Rhythms of Love. Beverly Jenkins

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      He turned off the flat screen and stared into the darkness. