The Black Sheep

by Patricia Ryan

  Rob blinked. “Yeah. I thought you knew that.”

  Doug stopped in his tracks. “You’ve had that CD for twenty years, and you thought I knew?”

  “It’s a good album,” Rob said, as he and the dark-haired man descended from the stage. “I was gonna give it back.”

  Tucker punched Doug in the shoulder. “Don’t you think you owe me an apology?”

  Doug reared up like a bear. “Hell no! You don’t call for twenty years, I don’t owe you nothin’!” He and Tucker faced off for a moment, presently breaking into huge grins and wrapping their arms around each other. “I missed you, you bastard!” Doug said.

  Phil appeared as Tucker exchanged hugs and backslaps with the other two men. When he saw Phil, Tucker drew Harley toward him with an arm around her shoulder. “Harley Sayers, this is Doug Ralston, Rob Hutchinson, and Paul Blumberg. Dr. Zelin, you already know.”

  Now they think I’m his girlfriend, she thought, and she tried the idea on for size. Tucker’s girlfriend... Her heart started rattling in her chest.

  Phil took in Tucker from head to toe. “Trying to depunk your image? That’s a military-school haircut if ever I saw one.”

  Tucker said, “I’m swimming again, and short hair helps to cut down on the resistance. I want to get fast.” With a glance at Harley, he added, “Really fast.”

  Harley wondered if anyone noticed her blush as Rob and Paul went back to their onstage preparations and Doug led them to a large table near the stage. Harley ordered iced tea, Tucker beer, and Phil a Bloody Mary. The club filled up quickly, and before long the chandelier dimmed and stage lights snapped on, illuminating the little platform in the corner. Rob and Paul performed a set of mellow folk tunes, Rob on guitar, Paul on piano. They were pretty good, but she and Phil and Tucker seemed to be the only guests who had actually stopped talking to listen. The drone of conversation never let up, and it was fairly loud; the place was packed with people. Rob and Paul didn’t seem to mind, and she figured that must be a drawback that club musicians just come to accept.

  When it was time for their break, Rob and Paul joined the party at the table. Tucker sat on one side of Harley, a long arm draped over the back of her chair, Phil on the other, ignoring his friend’s proprietary gesture by leaning toward her and touching her arm frequently as he talked. Maybe Tucker was right, Harley thought. Maybe Phil is interested, after all.

  Grinning, Tucker announced, “Look who’s here!” Marie, Jamie, Brenna, and a blond woman came up to the table. Abruptly, as if she were suddenly hot to the touch, Phil’s hand recoiled from her arm. What was that about?

  Like Harley, Marie and the blonde wore skirts and blouses; Brenna had on a stretch lace minidress. Introductions were begun, but no one seemed quite sure who knew whom, and the identity of the blond woman remained a mystery to Harley. The men stood and pulled chairs out for the women—another remnant of chivalry quite foreign to Harley—and Tucker embraced the blonde, saying, “It’s so great to see you.”

  “You, too,” said the woman. “I’m glad you asked Marie to bring me.”

  He asked Marie to bring her? thought Harley, feeling a hard squeeze of jealousy. The blonde looked to be around Tucker’s age, and was nothing short of striking. She exchanged greetings with Rob and Paul, but ignored Phil—rather pointedly, Harley thought.

  Tucker said, “Harley Sayers, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Katherine Zelin—Phil’s wife.”

  “Call me Kat—please,” the blonde said, holding her hand out for Harley to shake, as Phil shot a murderous look toward Tucker. “And it’s Katherine Acton-Kemp now. I’ve taken back my maiden name.”

  That Phil was married surprised Harley until she put two and two together—Kat’s coolness toward him, her returning to her maiden name—and realized that they must be separated, although probably not divorced yet, since Tucker had introduced her as his wife.

  Another man who got the cold shoulder that night was Jamie, whose constant attentions toward Brenna were met with contemptuous disregard. Instead she flirted openly with Rob and Paul, who seemed entranced. She turned her Irish charm on Tucker and Phil, as well, but Tucker responded with distant politeness, and Phil didn’t respond at all; he had withdrawn when Kat showed up, saying and doing little except to gaze dolefully at her from time to time.

