by Ronald Kelly
But then that had been a long time ago and such memorable days had been few and far between. She pushed the greenery of eastern Tennessee from her mind and turned her thoughts back to the glittering lights of the southern city she now called home. Memphis—a thriving commercial mecca overlooking the most legendary river in America, the birthplace of Beale Street and the blues and, most noteworthy, the home of the original rock-and-roller, Elvis Presley.
That night was a special one for Jenny Brice. Earlier that evening, she had attended a special art showing at a Memphis museum. That in itself would not have been unique; she had been to many since claiming a job in a local art gallery five years ago. But this showing had been different. It had showcased some very special work—her work. An exhibit of thirty paintings had occupied the center floor of the museum's fine arts section, rubbing shoulders with the works of the great masters. All were paintings that she had done since her arrival in the city—paintings that she had created out of some strange inner compulsion, certain that they would never leave the dark confines of her apartment closet, let alone be viewed in public.
They were not the usual fare of today's art lovers. No stark impressionist or modern renderings, no colorful and lifelike landscapes. Instead, the canvases that adorned the debut showing were of wildlife, though of a very unique kind. They were all albino in nature. A variety of woodland creatures adorned the collection of paintings: deer, rabbit, reptiles, and birds, all with snow-white coats and blazing pink eyes. Even the natural scenery of foliage, wildflowers, and thorny thicket bore the same colorless hues as the subjects they surrounded.
Jenny had mingled with the gathering of admirers—among them the wealthy and affluent of Memphis society—and had watched their reactions with nervous anticipation. They did not appraise each work and then quickly pass on to the next, as most people will do with wildlife artwork. Rather, they seemed to stand and stare at each painting, transfixed by the soulful pink eyes of the surreal creatures. It was if they were unwillingly absorbed within a secret world that transcended the physical boundaries of oil and stretched canvas. Jenny had been aware of such a profound experience while painting the pictures, using no models other than those that existed in her own mind. But she had never suspected that her disturbing creations might awaken a similar response in others. They had, though, inspiring some patrons to display emotions that they would have never thought of revealing in public—emotions such as awe, sorrow, rapture, and yes, even a sense of underlying unease and fear.
Much to her surprise, the exhibit had proved to be a colossal success, just as her former boss and recent partner, Erica Page, had predicted. That had been several hours ago. She now stood on the forward deck of the immaculate Delta Queen with the sounds of lively conversation and Dixieland jazz echoing from the inner ballroom where a party in her honor was being held. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of the river and the faint scent of traffic exhaust that drifted from the busy streets of the city itself. Things had gone so very fast for her during the past six months. She had risen from obscurity to notoriety in an extremely short period of time, advancing from the humble station of art gallery receptionist to that of an artist with a bright future.
Jenny had come to the big city with such hopes, just as others before her arrived with dreams of becoming great musicians or actors. But unlike most of her struggling contemporaries, she had been presented a fluke of an opportunity and had acted on it on the spur of the moment. And she had been amply rewarded for gathering the courage to take that fleeting chance.
She had always been a good artist. Where she had come from, drawing had been about the only activity she had been allowed, along with reading. Her father had been a strict and unbending man as far as modern progress was concerned. She had been denied the simple comforts that other children took for granted while growing up. The Brice household had been void of necessities like electricity and indoor plumbing, let alone pleasures like television and radio. Throughout her childhood, she had sketched the scenery and inhabitants of the lonely Tennessee mountain they occupied. Therefore, when she left the rural wilderness for the sophistication of Memphis, she pursued her love of art with a passion. She bought an easel, as well as canvas, oils, and brushes, and painted local landscapes and portraits of neighbors and friends in her spare time. Her renderings of the mysterious albino creatures remained a secret indulgence, never intended for eyes other than her own, until a twist of circumstance brought her special talents to light.
