What Mother Never Told Me

by Donna Hill

  Parris turned. Nick was behind her with a smile of "yeah, I know what you're feeling" on his face.

  "Every time I walk down this hallway it inspires me." He adjusted the sepia-toned picture of Ella Fitzgerald. "Reminds me of how great we are and all that I need to do to live up to and carry on the legacy."

  It was one of the reasons she'd come to New York, to pursue the musical legacy handed down to her by her grandmother Cora, who sought her own moment in Chicago and had the unforgettable experience of meeting Bessie Smith. Music and its purity was what drew her and Nick together, bound them in a way that was inexplicable. They understood the underlying messages, learned how to convey the most abstract emotions through his sax and her voice. The combination, it was said by those who witnessed them onstage together, was to experience an anointing.

  "Come on. Let me show you where you can put your things."

  He led her down the hall that opened onto a large living room, which was in sharp contrast to "the time gone by" feel of the corridor. This space was a testament to high tech. One entire wall was equipped with state-of-the-art recording and stereo equipment and enough bells and whistles to baffle the guys at NASA. In the corner near the window, perched majestically on a gold-toned stand, was his prized Selwyn saxophone. Goose bumps rose on her bare arms. A flash of the first time she'd seen him silhouetted onstage, his lips wrapping around the mouthpiece, his tongue playing with the reed, the baleful cry of the notes caressing her skin, played before her, shortening the air in her lungs.

  The sound of the door opening in the hallway drew her back to the present. She rubbed her hands along her arms and followed Nick to the room. The trapped heat--thankful for release and as happy as kids on the last day of school--rushed out, skipped past them and filled the house.

  "Whew. Let me turn on the fan." He flipped a switch on the wall. "Sorry, no air-conditioning in here but it should cool off pretty quick." He set her suitcase down by the closet.

  "I'll be fine."

  She stepped around him and took in the room. It was definitely a guest room, she surmised. Very simple and utilitarian. The full-sized bed was covered in a beige-and-brown print comforter. A throw rug in the same muted shades of wood sat at the foot of the bed. The only other furnishing was a six-dresser drawer and a nightstand.

  "There're clean sheets and towels in the hall closet next to the bathroom."

  Parris nodded. "Thanks."

  "Look..." He hesitated, wanting this to come out right. "I know this is awkward for you. Before you left to go to Mississippi, things were strained between us. But we were moving in the right direction. At least I thought we were." He stroked his chin with his thumb. "All those things," he said, his hand flicking the past away, "that were obstacles are gone. The only thing that will keep us from being an us, is me and you." He moved. She held her breath. His fingertip touched her cheek. "We're going to make this work. All of it."

  "You sound so sure."

  "I'm just that kind of guy." He leaned down. So featherlight was his kiss that the only way she was certain of it was the heat that warmed her mouth.

  Reflexively she ran her tongue along her lips and let her eyes traverse languidly over him. For months they'd tangoed around the possibility of being together, but Tara and Frank kept cutting in. The music had stopped. The dance floor was clear. It was just the two of them.

  They'd come so close on those late nights that they'd worked together, perfecting and practicing arrangements long after everyone in the club was gone.

  She'd seen the look of desire in his eyes. She felt her own need in the pit of her stomach. But as much as she wanted Nick, she'd never disappoint her grandmother, who raised her to believe she was worthy of being the "only one," not the "other one." And as long as Nick stayed with Tara, Parris would stay out of his bed.

  "Hungry?" he asked, his low timbre penetrating her daydream.

  Parris blinked. Her stomach answered before she could. She laughed, embarrassed.

  "I'll take that as a yes," he teased. "Come on. I'm starved. That bird food we had on the plane didn't do a thing for me but make me mad." He took her hand and led her to the kitchen.

  They went into his small but efficient kitchen, which from the looks of it was well-used. A spice rack attached to the far right wall was filled. The stainless steel fridge and matching freezer took up the other side, with a two-seat table in the center. Copper and cast-iron pots and pans dotted the countertop in an odd pairing of old and new.

