good scotch, Philip thought, but what’s done is done. He slid the drink across the counter. E.P. grasped the glass but then seemed to forget about it, even as the condensation chilled and dampened his hand.

Well, then, Philip began, let’s go into the study and we can talk about your case. E.P.’s jaw flexed into an involuntary clench as he followed Philip through the living room and down the back hall.

This is a lovely home, E.P. said.

Thank you, I’ve had this place for about four years now but hadn’t spent much time here till lately. Do you live in the area? Philip asked.

Yes, not far from here, E.P. replied before falling silent again, his ability to exchange pleasantries already exhausted.

As soon as they were seated across from one another, Philip in his leather recliner and E.P. on the matching sofa, Philip began evaluating his prospective client. The first impression was of a soft-spoken, polite man, uncomfortable in his own skin. Or perhaps it was the evening’s discussion topic that caused him distraction. After all, E.P. had been, and maybe still was, a well-regarded musician, songwriter and singer, and therefore not the type one would think of as quite so timid and self-effacing. Philip’s research turned up little recent information on him. There were no tour schedules or new CDs, no video clips or interviews to be found online. Most of the information was outdated by two years or more.

From his debrief with Frank Berkley, he learned that E.P. was the only child of a rather famous couple. His father, Andrew Etheridge, was a successful lawyer in Los Angeles. Andrew and Frank met during their first term in law school and worked many cases together over the years, even after Andrew left New York for the west coast. It was there he met and married the actress Celia Parsons. And it was also there a hit and run accident in the Hollywood hills cut their lives tragically short. E.P. was only nineteen at the time. Frank personally handled all of the legal matters arising from their passing.

It was a matter of course then, when the call came from E.P., that the firm, and specifically Philip Grant, would represent him. Philip shifted in his seat, causing the leather to emit an indignant squeal. The sound awakened E.P., who once again noticed the drink he’d been cradling in his palm. He rotated the glass slowly, watching the ice settle. So, E.P., could you tell me a little bit about why you’re here? Philip asked. I wasn’t given much information prior to our meeting tonight. Normally I like to have some facts upfront before chatting face to face, and I certainly don’t want to put you on the spot, this last part being added as E.P.’s growing discomfort became apparent, but whatever you can tell me would be tremendously helpful.

Philip paused, giving E.P. the opportunity to pick up the conversation. But instead he sighed, and in a barely audible voice said, I’m not even sure where to begin. Philip glanced at the time. With some of his clients, he could pinpoint the trouble spots within moments. E.P.’s reticence, however, gave him little to go on. He didn’t give the impression of a man capable of keeping women on the side. But perhaps he’d rushed into a marriage without protecting himself with a prenuptial agreement and was now paying the price. Philip equated his silence with a reluctance to admit to a foolish, haplessly romantic error in judgment—of becoming involved with the type of woman who was attracted to the celebrity, but not the man.

E.P.? Philip prodded gently. E.P. stirred again but did not answer immediately.

I’m sorry, but this is really difficult for me. His eyes had become glassy, and Philip interceded in an effort put him at ease.

No problem, just take it slow. Maybe a few sips of that drink might help. Philip expected him to sputter at the taste of the scotch, but after the first tentative sip, E.P. emptied the glass in two, long draws. He sighed again and looked Philip in the eye for the first time that evening, the delicate, almost boyish features wearied, aging him beyond his years.

I believe you were already informed that my reason for coming here tonight is to start divorce proceedings, correct? he asked, with a slight flutter in his voice.

Yes, that much I do know, Philip began, and of course, I...and the firm, will do whatever we can to help you. We’ll represent your interests to the best of our abilities and make sure you retain as many of your assets as possible...

As Philip continued his pat overture, E.P. crumbled into the sofa’s soft grip, his eyes welling up. Tears slid down his cheeks, and he pressed his fingers under his eyeglasses in an attempt to stem the flow. Philip had worked with many different types over the years—from blatant connivers and gold-diggers to egotists and cheats. This was not a circumstance he’d encountered in some time. Here was a man who was truly hurting—a man who was in love and had been wronged in a way that left cracks in his structure.