  Doug appeared and motioned toward the crowd. “The natives are restless, boys,” he said to Rob and Paul. “How about another set?”

  “How about Tucker joins us?” Rob asked, “Like old times.”

  Tucker shook his head. “I’d need a guitar.”

  “Got one in back,” Doug said.

  “A twelve-string?”

  “A twelve-string.”

  Tucker rolled his eyes. “Something tells me I’ve been set up.” With his chair in one hand and his cane in the other, he mounted the stage and spent a few minutes conferring quietly with Rob and Paul while Doug went to fetch the guitar.

  Jamie picked up his own chair and circled the table to set it down in the now-empty space next to Harley, with the back facing her. Straddling it, he reached out and fingered the ruffled neckline of her blouse. “This is nice. You look great tonight.”

  Of course, Harley knew exactly what he was doing—trying to make Brenna jealous. The au pair did glance in their direction briefly before returning her attention to the stage, where the four men—Doug was back with the guitar—huddled together intently. The only person who seemed bothered at all by Jamie’s actions was Tucker, who frowned when he looked in her direction.

  As Tucker demonstrated some piano business to Paul, Doug twisted a mic from its stand to address the audience. “If you can be patient for just a few more minutes, we’ve got a treat for you tonight, by the name of Tucker Hale. Anyone who was hangin’ out in Greenwich Village twenty years ago probably heard him and Chet Madison play. They opened for major acts at The Bitter End and The Bottom Line. For the record, Tucker’s the only guy I ever knew who actually turned down a recording contract.” There were murmurs from the audience. “He tells me he’s got some new material he’s written, seein’ as how he’s had a lot of time on his hands lately. In a minute, well see if it’s any good.”

  Doug replaced the mic, descended from the stage, and came to stand behind Harley. Turning to look up at him, she said, “Tucker turned down a recording deal? He told me things just didn’t work out. He never said he was actually offered a contract.”

  The bearish man squatted down next to her. “From what I hear, the problem was Chet. Which wasn’t really a surprise. That guy was always bad news.”

  “Wasn’t he a good friend of Tucker’s?”

  “Friend? Yes. Good?” He shook his head. “He only brought Tucker down, and Tucker unfortunately let it happen.”

  “I don’t understand,” Harley said. “What happened?”

  “You know they dropped out of school and left home at the same time.” Harley nodded. “Then they played in the Village together. Started to get a following. One night this A-and-R man from Capitol caught their act.”

  “A-and-R man?”

  “Stands for ‘artists and repertoire.’ They go to the clubs and scout new talent for the big record companies. Anyway, this one guy takes Tucker aside and offers to finance a demo—the first step toward signing him on—iƒ he’ll jettison Chet. Says Chet’s not in the same league as him, which is true, and he’d be better off as a solo act.” He shrugged. “Tucker wouldn’t have it. Out of loyalty to Chet, he turned the deal down, thinkin’ sooner or later someone would sign up the two of them. Course, he was just carrying Chet, and the two of them were never offered anything more than the occasional club gig. Eventually they quit the business and moved to Miami. Couple of years later, Tucker bought his Piper Comanche, and then... Well, I guess you know what happened after that.” He shook his head.

  “No, I don’t.” Harley said. “I know something happened, but—”

  On the other side of her, Phil cleared his throat, and she turned to
find him shaking his head at Doug. Avoiding eye contact with her, Doug stood. “I’d better go see if the guys are ready—”

  “Tell me,” Harley said.

  He shrugged as he turned away. “Sorry.”

  She turned to Phil, who was motioning for the waitress. He said, “Harley, I’m ordering you a Bloody Mary. Best you ever had, guaranteed.”

  “Phil, tell me about Miami.”

  “Shh,” he whispered, as the chandelier dimmed and the stage lit up. “Show time.”

