His Uptown Girl Page 19

  No one said anything. Just moved into place, the intense focus on their instruments message enough. Dez settled on the futuristic piano, his long fingers gliding along the keys in a series of complicated runs. Five minutes later, the drummer, his face froglike but his licks hot, hit his stride, then the guy on trombone and the dude on trumpet jumped into the bass line and harmony of the electric guitars. Dez nodded to him and Tre joined in on “St. Thomas” in the playful tone Sonny Rollins had made famous.

  The music drenched him, and his rustiness flaked away as he became what he was meant to be. Consuming and powerful, the notes flew from his horn. Tre closed his eyes and lost himself in one of his favorite songs.

  The last note faded and he opened his eyes, realizing no one else played.

  He pulled the horn from his mouth and blinked at the musicians frozen in place, staring at him as though he’d dropped from a spaceship into the middle of their session. The cymbal trembling beneath the still drumstick became the only sound in the club.

  Shame washed over Tre.

  He’d forgotten himself, allowed the music to overtake him. He wanted to tell them it had been so long since he’d played. Explain to them he wouldn’t do that again. That—

  Reggie Carney stood up, his mouth slightly open, but not as wide as his eyes. “Holy shit.”

  Dez started laughing. “I told y’all. I did.”

  The other musicians shook their heads, smiles creeping onto their weathered faces.

  “What?” Tre asked, lowering the horn, uncertain about the reactions around him.

  “You’re frickin’ incredible,” Reggie Carney said, circling him like a hound circles a treed coon. “Why the hell aren’t you playing this thing every day?”

  Tre felt tears prick his eyes, and a lump clogged his throat. “Just got it today.”

  Reggie Carney smiled. “Hire him. He’s the best thing I’ve heard since Drew.”

  Dez nodded. “We’ll talk.”

  Tre didn’t know what either of the men meant. All he knew was that a new door had opened for him, one he thought nailed shut, and his heart beat triple time.

  Yeah, Tre Jackson was back where he belonged.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ELEANOR STRAIGHTENED THE PLATES on the antique sideboard, and hummed a song by Elton John, which had been spinning over and over in her mind since she’d heard it earlier that morning.

  “Someone’s happy this morning,” Pansy trilled, bringing the two matching plates Eleanor had been looking for to complete the bright spring display. Not many customers toddled about the store and none were in sight.

  “I am happy,” Eleanor admitted, taking the yellow-swirled porcelain salad plates from her friend. It had been almost two weeks since she’d taken Dez home, and happy was the exact right word.

  “I hate to tell you ‘I told you so,’ but I told you so,” Pansy said, moving a rooster and hen salt-and-pepper-shaker set to the second shelf before eyeing it critically. “Dez has been good for you. You’ve shed at least five years off your face and maybe added a few pounds on your backside.”

  Eleanor fought the urge to crane her head so she could see her behind. “I haven’t gained weight. In fact Dez and I went running this morning before work.”

  Pansy shrugged. “You look better than you have in years. You look happy and I can’t tell you how much that lifts my heart.”

  Moving the salt-and-pepper set back to the bottom shelf, Eleanor turned. Her friend’s eyes twinkled in true Pansy fashion. “I wish you’d share that tidbit with my daughter.”

  “Is she still being a little shit?”

  “She’s being Blakely.”

  Pansy walked back toward the register, where her afternoon coffee sat. She waved at Mrs. Finebaum, who came every Friday to look. The woman never bought. “I love that child, but she’s a spoiled bitch sometimes.”

  Eleanor winced, even though she knew Pansy’s words were tinted in truth. If she stepped back from her emotions, she could see she did Blakely no favors in protecting her so well from the ugliness of life. In trying to heal Blakely from the damage done by her father’s death and the scandal that followed, Eleanor had enabled her daughter, had created a bit of a monster who thought whatever Blakely wanted, Blakely got.