  "How about one of my world famous omelets?"

  "Sounds great. Can I help?"

  "Sure. The bowls are in the cabinet above the fridge and there's a cutting board hanging over the sink."

  Parris began her assignment and before giving it much thought she felt as if she'd been in this place and at this time on countless occasions. Their banter was easy. Their movements in perfect sync, as if they'd always worked in harmony.

  It was the same feeling she had when they performed together onstage. He knew exactly when to allow her voice to float just above his notes and when to carry them along. They made magic on stage. There was no doubt in her mind about that. What she was uncertain of was if they could make magic offstage, behind the scenes. What you can't have is always so much more enticing. The allure of the unknown.

  "What do you like in your omelet?"

  She dried off the mixing bowl with a paper towel. "Surprise me."

  "Me, I like a bit of everything in mine," he said. "I like the surprise mixture of tastes and textures."

  His words, like the score of a movie, were filled with meaning. But that was Nick, Parris admitted as she watched him take mushrooms, green peppers and tomatoes out of the crisper. He rarely came directly at you, but rather around you, beneath you, wrapping you in a lullaby. Before you knew it, you were moving to his beat. She didn't care for tomatoes, but suddenly it didn't matter.

  Soon the cozy kitchen became filled with the ting of pots and pans against the iron eyes of the stove top and the splash of water in the sink, while the opening and closing of drawers and cabinets kept time.

  "This is really good," she said as the fluffy concoction nestled in her stomach.

  "Glad you like it. Omelets are about the only thing I can cook, so I figured I better give it my best shot."

  "No complaints from me."

  "Could be that's because you were starving."

  "Could be," she teased.

  He tossed a paper napkin at her and she ducked, laughing at his aim.

  Nick raised his arms over his head, stretched and yawned. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Day's finally catching up with me."

  The reality of spending the night right across the hall from Nick crept up on her and stole her breath. "I'll clean up since you cooked." She rose from her seat.

  "They'll keep until morning. You have to be as tired as I am."

  "I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing there were dishes and pots to be washed," she said, lifting plates from the table and looking for the time that had been snatched away.

  "Good home training."

  She caught the wistful note in his voice, full of almosts, and could-have-beens. Nick's growing-up years had been a far cry from the protective nest she was nurtured in. Where her days would almost always be remembered as endless summers, his would be a desert of desolation.

  "Something like that. Nana was a real stickler for keeping up a house," she said, her Southern roots curling around the turn of phrase.

  Nick took the forks and glasses from the table to the sink. He moved next to her. The knotted muscle of his arm brushed her, sizzling her skin. Reflexively she jerked on the faucets full-blast, startling them both with the force and tempering the air.

  "I should have warned you," he said, chuckling while grabbing a paper towel from the roll. He wiped off the spray of water from his face. "When you turn on the water, the first gush is pretty hard. Have to stand back a bit to keep from getting splashed." He pressed the towel to her forehead then her chee
k.

  She sputtered a nervous laugh. "I'll know for next time."

  "You can have first dibs on the bathroom."

  She put her hands beneath the water and scrubbed the frying pan. That meant getting naked and being totally vulnerable with Nick only feet away. She scrubbed until the pan gleamed. She didn't consider herself a prude. She'd had relationships before, been with a man, but this was different. Their boundaries were tenuous, the expectations unclear.

  "No. You go ahead. I'll finish up here," she finally said.

  He looked at her a moment. "Okay."

  When he left the room she felt her insides loosen and her lungs inflate with air. Alone with her thoughts, she wondered if Nick felt the same level of uncertainty that she did. But, of course, he wouldn't. There was nothing uncertain about Nick Hunter. He knew his mind and he knew himself. He wasn't one to question himself or his actions.

  She'd been the same way until recently, when the thread of her life was pulled and she began to unravel. The fabric of her being now pooled around her feet, tripping her up at every turn.