  The three men onstage took their seats, Paul at the piano and Rob and Tucker on hard wooden chairs with their guitars. Doug’s voice filled the room: “Ladies and gentlemen, Tucker Hale.” There was some polite applause, and several members of the audience, including Brenna, took out their phones to record the performance. Rob and Paul looked toward Tucker, whose right foot beat out a rhythm that his guitar soon took up. When he nodded, the other two men joined in, their improvised accompaniment lending depth and complexity to the soulful melody. Then Tucker began to sing.

  His singing voice had the same sandy quality as his speaking voice, but he interpreted the lyrics—his lyrics—with such restrained emotion that the result was mesmerizing.

  When the waitress placed a drink in front of Harley, she became aware of the silence in the room. All faces looked toward the stage, their attention not just respectful, but enrapt. Harley was filled with awe at Tucker’s power to so completely captivate an audience.

  When the song was over, there was a hushed moment, as if every person in the club were taking a breath, and then came the thunderous applause, which Tucker seemed to find embarrassing. His next song had a more varied and complex melody. Again the audience was wildly enthusiastic, and again Tucker reacted almost shyly to the accolades. As the applause died down, Tucker leaned toward the mic and said, “This will be the last song.” The audience groaned. “I didn’t write it,” he continued. “It’s an old blues tune Rob and Paul and I used to play together.”

  The song was lively, funny, and very ribald. The audience seemed delighted and some began clapping to the music and whooping at the particularly risqué lines. Unlike the preceding songs, Rob and Paul had played this one many times. This familiarity showed in the way they wrapped it up, with a perfect synchronization of guitar and piano flourishes as Tucker held one endless final note.

  Applause exploded from the audience, and many, including everyone at Harley’s table, chose to underscore it by standing. Doug’s bellowed “Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” was soon followed by cries of “More!” Tucker answered with a small shake of his head. He set his guitar down and reached for his cane, then looked directly into the audience for the first time, his eyes searching until they met Harley’s. She made no effort to hide the pride that she knew must glow in them. Smiling, she nodded to him, as if to say he had done well. He smiled, too, for the first time since he took the stage, and Harley felt a warm and intimate connection between them, as if they were the only two people in the room.

  That connection was broken when the house lights went up and people sat down again. Jamie relinquished his spot next to her, and Tucker took it back with a territorial glare at the younger man. Before she could say a word to him, Doug descended, leaning over Tucker with one beefy hand on the table and the other on the back of his chair. “Great set, man. You still got it. Can I book you for Fridays? You’ll be here for the rest of the summer, right?”

  Tucker rested his arm on Harley’s chair and lightly touched her upper back, bared by her off-the-shoulder blouse. “Yeah, I’m staying till R.H. comes home. I’ll play on Fridays. I’d like that.”

  As Doug left, Marie and Kat rose and headed toward the ladies’ room. Phil took advantage of his wife’s absence to hiss, “Tucker, what the fuck are you trying to pull, asking Kat here? Is she supposed to be my date?”

  “I told you you’d love her.” Tucker said. “Have you talked to her at all?”

  “I haven’t seen her in six months!” Phil growled. “What the hell am I supposed to talk to her about?”

  “Ask her if she’s been needing any helium balloons.” Harley didn’t have the slightest idea what that meant, but apparently Phil did. He just shook his head and went back to his moping.

  Rob and Paul played another set, which Tucker declined to join, and the outing broke up at about one in the morning. Harley and Tucker followed Marie, Jamie, Brenna and Kat out onto the downhill sidewalk.

  “Poor Jamie,” Harley whispered to Tucker. “I really like him, and I’d love for things to work out between him and Brenna, but she hardly looked at him. Even when he sat next to me and... and...”

  “Started fondling you? He was being too obvious. She saw right through that. Now, if you had fondled him, that might have impressed her.”

  “You think so?”

  “Trust me, I know her type. She wants his devotion just as much as she wants every other man’s. The only reason she ignores him is because she knows she already has it. For him to come on to you only reinforces that knowledge, because it’s just a transparent ploy for her attention. For you to come on to him, on the other hand, would be a genuine threat, because he might switch his devotion from her to you. Her only recourse would be to start responding to him.”

