Unforgettable (10 page)

Rett felt like she was walking on air. Everyone was so nice to her. Even the dresser had a kind word. When they packed up for Portland Rett no longer felt like every performance was an audition.

She had remembered Monday morning to call Camille. Camille had promised that if she got the chance to mention what a swell singer and fine human being Rett Jamison was she’d certainly do so. She cautioned, however, that she was stuck doing grunt work in the television studios and wasn’t likely to escape to the movie studios anytime soon.

The call to Monica was a dead end. Monica swore the only angel she knew was her chiropractor. The call to UCLA was even more frustrating.

“I’m trying to get in touch with a professor there,” she’d told the science department secretary. “I only remember her first name, Angel.”

The woman had popped her gum, then announced in a voice muffled by too much in her mouth, “I dunno everyone by name yet. I’m new. Lemme look at the list. When id you meed her?”

Rett decided that the truth would needlessly embarrass Angel. “At a symposium on Saturday.”

“The list sorted by firs’ name would be easier,” she complained, just as if Rett was the one who had given her the list. “Arnold — nope. Ann, anudder Ann. Here’s an Angelique.”

“That could be her.” Rett’s heart leapt. “Very petite, dark-haired. Late thirties?”

“I dunno. She’s on sabbatical.” Pop, snap.

“The woman I’m looking for participates in ovarian cancer research.”

The secretary’s tone grew slightly impatient. “There are over fifty researchers here, another hunnerd faculty and assistant perfessors, teaching assistants, yadda yadda yadda. I dunno them all.”

“Well, what is her last name?”

“Sinson.” Snap, pop.

“Anyone else?”

“I don’ think so.” Chew, pop.

“Well, can I leave Angelique Sinson a message?”

“Like I said, she’s on sabbatical. I can put a note in ‘er box, I guess.”

Don’t strain yourself, honey, Rett had wanted to say. “Please say that Rett Jamison called and had to go out of town unexpectedly. She should call me though. Here’s my number.” She thought a moment, then added her cell phone number. “She should leave a message and I’ll call again.”

“Brett James, I got it.”

“No B. And it’s Jam-i-son.”

“No B?”

“Rett. Short for Loretta.”

“Should I say Loretta?” Snap, snap, pop.

God forbid. “She knows me by Rett.”

“Rrrrrett Jamison, I goddit.”

She made the secretary repeat the numbers and hung up with a sinking feeling that she was never going to hear from Angel. She had serious doubts that her Angel and Angelique Sinson were even the same woman — she was not that lucky. With one day off a week for the next three weeks, flying home to go out to UCLA seemed extravagantly obsessive. By the time she got back to L.A., classes would be over for the summer. It was very frustrating.

Maybe she’ll call me. Maybe she’ll ask Monica for my number. I’m in the book — maybe she’ll look me up. Rett crossed her fingers briefly

From San Francisco they went to Portland for three weeknight performances, then on to Seattle to open Friday night and appear through the following Sunday, just as they had in San Francisco. Vancouver was after that, for appearances Thursday through Sunday.

The time flew by. There wasn’t enough time to explore every city in any depth, but in Seattle almost everyone made the effort to see the new Jimi Hendrix museum. The building alone was amazing — it was sculpted like Hendrix’s guitar and the Seattle monorail went right through it.

She and Zip spent a lot of time together. It was Zip’s considered opinion that Angel had been a ship in the night and that Rett really ought to go to her high school reunion and boff the prom queen so Rett could get on with her life.

“It’s too short to worry about what you could have done or should have done.” Rett sprawled on the bed and Zip looked up from cleaning her sax. “Sex is sex and love is love. They’re not the same thing, never were, never will be.”

“You’re wrong,” Rett answered.

“Prove it. Sleep with me and we’ll see if it’s just sex or really L-O-V-E.”

Rett had rolled her eyes. “One of these days you’re going to fall in love and you’ll find out it’s not as clear-cut as you think.”

“Yes, Mother.” She easily ducked the pillow Rett threw at her.

Their last performance came too quickly. Rett could hardly believe it. The sophisticated stage outfits were second nature and she continued to marvel at how nice everyone was. She studied her reflection after she drew on her gloves.

