Summer of '65 (Bishop Family Book 1) Read online

  I made my way through the bodies on the dance floor. People instantly made a path once they realized I was the person being introduced.

  "There she is," Curtis said, helping me to the stage. I started to sit down at the piano, but he took me by the shoulders and turned me to face the audience, squeezing me against his chest. I made a silly face like he was squeezing the daylights out of me, and the crowd began laughing. Curtis looked at me and then out at the crowd thoughtfully as if considering what he was going to say next.

  "Y'all ain't gonna believe what this little girl's about to do, y'all! You think she's shy to look at her, but then she hits you with some of her soul!" He delivered the words with such showmanship that the band instinctually played a downbeat. "Cause I've seen this little Ivy jam, y'all, and all Imma say is hold on to your hats, because you're in for a treat!"

  They clapped again, and Curtis reached down to place a brotherly type kiss on my head. "Hurry on over to that piano," he said in my ear.

  Jim-bo's had the piano turned we're my side was facing the audience, and I sat down, realizing I couldn't really see Michael very well once I took a seat on the bench. Curtis went on to say something about first seeing me play in Nashville, but I knew he was just stalling the crowd while I got situated, so I didn't pay attention to him. Charlie James smiled at me from the other side of the piano.

  "What's it gonna be, lil' lady?" he asked.

  "You Never Can Tell," I said.

  "I know I never can tell, sugar, but you better name a tune so I can play it."

  "Chuck Berry's You Never Can Tell," I said. I figured he was joking, but I clarified just in case. "If that's okay with you," I added.

  Charlie gave me a huge smile—his row of straight, white teeth lighting up his face. "It's fine with me, sugar. You want my microphone, or do you want me to sing it?"

  "I'll sing along with you from back here," I said. I loved to sing, but it was his show and I certainly didn't want to step on his toes.

  "You sure?" he asked. "Curt said you was gonna do some singin'."

  "She is singin'," Curtis said, tuning in to the last bit of our conversation.

  "I'm good either way," I said.

  "All right little mama," Charlie said. "You're singin', then."

  I nodded, and Charlie winked at me again as he used one hand to swing the microphone stand in front of me. Just as soon as it was positioned where it was close enough, Charlie situated his guitar and faced the audience. He settled into place and looked at me before playing the first notes of the familiar Chuck Berry song. I barely had time to adjust the microphone before it was time for me to come in with the vocals.

  "It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well.

  You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle.

  And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell.

  'C'est la vie,' say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell."

  I could see the crowd's reaction out of the corner of my eye. They were gawking and shoving each other with amazement, and I smiled from behind the microphone. I caught sight of Alice right before I started the second verse, and could see the look of utter shock on her face—she was stupefied.

  (Alice sang with me in the church choir growing up. We sang soprano, and I followed every musical rule and enunciated the words properly like Mr. Dixon, our choir director, required. It wasn't until I went off to college that I found my soul voice… the one that was a few octaves lower than my church soprano and full of character and intentional mispronunciations.)

  I could only glance for a second at Alice before it was time for me to go into the next verse. I smiled at the crowd. Some were dancing and some stared at me adoringly. I made a silly but intense expression into the microphone as I continued to pound away on the piano.

  "They furnished off an apartment with a two-room Roebuck sale.

  The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale.

  But when Pierre found work, the little money comin' worked out well.

  C'est la vie say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell."

  I played the piano and sang on autopilot for the next two verses. I had listened to and performed the song so many times that I didn't even have to think about it—I just let myself play.

  After the next two verses, there was an iconic piano solo. I stayed mostly true to the original version, but I had practiced a slight variation that was even more jankity than the original. The audience must have appreciated my spin on it, because I could hear them yelling out whoops and whistles and other sounds of approval as they danced.

  I thought about Michael as I played, but I had to push him out of my mind because the only way I could be my true soul character was to not care what anyone thought of me—and in order to not care what Michael thought of me, I had to not think of him at all.

  I sang and played, and swayed and stomped, and after that song, Charlie came over and spoke into the microphone, giving me a hard time for being such a firecracker. He asked me what song I wanted to do next, and without hesitation, I said, "How about, a little Wooly Bully, if you please."

  "I don't mind if we do," he said. He smiled at the band. "Wooly Bully for the lady." Then, in a louder voice, he counted us off. "Uh-one, uh-two, uh-uno, dos, tres, cuatro…"

  The song hadn't been out very long and was all the rage with the younger crowd. It fit my personality because it was silly, yet extremely danceable, and I sang and played and looked goofy and dramatic. Charlie was a showman, too, and he came over and helped me sing the chorus. The crowd loved it. I looked at what I did as an act and I gave myself fully over to the soul version of me, which was extremely fun. I got carried away by the song and the energy of the audience, and before I knew it, we played the last note of Wooly Bully.

  I let my fingers hit the last set of keys by pounding my hands down on the piano one final time, standing from the bench as I did it. I had a wonderful time with the other band members, especially Charlie. He and I smiled at each other in those brief seconds of silence before the crowd erupted—and erupt was just what they did.

