His Uptown Girl Page 18

  “But they’re really good.”

  “You’re just famished from all the sex we had.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Probably. And I’ve never heard a guy use the word famish.”

  “I minored in English lit. Thought it would come in handy as a lyricist. I know lots of words. Big vocabulary along with my big—”

  “Ego?” she finished, eyeing his buns in the fairly fitted boxers.

  Dez flashed a smile. “Among other things.”

  “So where did you go to college? I never heard you talk about it.”

  He scraped fluffy eggs onto a plate, grabbed a fork and joined her at the table. “I went to LSU for two years before dropping out to go on the road and do session work.”

  For the next few minutes they chatted about college and the things they loved and didn’t about the traditional classroom. Eleanor loved talking with Dez because he was a good listener. Skeeter had been a brilliant conversationalist, but never really listened. He always seemed to be thinking of his own next point, so it was refreshing to sit at the breakfast table and carry on inane conversation with no overtones.

  Of course she wanted to ask, “What now?” but she didn’t want reality to intrude upon the perfection of the night…and early morning. It was as if they’d wrapped themselves in an invisibility cloak, and disrupting the folds in any way might drop it to the floor, leaving them naked and exposed.

  And not in a good way.

  Dez cleaned his plate and eyed hers. She slid it toward him and he finished it off.

  “So tell me about Skeeter.”

  Eleanor nearly choked. If that wasn’t a slap of reality, she didn’t know what was.

  “Skeeter?”

  “Your husband. I was in Houston when all that went down, so clue me in.”

  “I thought you didn’t need to know about him.” She didn’t want to talk about her late husband. Or Blakely. Or the fact she had to take a quiche to the Young Women’s Business Owners Open House later that night. Reality knocked and she didn’t want to relinquish the small world in which they’d existed for the past ten hours.

  Dez shrugged. “I don’t. If you don’t want to talk about your past, that’s cool.”

  Eleanor set down her mug. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about Skeeter—well, actually I don’t—but that whole mess made me raw and it still…”

  “Chafes?” His gaze probed hers.

  “Yeah, but I’m over Skeeter if that’s what you’re asking. No grieving widow here.”

  “I didn’t ask if you were still in love with your husband. I asked what happened between you two. At some point, we have to decide about us. Understanding what you went through might help us figure out how to proceed.”

  How to proceed? How would her past help her with her future with Dez? Skeeter’s murder-suicide had nothing to do with them.

  Irrational panic knocked on the door of her mind. A future with Dez didn’t compute. Didn’t make sense. Scared the woolies out of her. “Maybe we shouldn’t proceed.”

  His eyes shuttered and he turned his body slightly away from her. “So this was a one-night stand?”

  She stared at her coffee mug. “I don’t know. I mean, I—” She grappled for the right words, but they weren’t there. Eleanor had no experience with doing the morning-after thing, and she hadn’t really thought beyond having sex with Dez.

  His eyes gave her nothing to go on.

  Eleanor hated the sudden discomfort hanging between them. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this.”

  “Were you just using me?”

  “Oh, God, no.” She grabbed his hand, wanting him to understand she’d never see what she shared with him as tawdry.

  He pushed his plate toward the center of the table and folded his arms. “So tell me about Skeeter.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Skeeter.”

  “Too bad.” Dez’s jaw set and his eyes no longer resembled gray flannel.

  “I don’t want to talk about the past.”

  “From the past we learn. I need to know more about you. You need to know more about me.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell you about Skeeter, but you have to tell me about whoever gave you that expensive piano.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Fine,” Eleanor huffed, rising and grabbing her empty cup. “But I need more coffee.”

  Two minutes later, she inhaled the French Market brew and blew out a breath. “Skeeter was the only man I had slept with until you.”