  The only thing she was sure of was that daylight comes in the morning. It was her grandmother's favorite saying. The answers were within her and when she put her troubles to rest she'd see the answers clearly in the morning.

  Chapter Three

  Parris was lifted from sleep and carried into consciousness on a distant bluesy melody. The dim light of the winter morning cast shadows across things that she didn't recognize. It took her a moment to realize where she was and why.

  By degrees the sense of unfamiliarity lessened. She tossed the sheet and blanket aside and sat up. This was Nick's apartment. She'd come here to stay after leaving Mississippi. Her grandmother was dead. Her mother was alive. Her reality took shape as the song beckoned her. She reached for her robe at the foot of the bed and tiptoed to the door. She cracked it open and the highs and lows guided her to its origin.

  Parris stood in the archway of the living room. Nick was perched on the edge of the windowsill. His eyes were closed as he raised and lowered the sax in time to the rhythm that moved through his soul. The song strolled to its conclusion. And as if rising from the depths of unspeakable pleasure, his eyes slowly opened. A look of ecstasy haloed his face, and when his gaze rested on her it stroked her.

  A shiver moved through her limbs.

  "Mornin'." He hopped down from the sill and placed the sax on its stand.

  He came toward her in that slow easy way that reminded her of a prowling panther. Sensual to watch, but deadly.

  "Sleep okay?"

  Parris could only nod as her eyes clung to the sky-blue T-shirt that outlined his chest.

  "You can hang out here today if you want. I have some business to take care of. A friend of mine located a space for me."

  "A space?"

  He grinned. "For my new club. I have to meet her at ten. She says it's perfect for what I want."

  "I didn't realize you were actively looking."

  "When I said I cut ties with Percy Davis, I meant it. This will be all mine, no strings. I'll be in hock up to my eyeballs for a while but I think I'll be okay."

  "Wow," she said on a breath. "That is so exciting." Her eyes widened in delight. "Mind if I tag along? I mean...if you don't mind."

  "Since you're going to be my headliner I guess you should see where you're going to perform."

  "Headliner? You're kidding, right?"

  "I wouldn't dare." He chuckled at the open look of awe on her face. "You did say you needed a job," he teased.

  "Sure..." Her body shifted, adjusting to the news. "I guess I never thought..."

  "What, that you were star material? The contract that's burning a hole in my briefcase says different. The way you packed the house at Downbeat says different." He leaned against the frame of the wall, inches away from her. "I know you haven't had time to think about it, but you need to. Deals like that don't come often."

  "I know." She thought about what her grandfather had said about the hole in her music that would remain there until she got the answers she needed to fill it. She looked into Nick's eyes, seeing nothing but promise and possibility there. "I'll need some time." She drew in a breath. "I'm going to see my mother."

  Suddenly she found herself wrapped in a gentle embrace.

  "It's the right decision," he said into the softness of her hair. "And I'll be here when you return."

  She was imbued with anticipation now that she'd said the words out loud.

  Nick kissed her lightly on the lips. "When are you planning on going?"

  "I haven't figured that part out yet," she said, her voice tremulous. "But soon. I need to look into flights."

  Nick took a breath. "No time like the present. You can use my computer and see what kinds of deals are out there."

  Now that the decision was made she felt a sense of calmness and control reenter her spirit. For weeks she'd been adrift, at the mercy of events. It was time for her to take back her life, twist and reshape it into something that was recognizable, albeit new. "Let me get cleaned up and then you can show me the way."

  Nick's computer was on a small wooden desk next to his bed. The room resembled him. That was her immediate impression. Strong, decisive, dark and comforting. His scent lingered in the air. She inhaled him.

  He went to the desk and pushed on the power button. "All yours."

  The screen lit up with a picture of Dizzy Gillespie, cheeks full blown and his horn at its trademark askew angle.

  "I use Firefox."

  She glanced up over her shoulder as he leaned across her to move the mouse. Blue cotton met caramel skin for an electric instant. The charge splashed on the screen in a burst of musical notes. But of course it wasn't the almost-there contact between them that caused the Fourth of July to arrive four months early, she thought.

