His Uptown Girl (New Orleans Ladies)

by Liz Talley

  Dez stood. “I actually dreamed about Blue Rondo one night. It was cool. I had this vision and when I woke, I had a new purpose. It was like I took my dream and shifted it on its axis, and I thought that was enough… until a few moments ago.”

  “Because Reggie invited Tom to come hear Tre?”

  His eyes flashed with dark regret. “Yeah, it wasn’t about me. It was about a new guy, a guy who has more talent than me. It made me feel so…”

  He shook his head.

  “I know what you mean,” Eleanor said. “Sometimes I feel the same way… like I have this big part of my life I wasted on doubt, on being satisfied with mediocre. It’s not a good feeling, but it’s a human one,” she said.

  Dez pulled her to him, tucking her under his arm. He smelled like a sporty antiperspirant and a unique spicy scent all his own. She inhaled him as his head descended and he kissed her.

  It was a kiss he’d never shared with her—open, honest and tender—like a gift for her understanding him.

  Dez pulled back his head and stared down at her, gratitude warming those pretty eyes. “How’d you get so smart?”

  “Years of regret. I’ve learned to be honest with myself. You scare me because when I’m with you, it doesn’t feel so casual between us, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Honesty makes it easier for me, so saying things out loud sometimes doesn’t make me weak or silly. It makes me—”

  “Mine,” he said, kissing her again, this time with the same passion he’d always shared with her.

  And for that honest moment, it was plenty.

  DEZ WATCHED AS his former manager observed Tre, and the envy he’d admitted to Eleanor days ago stuck and twisted in his craw… whatever a craw was. Jealousy was not a good feeling, but he had to be truthful with himself and own the feeling. Some of what Eleanor had said made sense—living honestly gave a person a sort of freedom.

  The other guys in the band bobbed and swayed their heads in time with the music, each giving way to Tre as if something inside each man identified he couldn’t touch the talent of the nineteen-year-old blowing a secondhand horn like he’d been sprouted from the heavens a fully formed musical genius. Even Dez was in awe as they hit certain parts of the song, Tre showing a command of the saxophone rarely seen by well-paid, seasoned veterans.

  Layers peeled away from the quiet unassuming boy, and he became a ballsy, sexy magic man who could drop a girl’s panties with the heat of the notes emerging from the brass horn. Dez knew this from experience. Some cats could transcend and become one with the music, and everyone around felt the sacredness of being in the presence of someone who could take things up a notch.

  “God Almighty,” Tom breathed when they finished “A Night in Tunisia.” “Never heard anything like that. Who’s been working with this kid?”

  Dez shrugged. “I have no clue. He already played when I met him.”

  Tre dropped the saxophone against his stomach. “Miss Janie Belle James taught me to play when I was five. She was my next door neighbor and her daddy was—”

  “Acre ‘Birdman’ James,” Tom finished, shaking his head. “Fried at Angola, but played the saxophone like a damn pied piper.”

  “No sir,” Tre said, shaking his head, his voice grave with an edge of anger. “He didn’t have nothing to do with that woman they said he killed. Just worked at the store she worked at. Everybody knows it, but white people back then didn’t care about getting it right, just shutting people up, so Birdman took it. But he taught Miss Janie the tenor and alto, and she was better than me.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Tom whistled, a smile appearing on his face. To Dez, the man might as well be rubbing his hands together and swirling a nonexistent moustache. Eagerness trembled the air. “What else you got? I want more.”

  “Dez, let’s play your new song,” Big Eddie said, clacking his sticks together impatiently. “Need something smooth to follow, and the sax solo you wrote is perfect for this kid.”

  Dez shook his head. “Not ready yet.”

  “Let’s just play what you got,” Big Eddie insisted.

  Dez sighed. “Coming Down to Eleanor” was the most intimate, sensual piece he’d ever written. Big Eddie had caught him playing part of it on Friday and he wouldn’t let Dez put it away. Everyone looked at him. “Fine. Here’s the sheet music. I got two copies, but y’all should be able to follow along.”