  Life didn’t work that way, which her privileged daughter would eventually learn. Blakely wanted Eleanor to be what she’d always been—the self-sacrificing mother with no life of her own. Blakely was the world Eleanor should revolve around…even if she wasn’t talking to her mother. Obviously, the girl hadn’t forgiven her mother for winning Dez’s attention. Didn’t matter Dez wouldn’t be interested in dating a college freshman even if Eleanor hadn’t been in the picture. To Blakely, it was a ripe, fresh wound in her pride.

  Earlier that week, Blakely had canceled the spring break vacation she’d planned with her mother, giving a fabricated excuse of friends not being able to go. Instead Blakely would go with Margaret to New York City. Eleanor hadn’t been able to get her rental deposit back, so now she was stuck with a three-bedroom condo in Seaside for three days.

  “Don’t call her that, Pans,” Eleanor said without much conviction, her happy mood dampened by the imminent trouble brewing on the horizon.

  “Why? If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”

  After looking around to make sure no customers could hear their conversation, Eleanor straightened her business cards sitting beside the checkout. “She’ll get over it and regret her actions.”

  “Yeah,” Pansy said, stilling Eleanor’s hand with her own thin one. “She’ll get over it when you stop taking her crap. You need to tell her how you feel and help her see her behavior is petty and selfish.”

  “I did. She obviously doesn’t care. I’m losing her, Pans.”

  “Bullshit,” Pansy said, clutching Eleanor’s hand and forcing her gaze to her own. “Blakely’s aligning herself with Margaret because she knows it drives splinters beneath your nails. And Queen Margaret loves it because that’s what she’s always wanted—to separate Blakely from you. It’s a total power move and Blakely’s playing right into her hands, but that girl is still the same girl you raised. She’s worth fighting for.”

  “I’m not giving up. Just not pushing. I can’t force Blakely to accept I’m dating Dez. She’ll have to come to terms with that on her own, and if she loves me, then she will,” Eleanor said.

  “Okay. Maybe pushing would be bad, but don’t take her crap and don’t stop doing what you’re doing with that prime piece of real estate.”

  “I’m not. Dez and I are enjoying a friendship.”

  Pansy snickered.

  “Okay, a bit more than friends, but it’s nothing serious. Just two adults doing adult things.”

  Pansy smiled. “That’s my Eleanor. Don’t give an inch. You deserve some happiness.”

  Eleanor withdrew her hand and slapped both of them together. “Exactly. Now, I have to hit some garage sales tomorrow. You wanna come with me?”

  Pansy wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like getting up at five-thirty in the morning. It’s indecent.”

  “Come on. We haven’t gone in a long time and we always have fun. Plus, you’re better at digging out the good stuff than I am.” Eleanor knew praise was Pansy’s biggest motivator, and she wielded it to her advantage. One of the best places to find smaller items for her store was at local garage sales and estate sales. In a city as old as New Orleans, filled with the descendants of immigrants from all over the world, there was much to be found on the lawns of old neighborhoods. She and Pansy often went on treasure hunts, armed with coffee, beignets from Port of Call and the Times-Picayune.

  “Maybe,” Pansy conceded, which meant yes.

  “Great, I’ll pick you up at five-thirty and bring you a coffee.”

  Pansy made a face, but the anticipation of adventure shone in her friend’s eyes. “Fine. With extra cream.”

  “I’m heading over to Blue Rondo. Dez said he’s going to do an impromptu jam t
oday and I want to hear Tre play. Dez said he’s good.”

  Pansy nodded, picking up a decorating magazine. “Later, alligator.”

  Eleanor pushed out the door, the familiar bell clanging an easy comfort, and headed over to the jazz club. By the time she reached the opposite sidewalk, she could hear the faint sound of music being played. The door was unlocked so she entered just as the horns joined in on the rollicking tune.

  For a moment, she felt like Alice down the rabbit hole.

  Tre didn’t look like the silent delivery boy any longer. He wagged his head to whatever invisible beat pulsed in him, his cheeks puffed out, his eyes closed and his fingers moving light speed over the keys of the horn.

  Strange in a wonderful way to see such transformation.

  For a full minute she watched, none of the band noticing her appearance as they wailed, rolled and rocked a song she’d never heard before.