E.P., I’m so sorry, please, can I get you anything? Another drink? A glass of water? Philip fumbled. It disturbed him that he would’ve been more comfortable in the presence of one of those connivers, rather than the sad, heartbroken mess sitting across from him.

No, no, E.P. said, his voice a soft rasp. I don’t know what I expected, coming here. I’m sorry to be so... He trailed off, then stated for the second time that evening, This is very hard for me.

Take your time, Philip told him, glancing again at his watch.

E.P. composed himself and accepted the offer of another drink. Philip disappeared into the kitchen, poured two more glasses of scotch and returned to the study, where his client remained slumped on the leather couch. Philip placed the glass on the table in front of him, where it sat untouched for the rest of the evening.

I’m not exactly sure how this is supposed to work, E.P. said. But I don’t want anything that comes up during our conversations to be used to...harm my wife in any way. I’m not looking to cause her any strain or trouble. With the clients you normally represent, I would imagine you’re used to very much the opposite. But I want to know she’ll be taken care of, that her privacy won’t be compromised and she’ll be financially secure once the union is severed.

Philip had started scribbling on the pad he held propped against his knee. He paused and rubbed his forehead, the pen still wedged between his thumb and index finger. Well, E.P., generally it’s the job of the wife’s legal representation to ensure she comes out of the marriage with what’s rightfully hers. Or, in most cases, much, much more than that. Philip chuckled, but noticing his attempt at levity had fallen flat, he continued, It’s my job to represent your interests and seek the best possible outcome for you. Philip held E.P.’s gaze to be sure his words were sinking in.

I’m not a fool, E.P. continued, now much more steadily. I understand how divorces work. I did spend my formative years in Hollywood. A smile threatened to cross E.P.’s mouth, but the moment was gone as his words took on a slight edge, But before this goes any further, I need to make something completely clear—I love my wife. My only concern in this life is her well-being. So I need you to assure me this will be your primary concern as well.

Philip searched E.P.’s eyes for some hint as to the man’s motivation. There was no sarcasm, no flinch. No indication E.P.’s statement was anything other than sincere.

OK, Philip conceded, smiling, though somewhat perturbed. He shifted in his chair again, and this time the leather’s squeak rose up to the beams of the study’s ceiling, hanging there as if to escape the uncomfortable scene below. He dropped the legal pad on the coffee table, picked up his glass and left the room. In the kitchen, pouring himself a large tumbler of water, the first inkling of a headache thumped behind his eyes. In the office, or even at the club lounge in the city, the strange course of this conversation might have piqued his interest. But this late on a Tuesday night, with no progress made and no end yet in sight, he’d rather have told E.P. James to seek representation elsewhere.

Maybe we need to approach this differently, Philip said, as he rejoined E.P. in the study. You say you love your wife and only want to protect her from harm or injury.

Correct, said E.P. in a clipped manner. He waited for Philip to continue.

Then, may I ask why you want to divorce her?

E.P. drew a deep breath, the exhalation that followed more of a confession than he was capable of verbalizing. But rather than launching into an explanation, he apologized for about the hundredth time that evening, I’m sorry, Philip. I know it’s getting late, and I really shouldn’t have inconvenienced you as I have tonight. You’ve been extremely gracious, and I appreciate your efforts. But I’m beginning to realize you may not be able to help me. No one else I’ve turned to has had any luck, so I don’t know why I believed you’d be any different. E.P. rose to leave and extended his hand for Philip to shake. Thank you for your time, but I think I should be going.

Philip looked up, not quite registering what was happening. "I...uh...I’m sorry? E.P., did I say something to offend or put you off? If so, I am sincerely sorry. The word sincerely" bore the greatest emphasis, as Philip caught himself using a tone that hinted otherwise.

Oh no, no, please, it’s not anything you’ve done or said, and I didn’t mean to impugn your skills as a lawyer or imply you personally couldn’t help. I’m sorry if that’s the impression I gave. But, you see, we’ve already consulted every type of expert we could think of—medical doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, nutritionists, natural medicine experts—no one can explain why my wife has been afflicted the way she has. The only thing clear to me is that I am the cause of her condition. And if nothing can be done to heal her, the only other option is to remove the cause of her suffering. But at this point, I’m just not sure how easy that will be.

