by Donna Hill
But he was what she wanted. And if she knew nothing else about herself, she knew she could be single-focused and determined. She was determined to win his heart and she understood that it wouldn’t be easy. Quinn was a man who turned over his emotions in small doses, if at all. He’d made that clear tonight. In that way, they were the same.
He’d approached the center of her, that part that haunted her, stole the melody. But she’d quickly hidden herself from view, unwilling, unable to face herself in the reflection of his eyes. But he was as tenacious as she, and as he had done, she had bared her soul and he hadn’t run from what he’d seen.
She turned on her side, listened to the sounds of activity on the street below. Closing her eyes, she wondered what he was feeling, thinking. If their evening together had had the same effect on him as it had on her. She believed it had. How it would manifest itself only time would tell.
By the time Rae awoke it was nearly noon. And her first thought was of Quinn. She’d dreamed of him as surely as if he’d lain beside her. If she closed her eyes, she could smell his scent, see the soft curl of his lashes that draped the dark, intense eyes, hear the rich tones of his voice that brought to mind the notes played from an alto sax.
She knew he was as shaken as she by what was said between them, and instinct told her he’d blame her somehow for the revelations he’d made—the secrets he’d told. She didn’t care. All she wanted, at that very moment, was to hear his voice, assure herself that this thing growing between them, in whatever form it took, was real.
Chapter 12
Quinn returned from taking Rae home. They’d talked until the sun was moments away from rising. Both of them were spent, yet surprisingly renewed.
He tossed his jacket onto the couch, and walked toward the window, the events, the words, the confessions of the evening still looming in his mind. He stood poised there, his hands bracing his weight against the frame of the window. As he watched the sun slowly blaze across the horizon, signaling the beginning of a new day, for the first time in longer than he could remember he felt the inklings of hope—possibility.
Tonight was a revelation, not just of Rae and who she was, but who he was and what he was capable of becoming. From caterpillar to butterfly, Mr. Osborne, his old high school science teacher, used to say, comparing the stages of development to those of the insect world. A chuckle passed his lips as he recalled the short, squat man directing a pointer at a chart showing the growth of a baby through young adulthood to a mature man. Just like insects, only harder.
Distracted by the night’s recollections, he sleepwalked over to the CD player and put in a disk of Bud Powell’s greatest hits, pressed the on button, and draped himself over the sofa, one leg over the armrest. The music of the bop piano legend washed over him in waves; the emotional force of the cascading notes, the endless surge of inventiveness, the courageous risks taken each time the man’s nimble fingers struck the ivories. This was jazz at its best. No matter how fast Bud played, there was no lack of ideas, each phrase clearly articulated, each moment full of drama and excitement. Quinn closed his eyes, imagining how the pianist must have felt to be at the peak of his creative powers, realizing there was nothing he couldn’t do on the keyboard.
Listening to Bud’s incredible artistry on the tunes “Dance of the Infidels” and “Parisian Thoroughfare,” he saw the fierce two-handed attack of the master across the length of the black-and-white keys in his mind’s eye and sighed deeply. Works of genius from a wholly original mind. Then he considered the man’s slow yet continuous emotional decline into madness and the gnawing away of his talents by heavy drinking and long sessions of electro-shock therapy in psychiatric wards. This was what saddened him. He couldn’t let his troubled past do that to him, rob him of his gifts, cheat him of fulfilling his promise.
“Damn, that could be me if I don’t stop this thing before it gets the best of me,” he said aloud to himself. “Can’t let that happen, can’t.”
He walked toward the piano, looked at it for a moment, then sat down on the bench. Something happened. It was as if he couldn’t move, as though something inside him suddenly sapped all the power from his fingers. Minutes passed, maybe an hour. Still he hadn’t played anything. The music was there in his body, in his head, trapped, unable to come out. He sat there staring blankly into space, his fingers poised just above the keys, unable to descend, to touch.
“Damn it,” he cried out, tears coursing down his cheeks.
He flicked the dreads from his forehead, bent over, and gave in to the torment inside him. It was the first time he could remember feeling this helpless. Crying didn’t help. The tears only reminded him of how far from emotional health he really was, how long the trek back to normal would be.
Wobbly, he got to his feet, walked over, and switched off the machine, and Powell’s fleet lines of brilliant sound vanished. Rae, Rae, Rae.
Rae. Was this relationship what he really wanted, what he had intended to do when he’d gone to the studio to see her that first time? She’d pushed him, put him on the defensive, ready to attack his shield. Was he ready to let someone knowingly push all of his buttons? To take him to some place where there was no safe ground? Maybe she was just another woman who enjoyed tormenting men. Watching them squirm. Stop it. Stop this. She wasn’t the problem; he was the problem. No, he hadn’t really wanted to attack Rae, but rather that thing that lived inside him.
The notion to call her crossed his mind but he decided against it. It was too soon. He didn’t want to seem too eager, like an overanxious chump. Maybe he already had jumped the gun. But the die was now cast. His sacred home, his apartment sanctuary. Bringing her to his home had been a serious move for him. This was where he and Nikita had lived—loved—as best they could. He’d never brought another woman there, believing that it would somehow violate what he and Nikita had shared. But seeing and feeling Rae in this space hadn’t hurt as he thought it would. It felt right. It felt good. It felt like change.