  “Sounds like you’ve made quite a study of the subject.”

  “I’ve known a few Brennas.” He glanced at her, smiling, and it dawned on her that, despite his professed aversion to game playing, his comment was intended to make her jealous. Feeling slightly giddy from the Bloody Mary, Harley decided it was a game two could play.

  “Thanks for the advice,” she said, fluffing her hair and adjusting her blouse downward so that it revealed even more of her shoulders and chest. Jamie had parked his BMW two cars up from Tucker’s Jag. He stood holding the door open for the three women as Harley and Tucker approached.

  “What advice?” Tucker asked. “What are you going to do?”

  Harley walked up to Jamie and put a hand on his shoulder as he closed the car door. She noticed that Brenna sat next to the front passenger window, where she would have a good view.

  “Good night, Jamie,” Harley said. Putting her arms around him, she whispered in his ear, “This’ll give Brenna something to think about,” then gave him a long, lingering kiss on the mouth. It seemed to take Jamie a second to realize what was going on, but when he did, he became an avid recipient, locking his arms around her and returning the kiss with enthusiasm.

  When it was over, he gave her another kiss—a soft one on her cheek—and whispered, “Thanks,” into her ear.

  Brenna’s blue eyes were as round as headlights when Harley turned away and walked down to the Jag. Tucker, eyebrows raised, held the door open for her.

  “At least tell me you didn’t enjoy that,” he said, settling into the driver’s seat and turning on the ignition.

  She smiled coquettishly. “But that would be a lie.”

  Yanking on the stick shift, he said, “I’m the one who doesn’t lie, remember? You’re allowed.”

  “You can’t mean you want me to lie to you. You? Mr. Honest-as-the-Day-is-Long?”

  The car squealed away from the curb. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  It had become cool, so Tucker left the Jag’s roof up for the drive home. They rode in companionable silence until he pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Turning to her, he asked, “Did you have a good time tonight?”

  She nodded. “It was great. You were great. I mean, you’re a terrific musician. I had no idea.”

  It was dark inside the car, and his eyes were huge. That rare, shy look hid in them. “Thanks.”

  “Doug told me about Chet and the record contract. It’s a shame things didn’t work out.”

  For a long moment he stared at the windshield. Finally he looked back at her. “What else did Doug tell you?”

  She met his eyes. “He didn’t tell me what happened in Miami, if that’s what you mean.” Tucker�
��s careful lack of response told her it was. “But I’d like to know. I’d like you to tell me.”

  There was another thoughtful pause. “Until I came back here, I hadn’t thought about Miami in years. Or talked about it. I prefer it that way.”

  Deciding that wasn’t exactly a direct refusal, Harley pressed on. “Whatever it was, don’t you think I could understand?”

  “Frankly, no. I still have a hard time understanding it. How could I expect you to? You’re very bright, but you’re also very young, and... I don’t want to insult you, but you’re kind of judgmental. I don’t want you judging me and finding me lacking.” He reached out and brushed his fingers across her temple and through her hair, leaving tingling trails of sensation. “I care what you think about me.” He shrugged. “I care a lot. I don’t know why, but I do.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  Tucker got out of the car and came around to open her door for her. Eyeing her intently, he took her hand to help her out, then shut the door, encircled her with his arms, and pressed her back against the car. His mouth found hers and closed over it in a deep, hungry kiss. This time, resistance never entered Harley’s mind. With her arms around his waist, she returned the kiss with a hunger that equaled his.

  I want him, she thought, in sudden amazement. I want him to make love to me. How did this happen? Crushed between his warm body and the smooth, cool car, captured by his strong arms and eager mouth, she went limp with surrender. Am I weak? Have I lost control?

  Wasn’t it all right to be weak sometimes, especially if it felt so good, so right? Wasn’t she allowed to lose control once in a while? She couldn’t go her whole life picking and choosing what happened to her. She had always wondered what it would feel like to get carried away by passion, to lose herself to it, to ignore good judgment and do something crazy. Maybe tonight, for the first time, she would find out.