Philip listened but did not respond. He expected some type of clarification, but E.P. offered nothing further except his hand again, which Philip clasped this time before seeing E.P. to the door.

As they walked out to the driveway, Philip insisted he take a business card. In case you change your mind, or need any advice... E.P. steered off the property and back into the fog, turning toward the parkway to retrace the route to the home he shared with his wife. Philip followed the misty beams of the headlights, perplexed and frustrated by the sudden and rather cryptic departure, and unsure as to whether he would ever hear from E.P. James again.

 Part I - The Set Up

 Chapter One

E.P. and Glory met on a grassy hill. He arrived at the sculpture gardens about an hour after the gates opened for business. The mists he’d seen in the valley during his drive had dissipated, affording him a clear view across the south fields to the far end of the property. The longer he wandered, keeping close to the paths near the visitor center, with an eye always on the parking lot near the entrance, the more he was struck by how haphazardly he’d planned this outing. Had he waited to see her again at one of his performances, he’d at least have had a context within which he could approach her. Here, he realized too late, he’d have to provide a convincing air of coincidence.

When he spied the woman in the long dress entering the visitor center, he made a slow circuit of the building to see if she’d linger there or make her way out onto the garden grounds. Passing by the windowed entrance, he watched her move toward the small indoor gallery beyond the racks of postcards and garden maps that welcomed guests with their glossy renderings of the artworks. He positioned himself near the cash register and thumbed through a coffee table book, catching glimpses of her whenever she passed the gallery doorway and moved to inspect a different sculpture. Her eyes fixed on the guide fanned out before her, she was oblivious to her observer. After pausing to photograph several of the pieces, she snatched a handful of the long dress, lifting it above her ankles, and continued on to the outdoor exhibits. E.P. rotated slowly, his back now to the woman as she made her exit. He replaced the book on its shelf, nodding and smiling politely to the staffer behind the welcome center desk, and followed the woman outside.

Not sure at first if he could be mistaken, once outdoors he took careful note of her features to determine for certain whether she was the woman from his concerts. He’d seen her often enough during the endless string of regional shows he’d been playing with his band. She’d stand within several feet of the stage, taking pictures and smiling in a serene sort of way, often moving her lips in time with E.P.’s words. She’d become a familiar presence when he played in the city or lower Hudson Valley. So, yes, he’d noticed her. And there was, after all, that glow.

She settled onto the lawn and checked the map depicting the grounds and the various collections of works scattered throughout. She peered over the edge of her guide, out across the rolling fields dotted with sculptures, some so massive it was surprising how perfectly they blended with the natural landscape. It had been a cool, rainy spring thus far. Being outdoors and finally able to enjoy the trees in full leaf was a treat she’d looked forward to when she set out from the city that morning. She slid her sunglasses to the top of her head, pinning her hair back and allowing the sun to warm her face.

E.P. fell back, so as to remain unnoticed for the time being. Now near enough to address her, he grasped for an excuse to do so. The platitudes running through his head were all rejected as far too contrived. Fans introduced themselves to him often enough, barreling forth on topics they were sure would hold his attention. It was not, however, a skill E.P. had mastered—leveling conversation at an unsuspecting target. If only the wind would pick up, he thought, and whip the brochure from her hand and place it as his feet, he would have his point of entry.

Before he could construct an appropriate greeting, she rose and gathered her belongings to start her descent down the lawn toward an imposing looking monolith at the foot of the hill. E.P. seated himself where the grass bent in the spot she’d just vacated. He followed her progress to the statue and beyond, the sun now high enough to sting his eyes. He rifled through his messenger bag in search of sunglasses but instead found his notebook, which he thumbed through until he found a blank page. Digging a pen out from the bottom of the bag, he wrote down some phrases, crossing through words here and there and inserting others until he had filled every line. He sat hunched over, tapping the pen against his chin, when he heard her voice for the first time.

Excuse me. He looked up distractedly to find her crouched in front of him. I’m sorry to bother you, but aren’t you E.P. James?