  Chapter 7

  The audience was so kind, they really were. I knew Wooly Bully would be a hit with them, but I was blown away by the yells and applause.

  "Thank y'all," I said, leaning over to talk into the microphone in my speaking voice (which was noticeably higher-pitched and more tentative than my blues voice).

  I repositioned the microphone in front of Charlie as Mr. Wayne came back to his stool. He tipped his hat to me in a respectful way, and I nodded and smiled at him, thanking him for letting me sit in. Charlie put his arm around me as he leaned over to speak into the microphone.

  "Can y'all b'leve that just came out of this girl?"

  They cheered and whooped as the drummer counted off another tune that they began playing in the background. I reached in to give Charlie a farewell hug because I felt anxious to get off of the stage now that I was no longer sitting behind a piano. I felt myself start to blush.

  "That was a real treat, wasn't that, y'all?" he asked.

  They cheered again, and I waved and smiled at them as I climbed down from the stage. Charlie began singing a song that wasn't familiar. I assumed it was one of his originals. I carefully stepped off of the stage, thinking about how much I liked the sound of it.

  Alice had come up to meet me, but it wasn't her hand that reached out to help me down.

  It was a man's hand.

  It was Michael's hand.

  I hadn't even seen him cross to the foot of the stage, so it surprised me to find him standing there. There was a little set of stairs coming off the bandstand, but they were rickety, and Michael held my hand on the way down. I got a rush from touching his hand, but the contact unfortunately only lasted for two steps. I looked right at him once my feet were securely on the ground, and smiled as he let go of my hand. The music continued to blast out of the nearby speakers, but I was so stunned
by my proximity to Michael that I could hardly notice it anymore.

  "What in the world got into you up there, Ivy?" Alice was staring at the side of my face as I looked at Michael. My hand was still lingering in the air from when he helped me off of the stage, and Michael smiled as he reached up to grab it. He gently guided my hand from the air, manually pulling it downward into a relaxed position.

  "Yeah, Ivy, what in the world got into you up there?" he asked, repeating Alice's question.

  "Oh that?" I asked, glancing at the piano, which Mr. Wayne was now playing. "I was just singing," I said.

  "Like a different person!" Alice said, leaning in to whisper into my ear. "A sixty-year-old soul-singer who smokes!" she added still whispering and making me laugh. Alice shook her head at me, looking stunned. "I'm serious, Ivy Lewis," she said in a louder tone that everyone standing around could hear. "What happened to you just now? Where'd that come from?"

  I smiled and gestured to the very middle of my mid-section, right at the bottom of my chest and top of my belly. "I think it came from right about here," I said honestly, since that's where I felt it most when I performed.

  I shifted to stare at Michael and then the guy who was standing next to him. I recognized him now that he was closer. He was about three years older than me and probably wouldn't even know my name, but he was big into sports at my high school and I vaguely knew his family. I think they might even go to my dad's church on Christmas and Easter.

  "I’m Ivy," I said, reaching out to shake the guy's hand as if I was meeting him for the first time.

  "Max Nichols," he said. "I recognize you. You're Pastor Lewis's daughter."

  I curtsied and nodded to let him know he was correct. "I thought I recognized you, too. From Creekside."

  "What was that up there?" Alice asked again, still shocked by my performance.

  "That was soul," Michael said.

  I looked at him when he said it. We stared at each other, seeming like we were hardly aware of our surroundings.

  "Real soul," he said. "Amazing. So much fun to watch."

  "Alice, this is Max," I said without taking my eyes off of Michael. "Max, this is Alice," I continued, still not moving my eyes. This made Michael grin at me, and I smiled back. I had no idea what he was thinking, but he was in no hurry to look away from me, so I just stood there, accepting the challenge. I vaguely registered that Alice was now talking to Max as I remained quietly focused on Michael.

  "I guess I should ask you to dance," Michael said, taking a step closer to me and shifting a little to look out at the crowd of people around us. "…seeing as how I'd prefer it if you didn't dance with anyone else."

  The song was medium tempo, and Michael pulled me close as he began to sway to the music. I had a natural sense of rhythm, and I was so happy that Michael knew how to move with the tempo of the song. He led and I followed as we swayed to the beat. I loved Alice and everything, but in that moment had no idea what she was doing and didn't care. Michael placed one hand around my back while he held my hand in his other in a couple-style dance pose. He was by no means inappropriate with me, but he did pull me close enough that our bodies touched. I could hardly breathe, and I was happy that Michael was content to just stand there and sway with me.

  Charlie finished that song and moved onto a slow blues number. Michael held me in the same position, pulling me closer even still as he slowed his movements to match the rhythm song. I leaned in closely enough to rest my head on his shoulder, right at the top of his chest. My forehead touched his neck, and I tucked myself gently and comfortably into his embrace as we moved.

  Michael and I danced the remainder of that whole song without saying a single word to each other. It was when that song was finished, and the band began playing a much faster number that Michael pulled back and looked at me. He kept his hands around my back and regarded me with a smile. I made small movements with my shoulders reflecting the new faster beat, but I didn't move enough to escape his grasp. I had been out with a few guys in Nashville, but no one had ever come close to affecting me the way Michael did. I felt like I could never tire of staring at his face. I leaned in to speak next to his ear.

