Last Chance at Love (3 page)

“That was you. This is me. Tell Justine I want some of Mattie’s stuffed roast loin of pork and lemon-roast potatoes. That woman can really cook.”

“That, she can. When are you leaving on your book tour?”

“Monday, but I’ll probably be back home on weekends.”

“I thought most book signings were held on weekends.”

“Or at lunchtime, like mine. Thanks for the workout, Dunc.”

“My pleasure.”

“The guy’s a lucky man,” Jake said to himself later as he stood beside his kitchen sink, eating a ham sandwich. “One long year of trouble, and then his ship came in. I should be so fortunate.”

* * *

“Covington goes on national tour pretty soon, and he’s agreed to let me accompany him,” Allison told her boss.

“Atta girl.”

Without commenting, she turned to her computer and began to sketch the questions that would guide her interviews with Jacob Covington. She worked on them until two o’clock, packed her briefcase, and headed for her home on Monroe Avenue in the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia, en route to her other life. Her boss and her peers thought her tough, and she
had
developed a crust of self-protection against their slurs and slights, had hardened herself. But not even for the sake of her ambitions would she step on anyone for personal gain.
Let them think whatever they like.
She had their respect, and that was what she wanted.

Allison changed into casual clothes and prepared to enjoy the happiest two hours of her week. She parked in front of the two-story redbrick structure whose colonial front gave it the appearance of a gracious private home. Mother’s Rest was a temporary haven for eleven children under the age of two who were awaiting foster homes. A child rarely remained there more than six months.

Zena Carter, the head nurse, greeted Allison as she entered the house. “I’ve got a brand-new one for you today,” she said. “Cute little tyke, too. She’s in a fit of temper, and I sure hope you can calm her down.”

Allison followed Zena down the hall. “Is she sick?”

“Doctor said she wasn’t. Just hates yet another environment and more strangers, I guess. Your things are in there.”

Allison stepped into the little cubicle, washed her face and hands, put on a white gown, and covered her mouth with a small mask. She took the baby, and her little charge stared up at her with big brown eyes that beautified her dark face.
How could anybody...
Quickly, she put a stop to that train of thought. Hadn’t the social worker warned her not to judge the mothers or to become attached to any of the children? It was one thing to give that advice; as far as she was concerned, the ability to follow it required superhuman command of one’s emotions.

For two hours, she coddled, stroked, and chatted with the seven-month-old baby girl who, like the other babies there, was awaiting a foster home or an adoption. The child’s bubbly personality tore at her heart, and when she sang, the baby clapped her hands and tried to join her. The time passed too quickly. To avoid bonding, the volunteer mothers, as they were called, were not allowed to stay for more than two hours, nor could they visit with the same baby twice in one month. Her coworkers wouldn’t believe her capable of those gentle, tender moments with the children, and she didn’t want them to know. But the hours spent there nourished her for the rest of the week.

She walked out into the warm summer drizzle and raced half a block to her car, shielding her hair as the moisture rid it of its elegance, dampening her and shrinking her rayon shirt. At Matty’s Gourmet Shop, she bought her dinner and two boxes of Arlington Fair Blue Ribbon gingersnaps and went home with the intention of preparing for her interview with Jacob Covington. She answered the phone with reluctance.

“Yes?”

“Hi, Allison. Want to go to Blues Alley tonight?”

Of course she did. Connie knew she never got enough of good jazz. “I’m all set to work because I didn’t have other plans. But it’ll be a while before I can get back there, so why not? Who’s there?”

“Buddy Dee, and Mac Connelly is with him tonight.”

“No kidding? I’ll meet you there at quarter to eight.”

“I thought that would get your juices flowing. First one there takes a table. Say, I ran into Carly Thompson this morning. She’s here sealing a deal with Woodie’s to carry a full line of her Scarlet Woman Cosmetics. Can you beat that? The girl is gone.”

“She sure is. Last time we spoke, she said she had some hot irons in the fire, but I thought she was talking about a man.”

“She’s headed for Martha’s Vineyard,” Connie said, releasing a sigh of longing. “Wish I could go with her.”

“Me too, but I’ll settle for my new assignment. See you later.”