They think you’re a star on the rise, she thought suddenly. The idea was seductive. Don’t you go thinking that way, she warned herself, then stopped. Was that the voice of her mother, telling her she could never amount to anything? That she would never be a star?

The muffled sound of her cell phone ringing interrupted her thoughts. Naomi was the only person who had called her lately. Angel had never called.

“I just had the most interesting discussion with Jerry Orland,” Naomi said.

“He’s right across the hall, I think.”

“Probably telling Henry what I told him.” Naomi sounded excited in a guarded way.

“Which was?”

“That if he wants you to sign for the next three years touring and any recording and the Vegas gigs, they’ll have to come up with a signing bonus.”

Rett dropped into the chair at the makeup table. She thought for a moment she would faint. Finally, she managed, “Could you repeat that?”

“Happy birthday, sweetie!” Naomi was exultant. “Henry Connors wants you, Rett, wants you lock, stock and barrel. He wants to incorporate Rett Jamison’s vocals into his entire sound. ‘Featuring Rett Jamison’ sounds pretty damned nice, I must say.”

“Holy shit,” Rett breathed.

“Vancouver and Seattle were sellouts after you joined on. I think I made an excellent case for your box-office appeal because of the critical push. You’re a serious musician, not some lightweight bimbo using her assets to cover a lack of talent. If you start doing interviews with Henry, get some feature press in the mags — you’ll be a very positive draw. Jerry knows it and he wants to sign you now before someone else figures out how good you are and offers you the moon.”

“Maybe I’ll just walk over there and ask for a pen.” Rett’s head was swimming.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Naomi commanded. “You don’t sign anything I haven’t read.” She softened her tone. “Jerry and Henry are fairly honorable for this business, though. You can give them a verbal. Pending the details being worked out between Jerry and me, you’re in.”

“I’m in,” Rett echoed. “Naomi, I’m shaking like a leaf. It doesn’t seem real.” She was glad she was alone.

“This is the last time I’ll say it, because we can forget all about it forever after: Trish was holding you back. She didn’t have the contacts or the moxie. What she had was major attitude.”

“I know. The moment I got her out of my life everything turned around.” Except finding Angel again.

“Jerry and Henry are probably talking about a reasonable signing bonus. Don’t you go talking money with them.”

“Not me,” Rett promised. She finally remembered what she’d been meaning to ask Naomi since San Francisco. She was still alone, but lowered her voice anyway. “Jerry and Henry — is there, uh …” She heard voices outside the door so she let her voice trail away.

“I think so,” Naomi said. “I wouldn’t know for sure. I would say that the orchestra is their lives and has been ever since the beginning — what, twenty years ago?”

“Henry started the orchestra when he was twenty?”

“More like thirty. I think he turned fifty last year.”

Rett was shocked. “He doesn’t look a day over thirty-five.”

“Neither did Robert Redford for the longest time. It’s the little boy in him. Anyway, given their careers, I’d guess that Henry and Jerry are from the Rock Hudson and Raymond Burr school of gay identity — they have each other and don’t see any reason to tell the world about it when they would much rather tell the world about the music.”

“S’alright,” Rett said. “I just wondered if I was imagining things.”

“I don’t think so,” Naomi said. “Let’s go over the numbers Jerry ran by me. The money is great. You should give yourself a hell of a birthday party.”

“The concert starts in about twenty minutes,” Rett reminded her.

“I’ll be quick.”

Her mind still reeling from the enormity of her changed fortunes, Rett found Henry just before the curtain went up.

“Jerry and Naomi have to work it out, but I’m in.”

They shared a heartfelt hug that didn’t jeopardize their stage makeup.

“I’m so glad,” Henry said. “It’s been magic working with you. I feel fresh inspiration.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” Rett admitted. They separated and she smiled at him fondly. “I want this to work, you have my promise.”

“I didn’t need it,” Henry said, but his eyes crinkled as if he was extremely pleased.

The after-tour party at the hotel went on until daybreak. Rett kept the fact that it was her fortieth birthday to herself. She’d been trying not to think about it for the past year and now that it had come she didn’t hate it the way she thought she would. Maybe because she had finally achieved a measure of success. She wasn’t forty and still nobody. Earlier in the night the other musicians had received the news of her tentative return the following year with cheers. It was enough of a birthday present.

