Real Book Jazz wasn’t a group so much as it was an idea. Once a week a ragtag collection of amateur musicians would gather at the coffeehouse to play for tips and the love of music. Nearly anyone who had mastered the “real book,” that near mythical compilation of standards that all jazz musicians are expected to know, was invited to sit in. As a result, the musicians changed from week to week and sometimes even from set to set. On this night a Lutheran pastor, a social worker, a part-time studio musician, a high school music teacher, and a bus driver had joined Stacy, a biochemistry major who was on summer break. They were riffing on “Scotch and Soda,” the old Kingston Trio tune, and really had it going. The xylophone player in particular was outstanding, and I thought, Nina should hear this guy.

It was Nina who had discovered Coffee Grounds, who had first brought me to listen to Real Book, although I strongly suspect that she preferred the chocolate-covered coffee beans they sold to the music. Nina had a much more discerning ear than I had, and she prized consistency. Real Book Jazz, for all its virtues, was far from consistent. Yet sometimes they played the most extraordinary music—if only for a few moments—leaving behind a feeling of pure joy. In that regard the experience wasn’t so much different from watching a journeyman ballplayer going yard in the late innings with the game on the line. It put a jump in your step and filled your heart with the sense that all things were possible.

That’s why Nina valued out-of-the-way joints like this.

That’s why I valued them as well.

God, I missed her.

Certainly, I had gone more than a few days without seeing or speaking to Nina in the past. Yet knowing she was out there and available had been reassuring to me; I always knew that I wasn’t alone. Now that we were on the outs, suddenly I understood the anguish behind the Cole Porter song Stacy was singing from the stage—“Love for Sale.”

It had been nearly two years since Nina and I met, and already I was having a difficult time remembering what my life had been like before she came along. There were things I had done prior to meeting her, events I had witnessed—Ella Fitzgerald at Northrup, Wynton Marsalis and Itzhak Perlman jamming on “Summertime” at Brilliant Corners, James Earl Jones playing Othello opposite Christopher Plummer’s Iago at the State Theater, the Minnesota Wild skating to the brink of the Stanley Cup Finals, the Twins winning their second World Series. Only here’s the thing—when I recalled these moments, and so many others, I nearly always saw Nina. She wasn’t there; she couldn’t possibly have been there. Most of these events occurred before I knew her, some when I was a still a kid. Yet somehow, in my memory, Nina is always at my side. Why was that?

I took a long pull of the mocha.

Real Book completely botched “Autumn Leaves”—that’s what happens when you don’t rehearse—did a decent job with “All of Me,” and just soared on “The Girl from Ipanema.” It was when Stacy let out that famous sigh that I decided I had had enough.

I dropped a twenty in the tip jar, bought a half-pound bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans, and went looking for Nina.

The storm the weathergeeks had been predicting all day had finally arrived, but it was coming in like a lamb, so I didn’t bother with an umbrella as I crossed the parking lot and entered Rickie’s. The sound of a jazz trio playing in the upstairs dining and performing area greeted me at the door, piano, bass, and percussion doing a splendid job covering the Johnny Mandel tune “Suicide Is Painless.” Half the tables in the downstairs lounge were occupied, and the customers seemed more animated than usual. I wondered briefly if the coming thunderstorm had anything to do with it. I found Nina Truhler behind the bar. Seeing her filled me with an almost adolescent glee that I instinctively worked to hide.

She and Jenness were both chatting with a customer, his back to me. For a moment I thought it was Daniel. I was relieved when I discovered it wasn’t. As I approached, Nina moved casually down the bar, stopping in front of a few unoccupied stools. I greeted her there.

“McKenzie, nice to see you,” she said. From the tone in her voice, she could have been welcoming any one of her regulars.

“Hi.”

I presented her with the chocolate-covered coffee beans.

Nina took the bag from my outstretched hand, opened it and sniffed. “French vanilla, my favorite,” she said without emotion, even as my own heart leapt. “You’re spoiling me.”

“That’s the plan.”

Jenness stayed with the customer but watched us. When she noticed me noticing her, she gave me a thumbs-up signal.

“What happened to your face?” Nina asked. “Did you get into a fight?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“You should see the other guy,” I told her.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I’m okay. It looks worse than it is.”

“Good. That’s good. So . . .”

“Yes?”

“Did you get my phone message?” she asked.

“I did. I tried to call back. You weren’t answering.”

“When did you call?”

“About eight this morning.”

“McKenzie, you know the hours I keep. After I get Erica off to school I go back to bed.”

“I didn’t think. Why . . .?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you call?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just to see how you were.”

I nodded as if her answer actually told me something.