It Had to be You

by Susan Andersen

  After making a mental note to make an appearance at Orland’s table, I put the matter aside and concentrate on finishing up the paperwork I’ve let slide a little too long. By the time the sound of arriving employees pulls me out of the roll I’m on, I’ve made serious inroads into my work backlog. Gathering up my papers, I put them back in the folder, then head to the office. I set it atop the file cabinet when I see that although Sarge has whittled down the mess on the desk, he still has a way to go before it’s cleared. I head to the washroom to freshen up and change into my tux.

  Not long after I’ve gotten myself ready, I hear Lena and the Brasher girls chatting and laughing as they sashay past my office. And damned if my heartbeat doesn’t start thundering against the wall of my chest like so many winter storm waves crashing on the shore.

  God, I’ve got it bad for this woman. Shoving my hand into my slacks pocket, I scoop up the small circlet of chain within, rubbing my thumb over its sturdy, yet dainty, links.

  I give Lena a little time to settle in and prepare for her sets. Then I make my way to her dressing room. Outside her door, I smile at her bejeweled star, but hesitate to knock. Do I want to risk her telling me to go away? Or do I ambush her when she comes out? I’m usually not one to hold back when I have my eye on the prize. There is something to be said, however, about a guaranteed face to face meeting.

  Resting my shoulders against the wall across from her door, I plant the sole of my right dress shoe flat against it as well, cross my arms over my chest and settle in to wait. I’m not letting her go, by God. Every feeling I ever had for Lena has rushed back these past several days—hell has been rushing back since the first night she performed here. And that’s if my damn need for her completely went away in the first place.

  I am going to get myself more time with her if it’s the last thing I do.

  Fortunately for my rapidly dwindling supply of patience, I don’t have long to wait. The door across from me opens and I drop my foot to the floor.

  Lena jolts when she sees me and I straighten away from the wall, thrusting my hands into my pants pockets. “Sorry,” I say quietly. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I missed you last night and just wanted to see you before things get busy.”

  I can’t quite read Lena’s expression. Part of her looks really happy to see me. At the same time, there’s a reserve in her expression and a slight stiffness in her posture. “Did you have a good time with the girls last night?”

  “Mostly.”

  Shit. What does that mean? I stroke the chain again, then pull it from my pocket. “I got you something.” Shaking the little chain link bracelet down from my palm, I spread the clasped circlet open with my thumb and forefinger for her to see. “It’s a charm bracelet. Or the beginning of one, anyhow.” I turn it so she can see its only charm: a platinum treble clef.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Lena’s entire face lights up and she leans in to look at it more closely. “That is so nifty! But...is that a diamond in the bottom swoop?” Straightening, she takes a step back. “I can’t accept something so expensive!”

  “Yes. You can. It’s a diamond chip. It would probably take two dozen of these to make the lowest fraction of a carat.” And aren’t I glad I resisted the one caret diamond I first considered? “C’mon, just try it on.”

  “I shouldn’t,” she says, but her body leans toward mine. And when I reach authoritatively for her wrist, she allows me to lift it so I can fasten the little open-link bracelet over it.

  I arrange it until the single charm dangles, well, charmingly. “Yes,” I say. Seeing her wearing it gives me a massive surge of satisfaction. “It’s you.”

  She turns her wrist this way and that, before looking up at me. “Thank you,” she says with quiet sincerity. “Aside from the gowns and accessories you—that is to say, the lounge—bought me, I have never owned anything so beautiful in my life.” Her fingers keep stroking the charm.

  Even though I know I should let everything simply coast in the wake of this upbeat moment, I hear myself ask in a low voice, “Are you coming home tonight?”

  “Oh.” She loses some of her shine. “I, um, don’t know. That is, I’m not sure.”

  I manage to resist issuing any ultimatums. But I can’t stop myself from stepping forward, crowding her.

  She takes a step back.