He sat back down, staring at the phone. What was he doing? Why was he obsessing about this woman? The caution light was blinking, warning, warning, warning.
As if by magic, the phone rang. He knew who was calling before he even picked it up. Rae.
“Hey?” Her voice sounded dreamy, all soft and inviting.
“Hey yourself.”
“Did you finally get some sleep?” she asked, stretching.
“Naw…too worked up to sleep.”
“I took a bit of a nap. But I can’t rest.” She paused, taking a chance. “I thought maybe we could go out and do something tonight.”
He was still feeling the aftereffects of their talk earlier. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m up to people right now. I’ve got a lot in my head.”
This was what she was afraid of, his retreat. But she wouldn’t give up that easily. “Getting out among some folks might do you—both of us—a world of good. Think about it, Quinn. No pressure.”
“Yeah, right, no pressure,” he repeated with some edge to his words.
“Are you upset with me about something?” she asked, unsettled by his cool tone.
“Should I be?” he shot back, not willing to let her see how much their night had affected him. “Look, I don’t feel especially social right now.”
“Let it go,” she said. “You’re making much too much of everything. Just let it go.” She couldn’t let him escape, retreat again, not now, not after it was he who threw her the life preserver, with the promise of keeping her afloat.
“Maybe that’s easy for you but not for me,” he said, allowing his irrational anger and emotional confusion to erect a protective wall around him.
Had she been wrong in her conclusions about what happened? Did she want this so bad that she was seeing things that weren’t there? “I…I don’t get it, Quinn. You seemed like you wanted to talk and once we do, you turn it around like I’ve done something to you?”
“Maybe it’s not about you, Rae.”
&n
bsp; His tone, his unwarranted attack stung as sharp as a slap. Fine, if that’s the way he wants it. “Look, I’ll be at Encore, if you decide to come, it’s on you, okay? A friend of mine is playing tonight at nine. You might enjoy it. Think about it at least.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled as he heard the phone click in his ear.
Absently, he scribbled down the info, hung up the phone, and walked back to the piano, where he stood staring at the keys for what seemed like an eternity. Rae. She refused to let him hide, to sink back into his safe place. Damn her! It was so much easier before when he didn’t care. The slip of paper was still in his hand, burning his fingers. He stared at it, thought about tearing it up, and did.
Chapter 13
Striding briskly through the light drizzle, along the tree-lined avenues of the West Village, Quinn tried to remember if he’d parked the Jeep on the right side of the street for the following day. He hadn’t really been paying attention, his mind focusing on the evening ahead. But the last thing he needed was another ticket, that would be four in the last three months, all for parking. He thought about turning back, just to check, but glancing at his watch he knew it would be pointless and just another stalling excuse to keep him away a few minutes longer. He’d just have to take his chances.
Encore. He casually entered the room, looking around to see if she was already there, which she was—seated in a far corner at an intimate, cozy table. Rae. She looked even lovelier than she had the last time they were together, dressed in a stunning black silk blouse with a red scarf covered with artfully done African designs, tossed around her long neck with a sense of high style. A tall brother, wearing a long straw yellow Arab robe with a shiny bald head and an earring in his left ear, was standing near her, whispering something that seemed to crack her up. She laughed, her head back, all of her bright white teeth on display. It was clear to him that life moved on as usual for her. Rae’s laughter didn’t stop once Quinn stepped up beside the man, who stood up straight and moved to leave before Rae touched his arm.
“Amir Allie, Quinn Parker,” Rae said, making the introductions.
Amir’s eyes momentarily sparked in recognition. A broad smile spread across his face. “The Quinn Parker?”
“The one and only,” Rae said proudly, smiling up at a somber-faced Quinn.
“Glad to meet you, brother,” Amir said, smiling, shifting the chew stick in his mouth and taking Quinn’s outstretched hand and pumping it between both of his. “Man, Quinn Parker,” he said with deference. “Brotha, you can play some ivories. I only wish I had your skills.”
“Thanks,” Quinn mumbled, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, knowing by rote the direction the conversation would take. Knowing the next string of questions before they were asked.
“Yeah, man, where you been? Back in the studio working on your next platinum, right?” Amir went on. He patted Quinn on the shoulder as if they were the best of friends. “Read that book of yours, too. Heavy stuff. Brothers don’t usually write like that, but I dug it. You’re one of those rare renaissance men.”
Rae monitored the tight expression on Quinn’s face, the look of one who wanted to escape in his eyes. The muscles of his jaw worked up and down, and she realized that he was close to snapping.
“Amir always was a talker,” Rae cut in, clasping Quinn’s biceps and feeling the tension. “If we let him he’ll talk us to death. Don’t you have a set to get ready for?” she asked, making her voice light.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he said as if suddenly remembering that fact. “Listen, maybe we can talk after my session. Love to hear your thoughts on my set. Most of these folks in here don’t know the difference between Monk and Liberace.” He laughed at his own joke. “Anyway, thanks for coming.”