  "Thanks for the dance," I said.

  He turned so he could speak close to my ear in return. "The way you play and sing, Ivy," he said. "You already had me messed up enough with Amazing Grace. I don’t know why you had to do what you just did."

  "Thank you, I think," I said, with a reluctant smile.

  "I want to marry you," he said. He stared at me as if he actually didn't understand his own feelings. "I find that I seriously just want to marry you. It must be your talent," he said, still looking slightly confused. "Because I don't even know you, and I'm not even the type of person to say something like this. But, honest to God, Ivy, I would marry you tonight if you'd let me."

  "What if I was a crazy person?" I asked, laughing.

  I shifted my body in tiny dance movements just because it was impossible to stand still with the loud, soulful music blaring around us.

  "You are clearly crazy," Michael said with a completely serious expression. "That's the part about you that I want to marry."

  "That makes you crazy," I said, smiling and pointing at his chest.

  He shrugged. "Maybe it does," he said.

  I had never been so stricken by a man's appearance. I continually noticed the lines of his face and mouth and the way they changed and shifted when he smiled.

  "Who were we saying was crazy again?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "I think both of us, maybe."

  He was right. The whole town of Memphis would think I had gone and lost my mind if they knew I was singing Wooly Bully in a blues club and thinking about running off with the mysterious motorcycle guy from Detroit. That thought made me glance at his hair.

  "How'd you get your hair to look so perfect after driving over here?" I asked. It was a stupid question and I pretty much regretted asking it right when it came out of my mouth but Michael didn't seem to mind.

  "I drove my car," he said running his hand through his hair.

  "You have a car?"

  He smiled. "A sixty-one Bel Air," he said. "One of the first off the line. I had a hand designing that one, and it was part of my contract."

  "So, you worked for Chevrolet before you started building motorcycles?"

  He nodded. "And how about you, Miss Ivy?"

  "I study music over at Belmont in Nashville," I said. "I grew up in Memphis, though. I'm just home for the summer."

  He smiled. "And you're without a car because yours is at the shop."

  "I can borrow my mom's," I said. "Or get a ride from Alice. My car will be fixed by the time I get back."

  The music changed to a slower tempo song, and Michael and I went back to swaying.

  "You can use my Chevy," he said. "While you're here for the summer."

  "I couldn't do that."

  "Why not?" he asked.

  I smiled. "Because you need it. Plus, what if I'm a bad driver?"

  "Are you?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  "Then you can use my car."

  I could tell he was serious, so I shook my head. "I couldn’t possibly," I said.

  "Why not?"

  A guy was dancing next to us, and he leaned over to speak to me. "That was some nice singin' up there," he said. I smiled and thanked him before turning to focus on Michael again.

  "Why couldn’t you possibly borrow my car?" he asked.

  "Because it's yours," I said. "You need it."

  He shrugged. "I have my motorcycle. And I have four other bikes in the shop, and a van."

  "A van?"

  "For hauling bikes and parts."

  "I like your logo," I said.

  He nodded. "I like it, too. My friend back in Detroit drew it for me."

  "It's cool. How'd you meet Max?" I asked.

  "He came into the shop not long after I opened. He's probably going to come to work for me soon."

 
; "How long ago did you open?"

  "I've been making bikes for about three years, but I just moved to Memphis three months ago."

  "Why did Mr. Morrow give you his shop?" I asked.

  "Because he wanted to," he said simply.

  I squinted at him since I thought he was trying to be cute, but he just shrugged at me innocently.

  "Seriously," he said with a shrug. "He just wanted to give it to me, so he did. I wasn't about to refuse him. I was making it in Detroit, but I was building in a much smaller location. Mr. Morrow left me the body shop and the contents of it. It was basically a gold mine for someone in my situation. I wasn't going to refuse."

  "And he just gave it to you because he wanted to?"

  Michael and I barely moved to the music, and he stared at me like he was contemplating what to say. "I knew his brother up in Detroit."

  I remembered Bobby mentioning something about jail, but I also knew that Bobby didn't know what he was talking about. "I think it's really neat that you have a motorcycle shop," I said.

  "I was born to have a bike shop," he said. "It's right there in my name."

  I squinted at him like I didn't see what he was saying.

  "Bi-shop. Bishop. Bi, meaning two. Shop, meaning shop. You know, a shop that sells two-wheeled things. Get it? Bi-shop. Like my name."

  I giggled and shook my head at him.

  "What? It's true. It's right there in my name."

  "There's 'two' and 'shop' in your name, but there's nothing about 'wheels' or 'cycles'."

  He shook his head at me like he was disappointed in me for not seeing the amazingness of it. This made me grin at him.

  "I still think it's fate," I said.

  "Me too," he said. "But even if my name doesn’t convince you, which it should, you can just believe me when I say I'm born to build bikes. It's just what I was meant to do."

  Chapter 8

  I danced with Michael for eight or ten glorious songs before Alice tapped me on the shoulder.

  "It's time to go," she said. "We need to go now if you have to be back by eleven-thirty. We're going to be late as it is."