Ciji Ware (35 page)

“Bad stuff happens,” Daphne interrupted stoutly. “It was a horrible tragedy, but you didn’t
cause
it. Even if she didn’t accept that truth, why do you continue to carry this… this burden of blame?”

“Because it was more than just being in that duck blind,” he insisted soberly. “She also holds me chiefly responsible for why the marriage didn’t work. The traveling, the long hours. Maybe I deserved her fury. I honestly don’t know anymore.”

“Wait a minute,” Daphne countered. “You weren’t the only one working hard. You just said that she put in long hours too, and didn’t take very good care of herself, even when she was pregnant. Surely she had to travel occasionally for her job?”

“She did, but not as much—or for such long times away—as I did. She specialized in environmental issues.”

“Not on the side of the tree huggers I’ll bet.”

Sim chuckled. “We eventually agreed not to discuss subjects like the endangered spotted owl,” he noted dryly.

By this time, they had reached the wrought iron gate. Sim leaned against the fence and gazed at her contemplatively.

“Sounds to me,” Daphne ventured, “like you and Francesca dealt with a lot of the usual issues that cause the marriages of two working professionals to break up. Why are you still taking so much on your own shoulders, Sim?”

“I guess it was that stripped-down apartment, and the way Francesca delivered the message that she didn’t want to be married to me anymore. Those diaper pins said it all.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t there when our baby died, and got back too late even to see… my daughter. When I went to Alaska two months later, that did it, I guess. Apparently, Francesca couldn’t forgive me for either of those things. End of story.”

“Look,” Daphne said shortly, “maybe you acted like a complete bastard in other ways—which I doubt—but take it from another woman. Her attempt to punish you in such a cruel way, for something that was totally out of your control, seems like major overkill. Something just doesn’t add up here, Sim. Really.”

Sim looked thoughtful and then shrugged. “Well… thank you for that. And you’ve given me a lot to chew on. And you’re also right about one thing: I’m getting really tired of carrying this weight everywhere I go.”

Daphne smiled reassuringly. “Well, I can’t wait to see your latest photographs, considering what you must have gone through to get those shots these last few days. And, by the way… thanks for the scrambled eggs.”

“I wanted to do a real omelet but—”

“You were dead tired, and that takes concentration, right? Besides, I always give a good guy like you a second chance,” she added, and swiftly vaulted over the fence before he could reply. “See you Saturday.”

“Look for me front row, center!” He touched his forefinger to his lips and then anointed the tip of her nose through the wooden railing. “And thanks for being such a good listener. I haven’t talked about that… subject… for a long, long time.”

“Not even to your dad before he died?”

“Not the part about the overturned bassinet.”

“Well, that’s some very tough stuff.”

“Very.”

They gazed at each other steadily until, at length, Daphne murmured, “Gotta go. Thanks for letting me trespass in your cottage tonight.”

“Anytime. Oh, and by the way, I like your T-shirt.”

Daphne felt a rush of pleasure, since she instinctively knew that he meant exactly what he said. And she also realized that for the first time, Sim hadn’t dodged the bullet when it came to the subject of Francesca Hayes.

“Thanks,” she replied with a grin. “I liked your shorts.”

Chapter 15

April 10

Holy Mother, will you look at all those tour buses in front of the
Lady
Luck
?” Althea exclaimed as Daphne drove down Silver Street searching for a parking place near the Under-the-Hill Saloon. “Good thing you off-loaded your harp yesterday for rehearsal and left it here, or we’d be toast.”

The last week of the monthlong Natchez Pilgrimage was always a busy time for the city. This year, a goodly number of tourists seemed as intent on gambling aboard the
Lady
Luck
as visiting the three dozen mansions in the Town That Time Forgot. Cars, bumper to bumper, snaked down the one-way street amid knots of people tramping on foot toward the mock steamboat moored at the riverside.

The old-fashioned streetlights were aglow along the narrow thoroughfare and the temperature had dropped ten degrees since sunset. The lively sounds of the newly named Willis McGee Quartet blared through the saloon’s open door and windows, amplified by the water as the river sluggishly headed for the Gulf of Mexico, downstream.

Daphne wasn’t due to perform with Willis’s group until the second half of the first set, but still, she was nervous to be inching forward so slowly in traffic like this.

“Okay if I let you park?” she asked, hopping out of the driver’s seat and onto the pavement. “I can’t believe all these people are here,” she remarked, buoyed by the sight of customers pushing past the front door and into the bar.

Althea climbed out of the passenger seat and hurried around to the driver’s door. “Maybe the ad in the
Natchez
Democrat
with the picture of us in full battle gear did some good.”

“Yeah… when in doubt, there’s always the old adage: ‘Sex sells,’” Daphne replied dryly, waving her skimpy costume on its coat hanger as she prepared to cross the street. “See you backstage.”

“Good luck, Harp Honey.”

Daphne rolled her eyes in mock disgust and went around to the back entrance.

The narrow vestibule near the restrooms was dark, except for the naked bulb at the end of the hallway. She swiftly shed her coat and stowed it, along with her Aphrodite costume and her handbag, in a locker in a corner of the minuscule ladies’ room. Willis and his group were playing one of the last songs scheduled before she was due to make her entrance, so she gave her newest cabaret outfit the once-over, quickly refreshed her lipstick, ran a comb through her hair, and took several deep breaths to steady her nerves.

When she opened the door, her breath caught at the sight of the man lounging against the wall outside her makeshift dressing room.

“What are
you
doing here,” she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.