  "Like my screensaver?" he asked, moving back.

  Of course it wasn't the Fourth of July. Screensaver. "It's definitely you." The thrill lingered on her arm, trembling her fingers. She placed her hands on the keys to steady them.

  "See what you can find. I'll be back in a few. Need to make a couple of calls."

  "Okay."

  His leaving cooled the air around her, as if his presence was the life force that flowed through her veins. When did that happen? Better, why had she not realized it until now? Perhaps she did, she thought as her fingers found their way, but refused to acknowledge it because, of course, if she did she would have been forced to accept an emotion that was unavailable to her.

  The Web site to the airline reservations opened and she keyed in Kennedy airport as her starting point. The tips of her fingers hovered over the keys. The hide-and-seek game that the cursor played dared her to stop its frivolity. She could do it. She could make it stop and the game would end. But if she did her future would line up in front of her in perfect formation of date, time, aisle or window. Pick one. Any one.

  She blinked to clear her head and vision.

  Paris, France.

  Her heart thumped. The screen filled. Her questions could be answered in a week or tomorrow.

  Tomorrow. Too soon. Not soon enough. March 15. The Ides of March. Caesar met his fate.

  "Find anything?"

  Parris jumped.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." Nick sat on the edge of the desk. He draped his long fingers loosely on his lap.

  "There's a flight leaving next week."

  "Next week?" The immediacy of it set him back. Of course she'd want to leave as soon as possible, once she'd made up her mind. But she wasn't ready. How could she be when she'd only just arrived? There'd been no time to prepare.

  "If I book it now the fare is manageable," she said, her declaration filtering through the twists and turns of his thoughts.

  Nick's fingers entwined. "How long?"

  Parris stared at the screen. "A week, maybe two." Perhaps she'd never come back. Of course, when her mother saw her for the first time she'd want her daughter to
stay with her forever, make up for all the years they'd missed. She refused to accept that Emma wouldn't see her, wouldn't want to open her arms and beg to be forgiven. "I thought I'd stay with...my mother...if she has room," she added quickly. "But I can always stay in a hotel, if not."

  Nick squeezed the words between his fingers, hoping to crush them. But they were coming so fast. He couldn't stop them and they began to slip through his fingers and spread across the screen. "Confirmation."

  There, she'd done it, and in response every nerve in her body shook and danced, thankful to be freed from the captivity of her indecision.

  Parris pushed back from the desk. Her gaze became tangled up with Nick's, both asking questions that couldn't be answered, saying so much that couldn't be heard. Not now anyway.

  Nick stretched out his hand and she put hers in it. His fingers, slender but strong, wrapped around hers. She felt a wave of comforting warmth, a sense that whatever it was, it would be all right. It simply would.

  "Probably should call your grandfather..."

  "He must be worried."

  "Use the phone in the kitchen."

  "Thanks." She stood. He didn't give her any space.

  She smelled of softness and morning, her hair a tumble of tight abstract spirals that framed promise, hope and trepidation. His body barely teased hers, yet he could feel every dip, curve and swell. He wanted her to stay but understood her need to leave, to find what she believed she was missing. He understood all too well being half of a whole, his own life a picture of missing pieces.

  "Don't stay too long."

  She wanted to tell him she knew what he meant, but instead she said, "I won't. Granddad hates phones."

  Nick stepped aside to let her pass then glanced at the screen that still held her key to the answers she sought. He only hoped that they were kind.

  Nick and Parris pulled up in front of a storefront tucked between a boarded-up used bookstore to the left and a thriving liquor store to the right. Across the street was the Church of the Everlasting. At least that's what the makeshift sign said on the stark white door that looked totally out of place among the grayness. The corner bodega had the usual assemblage of "not sure where my life is going" black men huddled together for comfort as much as warmth. Holding on to their manhood and a patch of concrete they called their own, shooting the breeze and filling the air with puffs from Kools and Newports.