Erica had been passing through Memphis—a quick pit stop between buying trips in New York and Los Angeles—when she dropped by Jenny's apartment to pick up her plane tickets to California. Erica had seen some of Jenny's more commonplace work, but had never shown any real interest. On a whim, Jenny decided to leave one of her albino paintings in plain view, just to see what Erica's reaction would be. It was a rather striking picture of a flock of snow-white doves winging their way down a winding, mountain pathway garnished with a variety of equally pale flowers and vegetation. When the doorbell rang, Jenny figured that she had been foolish to take such a gamble. Erica would probably be so preoccupied with business that she would completely overlook the haunting work of art.
But that had not been the case. Erica had spotted the unusual painting immediately and had loved it. In fact, she had been so overwhelmed by her receptionist's hidden genius that she had canceled her much-heralded trip to L.A. Changes had taken place swiftly after that. Jenny's work was displayed at the gallery, where it sold out in a manner of days for more money than Jenny could have imagined, considering that she was an unknown artist with no previous laurels. In a matter of months, Jenny's life took a drastic upswing. She soon found herself with an equal partnership in the gallery and unanimous praise for her talent.
After many weeks of preparation, Jenny's public debut into the world of art had come in the form of the exhibit earlier that evening, as well as the party that was being held on the Delta Queen. But despite her elation, there was something at the gathering that night—or rather somebody— who threatened to burst her bubble if she dared slip up and give him the chance to do so.
Jenny heard the mule bray of good-natured laughter ring from the open doors of the ballroom and she clutched the deck railing until her knuckles whitened with tension. The sound grated on her nerves, for it was a sound that echoed from her past. It was the sound of redneck laughter, plain and simple—the hearty guffaw common with overall-clad bumpkins sitting in front of a general store, chewing tobacco and trading tall tales.
But it wasn't just the laughter that bothered her. It was the potential for disaster that the guest presented which disturbed her so, the threat of being exposed in front of all her high-class peers and patrons. Upon arriving in Memphis, Jenny had chosen to deny her true upbringing in eastern Tennessee and had fabricated a completely new past, consisting of an upper-middle-class life in the suburbs of Atlanta, rather than the needless poverty that she had endured in the wilds of PaleDoveMountain. She guessed that it was shame at having lived such a way that made her create such an idyllic past and strive to overcome the dialect and customs of her rural upbringing. But now, hearing the laughter from inside, she had a very real fear that the country jokester in the next room might see through her poised and proper facade, and thoughtlessly reveal exactly what she was and where she had come from.
She was turning to go back inside when she saw a tall form silhouetted in the ballroom doorway. At first she was startled. She thought for sure that it was the subject of her worries, finally confronting her and eager to do his worst. But it was someone else entirely. Someone who was the total opposite of the person she was leery of.
As the man stepped into the pale glow of the terrace lamps, Jenny couldn't help but notice how very handsome he was. He was a good head taller than her five foot six, and beneath the tux he wore, she could tell that he was trim and athletic—the kind of man who spent a fair amount of time in the gym. He had wavy blond
hair and the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen. The skin of his face and hands was deeply tanned. It was not the artificial, sunlamp tan of many of today's fast-paced executives, but the golden hue of a Hawaiian or Tahitian tan.
"Did you come out here for some fresh air ... or just to get away from that jackass in the ten-gallon hat?" he asked in a voice that only added to the image of perfection, bearing a trace of Southern accent, though refined and educated.
Jenny laughed. "A little of both, I guess. Who is that guy anyway?"
"His name is Rowdy Hawkens," he told her. “He's some new country music sensation that Capitol Records is promoting. They say his first album, Barrooms & Bedrooms, has already hit platinum, which is pretty impressive from a business standpoint. But he is so utterly hillbilly, that it's almost a bad joke. He's shamelessly perpetuating the stereotypical role of the Southern good-ole-boy, when he should be striving to downplay that rather embarrassing image."
Jenny began to feel herself loosen up. "He does seem to take great pleasure in playing the country hick. I find him simply a bore. He's like a trained monkey in cowboy boots and a rhinestone suit, singing those ridiculous songs and telling those off-color jokes."
The light-haired man sipped his martini and smiled. "I agree with you wholeheartedly. He's a pain in the old gluteus maximus." He offered her his hand. “By the way, my name is Jackson Dellhart."
And I'm Jennifer Brice," she returned, taking the gentle, yet strong hand in her own. A sensation that was more than simple attraction stirred within her as his flesh pressed against hers.