  “Wait, you’ve been writing again?” Tom asked, shifting his chair so he faced Dez. Excitement still hung off the man.

  “Just one song I’ve been fiddling around with,” he said, passing a few sheets to the guitar players. “Horns are out except for Tre.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Dez.” For once Tom sounded sincere, and shades of what they once had edged into his voice. Dez didn’t want to be swayed by Tom, but it had been so long since he’d felt good enough. For a moment, he remembered what it felt like to be desirable… to be good enough to make it in an industry that left teeth marks.

  Something gathered inside him, mixing fear and longing into a pulsing energy. He needed to calm his jittering nerves so he jumped up, grabbed a bottle of JB and poured a shot. It went down rough, but he didn’t care. It was as if he’d been sucked back in time and his first song sat on the music stand. A new beginning felt possible. Not just for Blue Rondo, but for him as a songwriter and musician.

  Champ laughed. “Damn, boy, you act like Satan’s got you by the collar. Might as well pour me a shot, too.”

  Dez poured out a shot and passed it to Champ before settling down on his bench, rolling his shoulder. He recalled Eleanor’s words about honesty. “First one I’ve written in almost eight years.”

  Big Eddie grinned. “It’s the best damn song I heard in eight years.”

  Tom pulled out his phone. “Mind if I record a sample? I might send it to Terry Burton. He’s looking for an R&B groove for a new kid he wants to break out. Might make you some money off this.”

  Dez shrugged. “I guess, but if there’s interest, Terry comes to me. You owe me that much.”

  Tom’s gaze flickered, but he nodded. “Of course.”

  “Okay. Let’s roll it easy like Lionel Ritchie. This is our Sunday morning, boys.”

  Dez played a little of the melody and looked up. “You got it?”

  Everyone nodded as Big Eddie set the beat and the guitars came in establishing rhythm as Dez’s fingers stroked the keys, soft, plaintive. When Tre joined in, all threads of doubt flapping around inside Dez wound together tight… perfect.

  Like Eleanor.

  Dez sang the words from memory, closing his eyes as he put his emotions to the music, plucking out all she made him feel as he lowered himself to her, savoring the satin of her skin, the sweet delicious moans he caught with his lips, as he rested his burdens on Eleanor.

  The whine of the sax stirred the emotions, and Dez’s voice, carrying the sensation of making love to a woman, shone reverent on stage, before ending in a whispered plea—to remain his soft spot to rest, the place where he found his inspiration to move forward.

  As he ended the final chords, Dez realized moisture filled his eyes, accompaniment to the passion flooding his soul as he sang his words to the woman who’d given him back the gift he’d lost—the gift of music.

  Tre lowered his horn. “Daaaamn.”

  Dez refused to blink away the dampness—couldn’t believe such feeling had risen to the surface and poured out of him. And the entire time, Tom had been filming.

  He observed his former manager tapping on the screen of his phone with the exhilaration of a kid on Christmas morning. The man’s pudgy fingers flew. Finally, he glanced up. “That’s the best song you’ve ever written, Dez, and you’ve written some good stuff. Why did you ever stop writing?”

  How could he explain it hadn’t been his choice? How could he explain this woman across the street, this innocuous-looking woman with her funny sweaters and too-safe world had sparked something in him that had opened the floodgates. It didn’t comp
ute. It didn’t make sense.

  But it was the God’s honest truth.

  Eleanor had become his muse.

  “You have my number, Tom?”

  “No. Give it to me. If he likes this sample, you might need to cut a demo. But we’ll talk more soon. You can sell this. I know it.”

  Dez shrugged away the pride he felt at Tom’s words. His former manager wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t thought the song good, but Dez didn’t want to fasten hope to himself; it felt too much to carry. He had a ton to do in a short amount of time—the club would open soon and his to-do list was long.

  He wasn’t ready to have this song out there yet. Still needed some tweaking, and he wanted to share it with Eleanor before he let anyone else hear it. Seemed only right since it was intimate, echoing her name, telling the world how she made him feel, and exclusive friends with benefits didn’t cover a corner of what he’d laid out for the world to hear.