  I step forward again and we repeat this little do-si-do across the hall until Lena’s back hits the wall beside her dressing room door. Encircling her forearms with my fingers, I press them against the wall on either side of her head. The accelerated pulse in the fragile hollow of her throat catches my eye.

  At least she’s not unaffected. A slight smile tips up the corners of my mouth and I squat slightly to kiss the faint blue veins of her inner wrist just above the bracelet. After a moment spent lingering over the spot, I move to the fast pulse of her heartbeat in her throat and kiss her there as well. Not until I feel every bit of her tension flow from her muscles do I raise my head again. Reluctantly, I step back and release my loose hold on her forearms. I study her slightly unfocused expression, then trace the tip of my finger along the marcel wave curving from her temple to her jaw.

  “Come home,” I say gruffly.

  Then I turn and walk away. I hate having no idea if she’ll do as I bid. But I’m determined to hope for the best.

  “Hey, Mistah J.” Sally rushes up. “You told me to let you know when the Orland party arrived. They just took their seats. And it’s the funniest thing. The man with Mr. Orland looks a lot li—”

  “Miss? Miss!” an impatient voice interrupts. “Can we get a pack of fags over here?”

  I look over, surprised someone would butt in while she’s in a discussion with the club’s owner. People just generally seem to assume if you own a speakeasy, you must be connected. The question is answered when I see the person hailing her is one of the many new customers we’ve been pulling in lately. He clearly has no idea I’m the owner.

  I give Sally a nod and she bounces off to sell some cigarettes.

  I rise to go pay my respects to Ray Orland and his mystery guest, fully intending to keep it brief. But when I walk up to the table and see who’s sitting with him, I understand what Sally started to say before the impatient smoker interrupted her. “Father?”

  What the hell is he doing here? I feel every muscle in my body tense. The old man has never made any bones about his opinion of the low-brow industry in which I elected to set up business.

  “Hello, son.” Clyde Jameson climbs to feet and thrusts out his hand. But to my utter surprise, when I reach out for a businesslike shake, he hauls me it for what would be a chest to chest bump if our right arms weren’t bisecting our torsos. With a slap to my shoulder with his free hand, he turns me loose.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he insists, and leans into me the moment I comply. “This is a beautiful place you’ve got here!” His enthusiasm is unmistakable.

  “I told you it was the best place in town,” Ray interjects, making my dad grin.

  “You did. And yet it’s even more sophisticated than anything I could have envisioned.” His wave of a hand seems to encompass the club’s elegance in its entirety. He takes a sip of his drink and smiles appreciatively. “And did I mention you carry great booze? This is sure as hell no bathtub gin.”

  “We import the real deal from Canada.” Import might be stretching the truth in the legal sense, but close enough.

  “It isn’t merely decent liquor, though,” Father says and takes another appreciative sip. “This is top shelf gin. And I saw the label on the magnum of champagne delivered to the table next to us.”

  He goes on to praise the very things I’d insisted upon when putting my club together, and the way he talks to me, as if I’m every bit the great businessman he is, warms a cold part of me I never even realized I’d been carrying around. For the first time since I cannot remember when, he is the father I adored—right up until I reached puberty and got weighed down by his crushing load of expectations
for the Jameson heir.

  All the same, I brace myself when Lena strolls over after her final set. It’s rare she even comes into the lounge, never mind putting herself in my father’s path after the way he treated her the one and only time they met. He hadn’t been kind to her and even my mother had made a snide comment about her knowing her place. Yet on a trajectory to our table she appears to be, and after half a dozen people stop her, she seems to remember the tip of focusing on her goal I gave her a while back.

  Almost instantly, her admirers back off. It might be the do your worst gleam in her eyes. I can’t help but think she’s come out here specifically to make a point about the differences in our social status. I thought we’d long ago gotten past that, but maybe she feels the need to show my father that no one talks down to Lena Bjornstad these days.

  It amazes me the girl has never figured out she’s actually better than me. And if the old man utters one rude word to her, I will send him packing.

