As she anticipated her meeting with her father later that afternoon, jitters set in. A million questions whirled around her head. Would he even show up?
She held a hopeful fantasy that he’d greet her with the same open arms her grandma had, invite her into his life and share his relatives—her relatives—with her. Maybe he’d ask her to go on the road with him sometime, not that she would. She’d had enough of that with her mother while growing up, but being asked would be nice. Finally, she’d learn about her African-American heritage. Be a part of it. Own it. Know who she was and where she’d come from. Finally, she’d come face-to-face with her other half. If he did open up to her, she couldn’t just walk away from the offer.
That was what Kent must have picked up on before—her desperate need to discover her living family and learn the culture. To finally become two halves of a whole. To understand why, no matter how much she loved her mother, she’d always felt different from her. She needed to face her other half and embrace it, and Kent somehow sensed that would take her away.
If he loved her, wouldn’t he want that for her? Or was she being totally selfish?
And if she was being selfish, would he wait for her to come back? The thought of losing him sent a shudder through her.
She packed the few items she’d brought with her to Portland after putting on the same jeans and boots she’d worn for the past three days. Saturday, she’d crossed the Willamette River and gone to the Portland Art Museum. Yesterday, she’d found a flea market in the Northeast Broadway neighborhood and splurged on a new top. The zebra-patterned top had a drawstring neckline and loose, three-quarter sleeves. She’d found a clunky handmade necklace made out of huge green and turquoise buttons, with a matching bracelet to add some color. All at a great price. She parted her hair down the middle and let it go curlier than usual. How was a girl supposed to dress to meet her father for the first time in twenty-eight years?
After she checked out from the motor lodge, she drove back to Northeast Broadway and began her search for a parking spot, then wandered the trendy area on foot until it was time to meet her dad. Could she call him Dad? Wasn’t that something a person would call a man they knew instead of a stranger? Maybe after today…
Milo’s was packed with the lunch crowd at twelve forty-five. She put in her name for a table and waited outside on a bench with several other people. The day was clear and warm, and she closed her eyes to let the sun calm her.
Late last night she’d made her peace with the probability that this meeting, if it actually occurred, would be awkward and most likely disappointing. Just like Cliff had warned. She’d also decided that if Victor Brown didn’t show up today, she’d let it be and not try to contact him again. She wasn’t dense. If he didn’t come today, she’d know he didn’t give a rip about her. Yet she still held out hope.
“Desi?” a gravelly voice said near her.
Her eyes flew open to find a tall, thin man in jeans and a black leather jacket and gray T-shirt with Montreux Jazz Festival 2010 splashed across his narrow chest. What did she expect—a dashiki with a kufi cap? Victor Brown stood in front of her, and she finally knew from whom she’d gotten her freckles. The man’s dark bronze face was splattered with them.
“Yes. Hi,” she said, fighting off the rush of tingling nerves and standing to shake his hand.
He bypassed her hand and gave her a friendly hug. He smelled of tobacco and biting cologne. He didn’t hold her long, and the hug wasn’t really affectionate or inviting, but more like a professional guy who knew how to greet people to make them feel welcomed. A smooth operator.
“I’m Vic. Let me have a look at you.” His birth date made him fifty, and the roadmap of wrinkles on his face bore that out. Those nearly black eyes were friendly and warm. His wide smile revealed smoker’s teeth. Tight black hair was kept short and clean-cut with silver strands here and there. He had a soul patch but no other facial hair, expensive-looking diamond studs in both ears and wore several huge rings on both hands. “Damn, you’re a looker.” He laughed and it turned into a cough.
After warding off an icky feeling from her birth father’s first reaction to her, she forced a smile. “Thanks.”
A moment or two of awkward silence followed. “So how you been?” he asked, all upbeat. “That’s lame, isn’t it? I should say, where do we begin?” His voice reminded her of the actor Samuel L. Jackson.
“I know,” she said. “How do we start?”
The waitress saved them another uneasy moment by calling Desi’s name for a table. Suddenly all business, they followed her inside and found their spot, quickly ordering coffee and focusing on the menu instead of each other.
Desi thought of ten different ways to start a conversation, but Victor beat her to the punch. “You live around here?”
“No. My mother and I last lived in the Los Angeles area.” She zeroed in on him. “Do you remember my mother yet?”
His glance skipped around like a man put on the spot. Desi dug into her purse for a photo that Gerda had given her, the high school senior picture. She showed it to him, figuring it would make the most sense, being the one closest to when he’d known her. He took it and studied, and Desi watched as she imagined he recognized Ester and maybe flashed through some special memories.
But he shook his head slowly. “She’s beautiful, and you’d think I’d remember a woman like that, but…”
Desi took back the picture, awash in disappointment. “It was a long time ago.” How many gorgeous blondes had the guy been with? “About twenty-nine years.” She waited for him to look at her. “I’m twenty-eight.”
He rubbed his face, a hint of regret in his eyes. “Look, I’ve traveled around the world half a dozen times. I’m in different clubs every other week when I work. I get on airplanes and show up in cities in time for the gigs, play all night, sleep all day, then move on to the next job. Most of my life is a blur. You know what I’m sayin’?”