  On a rational level, he hadn’t been able to vocalize how deeply he’d grown to care for her. She’d needed time, and he’d been willing to give it to her because he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but he knew she’d been leaning further and further into him over the past few days, deepened by his sharing the past of Erin, Houston and his inability to write.

  Now he had proof she’d helped heal him—in a beautiful song honoring all they were together.

  But was she ready to hear how much she’d come to mean to him?

  “ANOTHER CUP, ELEANOR?” Margaret asked, holding up the silver carafe of fresh-brewed coffee.

  “No, thank you,” Eleanor said, casting another questioning look at her daughter, who sat demurely on the damask settee in the parlor of the colossal Theriot mansion on St. Charles. “I’d rather talk about why I’m here. And why my daughter is sitting on your sofa and not on the one at her sorority house in Oxford.”

  Blakely shifted her gaze away.

  Margaret settled her bony bottom onto the blue wingback chair and drew her lips into a thin line. “I’m sure we’ll get to that, dear.”

  “Dear” sounded like poison dripping from her mother-in-law’s lips, and Eleanor felt instant sympathy for Snow White… even though the girl was fictional. Viperous mother-in-laws gave evil stepmothers a run for their money.

  “Okay. Can we hurry through whatever else you wanted to say? I have plans tonight.” Eleanor crossed her legs and leaned back, determined to appear unbothered by her daughter’s ambush in Margaret’s formal parlor. When Eleanor had gotten the cryptic summons, she’d thought it was about Blakely’s legal woes with the arrest, which hadn’t yet been put to rest because the policeman Blakely had assaulted was threatening a lawsuit. But, no. It was something else altogether.

  Margaret’s smile was strained. “I rather think that’s the problem… your plans for the evening.”

  Here it was—the showdown she’d been anticipating for the last two weeks. Time to defend her relationship with Dez.

  “I don’t see a problem. Why do you?”

  Margaret’s silver bob never moved when she turned her head. It was like that thing Darth Vader wore… but silver. “You mean a great deal to me because you carry the Theriot name and you’re the mother of my granddaughter.”

  “Yes, I am, but I don’t see how that translates into your meddling in my social life,” Eleanor said, glancing again at her daughter, who had taken a sudden interest in the pattern on the expensive rug.

  “Because who you associate with reflects on us,” Margaret said, lifting one dark eyebrow. Her icy blue gaze remained arrogant and aloof. “Did you ever think about that when you chose a man to diddle?”

  “Diddle?”

  Margaret kept her eyebrow cocked. “Or whatever it is you’re doing with that man.”

  “Careful, your snobbery is showing. You wouldn’t want to show bigotry around common people like me. Word might get out and sway the vote against a Theriot… if they knew how you truly felt.”

  “Oh, please, Eleanor. Sniping doesn’t suit your nature.” Margaret sniffed and sipped her coffee, her gaze holding Eleanor’s in an unspoken challenge. “And everyone knows we’re Democrats and friend to the common man.”

  Eleanor almost rolled her eyes. “Okay.”

  “Mom, what she’s saying is that Dez isn’t the right guy for you to date. He’s just not who you go with.” Blakely tossed her hair over her shoulder and finally looked at Eleanor.

  “Go with?”

  “You know. You’re, like, a mom. You wear really weird clothes and you’re almost forty years old. You don’t fit with Dez.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “You mean I’m not cool.”

  “Exactly.”

  Eleanor gave a bark of laughter. “Margaret Blakely Theriot, you really ought to be ashamed of yourself. What exactly have you two been up to? Discussing my private life, trying to manage me to fit in your world?”

  “It’s not like that,” Blakely said, shaking her head, her face so young, so pretty and so very scary at that moment. She looked so much like Margaret, and it was hard to marry that image to the one of the girl Eleanor had raised—the girl who had run a lemonade stand in their yard, who had dressed up like Alvin the Chipmunk for Halloween, and who had walked demurely down the aisle of their church in her communion veil. How had that girl become the kind of woman who would scheme to take away any piece of happiness Eleanor might grab?