Dellhart's smile was almost blinding. "Oh, I'm quite aware of who you are, Ms. Brice, or else I wouldn't have taken time from my busy schedule to be here tonight. The exhibit at the museum was very impressive. Your creations are very haunting and unique, just the sort of shot in the arm that the stagnated art community needs right now."
Jenny was flattered. "How very kind of you to say so," she thanked him. Between the man's praise and the champagne she had overindulged in during the evening, she felt a little lightheaded and dizzy. Although she hated to break away from such pleasant company, she knew she must be by herself, if only for a moment. "Could you please excuse me for a minute, Mr. Dellhart? I think I need to dilute some of this alcohol in my system. Too much bubbly."
He nodded. "I understand. Not too wise to overdo it. Especially when the night is so young and full of possibilities."
Was that a come-on? Jenny couldn't be sure, but if it was, she didn't find it the least bit offensive. The thought of getting to know this Southern gentleman a little more intimately seemed very appealing to her at the moment. "I'll be right back."
"I'll be waiting." Jackson Dellhart leaned against the railing of the front deck, looking like some golden Adonis who had descended from the realm of the gods.
Jenny avoided the milling crowd of the ballroom, walking down the side deck to the service entrance of the boat's kitchen. The narrow room was deserted; all the cooks and waiters were taking a break in the ballroom, enjoying the brassy beat of the jazz band. She drew herself a glass of water from the sink and drank it slowly, followed by a second one. The airy feeling in her head lessened and she sipped the last of the water at leisure, munching on some caviar and wheat crackers that had been left on a side counter.
She was turning around to put the drinking glass in the sink when a boisterous and unexpected voice came from directly behind her.
"Well, howdy there!"
"Howdy," she answered, letting the word slip out before she could think to stop it. And it came with all the down-home, Southern twanginess that she had fought so hard to drive from her pattern of speech. Jenny was so startled by her response to the man's greeting that she nearly dropped her glass on the floor.
"Now, I knew you weren't no Atlanta thoroughbred like all those fancy folks out there seem to think you are," said Rowdy Hawkens, standing in front of the kitchen door. "You're a country gal. I could see that from the very start. Now why don't you tell old Rowdy where you really hail from?'
"You're drunk," she said stonily. She almost had to squint against the garish red, white, and blue of his rhinestone coat. Like Jackson Dellhart, he was attractive, too, in his own swaggering, rawboned kind of way. Hawkens was tall and lanky, possessing a thick crop of fire red hair beneath his white Stetson. The cowboy hat was a spectacle in itself, sporting a wide band of tanned rattlesnake hide, complete with a twelve-button rattler and a yawning, fanged head that looked as though it might lash out from the brim and strike with venomous fury at any moment.
Rowdy laughed and sipped on a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. "I ain't the one who's been hogging all the imported stuff tonight." He regarded her with the appraising eye of a county fair judge. "I'd have to say that you're from my neck of the woods…East Tennessee." He watched her reaction carefully and nodded in satisfaction. "Yep, you're from the east, all right. A mountain gal, born and bred."
She took a step forward and the singer playfully blocked her way. "Get out of my way or I swear I'll kick you so hard beneath that turquoise belt buckle that you'll win best female vocalist at next year's CMA awards," she warned.
Hawkens rocked back on the heels of his lizard skin boots and laughed. "Spunky little old gal, ain't you? But what I can't rightly understand is why you're putting on the big show. Are you ashamed of telling folks that you're from the mountains or what?"
"I am not from the mountains," she said, trying to keep her voice down and hoping that no one in the ballroom had heard the singing cowboy's straight-shooting revelations. "I was born in Atlanta and—"
"Okay, okay!" said Rowdy, raising his hands in surrender. "You're from dadblamed Atlanta! No need to get your pantylooms in an uproar. I just don't know why you're putting on the twenty-four-karat dog and lying to all these stiff-necked bluebloods. Being from the mountains ain't nothing to be ashamed of, you know. And especially not if you're from poor country stock, which I believe to be the case. It's something you oughta be proud of. You've climbed the ladder and made good, just like I have. You know, sister, it ain't easy for the soul to go denying one's upbringing. It's best to keep close ties to your roots. If you don't, it's a damned long fall when your success takes a nosedive."