  When I reintroduce her, however, Dad greets her cordially and speaks enthusiastically about her talent. He shares how Ray raved about her, telling Dad what a huge draw she has become to the Twilight Room.

  I have long known that’s true. The Twilight Room was popular before Lena started here and has always drawn a crowd. But since word of her talent got around, the place has literally been bursting at the seams.

  Watching my father with Lena is like the cherry on top of this entire damn-near perfect sundae of an evening. So much so, it makes me question my long-held perception of him.

  “We need a photo of this night!” Dad suddenly suggests and, catching Elsie’s eye, I wave her over.

  After she takes a photo of the four of us at Father’s insistence, Dad grins at me across the table. “Thanks for asking your photographer to develop it right away, son. I can’t wait to show it to your mother. Maybe then she’ll see the Twilight Room is every bit as brag worthy as the restaurant she’s been telling everyone you own.”

  “What?” I freeze. That can’t be right. My mom has always been the supportive one.

  “You know your mother.” His father shrugs. “She’s always very concerned about the way things may appear to others.”

  And just like that, everything I thought I knew about my parents flips upside down.

  35

  Susan Andersen

  Whataya need that’s so pressing it couldn’t wait until morning?

  LENA

  Booker abruptly pushes back from the table and stands. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he mutters, “but I’m going to have to cut this short.”

  “Are you okay, son?” his father inquires, looking concerned. “You’re looking a little peaked.”

  No fooling. Booker’s complexion generally leans more toward olive than fair skinned. Yet, all of a sudden, he looks downright pale. I move to check him out more carefully. “Yes, are you all right?”

  “I’m feeling a little...off. Don’t worry, though. I don’t think it’s anything contagious. I, uh, probably shouldn’t have skipped dinner.”

  I blink, then blink again. Booker never skips meals, so that sounds like a big, fat lie. What on earth is going on with him?

  “This was nice tonight, Dad.” He looks over at Mr. Orland. “Thank you, Ray, for bringing him. It was a grand surprise.” He promptly directs his attention back on his father. “Are you going to be in town for a while?”

  “I’m attending a banking symposium all day tomorrow. I’ll head home Wednesday in the early afternoon. If I don’t get a chance to see you again before I go, I want you to know I’m real proud of you, son. Ray wasn’t pulling my leg. You’ve built yourself one helluva fine business here.”

  Booker pulls a small gold card holder and a matching fountain pen out of his inside breast pocket. He flips the case open, pulls out a business card and scribbles something on its backside. He waves the card for a moment to dry the ink, then hands it to his father. “These are the phone numbers for the lounge and my house. Maybe we can get together and have lunch or dinner before you leave, if either fit into your schedule.”

  Booker’s father takes the card and tucks it into his own breast pocket. “I’d like that.” Reaching out, he hauls Booker in for a hug and murmurs something in his ear. Then he turns him loose. “You go get something to eat before you pass out.”

  Booker simply nods, grabs me by the hand and strides away, hauling me in his wake.

  I trot a few steps to catch up, and neither of us say a word until we reach his office. The desk is neat and Leo isn’t there, so I’m guessing he might have gone home after he finished his work.

  Booker stops in the middle of the room and just stares down at his feet.

  “What the devil is going on?” He doesn’t answer and I touch his arm. “Booker?”

  He blinks as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. He’s looking right at me unblinkingly but I’m not convinced he actually sees me. Then his eyes focus.

  “Can you call Will?” he asks. “Now, if possible—” He glances at his watch. “Shit. It’s late. First thing tomorrow, then? Could you call him then? Or give me the number so I can? It’s important I talk to him.”

  “You must not remember Will is a night owl,” I say dryly. “The party he shares a line with might not be thrilled with a middle of the night call, but the heck with them. Will tells me they’re constantly listening in on his calls. I’ll get him for you.”

