His Uptown Girl. Liz Talley

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СКАЧАТЬ man, I ain’t in the mood,” Dez said, downing the rest of the Scotch, willing the fiery liquid to wash away the memories, as well as the image of the shattered glass outside Blue Rondo.

      “Horseshit. You’re always in the mood. Let’s go,” Johnny said, slapping his shoulder and disappearing into the crowd, heading for the stage.

      Bigmouth Sam jerked his head. “This crowd wants a beat, but do ‘Take Five’ for last call.”

      Dez slid off the stool. “I want to find my bed, man.”

      Bigmouth Sam grinned. “Yeah, but you’s a Batiste, and music’s in that blood. You ain’t turnin’ down hittin’ that piano any more than I’d turn down hittin’ Beyoncé if she’s standin’ here wantin’ it.”

      Dez snorted, grabbed an almost-empty bottle of Crown and turned. “Beyoncé’s married and so are you.”

      “You think thatta matter to me? Hell, naw. And I charge for that drink.”

      “It’s my fee for playing,” Dez called over his shoulder, slugging back a few gulps of the Crown as he made his way to the piano. Several ladies eyed either him or the bottle of booze appreciatively. Maybe he’d take one of them home...or maybe he’d just go back to his place uptown and enjoy the peace of his bed and the cool satin sheets he’d bought a few weeks ago.

      Johnny had started without him, backed up on guitar by Jose Mercury, who played enthusiastically if not technically sound. Denny Jay handled the bass and Carl Van Petzel took a break from the piano at a nearby table. He held his drink up with a grin as Dez passed him, sat down at the bench and joined in on “Where Y’at?” settling into the groove, letting the music flow through him. It wasn’t like before, but he allowed the chords to wash over him, heal him, soothe those pains he’d never faced with the sweetest of balms—music.

      It was the only way to feel again.

      Maybe the only way he’d ever get back to his own music. Ever since the waters had come and tried to wash New Orleans away, Dez hadn’t been able to find what had made him who he was—the man who could create, tying beats and chords together with reckless abandon that somehow worked to create a distinctive sound of funk, jazz and blues with a thread of Bounce.

      The fact of the matter was Dez Batiste could play the piano, but he’d lost his mojo.

      * * *

      ELEANOR SET THE PHONE on the desk as Blakely outlined all the reasons she needed a new Valentino bag, and picked up the freight slips on the new shipments from England. Two tables had been damaged beyond repair and she’d need to file a damage claim with the shipping company.

      “Mom? Hello?”

      Eleanor picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

      “Were you even listening?”

      “No. Because I’m not buying you a new purse. Too much money and you’re lucky you have the Louis Vuitton. Your grandmother’s a generous woman, and I do not want you asking her for this money. It’s not a necessity.”

      Silence sat like a bullfrog on the line.

      “Blakely?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Are you listening to me?”

      “No. Because you aren’t telling me what I want to hear. I know it’s selfish, but I really love it—it’s shiny pink with the cutest bow.”

      Eleanor rolled her eyes. “And you’re a Phi Mu. Everything must be pink.”

      “Of course,” Blakely said with a smile in her voice, something that gave Eleanor a dollop of joy. She missed teasing Blakely. She missed a lot about having her daughter home...at least the daughter she used to know. This one seemed so distant, so not like the Blakely she’d raised to be smart, selfless and independent. “But Grandmother would—”

      “Honey, Margaret and Porter already pay half your tuition.” And, Lord, didn’t Margaret love to remind Eleanor. Didn’t matter the Theriots had paid the full bill on their other grandchildren, Margaret liked to remind Eleanor of the power they still possessed over her life in the form of their granddaughter, the last vestige of their precious angel of a son Skeeter.

      “Fine,” Blakely said, her voice showing not total acceptance, but at least acknowledging the truth in Eleanor’s words. Blakely had turned nineteen several months ago, and had suddenly fallen victim to the spoiled New Orleans debutante her grandmother pushed her to be. Eleanor had done her best to ground her daughter, but it was hard for Blakely to resist the lavish gifts, the fancy school and the convertible BMW sent her way. The Theriots had money, position and shitty self-control when it came to their grandchildren.

      “So, how’d you do on your last psychology test?”

      “Okay,” Blakely hedged and Eleanor could almost see the panic in her daughter’s eyes. Blakely had always been a B student in high school and wasn’t a serious academic. “Hey, Mary Claire just texted me. We have to set up for the Kappa Alpha mixer, so can I call you later?”

      “Sure. Have fun. I love you.”

      “You, too,” Blakely said, hanging up.

      Eleanor sighed and tossed the new invoices down onto the desk as Tre passed by.

      “Hey, Tre?”

      The boy stopped and shifted backward to look into her office. “Ma’am?”

      “How was the game?”

      His normally guarded expression softened as it always did when he talked about his younger brother. “He did good. Only seven goals, but he had a lot of assists. Word’s out about him and they double-teamin’ him.”

      “That’s great.” She really liked Tre’s ten-year-old brother, Devontay “Shorty D” Jackson, who possessed more swagger than any hip-hop star and wore sunglasses à la Usher. Brash, funny and hiding a sweet heart behind his bravado, Shorty D was a favorite at the Queen’s Box. “Bring him by for doughnuts tomorrow after school.”

      “Yeah. I’ll do that,” Tre said, glancing about as if he were in a prison warden’s office. Always guarded to the point of looking hunted, Tre was the opposite of his younger brother. Tre graduated from St. Augustine, a traditionally African-American boys’ school, over a year ago and was saving up for classes at Delgado Community College in the fall. So far, he’d been a good worker—respectful, industrious and trustworthy—but Eleanor still didn’t know him well because he rarely talked about himself.

      “No deliveries this afternoon, but Pansy wants to rearrange the back room with the brass bed and steamer trunks, so if you’d give her a hand...”

      “Sure.”

      The phone rang and Tre backed out of the office, heading up front to where Pansy conversed with a customer who wanted a Tiffany-style lamp with a peacock shade. Eleanor answered the phone, hoping it was the guy from the glass company. “The Queen’s Box.”

      “Well, about time you answered my call. You’d think you’d have more respect for your husband’s family.”

      “Margaret,” СКАЧАТЬ