Yes, I am, was all he could say at first. He scanned her as surreptitiously as he could before continuing, And no...I mean, no, you’re not bothering me.

She sat down next to him on the grass and stammered out, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t believe it was you sitting here. I just wanted to say hello. I’m a really big fan. She cringed at the adolescent introduction.

Oh, well, thanks very much. That’s always nice to hear, he said, studying her face and figure.

Wow...no, um, thank you. It’s so great to meet you. Really. I’ve seen so many of your shows but have never been able to muster the courage to talk to you, even when I’ve seen you hanging out at the bar after your set. So, um...now that I’m talking to you, though, I’m not sure what to say, she laughed.

Well, I’m happy to meet you too. It’s not always easy for me either, meeting people at my shows, I mean. Once the performance is over, I’m focused on getting everything broken down and packed up. Not usually the best time for me, conversationally...

She knew bits and pieces about his background, including his reputation for being aloof and unapproachable. The previous summer at an outdoor festival, she caught a performance of his purely by accident. After two full days at the main stage, camped out on her blanket, she needed a break from the hot sun and hard ground. Under the tent at one of the smaller stages, she was able to sink into a folding chair and enjoy a shady respite. After watching a sparsely attended but thoroughly mesmerizing set by a singer of traditional folks songs, she decided to stay put to see the next act. The chairs around her slowly filled up, the crowd lining the edge of the seating area and spilling out beyond the tent openings. Four long-haired men came onstage, two of them sporting thick beards, looking very much like the hippies who played the same festival back in its heyday. But the man at center stage with the acoustic guitar was clean-shaven, tall and slim, and wore round, rimless glasses. When he greeted the audience, his voice was small and meek, even when amplified by the microphone.

At the first bars of the opening song, the crowd stood up in unison and began moving to the music. The singer’s voice, now full and rich, pulled her to her feet with the rest of the audience. As the set progressed, she found herself dancing, clapping when prompted by the band’s drummer and even singing along to the parts of the choruses repeating often enough for her to pick up. The event took on a sort of religious revival feel under the billowing sun-bleached tent. Had someone shouted out a request for an amen or a testify! she would have complied. When the last song ended—a particularly energetic number with the band being joined onstage by about a dozen other singers and instrumentalists—the crowd erupted, and she was hooked.

She read several interviews with the band’s singer and driving creative force, E.P. James, absorbing some of his unique story—born to a famous Hollywood couple, growing up with celebrity and wealth, and now living in a remote east coast hamlet. The write-ups didn’t delve too deeply into his life between childhood in L.A. and his current music career. Mention was made here and there of his parents’ deaths when he was a teenager, but it was a topic that elicited evasiveness, more than likely in an effort to keep that aspect of his life private. She wasn’t the type of fan to follow an artist’s life too closely anyway. It was the music she craved, the live performances often providing a balm for whatever troubles plagued her. The narcotic effect from a memorable show could last for days afterward. But when the euphoria wore off, she’d seek out another sound to thrill and stimulate. Her obsession verged on addiction, but because music was her drug, she discounted the potential for any harmful side effects.

She pulled her knees to her chest, gathering the folds of her dress. I can imagine it would be tough, playing night after night in different towns. It’s got to be exhausting.

Yeah, it can be a bit of a drag sometimes, he agreed. But I usually don’t mind. On the surface more shy than aloof, he looked at the ground as he spoke, pulling up blades of grass and placing them in a neat row next to one another. I do sometimes wish the pace weren’t quite so frenetic. I mean, I want to be able to slow down now and then, to talk to people who are into my music, people who are really affected in a positive way by what I do. Otherwise, what’s the point? He paused, waiting for her to explain her own unique reaction to his music, but she volunteered nothing.

Well, it certainly is a huge treat for me. I enjoy your shows so much. She admitted to a ritual of tacking concert tickets on her refrigerator, keeping them ordered chronologically by the next performance date. Once a ticket was used, she’d already look forward to another arriving from the booking agent to take its place under the magnet with the others. It’s so cool just running into you like this. It’s great to be able to thank you in person for all the wonderful experiences you’ve given me, so...thank you! she laughed again.