  His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

  “I met him at the end of my freshman year at Tulane. He was older, charming, and before I knew what hit me, I was pregnant. At first, he wanted me to take care of it, which shocked me, but his family is extremely high-minded when it comes to their reputation, and a secret abortion seemed too big a stain on Skeeter’s past, so after having my family of educators vetted, they decided Skeeter marrying a Louisiana girl from middle-class roots would play well in the polls for both Porter and Skeeter, so like a dumb sheep, I found myself bedded then wedded to a Louisiana Theriot.

  “And I can’t lie and say Skeeter and I had a horrible marriage. We didn’t. We got along well and I loved him. Everyone loved him—that’s what made him a perfect candidate for the U.S. House of Representatives.”

  Eleanor took a deep breath. “But things changed after Katrina.”

  “For everyone,” he said with a nod.

  “Yes, but I had trouble, which led to some, well, let’s just say I had to have medical intervention.”

  She paused for a moment, the shame of the depression she’d suffered engulfing her. The months after the storm had been difficult, and for a while, she’d borne it beautifully, but then like the levees that broke, emotion overwhelmed her. She couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t function, her mind raced…and then suddenly all she wanted to do was lie in bed. Eleanor had checked out. “You know what? I don’t want to rehash this. It’s a bad memory.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s it? You’re done trying to understand my past?” she asked, tilting her head, trying to see inside his gaze to the thoughts within. “Why do you care?”

  “Because.”

  “Sounds like a child’s reasoning.”

  He frowned. “Sometimes a child’s reasoning is best. I don’t know where we’re heading or what specifically we have going on between us. Right now it’s just a ‘because.’”

  Eleanor looked down at her now empty plate. Was “because” ever a good enough reason? Or did it merely mask what neither of them were prepared to declare—a definition on what they had. “I suffered from severe depression for almost two years. Took a long time for me to get my medication straight and for therapy to work. It was during that particular hell that Skeet took up with his secretary. Now I can step back and see the situation. Skeeter needed to feel like a man and Shellee gave him—”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  She shook her head. “No, but it’s the truth. Skeeter wasn’t a bad man, but he was a weak one. So he gave in to lust and it led to…his death. Shellee believed he loved her and would leave me. But she forgot who she was sleeping with—a politician. No way Skeeter was going to abandon his family when he mounted a campaign. Once my medication worked, I got better. Skeeter tried to end their relationship, and Shellee refused. Then she made sure he couldn’t have what he always dreamed of—a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives. End of story.”

  “But?”

  “I was left to face the music…and not the good kind you make.” She smiled ironically. “The press had a party with the murder-suicide. They camped outside our door, jostling me for interviews, haunting Porter and Margaret. We could hardly plan the funeral without some reporter lurking behind the floral sprays at the funeral home. I’m surprised they didn’t pop out of caskets. ‘Mrs. Theriot, can you comment on your husband’s alleged
affair with Miss Genoa?’ It was crazy and made me protective of Blakely and my own privacy.”

  He studied her, his eyes no longer intense. She saw no pity within their depths, merely an understanding. “You’re cautious.”

  “Of course, which is why this whole thing between us scares the hell out of me. I didn’t date because I wasn’t ready.”

  “But you are now?”

  “I thought I was. You were supposed to help me get my feet wet, but it’s feeling more like I’m up to my neck in you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  His lips tipped up. “See? That word covers a lot.”

  “Yeah, so does that help define ‘us’?”

  “You don’t want a relationship.”

  She studied his bared chest faintly swirled with dark hair, the muscled breadth of his shoulders, the definition of his biceps, and her mouth nearly went dry. “I don’t know. All I know is you make me happy.”

  “And that’s enough for now?”

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  “So…we date?”

  “Does it have to be a definition? Maybe we can be exactly what we are now? Friends. With benefits.”

  Dez arched his eyebrows. “Not exclusive?”

  Something pinged in her chest at the thought of Dez doing what he’d done to her with another woman. Her eggs nearly came back up. “Well, I can’t handle another man, so I’m going to say mutually exclusive friends with benefits?”