  Reggie Carney caught her eye and nodded in acknowledgment as he sat in one chair, feet propped in another, drinking in the sounds emerging from the stage. Eleanor glanced around the club that would open in two weeks’ time.

  The place looked good. The sign she’d found for Dez hung above the bar as if the room had been designed around it. Gray walls the exact color of Dez’s eyes were a perfect palette for the cobalt-blue, mustard-yellow and pepper-red of the accessories. The classic black tables were good contrast for the polish-aged bar tricked out with black foot rail and hammered tin tiles tripping visually back to the golden age of jazz. Leafy palms flanked the huge mirrored bar, helping to soften the corners. Eleanor didn’t know how long they’d last in a bar, but they did bring an upscale look to the space.

  Overall, the place appeared nearly ready.

  And then her eyes found Dez.

  The man played the piano exactly as he played her body—with consummate skill, long fingers exacting the perfect response, eyes closed as he pulled from the instrument exactly what he needed.

  It freaking turned her on, and for once, she understood Pansy’s initial response all those years ago…though it bothered her to remember it.

  Yes, Dez Batiste was sex on the piano—slow, seductive and rising in tempo with hot, naked notes reaching to an intense peak.

  Eleanor nearly fanned herself watching him work the instrument.

  Finally, after several minutes, the last jangle of the cymbal faded.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout, baby,” the drummer crowed, his drumsticks clacking as he tossed them onto the stand next to him.

  Reggie clapped, and Eleanor joined in, drawing the men’s attention. Dez’s smile felt like butter on warm bread, and her stomach flipped in response. Oh, that man could smile something sweet.

  “Batiste Blue sounds legit, my friends,” Dez said.

  “I like the name of the band,” Eleanor said before turning to to Tre. “You’re amazing. Like a whole ’nother person.”

  Ducking his head in true Tre fashion, he nodded. “Thanks, Mrs. Theriot. And thanks for the horn.”

  She patted his back, wishing for more ease between them. She’d always been able to foster a decent relationship with the employees who’d come and gone over the years, but not with Tre. He held himself so far from people. She understood—she’d done the same far too long. “I wish I had known you had such a God-given talent. I would have made sure you had a sax before now.”

  He pulled away, his eyes briefly showing he didn’t need her pity. Eleanor tucked her hand into the back pocket of her jeans, wishing she didn’t always say the wrong things to her delivery guy.

  Dez caught her gaze and his eyes shone with understanding. No misunderstanding there. In fact, for the past few weeks, she and Dez had found an easy existence. When Dez didn’t have a gig in the evening, they watched TV and ate ice cream before retiring to either his bedroom or hers to make love. A few times, they’d not even had sex, just lain beside one another sharing dreams, tales of elementary school and hopes for one another. Falling asleep in Dez’s arms had become habit quickly.

  “Mutually exclusive friends with benefits” worked pretty well, yet she knew even as she tried to keep her distance, she fell harder and harder each day for the man who smelled clean as Irish Spring soap and slurped his coffee each morning.

  And that didn’t sit so well with her.

  Not the slurping coffee…but the love thing. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to keep emotion away from the mutually beneficial relationship, but she felt herself sliding into love…and that scared her. Because he’d said he didn’t want anything serious either.

  She didn’t think she’d be able to stay friends after they ended things. It already hurt to think about.

  “Okay, that’s a wrap,” Dez said, standing and flexing his shoulders in a long stretch drawing her attention away from heavy thoughts, and to his awesome physique. When would she stop noticing how sexy Dez was?

  Probably never.

  “So you wanna go Sunday afternoon?” the bass player asked, unplugging his instrument. “We probably need a few more practice sessions before the big opening.”

  Reggie folded his arms. “Tom Windmere wants to sit in on the next session. Wants to hear y’all because he’s interested.”

  Dez narrowed his eyes. “Why is Tom interested?”

  “I saw him a few days ago, and he said he watched you guys play at the Priest and Pug, and is thinking about adding to his client list. Just wants to—”

  “I don’t need Tom nosing around and disrupting things, Reggie.” Dez closed the lid over the keyboard a little too strongly. The other musicians paused and watched the exchange.