* * *

Jake dressed in the style associated with jazzmen of the thirties and forties, picked up his guitar, and headed for Blues Alley. Half a block from the club, he put on dark glasses to hide his telltale hazel eyes, conceal his wink, and complete his masquerade.

When that curtain rose, he was Mac Connelly. He wasn’t ashamed of what he did, but he couldn’t afford to have his name associated with the jazz subculture. If his association with the musicians was known, the reputation could deny him his coveted goal of an appointment as scholar-in-residence at his alma mater. Furthermore, his boss at the department had warned him that, on a nightclub bandstand, he was a sitting duck for the enemies he had incurred in his former work, and the bullet wound in his left shoulder was a testimonial to his boss’s wisdom. He’d taken that bullet three blocks from the department, proof at that time—if he needed any—that his enemies knew where to find him.

When the lights came up, he was already seated, tuning his guitar and waiting for the six other band members to walk onstage. His blood accelerated its pace through his veins the minute he heard Buddy’s downbeat. As usual, the dance of his magic fingers up and down the strings brought cries of “Right on, Mac”, “Kill it, man” and “Take it on home, baby” from his devoted fans. And as they did whenever he played, the crowd clamored for his rendition of “Back Home in Indiana,” his signature piece.

The third and last set ended too quickly. As always, he remained seated while the band took a bow and the lights dimmed. Still high from total immersion in his music, he picked up the glass of iced tea that he’d placed on the floor beside him to resemble liquor, emptied it, and ducked out back. He’d had a ball, but uneasiness pervaded him because, unlikely as it seemed, he was fairly certain that Allison Wakefield had been in the audience. Allison wore her hair up, and this woman’s hair hung around her shoulders, but an African-American woman with big, almond-shaped brown eyes and long sweeping lashes in a flawless, oval-shaped ebony face was not the most common sight. Besides, he not only had the facial similarity for a clue, his reaction to the woman was similar to what he felt when he first saw Allison. He’d thought her the Bach fugue type; it wouldn’t have occurred to him that she’d pay to hear jazz.

He took every conceivable precaution to conceal his identity at the club, including never being seen standing, since his six-feet-five-and-a-half-inch height and 215-pound weight might give him away. His music was his life, and he cherished those few hours on Friday and Saturday nights with Buddy Dee’s band. He’d have to watch his every move, because a reporter could damage him almost irreparably.

* * *

“He got away again,” Allison grumbled to Connie, as they waited outside the club.

Connie scrutinized Allison’s face. “Are you sweet on Mac?”

Allison glared at her. “Of course not. With those black glasses, I don’t even know what he looked like. But pins and needles shoot all through me when that man plays, and he sits there, in his element. He’s so mysterious.”

Connie’s shoulders lifted in a quick shrug. “You reporters are all alike. You have to know everything. It’s a wonder you don’t walk up to the man and interrogate him.”

“Can you see anybody intimidating that big guy?”

“Yeah. You might not try to browbeat him, but you’d dig into his business just to talk to him. He’s your type.”

“My type?”

“Sure he is. You like a man who’s four or five inches taller than your five feet nine, and you could really luxuriate and feel tiny with this guy. He must be near six feet six. Of course, I’m just guessing; he’s always sitting down.”

“Yeah, he is,” Allison replied, bemused. He’d already taken his seat when the lights went up and remained sitting after they went down, while other band members walked in and out in full view of the audience. She could only conclude that he had a disability. Maybe he couldn’t walk. She dismissed the matter with a shrug. It was of no import. A jazz musician would be the last man who’d interest her.

She put on her Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong CDs as soon as she got home and sang along with them while she sorted out her clothes for the tour. With gentle strokes, her fingers brushed the once-yellow leather rose that had long since turned brown from her loving caresses. Half a dozen times, she’d thrown it into the wastebasket, only to retrieve it and return it to her little collection of treasures—the green quilted silk box in which she kept her first bra, the lace handkerchief she’d carried to her freshman high school prom, the empty perfume bottle that had held the first gift she received from a man. The yellow rose had nestled in the elegant bow on the box in which the perfume had been wrapped. Edna Wakefield hadn’t approved of a deliveryman for her daughter, and she’d let him go. But unlike opportunistic Roland Farr—her betrayer—that man had loved her, she now knew.