  “It fits both our lives right now. I don’t want anything serious either—too much going on—but I enjoy being with you, and the benefits, whoa, those benefits are nice. When we end, I hope we’ll stay friends. It will be better since we’re business neighbors.”

  “Of course.” Her words sounded hollow. Was this how people did things? So nonchalant about sex and relationships? Something told her it wouldn’t be that easy for her. She wanted to pretend Dez was just run-of-the-mill, but her heart pushed toward extraordinary. Keeping it casual on the surface was much easier said than done. What if she fell in love with the hot, young musician? How could that ever work?

  It wouldn’t. Or maybe…

  She struck the possibility of something more from her mind as she picked up the dishes and headed for the sink. If there was one thing Eleanor had, it was self-control. As long as she set the parameters, she could toe the line…even if it was in the deep end of the pool in her string bikini.

  Eleanor Theriot wasn’t up for love.

  But she was up for exploring a new world with Dez.

  *

  TRE LIFTED THE BOXES, stacking them into neat columns in the crammed storage room of the Queen’s Box. He purposely ignored the Plexiglas display case on his right. That case worried him like a gnat buzzing around his head, reminding him of what had once sat inside—a fancy box owned by the queen of France. The queen who’d gotten her head chopped off. Tre hated that display case. Wished Eleanor would put it away already.

  “Hey, Tre,” Pansy called out, not seeing him because of the tall clock that waited for the specialty guy to come fix it. “Tre! Where are you?”

  “Right here,” he said, stepping from behind the clock.

  “Shit!” Pansy jumped and drew back a fist. That was the difference between Pansy and Eleanor. Eleanor always looked like she was going to faint. Pansy always looked like she was ready to beat the hell out of someone. “You scared me.”

  “I see.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I think you like doing that. Men and power tripping.”

  “Nope. I was already standing here.”

  “Whatever,” she said, waving a hand. “Some girl called and said to tell you the paperwork went through and there’s a spot. She said you would know what that meant.”

  Tre nearly closed his eyes with relief, but didn’t want Pansy to see him act like a little bitch, so he nodded. “Thanks.”

  She lifted her eyebrows near to her hairline, but he didn’t say anything more. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Ugh, men.”

  At this he smiled, mostly because his heart was about as happy as it had been in years. Alicia. God had sent her to work miracles in his life. “So you said before.”

  “Fine. You don’t want to talk? What else is new?”

  He didn’t answer. He rarely answered.

  “Well, Eleanor said you were free to go over to Blue Rondo. Something about working for Dez. Oh, and you’re to take that horn out of her office. She said she’s sick of looking at it.” Pansy spun around on a foot the size of a boat paddle and walked out, letting him know she was mad he wasn’t sharing whatever news he’d received.

  He had to call Big Mama and let her know Kenzie had gotten into the Lighthouse program. Alicia’s aunt had taken Kenzie to the community clinic to see a new doctor. The little girl had learning disabilities brought on from something called FTT—Failure to Thrive. It qualified Kenzie for additional testing, and Cici could take parenting and nutrition classes. Alicia’s message meant they had room and money in the school to take in his small cousin. Like a bird singing, Tre’s heart soared. Finally, a break in his life.

  And not just a break for Kenzie. His date with Alicia last Saturday after church had been the bomb. They’d grabbed a bottle of sweet red wine, driven out to Lake Pontchartrain and made out beneath the stars. Usually, if he was with a girl, he liked a side of freaky, but Alicia acted like a lady. She was into him, but she didn’t give nothing up to him. And though he’d been stiff as an oak tree when she’d dropped him by his house, he sort of liked her more for not climbing on him and giving him that part of herself.

  Most dudes he knew would have dropped a bitch if she hadn’t given it up, but Tre wasn’t most dudes.

  That night it had been easier than ever to walk by Grady and his boys and not stop.

  Alicia had liked him despite the fact his kicks were older than shit and he didn’t have a ride. In fact, she seemed to like him more because he wasn’t frontin’.

