Ciji Ware (28 page)

“It’s so dark in here,” he reassured her, “nobody will notice what
either
of us is wearing.” He guided his companion toward a raft of empty tables and chairs positioned near the raised bandstand.

“I haven’t been down here since I was a girl,” Madeline disclosed, glancing around the room curiously, “and even then, I had to sneak in behind my mama’s back. She called the predecessor to the Under-the-Hill Saloon ‘that bucket of blood,’ and forbade my sister and me from setting foot in the place.” She gave a girlish laugh, and then added conspiratorially, “We did come here with our beaux, of course, and loved it.” Again she surveyed the dark den and sighed. “Oh, my. There doesn’t seem to be much of an audience tonight, does there? Poor Daphne.”

Sim spotted one table, however, where three patrons were sitting sipping their drinks. He waved and escorted the harpist’s cousin across the room to greet Bailey Gibbs and Otis and Liz Keating.

“I understand you all already know Madeline Whitaker?” Sim said.

“Know her,” Bailey Gibbs exclaimed delightedly as he promptly rose to his feet and made a courtly bow. “We’re kissing cousins, aren’t we, Maddy, dear? Come here, darlin’, and give me a peck on the cheek. It’s been too long.”

Maddy roundly bussed Dr. Gibbs on his proffered cheek and hugged the Keatings as well. “Why, what serendipity. All our families go way, way back,” she disclosed for Sim’s benefit, “but since I haven’t been out in so long, I haven’t seen these wonderful folks for ages. What a treat to be with y’all tonight.”

“Likewise, Maddy girl,” Bailey said, patting the seat beside him. “Now, you just sit right down here and tell me all about yourself lately. Your note about my darlin’ Caroline was most appreciated, and thank you again for those lovely flowers you brought to the church.”

“Has it been that long since we’ve seen each other?” Madeline asked with a look of chagrin. “I do apologize to all of you. With Daphne here in Natchez, I seem to be getting a bit of my ol’ zest back.”

Dr. Gibbs sobered and patted the hand of the widow and mother of his former patients. “We understand completely, darlin’, what you’ve been through. No one more than I.”

Sim ordered drinks from an emaciated young man with stringy hair and dirty blue jeans, and wondered if their small party would be the only ones out front for Daphne’s big night. He knew all too well what it felt like to throw a party to which nobody came.

At the opening of the first one-man show of his pictures held in a San Francisco gallery, the only attendees at the opening were his mother and father, his sister Brooke, and a few fraternity brothers from his Stanford days. Francesca—then his girlfriend—had shown up late, explaining that she’d been stuck researching a brief for a senior partner at her law firm. Afterward, one of his college buddies took him aside and said that on his way to the gallery he’d stopped off for a drink at the Boulevard Bar—a see-and-be-seen watering hole near the financial district. Less than an hour earlier, he’d spotted Francesca shooting the breeze over beers with a bunch of colleagues.

Upon reflection, Sim wished he’d paid more attention to that little white lie of Francesca’s. Even in her early twenties, she’d a bad habit of shading the truth just enough to give everyone else the feeling that
they’d
done something wrong.

Sim heard a burst of laughter and turned around. He was relieved to see that a few patrons had ambled over from the bar and taken seats at the next table. Another explosion of raucous mirth erupted from the back of the room as several couples walked through the front door and ordered a round of tequila shooters. Daphne’s audience tonight was sure different from the attendees of Oberlin Chamber Orchestra concerts, he thought worriedly. He wondered how she was feeling right about now.

Scared witless, probably. She was a gutsy lady to try something like this, he thought admiringly, even if it was only a lark. She was gutsy
and
beautiful
and
talented
and
… geographically unsuitable.

Or
am
I
the
one
who
’
s
geographically
unsuitable?

True, sometimes he left a place with mild regret, but more often than not, it was with profound relief. There were always new landscapes to photograph and elusive birds to track. Both these distractions kept him from thinking too much about the past or the sadness he always connected with the fabled City by the Bay. One thing he knew for sure. If he and Daphne Duvallon remained in
this
place for much longer, the chameleonlike harpist would have to use those long legs of hers to run very fast, indeed, to avoid his proposal that they head straight for his suite in the Monmouth Hotel and—

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

Sim’s thoughts were interrupted by a sultry voice making an announcement over the public address system. Suddenly, three good-looking young women in micro miniskirts, stop-the-presses strapless tops, and wickedly high heels burst on stage wearing the kind of headsets preferred by call-center switchboard operators. With campy abandon, the trio slithered toward their musical instruments and immediately struck up the Paul Desmond instrumental “Take Five”—with Daphne performing a dazzling jazz solo on her harp.

“Oh, my land…” Madeline Whitaker murmured, leaning toward Sim’s ear. “No
wonder
the girls said they wanted their outfits to be a surprise and wouldn’t let me come upstairs.”

“
That’s
Daphne Whitaker Duvallon?” Bailey Gibbs whispered with astonishment as he gaped in the direction of the leggy blonde with a halo of golden hair cascading fetchingly to her shoulders.

Sim might well have asked the same question himself. He could hardly believe the arresting sight of the scantily clad woman who sat beside an incongruously formal gilded concert harp. Her cheeks were faintly flushed as she played the tune with lowered eyes glued to the harp strings as if her life depended on them.