“Yeah,” Quinn mumbled, watching the man walk off toward the bar that lined the wall opposite them, then stopping to speak to the brown-skinned woman, the same woman Quinn had seen here before, who kept staring in their direction. Her stare was making Quinn uncomfortable so he switched seats with Rae so he didn’t have to look at her. The place was packed once again but their table seemed to be getting all of her attention. She made him uneasy the way she looked at him, the sound of her voice, the way she seemed to want to touch him.
“You made it,” Rae said, moving the lit candle on the table so she could see Quinn’s face without its obstruction, and pulling him away from the dark turn of his thoughts. “I didn’t think you were coming. You sounded…anyway…thanks for making the effort.”
“Yeah,” he said absently, motioning to the waiter. “What are you drinking?”
“Red wine, French,” she replied, looking at him with concerned eyes. “Are you okay? You look tired. I’m sorry about Amir. I didn’t think he would go on like that. I know how that kind of stuff bugs you. Is that what it is?”
She was looking at his face, the skin drawn taut to the bone and the dark circles under the eyes. The slight signs of wear took nothing away from his handsome face, only enhanced the ruggedness of his masculine features. It was the face of a man who was living life, struggling with its challenges, and occasionally getting the upper hand. Whatever damage had been done could be erased with a couple of good nights of sleep.
“Yeah. I’m all right,” he said, still trying to get the waiter’s attention. “Forget it. Just tired like you said.”
Finally, the waiter came, apologetic about the delay in service, noting that the café was especially crowded tonight. Two tourist buses brought a load of people from some midtown hotel—Japanese and Korean visitors looking for a safe bite of the Apple, all curiosity and cameras. Their heads swiveled from one sight to the other, trying to take everything in at once.
After the waiter brought Quinn’s drink, a shot of Jack Daniel’s, he disappeared but quickly returned to refresh Rae’s glass, and laid two menus on the table. He stood at the table, waiting for their order, seeming quite peeved when they requested salads rather than meals. Quinn didn’t want anything because his stomach was acting up. Had been since their little talk hours earlier. Rae, on the other hand, was watching her waistline, staying away from anything with too many calories, especially after sunset.
“What’s the deal with you and Amir?” he asked, an edge to his voice, wanting to find something out of place.
Rae frowned at the accusatory tone. “An old friend. Plays piano. He sometimes backs me at auditions, rehearses with me. Nice brother, a little eccentric. But sweet, loyal, and sincere. Studied at Julliard for about three years but didn’t do anything with it until now. He lived in Africa for about ten years, teaching and learning about their native music. You should see his collection of native African instruments, incredible stuff, some of it’s probably priceless.”
She finished talking, drank her wine, and drummed her fingers on the table, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. “Are you still upset with me about last night?”
He sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “You got me to talk but when your turn came, you gave me a short and quick version.”
“What do you want to know? Ask whatever you want.”
“All right,” he said, raking his fingers through his dreads. “What about your husband? What kind of guy was he? Did you love him?” he quizzed, firing the questions at her.
She sat forward, then took a long swallow of the wine. “Sterling was a good black man. He’d been through his share of women before we met. Lots of them. When he met me, the first thing he told me was that he wasn’t really big on commitment. That shook me because I knew right away that I felt something for him. He said he refused to get serious with anyone because he didn’t want to play the games that went along with maintaining a relationship. Women were playthings for him. He told me that he went back and forth between four different women at the same time he was courting me. But he cut them loose when we started to build something between us. In so many ways, he was probably the most honest man I ever met.”
“But did you love him?” he demanded t
o know, as if the answer somehow held a magical key to what ailed him. He drank some more of the Jack Daniel’s, wincing at the burn of it in his throat.
“Yes, I loved him very much,” she said. “When we married, we both did a lot of growing up together. I think we learned that love came with a big responsibility. Loving him was easy. He was caring, thoughtful, and kind. Had a big heart, the biggest. You don’t find those combinations in a man, in anybody, too much anymore.”
“You make it sound like it was so perfect,” he said sarcastically. “Ain’t nothing perfect,” he added, thinking of the battles he and Nikita had waged. “What messed up your postcard?”
She felt the sting of his words, knew he was goading her, and realized how he must have felt when she was coming at him like this, hard and heavy with the questions. Now the shoe was on the other foot and it didn’t feel good at all. He was testing her. Was she able to take it as well as give it?
“Our problems were with his family,” she said, still skirting the whole truth. “His parents, mostly his mother, didn’t think I was good enough for him. And he loved them almost to a fault, would have done anything for them. He was always trying to earn their love. They didn’t treat him like they cared much about him but he loved them unconditionally.”
“What did they do to him?” He glanced over her shoulder and saw the woman staring at him. If she kept this up, he was going over to the manager and complain.
“His mother always drummed into his head that he could have done better…in every area of his life: his job, his home, me. Making him feel worthless and constantly needing to prove himself. I think that’s why he ran around with so many women. Just to boost his ego.” Why he felt the need to control her life, make it seem unimportant, she thought but didn’t say.