  “Thanks, doll,” he whispers and collapses onto his desk chair. Elbows planted atop his desk, he buries his head in his hands.

  Concerned, I perch a hip on the corner of Booker’s desk and pull the tall phone over to me. Holding it by its candlestick, I lift the earpiece from the cradle and dial the operator. I give her Will’s number and a moment later his line chimes. He picks up on the second ring.

  “Will, it’s me. Hang on a second.” I lean over to jab Booker in the shoulder. He raises his head and I shove the phone at him.

  He grabs it. “Will, it’s Booker,” he says urgently into the mouthpiece. “I know it’s late, but can I come over? I need to talk to you. It’s important. Yeah? Thank you.” He slaps the earpiece back in its cradle and pushes to his feet, clearly energized where before he appeared exhausted. I half expect him to stride out the office door without so much as a goodbye. But my heart thumps eagerly when he rounds the desk to pull me to my feet and says, “Grab your coat. Will said we can come over.”

  Briskly, he makes arrangements with John the barman for closing out the till and locking down the club for the night, then ushers me out to his car. The instant both our doors are closed, he pulls away from the curb like he’s in the race of his life and continues driving hell bent for leather through deserted downtown streets and up the steep hills to to Will’s neighborhood.

  In less than fifteen minutes from the moment Will first picked up my call, we screech to a halt in front of his apartment building.

  He must have heard us coming up the stairs, for he’s standing in the open doorway to his apartment, a dense shadow in the midst of light pouring out into the hallway. “Hey,” he greets us quietly as we approach, then steps back to wave us in.

  We enter, and Booker stops dead just inside the apartment. He draws in a deep breath. “God,” he says quietly. “I’d forgotten the smell of oil paint and turpentine.” He looks at Will’s paint splattered smock and hands and grins—the first smile I’ve seen since before whatever it was that happened to make him look so downright ill at the lounge. “That distinctive stink always reminds me of you. Of... good times with friends.”

  “Yep, some things never change.” Will studies Booker through narrowed eyes. “Or do they?”

  I have no doubt he’s noticed Booker’s complexion, which, while not as dead white as it appeared at the club, is still abnormally pale. Will exchanges a speaking glance with me. This strange and urgent meeting has him as concerned as I am.

  He frowns at Booker. “Take a seat. Can I get the two of you something to drink?”

  I
decline, but Booker nods. “Thanks. I could stand something strong.”

  Will disappears into the little kitchen and comes back with three water glasses, two of which contain a couple fingers of what is surely whiskey. He hands one to Booker and hands me a glass of orange juice.

  I raise my eyebrows at him and he says gruffly, “Drink it. You think I don’t know you, girl? You’ve been singing in a smoky club all night. You need to keep your pipes lubed.”

  It’s this very thoughtfulness that makes him such a darn fine friend. After thanking him softly, I take an appreciative sip of the cold juice.

  He takes his own drink and sits on the chair facing the sofa where Booker and I made ourselves at home. “It’s not the top-drawer stuff you serve,” he says dryly to Booker, “but it ain’t half bad.”

  We sip our drinks in silence for a moment. Then Will sets his glass on the table next to his chair with a quiet clink and looks at Booker.

  “So,” he says. “Whataya need that’s so pressing it couldn’t wait until morning?”

  36

  Susan Andersen

  And my world caves in

  BOOKER

  I straighten on the couch. “The night you came over to my house, you told me you came into some money that enabled you and Lena to leave Walla Walla. Could you tell me who gave it to you?”

  “Why, your mom,” Will says as if it should have been obvious. Then his brows twitch together. “She didn’t tell you?” He no sooner asks than he answers his own question. “Nah, of course she didn’t. She’s not one to brag, is she.”

  My stomach pitches and I glance over at Lena.

  She’s staring at Will in surprise and irritation. “You never told me that!”

  “Huh. I thought I did.” Will shrugs. “Life was hard and hungry for us then and we were so damn excited to get out of town, I must have forgotten.”