“I saw the ad in the newspaper,” Jack Ebert drawled. “Keepin’ up with everythin’ that’s goin’ on in this state is part of my job,” he added pompously. “Saw that picture of you and your soul sisters in those getups. How could I resist attendin’ the grand debut of the new-and-improved Aphrodite Jazz—what do you have the nerve to call it—‘Ensemble’? It’s a pity I’m not reviewin’ for
Arts
This
Week
anymore,” he noted with the ghost of a sneer. “I’d have m’self a Mardi Gras ball with this one!”

Daphne felt herself starting to hyperventilate both with anger and alarm. She was nervous enough about tonight’s performance without her malicious ex-fiancé sneaking into the vestibule to rattle her cage.

“Get out of here, Jack,” she snapped. “You’re
really
bothering me.”

“And I don’t really much care.”

She thought briefly of King, who had never been intimidated by Jack and had never hesitated to push back, as she found herself doing, much to her amazement.

“Why are you still slithering around Natchez like this?” she demanded. “I thought you were based in Jackson these days, looking for
bird
sanctuaries
to dump your company’s toxic chemicals into.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed indicating that she’d drawn blood.

“I’ve got a lot of big things goin’ on up in Jackson, but how could I miss bein’ front row, center for a great event like this?” he asked sarcastically.

Daphne guessed that the takeover at his father’s newest funeral parlor in Natchez might mean that Jack was forced to serve as a troubleshooter in his off-hours, much to his displeasure.

“Look, Jack… get a life.” She desperately needed time to collect herself before going onstage to perform. “You’ve done your best to disrupt my concentration and you’ve succeeded, so score one for you. Just
leave
, will you?”

“Sure.” He shrugged, casting a critical eye at her stretchy black, long-sleeve, scoop-necked T-shirt and her long black skirt with its provocative side slit. His gaze meandered down her legs to her feet, clad in sheer black stockings and stiletto heels. Never had Daphne felt so vulnerable or exposed, and she gave silent thanks that at least she wasn’t wearing her Aphrodite outfit during this unpleasant encounter. Her physical intimacy with Jack seemed as if it’d happened a million years ago on another planet to some android—not her.

Jack ambled down the hallway just as Althea walked through the back door.

“Well… look who’s here?” he said in an insulting tone. “My favorite classmate, Althea LaCroix.” His eyes raked her figure from high heels to curly Afro hairstyle. “You two are quite a pair. Always wondered ’bout the nature of that buddy-buddy thing you got goin’.” He raised an eyebrow and pointed to the abbreviated length of Althea’s miniskirt. “Doesn’t take much to figure it out, does it, now? No wonder you’re callin’ yourself after a bunch of Greeks. Didn’t Aphrodite come from the Isle of Lesbos?”

“No, Jack. You’re probably thinking of the Isle of Crete, where cretins like
you
come from.”

Jack slowly shook his head. “Well, well, Althea, still an uppity n—”

“Jack!” Daphne interrupted, pointing angrily toward the exit sign. “You’ve got exactly two seconds to get out of here, or the bouncer’ll
throw
you out.”

“I just came by to say ‘break a leg’ tonight, sugar,” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “And, believe me, I mean that sincerely.”

Just then, Willis’s amplified voice announced, “I bet y’all’ve been wonderin’ what this big, ol’ concert harp is doin’ here. Well, put y’hands together and give a big, warm welcome to Natchez’s newest arrival on the jazz and blues scene… Miz Daphne Duvallon of New York and New Orleans!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Daphne saw Jack slip out the back exit as she made her way through a thicket of chairs and cocktail tables. She immediately spotted Sim seated down front among the small group of her friends and Cousin Maddy. It took every ounce of will to shut out the thought of Jack Ebert’s unwelcome appearance and to shift into performance mode. Fortunately, the bright lights screened from her vision all but the first row of tables, where every seat was occupied.

Much to her amazement, considering the degree to which her run-in with Jack had upset her equilibrium, the set with Willis went off without the slightest hitch. During the break, Daphne only had time to think about jumping into her miniskirt and bustier, and she succeeded in putting the creep out of her mind.

However, five minutes into the Aphrodites’ first set, the group swung into a slow, seductive rendition of “Damn Your Eyes,” and Daphne suddenly noticed that Jack was standing against the brick wall, not ten feet from her harp. He crossed his arms tightly across his narrow chest and stared at her in an obvious attempt to jar her concentration. She could almost smell his malevolence.

As if she’d been struck dumb, Daphne was not only unable to remember the words to the next verse—if pressed, she would probably have had trouble recalling her own name. Her mind had become an utter blank, as free from cogency as a blackboard wiped clean by the teacher’s eraser or a computer with the “delete” button depressed. As the moment to sing again approached, she turned desperately to Althea, who also had spotted Jack’s reappearance and seemed, in the mysterious way of jazz musicians, to read her thoughts. The black woman nodded imperceptibly, and attacked the keyboard as if it were her turn to take the solo. Daphne turned her back on the side of the room where Jack continued to glare at the band with undisguised hostility. Silently, she ordered herself to calm down.

Listen
to
the
beat! Concentrate on the meaning of the lyrics.

When the beginning of the verse rolled around again, Daphne had recovered her wits sufficiently to finish the song and launch smoothly into the next. By the third number, she’d blocked out Jack’s presence entirely. The beat, the blossoming synchronicity of the quintet, created in Daphne the distinct sensation of a key fitting smoothly into a lock, opening up a world of full-flavored, melodious sound. Now it seemed that she, Althea, Kendra, Jeanette, and their latest addition, Sunny on sax, were suddenly performing as one instrument.

Toward the end of the last set, Daphne glanced at her childhood friend playing hard on her electronic keyboard and saw Althea shaking her head in wonder, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. Except for Daphne’s brief lapse, the quintet had been able to forge wordless lines of communication between themselves—and with their audience. Several times, the crowd talked back to the musicians or burst into spontaneous applause.