What of Mac Connelly? She couldn’t get him out of her mind. Tonight, she’d sensed in him a peculiarly erotic aura that she hadn’t detected the many other nights she’d seen him play. As she watched his fingers tease those strings, an unfamiliar heat had pulsated in her. A laugh rumbled in her throat. First Jacob Covington had poleaxed her, and now this. No doubt about it; she was a late bloomer.

* * *

Early Sunday afternoon, two days later, as Allison stepped out of her Jacuzzi, she heard Covington’s voice on her answering machine, interrupted it, and took the call.

“Don’t forget that our flight leaves at eight tomorrow morning, Allison. We might as well use first names. I’m called Jake. As I was saying, please be on time. I have a ten o’clock appointment, and I don’t want to miss that plane.”

As soon as her heartbeat returned to normal, she summoned her most professional demeanor. “Mr. Covington, I’m assuming that you don’t make these statements because you want to rile me, but because you’re deficient in the art of conversation. I will be on time, dear, and I will wash behind my ears before I leave home.” His uproarious laughter cooled her temper, and she vowed not to react negatively to every one of his incautious remarks.

“Did anybody ever try to blunt that sharp tongue of yours?”

“Now, you...” she began, remembered her counsel of seconds earlier, and stopped. “Jake, do you think we automatically rub each other the wrong way?”

That deep, dark, sexy laugh again. “I think we rub each other, but I’d be the last one to suggest it’s the wrong way. Rubbing with you gives me a good feeling.”

“Well, it irritates me,” she huffed.

“In what way? I’d be happy to soothe whatever I irritate. Just let me know what I’ve...uh...inflamed, and I’ll gladly cool it off.” His laugher caressed her. Warmed her. If she didn’t watch out, she could find herself enamored of... Was she out of her mind?

“I don’t suppose it has occurred to you that you can keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“It has, but doing that wouldn’t be fun.”

She could imagine that a grin covered his face. “You’re not going to tease me into letting you trap me with innuendos. I’m onto you. Aren’t you ever serious?”

“I’m always serious,” he shot back, “but I’m not a rash man. If I told you in plain English what’s on my mind, I could damage our relationship. I don’t want that.”

She wondered if her nerves would riot. After that comment, he might as well dump it out, but she refrained from saying it. “Thanks for being circumspect,” she replied instead, and she did appreciate it. “Having to suffer my boss’s coarseness is a big enough price for getting ahead in this business.”

“I can well imagine that. See you at eight in the morning.” As though he’d received an unpleasant reminder, his manner changed when she mentioned Bill Jenkins. Who could blame him? She told him goodbye, dressed quickly, and made her way to Mother’s Rest.

* * *

Allison took Leda from the nurse, looked into the child’s sad face, and told herself that, if she were ever fortunate enough to have one of her own, she’d love it so much that it would bubble with joy all the time.

“Leda,” she cooed to the solemn little girl, “smile for me.” She sang “Summertime” and was rewarded with the baby’s rapt attention. She cuddled Leda to her breast and paced the colorful, well-lighted room, singing as she did so. Leda quickly learned that a smile brought another chorus and, when the two hours had passed, Allison surmised that she had sung the famous song well over a dozen times. The nurses let her stay beyond the allotted two hours because the child fretted when she attempted to leave. Finally she managed to sing her to sleep, but for the first time, pangs of separation after leaving one of the children tore at her, and she vowed to have some of her own. But when?

She got home, saw the house’s dark windows, and realized she’d forgotten to set her automatic timer. She searched for the small flashlight that she always carried in her pocketbook, found it, and opened the door.

After sleeping fitfully that night, she arose before daylight, dressed in leisure, and stood leaning against the check-in counter for the Delta Air Lines Washington to New York flight when Jake Covington got there. Captivated, she watched him approach her, his gait loose and his stride lazy. Suggestive. He walked up to her and grinned. Then he winked. Unaccustomed to a promiscuous onslaught of desire for a man, she had to battle the frissons of heat that swirled within her, unsettling her. Six weeks of him could be her undoing.