At the end of the opening number, Althea LaCroix greeted the scattered applause with a broad smile and stepped up to the standing mike. “So glad y’all came to be with us tonight,” she purred to the crowd as if the place were packed to the rafters. “We hope to make it worth your while…”

One or two wolf whistles filled the air, while the group quaffing tequila shooters back at the bar stamped their feet in appreciation and began to seek seats nearer the small stage. Daphne righted her harp and briefly rubbed the palms of her hands on the seat cushion. Althea nodded her thanks to the small crowd and smoothly introduced her compatriots. “For our second tune,” she announced, oozing confidence, “we’d like to do an old standard… but do it
our
way, right, ladies?”

Kendra and Daphne nodded, and Sim was relieved to note that a mischievous smile tugged at the corners of Daphne’s mouth. Maybe he was more nervous than she was! Where in the world was the long-haired drummer, not to mention Willis McGee? he wondered.

Meanwhile, Daphne gracefully tipped the golden instrument against her bare shoulder again and pulled the soundboard between long legs encased in the sheerest of black net stockings. It was a gesture so casual, yet so sensual, that Sim felt an unanticipated jolt of desire. Like some college freshman watching a wet T-shirt contest, he was helpless to prevent his gaze from zeroing in on the amazing article of clothing gracing Daphne’s torso.

It was strapless. It glittered. And it nearly put him in cardiac arrest!

His gaze was drawn inexorably to where her breasts spilled over the top of a—what the hell were those tight-fitting things called? he wondered.

Good
Christ! Dressed like that, the woman was a lethal weapon
, he thought.
And
get
a
load
of
Althea
LaCroix
and
Willis
McGee
’
s
daughter!

He was amazed that the bandleader hadn’t vetoed an ensemble so provocative that any responsible parent would have dug a moat between the stage and the audience and filled it with alligators.

As the trio smoothly swung into “The Very Thought of You,” Sim craned his neck to see if Willis McGee would make an appearance anytime soon. Maybe he and the drummer had passed out backstage from shock. He glanced around the club and saw a few folks had entered from the street and were headed for the empty tables down front.

“Oh, my land…” Daphne’s cousin exclaimed for the second time, observing the males in the group shoulder each other in an attempt to claim seats closest to the bandstand. Sim noticed that the slightest hint of a smile now creased Maddy’s lips.

“Daphne’s a knockout in that outfit, don’t you think?” Sim whispered loudly over the music.

“If you
didn’t
think that, I’d figure you’re unconscious,” Maddy replied, her head nodding in time to the rhythm. “One thing is for sure… I’m very glad her mama’s nowhere in the vicinity.”

Sim silently seconded the motion.

The first musical set offered by the Aphrodite Jazz Ensemble ran the gamut of his favorite Billie Holiday blues songs, along with several jazz standards, and eventually, a couple of rollicking numbers in which Daphne’s harp and husky solos sounded as if they belonged to a rock ’n’ roll band.

Sim looked on with astonishment as the Juilliard-trained musician and her club-singing friend, Althea LaCroix, embarked on a rompin’, stompin’ duet, a signature tune often performed by the legendary Etta James, called “I’ve Got the Will.”

Halfway through the number, Althea took off on a solo keyboard riff while Daphne stood up from her harp stool and commenced a highly suggestive—but somehow ladylike—bump-and-grind while thumping the harp strings like a bass player. Her performance was an intoxicating mix of blatant sexuality with a dash of the girl-next-door, and for Sim, it prompted a rush of heat that could prove embarrassing.

Daphne’s provocative display incited hoots and hollers from the small group of men at the next table. Several couples leapt to their feet and started dancing around the tables. Sim felt an almost uncontrollable urge to start dancing himself. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at the sound of a swarm of people, curious to see what all the excitement was about, coming through the open door from Silver Street.

Near the end of the tune, another group of tourists who had been strolling toward the gambling boat
Lady
Luck
were diverted into the Under-the-Hill Saloon by the seductive sounds of the trio roaring toward the conclusion of the Otis Redding number as if they’d been performing it together all their lives.

“If there’s a will, girl
…
there’s got to be a way, now!”
Althea sang in a powerful, throaty voice while looking steadily at Daphne, as if her words were aimed directly at her friend and musical colleague.

For her part, the harpist had closed her eyes, singing and swaying to the song’s pounding rhythm, as if every note moved her down to her toes.

By this time, the club was more than half full. When Althea, Kendra, and Daphne stomped their feet during the final notes of
“I got the will now, but I can’t find my way
…
”
the thunderous applause was nearly drowned out by piercing whistles and cheers that bounced off the club’s brick walls.

Once the clapping finally subsided, the trio smoothly segued into a slow, sultry rendition of “Body and Soul,” followed by the old standard “I’ll Be Seeing You,” and finally a moody, heart-tugging rendition of Gershwin’s “Summertime.”

“Do you suppose Daphne’s stuck a microphone somewhere in that thing?” Sim hissed into Maddy’s ear. He was astounded by the vibrant, mellow sounds of an instrument that had proved tonight that it could hold its own against Kendra’s emphatic bass guitar and Althea’s hard-charging keyboard.

“She must have…” Maddy murmured. She turned to Sim with eyes that almost appeared sad. “You know, don’t you,” she said, cupping her hand near his ear, “if she’s
this
good singing and playing jazz and blues, and heaven knows what all… she’s gonna face a lot of hard decisions when she goes back to New York tomorrow.”

New York?
Tomorrow?

Until that very moment, Simon Hopkins hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge that the sexiest, most intriguing woman he’d ever met was about to fly out of his life.

***

Daphne could feel perspiration trickling between her breasts and shoulder blades. It was only March, but under the hot lights, it felt as if she were swimming in a bayou in July. The audience had kept them on stage for so long, she prayed that the batteries in her headset mike would last the night.