"Thanks for the worldly wisdom, Mr. Hawkens," Jenny said, inflicting as much sarcasm into the statement as she could. "Now I suspect you'll be letting everyone in on my little secret."
Rowdy Hawkens looked hurt at her mistrust. "I wouldn't do a thing like that, Miss Brice. Not on the most important day of your life. It'd be morally wrong; kinda like inviting an Orthodox Jew to a chitlin-eating contest."
"This little talk has been illuminating, but I'm afraid I must go," she said. She made a move for the door, and this time, the man stepped aside. "Someone very special is waiting for me."
"Oh, yeah," replied Rowdy with a sour frown. "That hunk of blow-dried beef jerky in the penguin suit."
"And what would you know of Jackson Dellhart?" she asked sharply.
"A sight more than you do, I suppose," he told her. "Don't you ever watch 60 Minutes? That old boy even gives a tough bird like Mike Wallace nightmares, what with all the shady dealings he and his corporation have been involved in. I've heard tell of all manner of dirty tricks he's pulled on honest, hard-working folks; things he's never been convicted of, simply because he has the legal—and illegal—muscle to keep it quiet."
"I don't believe you," she said. "He seems like a very nice man."
Rowdy shrugged. "So did guys like Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy, before they got down to their dirty work. Dellhart is the same, except that he does his butchery with money. He uses slimy lawyers and inside info on the stock market like some low-lives use a well-honed knife."
She wanted to disregard his talk as pure and simple jealousy, but she knew deep down inside that Rowdy Hawkens wasn't the sort of man who gave a spit in hell about corporate millionaires like Jackson Dellhart. The look of flat honesty in the singer's eyes made her uncomfortab
le, as if he were sympathetically branding her a fool for being taken in by Dellhart's deceptive charms.
Rowdy opened the service door for her and tipped the brim of his hat in a gesture of Southern respect. "See you around, Jenny girl. And remember what I told you about those roots."
Flustered and half angry, Jenny Brice left the kitchen. She stood at the side railing for a long moment, letting the cool night breeze drive the heat from her flushed face. Then she drove the disturbing encounter from her mind and made her way to the front deck. But when she got there, her heart sank. It was empty. There was no one there.
"Are you looking for Jackson Dellhart, darling?" asked Erica from the ballroom doorway. She had a glass of sparkling pink champagne in one hand and a Virginia Slim in the other.
"Yes. Did you see where he went?"
Erica joined Jenny at the brass railing and pointed across the dark waters. A speedboat was slicing through the current of the mighty river, heading back for the docks of Memphis. "Mr. Dellhart had to leave rather unexpectedly. Urgent business…as usual." Erica put a willowy arm around the blonde and spoke to her in a confidential tone of voice. "He is certainly an appealing hunk of grade-A beefcake, my dear, but he is most definitely not for you. Not unless you get off on broken hearts. Jackson Dellhart loves only one person and that is Jackson Dellhart. He's a terminal narcissist and a man of questionable ethics. Believe me, you can do much better than him."
Suddenly, disappointment and discouragement hit Jenny like the proverbial ton of bricks, crushing the feeling of exuberance that had surrounded her the entire day. "I don't think I can stay, Erica. I feel like I want to go home."
Erica rolled her eyes. "Come now, Jennifer dear, don't let one treacherous male ruin a perfectly splendid day. Besides, this party is being held in your honor. We've only begun to celebrate." The gallery owner steered the young artist toward the crowded ballroom. "And don't be afraid to mingle. There are a lot of important people here and some can be very instrumental to your success. You've been given the key to the golden door, darling. I suggest that you take full advantage of it." As they entered the main room of the riverboat, they saw that Rowdy Hawkens had traded his whiskey glass for a Gibson guitar and was doing a rendition of his number one Billboard hit, "Gonna Drown in My Beer Over You," while the band accompanied him, providing a unique Dixieland flavor to the country song.
