The Jazz Historian's Harmony
"Dr. Evelyn preserves jazz history at the Smithsonian. When a collector donates his father's recordings, they discover some melodies need living instruments."
Jazz is America's classical music.
I've spent my career proving that—thirty years at the Smithsonian, preserving what others dismissed. I'm Dr. Evelyn—sixty-one, curator of sound, keeper of the groove.
"I have a donation."
The man holds a box like it's holy. Marcus Webb—his father was a legendary session player, finally ready to share.
"What's in there?"
"Unreleased recordings. Stories. A lifetime I need someone to protect."
The collection is extraordinary.
Tapes of sessions that changed music, photographs with every legend. Marcus watches me handle each piece.
"You understand what this is," he says.
"I understand it's priceless."
"It was his life. Now it's yours to preserve."
The cataloging takes months.
Marcus visits constantly—not monitoring, participating. Learning his father's legacy through my expertise.
"He talked about this session," he says, holding a tape. "Never heard it."
"Would you like to?"
We listen together. His father's piano fills my office.
He cries. I hold his hand.
"Thank you."
The words come after hours of listening, days of discovery.
"For what?"
"For making him real again." He faces me. "I grew up with a legend, not a father. You've given me both."
"I just organize—"
"You understand." His eyes hold mine. "The first person who ever has."
The shift is gradual.
Work conversations become personal. Evening sessions become dinners. The line between curator and donor blurs.
"This isn't professional," I warn.
"Neither was anything my father played." He smiles. "Jazz doesn't follow rules."
The first kiss is in my office.
His father's music playing, history surrounding us.
"We shouldn't," I whisper.
"We should have done this months ago." He pulls me closer. "Improvise with me, Evelyn."
His home has music everywhere.
His father's instruments, records lining walls. He leads me to a bedroom that feels like a song.
"Play me," he says.
"I'm not musical—"
"You're the most musical person I know." He begins undressing me. "You've heard what others miss. Let me hear you."
His mouth finds my rhythms.
Moving like jazz—unpredictable, responsive, building toward crescendo.
"Marcus—"
"Let me hear you."
I let him hear everything.
When he enters me, we're composing.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. We're not at the bridge yet."
"I never want to resolve."
Afterward, surrounded by his father's legacy, he holds me.
"The collection needs a partner archive."
"What do you mean?"
"My home. Our work. A living tribute, not just museum pieces." He pulls me closer. "Move in. Help me make it real."
"That's a lot of history to share—"
"That's a lot of life to live." He kisses my forehead. "Say yes, Evelyn."
The Webb Jazz Archive opens the following year.
His father's collection, properly housed, publicly accessible. My expertise, finally honored beyond the Smithsonian.
"Partners," he calls it.
"In every way?"
"Every single way."
The wedding is in the archive.
His father's music playing, every note a blessing.
"To the woman who made history live," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who shared it," I counter.
We kiss while the jazz plays on.
Some harmonies are preserved.
Some are created.
And some historians find that the best archives are the ones you build together.
Note by note.
Year by year.
Forever in tune.