  “He’s not going to disrupt. Just asked to sit in. No big deal.”

  Dez shook his head. “I’m not cool with that, but I’m not going to deny anyone here the shot.”

  Eleanor saw Tre lick his lips nervously, dark eyes unreadable. “You mean Tom Windmere?” he asked. “The dude who manages Ridiculous D and Trombone Sonny?”

  Reggie nodded. “Yeah.”

  Dez eyed his business partner, dawning rising in his eyes. Eleanor realized this wasn’t about Dez. It was about Tre.

  “Fine.” Dez nodded, busying himself with flipping switches on the stacks of amplifiers that perched like huge guardians on either side of the stage. “Tell him to come…tomorrow morning.”

  Reggie nodded, shooting Tre a glance, and the boisterous energy that had first greeted Eleanor when she’d walked in vanished like a fart in a wind. Tension seemed knotted between Dez’s broad shoulders, and though she didn’t know anything about Tom, she at the least understood bad blood remained between Dez and his old manager.

  Fifteen minutes later, she and Dez were alone. He handed her a cold beer and sank back onto the piano bench with a sigh. He studied the shiny lacquer, tracing one lone finger along the edges of the closed keyboard.

  She moved toward him, resting her hip against the curve of the piano. “You okay?”

  “Sure,” he said, not bothering to look at her.

  It was a sign he was not okay, but she wasn’t going to push him. Like every man she’d ever known, Dez would talk about what was bothering him when he was ready and not before.

  “You want to do something tonight? We’ve been low-key, and that’s been good, but it might be nice to go to dinner.”

  “Thought that’s how you wanted it. Casual,” he said.

  “Yeah, but we can be seen together.” She stroked the back of his hand, not liking the distance suddenly between them.

  He glanced up, his gray eyes raw. “Can we?”

  “You think I don’t want to be seen with you?”

  He shrugged. “When I suggested going for pizza last night, you said you weren’t hungry.”

  “I wasn’t. For pizza. I wanted you.”

  Dez shook his head. “Sorry. I’m in a crappy mood. Probably should go home, have a beer and watch the Celtics.”

  “Alone?”

  “I don’t know. Reggie sprang that whole
Tom thing on me and everything in my past slammed me.”

  Eleanor remained quiet, studying him. “What did Tom do to you?”

  “Nothing. That’s the thing. My whole career has amounted to nothing. Once I was Tre, you know? Young, raw and talented. Tom jumped on me like a hen jumps on seed, and he convinced me I would go somewhere in this world.”

  “But—”

  “But Katrina washed it all away, and after that, Tom didn’t seem to bother. All the publicity mired down and Drew was on tour getting lots of attention for his first album. We split ways and I gave up music.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I gave it up. I evacuated to Houston and took a job in a bar. I gave up on my dreams. Couldn’t write music anymore—it was as if the floodwaters drowned my muse. So I decided to be a regular guy. Met a girl, bought a house and managed her father’s three restaurants.”

  Jealousy sprang inside Eleanor. Dez had been in a committed relationship. She hadn’t expected to hear he’d been in love, that he’d been settled with a mortgage and a whole other life. She’d always assumed… Well, she hadn’t actually thought about Dez and his life in Houston. It had been a hole she hadn’t bothered filling. “So what happened to bring you back home?”

  His mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “Me. I happened. After a while, walking our dog, Peanut, fighting with Erin over money, over the best kind of beer and over whether or not I should buy one of her daddy’s restaurants, I checked out.”

  Checked out? Eleanor knew about checking out, but she’d never walked out. She’d never given up on Skeeter and Blakely. “You left?”

  “No. I’m not that guy.” He looked at her, his eyes intense. “I didn’t physically leave, but mentally and even spiritually I withdrew. But that made things worse. She and I unraveled, and we weren’t going to find any common ground again. Erin was young, insecure, wanted a baby, a ring, a new Jaguar. It wasn’t what I wanted, and restlessness made a home in me. I finally realized I hadn’t really given up on my dream, I simply needed time to heal, to grow into a man.”