She could understand his point. Hell, maybe there were hundreds of Desis around the globe, too.
“My mother met you when you were playing with Trevor Jones right here in Portland.”
He made an exaggerated nod. “Mmm. Yes. I worked with him for a couple of years. Best money I ever made until he died in that car crash.”
The waitress showed up and took their orders, giving Desi time to regroup from the letdown. Remember, Cliff told you to expect this.
“Mom was a pretty young blonde who loved music.”
“Mmm, known a few of those, too.” He evaded her eyes, pouring two packets of sugar into his coffee, started to stir then stopped. “Look, I don’t mean to disappoint you, but even though your mother is a gorgeous woman and all, I don’t—”
“Was.”
He looked up, a question in his eyes.
“She died last year. She’d played piano in so many hotels and bars over the years, the best I can figure is she got lung cancer from secondhand smoke, because she never smoked.”
“Your momma was a musician?”
“Ester Rask was known throughout the Midwest as one of the best hotel and piano-bar musicians in the country.” The old, familiar pride welled up in Desi’s chest as she talked about her mother, whom she loved with all of her heart, and her mother’s talent. She’d had a worldwide and centuries-old songbook memorized right inside her head. Throw her a title and she’d play it with practiced perfection. “But she never caught her break. You know?”
“Tell me about it. I’ve scraped by barely making a living most of my life, playing sax in the background of all the greats. I’ll be fifty-one this November and I’m working as hard now as when I was twenty-five.”
The waitress delivered their omelets and Victor salted his heavily. “There’s no money in this field unless you hit it big. I’m just a backup man.” He reached for the ketchup. “Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do. I just make enough for me. That’s all.”
He squinted one eye and trained his gaze squarely on her. “So i
f this is about money…”
Anger flashed through Desi. She bit back the first words she thought and the curses. No need to insult the man. “Not what I’m after.”
Things went quiet and tension counted out the next minute or two as they both dived into their food. He ate with gusto, a free bird in the world of responsibilities. She mostly moved her potatoes and eggs around the plate.
“Are you married?” She wasn’t ready to give up yet.
Victor pushed out his bottom lip and shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not my style. The world is my home and whatever band I’m working with, my family.”
She was beginning to see a pattern here. No strings. No commitments. Just his saxophone, music and the road. He probably had women he hooked up with in every city he worked—his regulars. She stopped her bitter thoughts before they could eat away at her and ruin what little of her appetite was left. Keep it light. Find out what you can. Wasn’t that her plan? “Do you have family here in Oregon?”
“Nah. Mom and Dad are both dead. I’ve got a brother somewhere back in North Carolina. Haven’t seen him in years. My sister lives in Colorado. Sometimes I go to Denver for Christmas, when I’m in the country.”
Truth was, his lifestyle seemed a little sad and very lonely.
“Do you have any pictures of your brother and sister?” My aunt and uncle? “And their kids?” My cousins.
He screwed up his face. “Nah. I know what they look like. Least I used to.” He kept shoving food into his mouth, eating as if there were no tomorrow.
“How about your mom and dad—what did they do?”
“The old man sold cars, and my momma was a bookkeeper. We got by okay.” Now he started on his toast and slathered it with blackberry jam nearly half an inch thick. He’d stopped talking, obviously having no intention of sharing anything about his heritage.
She was searching for her history and he just didn’t get it. Every answer revolved around him and what he did or thought. When it came to talking about his roots, he got tight-lipped. The fact that he had no clue what she needed gave her pause.
Desi abandoned that line of questioning and diverted the conversation to things Victor could brag about by asking about all the musicians he’d worked with. Pride shone through his face, and she heard it in his voice as he ran down the long list of music-related accomplishments.
She had to admit he’d played with some greats, and she was impressed with his solid star-power credentials. But now what? The man hadn’t asked one question about her personally.
“Sorry I had to stand you up the other day,” he said. “I take studio jobs whenever I can get them, and a commercial jingle came up.” He nailed her with his penetrating dark eyes. “That’s the name of the game. You pick up work, make money when you can. Can’t always get another gig lined up before you finish another.” He used his butter knife like a pointer stick. “I go through dry spells and have to live off what little savings I have. So, again, if this is about money…”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “I told you, I’m not after anything. I just hoped to find out about my African-American roots.”
He laughed. It turned into another phlegmy cough. “Well, from what I learned in school, we came over in boats.” He noticed how badly that comment had gone over. “My people moved out west from Mississippi back in the fifties. That’s all I’ve got for you.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “I need a cigarette. Be right back.”
Desi watched his cool stroll toward the door. He was what he was, and there wasn’t anything much he cared to share with her. She lost the last inkling of her appetite and put down her fork.
All her life she’d heard the phrase blood is thicker than water and took it to mean the bonds between relatives were closer, stronger than friends. She imagined how it would be to have a big family. Longed for it. She took a sip of water. The saying seemed upside down to her. Sure, the bond she and her mother had was broken only by death. But looking at the man outside sucking smoke into his lungs, the one who couldn’t even remember doing the deed the night Desi was conceived, she felt…well…nothing. Absolutely nothing. Yet some of his blood ran through her veins.