My pleasure, E.P. said sweetly. It’s nice for me, too, talking in a more relaxed environment. So, what’s your name, if I may ask?

Awkwardly, she responded. He reacted with a puzzled look. Gloria? You don’t seem like a Gloria to me.

She smirked as she replied, That’s why I go by Glory. I think it suits me better.

He beamed approval back at her and repeated the name, Glory.

Hallelujah...

He extended his hand, which she took and gave an affectionate squeeze. Very nice to meet you, Glory. He stood, giving her a gentle tug to pull her to her feet. Would you like to walk a bit? I’m at a disadvantage here. You probably know much more about me than I do you. That is, if you don’t have anything else planned.

Sure, said Glory, I’d love to hang out for a while. I don’t have anywhere else I need to be. What do you want to know? She offered a mischievous smile.

Hmmm...let’s see... said E.P, and, as they set off down the hill, Glory realized he was still holding onto her hand.

 Chapter Two

James Etheridge remained underwater for some time after the death of his parents. When he surfaced in a small university town in upstate New York, far from the reminders of his life in Los Angeles, he hooked up with a few talented individuals, whose musical inclinations fit nicely with his. During his time of mourning, drinking and coping, he’d written a fair amount of material. Much of it was haphazard or unfinished, requiring a second, third, and even fourth set of ears to sort through the rubble, retooling the tunes in need of the most work and adding additional layers to the songs that could already stand on their own. The resulting debut was much sadder than he would’ve liked, but a very promising start for a young musician.

Though his opportunities would’ve been far greater had he used his parents’ fame as a door-opener, he took the opposite approach and stashed his background away along with his name. As an only child, he struggled with the guilt of the family legacy, with altering something very basic and meaningful his parents had given him. He’d never liked being called James, or even worse Jim or Jimmy, but every new name he came up with had some sort of association attached to it, rendering it unacceptable. It eventually dawned on him that by switching his given and surnames and adding his mother’s maiden name, he could achieve an identity he was happy with and still honor his parents’ memory. And so was born Etheridge Parsons James.

With some positive reviews of the band’s live performances on and around campus, interest in their debut led to tracks being picked up by the college radio station. The station’s internet stream and vast listenership outside the local area brought a whole new audience to E.P.’s music. The gigging kicked into high gear and performances grew from small local clubs, to regional tours around the northeast, to supporting bigger names during the summer festival season. It was around this time E.P. first noticed Glory. With a fairly limited repertoire, the band wasn’t able to vary the set too much from one night to the next. They added some covers and played around with different versions of existing tunes. One night, E.P. was alone on stage, playing a slowed-down, acoustic version of a song that appeared on the album in a much livelier rendition. Off to his right, toward the back of the club’s large room, he saw a faint glow in the audience. He couldn’t discern its source and chalked it up to an issue with the lighting. As the crowd applauded at the end of the song, the glow faded. It would reappear from time to time during the rest of the set, inching closer as the night wore on. Not so bright as to be a distraction, it perplexed him nonetheless. After the show he questioned the lighting engineer, who promised to look into it, but admitted to seeing nothing like E.P. described.

He saw it again about a week and a half later. The band was booked at a club not far from the gig where he’d first noticed it. The color and intensity were about the same during the songs, though at times it receded to such a deep purple-blue range of the spectrum, E.P. would lose sight of it in the darkened room. After they finished playing and were packing their gear, E.P. asked the other band members if they’d seen the odd glow in the audience, but they had not. The possibility that the issue lay with him and not the club’s lighting prompted E.P. to check in with his eye doctor during the band’s brief hiatus from touring.

After receiving a clean bill of health and continuing on with the tour without any recurrence of the strange light, concerns about his health faded. CD sales at the gigs were strong, and radio play at the college and independent stations drove ticket sales for the shows. Once the tour wound down, the group returned to the Hudson Valley to work on songs for the new full-length album. During this time, they played the odd gig to small, hometown crowds, trying out the new material, often working several consecutive nights at one club as a sort of residency. On the second night of one such booking, E.P. noticed the glow again.