  Wiping his brow on his shirt, he grabbed his time card, punched out and left the storage room. Eleanor had come in and left again, and the case holding the saxophone sat on her desk, looking as new as the day it had been bought. He stepped into her office, looking over his shoulder despite the fact he wasn’t stealing it, and picked up the horn.

  The handle felt good hooked beneath his fingers, and something inside him sped up at the thought of a bright shiny horn.

  And it would be bright and shiny.

  Blakely said she’d played it for a semester, and rich people like the Theriots bought expensive shit because they could.

  He walked past Pansy, who sat at the counter watching two older ladies pick up ceramic dogs that came from France or England and cost more than a week’s groceries. Pansy always worried about frail old ladies dropping things.

  “Later,” he said to Pansy, who swiveled her head to try to find the two old ladies who’d disappeared.

  “Yeah,” she said, not really paying attention.

  Sunshine and traffic met him as he stepped onto Magazine Street. Busy today because it was Friday. People liked to shop on Friday if they wasn’t working. The Queen’s Box got as much business as it did Saturday. Tre jogged across the street toward the club, which had a new window in place with Blue Rondo drawn in the center. Things looked tight at the club, and Tre had a feeling the smoothness Dez brought would translate to customers.

  Excitement stirred in Tre’s stomach at the weight of the case in his hand…at the thought of losing himself in the music. He’d tried to forget the feel of the horn in his hands, the big mellow notes spilling out when he applied just the right amount of air, small puffs balanced with sustained breaths. He’d buried the hunger for music when he sold his secondhand horn, but he’d done what he had to do. Big Mama had been in the home for a month and no check came from the government. Instead the money had gone to the nursing home for her care, so Tre had no other choice. He’d sold his true passion so Sho
rty D had what he needed for school.

  Dez had restored the old bank clock on the outside of the bar, and the hands told Tre it was four o’clock. He’d always loved this part of the week best—people were in good moods and Shorty D never had basketball practice. He had a few hours before he had to go home. Before reality bitch-slapped him back into line.

  He pulled open the door to find several guys setting up on the shiny wood stage. He didn’t see Dez, but Reggie Carney, the big-ass left guard for the Saints, sat on the edge of the stage, cradling a beer.

  “Yo, it’s the man of the hour,” Reggie sang out.

  Something in Tre’s stomach sank. He didn’t need nobody putting no pressure on him. He just wanted to relax and blow. Wasn’t an audition. Just fun. “Don’t know ’bout that, Mr. Carney.”

  “Call him Reggie or shit for brains. Either one,” Dez said, coming in from the back room carrying an amp and a loop of cords.

  “Watch it,” Reggie growled, taking a draw on his beer before pointing it at Dez. “I usually take a man’s head off for calling me shit like that.”

  Dez grinned. “But not the man who’s going to make you a name in the jazz scene.”

  Several of the other musicians snickered, but didn’t stop tuning their guitars and double-checking pickups.

  Dez turned to Tre. “Get set up over there. We’re not doing any definitive sets. Just getting our stuff up and running. We’ll have plenty to tweak, so nothing’s going to sound tight.”

  “Cool.” Tre nodded, setting his case on a table shoved to the side of the stage.

  Trying to look as if it was no big deal, he opened the case for the first time. There beauty sat, shining like a new box of Christmas ornaments, but much sweeter and more expensive. The sax was tenor, as expected, with a standard finish. The coolest thing was it was a Yamaha 62 series, which meant he could make adjustments on the stack. Excitement flipped through him as he lifted it from the velvet and pulled out the package of unopened reeds.

  Hands near a tremble, he cradled the horn in his arms as he fitted the mouthpiece and pressed the keys to get the feel.

  The rat-a-tat of the drums and low, plaintive whine of the trombone accompanied by the bright tone of the trumpet made him feel as if he’d stepped back into skin that fit him. As Tre lifted the horn, he imagined the zip, completing his transformation. No longer was he a delivery boy. He was master of the horn in his hands, ready to command.