Desi thought about her grandma Gerda. It was a whole different story. Relatives needed to want to be close, not stay connected just because they shared the same DNA. In Victor’s case, their DNA meant squat. He was a complete stranger. Why would he want anything to do with a daughter at this late stage in his life? So far he hadn’t offered one reason to pursue one another, and she couldn’t really blame him, not with the life he led.
Now he was on his cell phone, and it reminded her about the text message Kent had sent that morning. I hope you find what you’re looking for then come back to me.
It had made her cry then and thinking about it almost started her up again now. All she could think to say in return was I hope I do, too. Talk about noncommittal. Hell, she could give Victor Brown a run for his money on that one. Quickly dabbing the corners of her eyes, she hoped Victor wouldn’t notice now that he was heading back inside.
Nah, that saying about blood and water was all sideways. Love was thicker than blood, and just because she shared the man’s DNA didn’t make him family. Hell, Cliff was closer to her than the man sitting back down across the table.
Kent’s handsome face came to mind again, the man she’d fallen in love with. She made a rueful smile. Then, knowing that he loved and waited for her, the smile changed into a grin straight from her heart.
“What you so happy about?” Victor asked.
“I’m just thinking about my friends.”
“That’s all we’ve got, you know?” He sat sideways on his chair, going philosophical on her.
She nodded in agreement. He reached into his wallet, pulled out some cash. She reached for her purse.
“Let me get this,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.” He smiled at her with his Morgan Freeman complexion and gentle eyes. “I do remember your momma. I had a cigarette and did some thinking. I remember. But it wasn’t like we really knew each other or anything. You know what I mean?”
Feeling a blush come on—yes, she got the one-night stand part—Desi smiled awkwardly. “I get it. Thanks.”
“If it’s any consolation, I did try to look her up again, but it was like she’d disappeared.”
Well, she had.
“Here’s my card,” he said, sliding all the information she’d probably ever know about Victor Brown across the table. “I’m leaving for a month in Japan this Friday, but maybe when I get back we can talk again.”
“That would be nice. Thank you. Oh, and here’s my card. Well, it’s my business card for the small calligraphy side jobs I do.”
He took it, looking less than impressed.
“I play the piano, too. Like my mother. In fact, I’m thinking of taking a job playing in a restaurant where I’m living now.”
“That’s good. Real good. Maybe I’ll come out and hear you sometime.”
“Sure.”
She realized she didn’t want to share Heartlandia with Victor. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when he got back from Japan she’d give him a call if he didn’t call her. Give him one more chance to reach out to her. If he didn’t, she’d cut her losses.
She stood and he joined her, the distance between them growing wider by the second. He had things to do and places to go. Thank God, so did she.
After Victor kissed her cheek, making her nose twitch with his potent cologne, and they said their tepid goodbyes, she walked back to her car. It would be a long drive home and she’d need the time to digest everything that had happened.
Home.
She thought about Heartlandia with the silly town slogan: Find Your Home in Heartlandia. It didn’t seem quite so silly now, though; it suddenly had taken on a whole new meaning. It was a place where she could see herself putting down roots. Her own roots.
Her steps sped up into a jog as she thought about Kent.
Had she blown it wit
h the man she loved? She prayed she hadn’t broken his heart by refusing to go back with him Friday, though if he loved her the way he’d said, she probably had.
Maybe he’d finally understand her hell-bent need to face her father once she told him the whole story. From now on, if he’d still have her, she’d tell him everything. Everything.
She ran the last half block to her parked car and stumbled with one worrisome thought.
Would Kent forgive her?
There was only one way to find out. She had to go back and face him on his own turf and somehow make him know that her wandering days were over, because she’d found her family. Grandma. How could she begin to thank her for taking her in unconditionally? Kent. She sighed with the rush of memories connected to him like life and breath itself. And Steven, a little boy who missed and needed a mother figure…like a most excellent piano teacher.
She smiled to herself. Love was thicker than blood. Hands down.
After unlocking the car, she slid inside and sat straight. She’d met her other half and finally discovered something she’d kept hidden inside. Kind of like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, turned out she’d known who she was all along. Just like Kent and Cliff had been telling her.
She was Ester Rask’s kid from a hot one-night stand with Victor Brown, and Gerda and Edvard Rask’s granddaughter. She was every state and city she’d ever traveled through, every book she’d ever read and every crazy job she’d ever taken.
She was a homeschooled girl, a woman with potential, and what she wanted more than anything else on the earth right at this given moment was a home…with a ready-made family. Steven. And Kent. Please take me back.
She pulled out of the parking lot, pushed that 1992 gas pedal to the metal and put those treads to the road. Maybe she could beat the time it took to get to Portland on the way back.
Even if Kent didn’t want her back today, she’d be prepared to stick around in Heartlandia until she could convince him that she was the best thing in the world for him. That she’d never leave again without him or his blessing. She’d strut around in sexy clothes and make the man drool until he caved and made love to her again.
A Doctor for Keeps Page 17