Their material now in heavier rotation on the college station, the band had developed a good-sized following near E.P.’s upstate home, with many of their songs morphing into spontaneous sing-alongs at live shows. One number in particular generated such tremendous enthusiasm, the group decided to work in a gimmick to stoke the crowd even more. Before starting the song, E.P. asked for the house lights to be brought up, at which point the band’s drummer unloaded a slew of small percussive instruments into the audience. That night, just before the crowd was handed tambourines, maracas, wood blocks and other joyful noisemakers, E.P. fixed his gaze on the glow. Once the lights were on, however, he could no longer see it, and nothing out of the ordinary appeared in its place—only the audience, the fans, smiling and enjoying the show. The band played on once the instruments were scattered, and as usual, the crowd sang along, accompanying with more enthusiasm than precision, and applauding wildly when the song ended with its trademark cacophony.

The instruments gathered and loaded into their trunk, the house lights dimmed again, and there it hovered—the glow, now brighter than it had ever been before.

 Chapter Three

They strolled across the open field toward a wooded area farthest from the garden’s parking lot. Glory shed her light cardigan under the afternoon sun. Her bare shoulders displayed faint traces of a tattoo. She explained the galaxy of constellations she’d planned as a larger piece across her shoulder blades and down her back, but after the initial work had been completed, she decided the subtlety of those few stars was much more appealing. They were delicate and muted, like stars in an actual night sky, rather than the stark pinpoints on an astronomical chart. E.P. couldn’t resist the urge to trace lightly from star to star with his fingertip. Her skin was soft, even across the raised ridges of flesh where the tattooist’s needle had delivered its ink.

They paused by a grove of trees, taking a moment to sit in the shade. There a sculptor had created a long, snaking stone wall curling around the landscape and hugging the hills before vanishing into a small creek, only to surface again on the far bank. Glory talked of her life in Manhattan, how she worked a job she was comfortable with but didn’t care to be doing for the next twenty years. She’d been very close to her family into her early adulthood, but since moving to New York there’d been friction, and now she spoke to them only rarely. The conversation quickly turned to music and Glory brimmed over, telling him about the incredible performances she’d seen over the years.

So, you must play something then, an instrument, I mean, E.P. observed.

Oh no, Glory said, well, that is, yes, I do play, but very badly. I learned oboe in middle school, but the screeching was too much for my parents so I gave it up. I play guitar a little, but I’m just not coordinated enough to be any good. I can’t carry a tune to save my life either, she added, but that doesn’t stop me from singing at the top of my lungs whenever I’m by myself.

It’s probably not as bad as you think, E.P. said. You know, a lot people think musical talent is some sort of gift—that the songs just come to us from out of the blue or we’re naturals at the instruments we play. Sometimes I can’t come up with a single original melody or lyric for weeks on end. But I just keep at it. And I practiced for years before I felt ready to play in front of an audience. Maybe you need to give it another chance. You obviously have a great love for it. But Glory remained adamant; she’d resigned herself to being an admirer, on her side of the balance—as a fan in the sometimes strained yet symbiotic relationship between fan and artist.

She was the first to rise and entreat E.P. to continue on. They’d only covered a small section of the gardens’ grounds and there was still much Glory wanted to see. As the afternoon wore on, the park filled with families arriving from the city and Westchester. Children raced across the grassy slopes, and shouts from their distressed parents cut through the air. E.P. and Glory stole off from the paved walkway circumscribing the property and headed down to a path by the river, avoiding the scenes where the sculptures attracted attention and noise. But here too, the peace was interrupted by workers on a nearby service road, sawing at lifeless tree branches that had fallen during the last windstorm. E.P. suggested they go to a quieter spot he knew of nearby. In the parking lot, as Glory noted the directions so as to follow him in her car, she spied a guitar case in his back seat.

In case inspiration strikes while you’re out and about? she asked, pointing at the instrument.

"Yes ma’am. I’ve always got one with me. And a notebook. I was on a cross-country flight once, and I started getting these great ideas from conversations I overheard. But all I had with me was the book I was reading. I had to borrow a pen from the stewardess so I could jot some notes down in the margins. Later I could barely read what I’d written, my print was so small and cramped. So, now I always carry one