  “That’s what it sounds like, honey. So what is this? Why did you come home? To—”

  “It’s called an intervention,” Blakely said, aggravation narrowing her face.

  Eleanor blinked. “What?”

  “An intervention. Like on TV. You’re acting crazy, Mom. Grandmother said some women act this way when they hit middle age, so you need to see what everyone else sees. An older woman dating someone inappropriate.”

  Margaret, God help her, nodded in agreement.

  “Wait, let me get this straight. You two have cooked up an intervention for me because I’m dating Dez?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Reinforcements,” Margaret said, placing her cup on the antique teacart and rising. Her low-heeled pumps squeaked as she glided ramrod-straight from the room.

  “Reinforcements?” Eleanor echoed, twisting her body toward the double doors that led to the foyer. She then looked down at the whorls in the expensive rug and wondered if she was dreaming. This whole deal was C-R-A-Z-Y. Capitalized and emphasized.

  “Here we are,” Margaret trilled.

  Eleanor’s mouth dropped open. “Mom? Dad?”

  Her rotund mother delivered the gentle smile she reserved for students who forgot their lunch money. “Hi, honey.”

  “What are y’all doing here?”

  “Margaret asked us to drop by,” her father said, his dark eyes flintlike, his posture erect. “She’s very concerned about you.” He leaned against the back of the wingback her mother settled upon.

  Bill and Tootsie Hastings could have graced a Norman Rockwell painting. Her father, with his long, studious face and grim mouth, and her mother with her fluttering hands, dumpling cheeks and beauty-salon copper hair were the epitome of middle-class America. They ran Hastings School for the Gifted on the sunny shores of Lake Ponchartrain, eating, sleeping and breathing the Spartan way—Faith, Honor and Service.

  They weren’t horrible parents, but they hadn’t been very interested in their only daughter. Nor in their granddaughter, especially when Skeeter insisted Blakely attend Sacred Heart Academy, rather than their own private Christian school.

  “Honey, we understand how painful these few years have been. Losing your husband was very tragic,” Tootsie said, reaching out and patting Eleanor’s arm.

  Eleanor didn’t know what to say. They thought she still mourned Skeeter?

  “Of course, it’s been hard. It’s been hard on us all,” Margaret added, silently holding up the silver carafe, offering Bill and Tootsie refreshments as if this were an afternoon tea… in the 1950s before women burned thei
r bras and found their voice. Maybe the two older women had inhaled too much Aqua Net and had brain damage. Her father had no excuse. She couldn’t believe they were confronting her about Dez and her dating life over freakin’ coffee in the drawing room.

  And they all looked at her as if she were an overwrought fool who needed guidance.

  “I’m fine,” Eleanor said. “I don’t understand why any of you feel the need to meddle in my dating life.”

  “It’s because of who you are dating, dear,” Margaret said.

  “Ah, yes,” her father said, accepting coffee from Margaret, “the street musician.”

  “He’s not a street musician. He’s a business owner who happens to be a talented, well-respected pianist.”

  “Honey, he didn’t even finish college,” her mother said, tilting her head like a small bird, mouth in a moue. “Who you associate with does impact your daughter. Remember that.”

  “This is ridiculous. There’s no reason you two had to come all this way into the city for something as silly as this. I’m a grown woman… a grown woman far from middle-age insanity,” Eleanor said, glancing over at Blakely who remained quiet, refusing to meet her mother’s eyes.

  “Oh, honey. We had an optometrist appointment for your father. We told Margaret we’d stop by for coffee and to see if we could talk some sense into you,” Tootsie said, shooting a look at her husband.

  Her father nodded. “We’re not opposed to you dating. It’s only natural you’d want to have a social life. You’re still a young woman—”

  “I’m glad someone thinks so,” Eleanor muttered.

  “—we just want you to choose someone who is better suited for you. Someone who is settled, has a good job and—”

  “Plays golf?”

  “Well, that’s not a requirement, of course,” her father said, pushing his glasses up his nose and crossing his arms. “We feel this younger man with such a colorful background might not be the best choice. We do have Blakely to think about.”