Rett found herself in her room at six A.M., giddy from Champagne and praise. She set the clock radio to wake her at noon and poured herself into bed. Is this what it feels like to be a star? she wondered. She was the vocalist for the Henry Connors Orchestra. She wasn’t a household name, but when she signed the contract there would be a notice in the trades.

She felt so lucky that she turned the light back on and checked her messages — just in case Angel had called. Now that would be a birthday present.

She had one new message. The voice made her body reflexively shudder, but it wasn’t Angel’s.

“I’m hoping you remember me, Rett. I’d be flattered if you did. It’s Cinny Keilor. Well, it’s Cinny Johnson now. I found your number through the online white pages and just had to call to see if I could convince you to come to the reunion. I would love to see you again. It’s just going to be a super week. Almost everyone is coming. Tell me what I have to do to convince you. I would really love to see you again. Call me if you have the time.”

The breathy, slightly excited voice trailed away after giving her number. Rett replayed the message, then lay in bed trying to ignore her tingling body.

That voice — her head was full of it now. “Rett, I want you to touch me there.”

Cinny was in a tight pink formal gown. The senior class homecoming queen’s tiara had slipped onto the backseat floor of her brother’s car.

Rett tasted Cinny’s lips again. “I want to show you how good it can be.”

Cinny was helping pull her dress up. Rett had one knee between Cinny’s thighs. She tugged one shoulder of the gown down and ran her tongue along the top of Cinny’s breasts. She kissed the firm column of Cinny’s throat while her hand smoothed Cinny’s hips.

“I’m ready,” Cinny had whispered. “I want you so much.”

Her fingertips pressed into the crotch of Cinny’s pantyhose. Cinny groaned. Rett kissed the groan away and in one swift motion, not waiting for further permission, pulled the hose down and tangled her fingers under the fabric.

The same hot wetness that Cinny generated in her was coating her fingertips. She pressed where she knew it would feel good and let her slick fingers find the way.

Cinny breathed out, “My God.”

“I told you.” Rett kissed her again, then murmured, “I always knew it would be like this.”

Cinny’s legs were opening wider. Rett was trembling. “That feels so good.”

Just as Rett’s fingers poised to take her, Cinny twisted to one side, panting. “I can’t, I can’t.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“Please stop, Rett. You know I want to, but I can’t. It’s wrong.”

Rett had flung herself to the other end of the backseat. “I can’t go through another year of this.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sadly. She pulled down her dress. “We shouldn’t see each other again.”

“I guess not,” Rett said. She didn’t want Cinny to see her cry again, so she got out of the car. Her own secondhand dress was crumpled. She wouldn’t go back to the dance. She’d only come because Cinny had asked her to be there.

She went to the gymnasium bathroom and sat in a stall for a long time to calm down before starting the long walk home. As she walked through the parking lot she passed Cinny’s brother’s car, and hated herself for being so weak that she would take any chance to bump into Cinny again. She prayed that if Cinny saw her again, she’d say, “Rett, I was wrong. I can’t go on this way. Make love to me.”

Her weakness got what it deserved. Cinny was in the car, but her boyfriend was there, too. All she saw was his back and her legs, and all she heard was his groaned-out, “You’re so hot tonight.”

She felt punched in the stomach. She wouldn’t talk to Cinny for weeks after that and would never tell her why. Then one afternoon Cinny had slipped a note into her locker, asking Rett to “see” her after school at the creek beyond the old Gefferson place. She’d gone, all the while rehearsing the speech where she told Cinny to go to hell.

Cinny had said she missed Rett’s friendship. She’d asked for a hug to make up whatever it was that was bothering Rett. The hungry, bruising kisses that followed had led to another rejection, and not the last one. Her entire senior year, from homecoming to prom night, she’d still followed Cinny around like a desperate lapdog, hoping for any castoff caress that might come her way.

That voice — that breathy, hungry voice. Rett rolled over in bed and wrapped her arms over her stomach. After all these years that voice made her shiver.

Even as sleep threatened, she was asking herself if she should go to the reunion, just to tie things up with Cinny. Just to see if Cinny would be willing to talk about it. Just to see if Cinny would be willing… Don’t finish that thought, Rett warned herself. If you go you’ll have to see your mother.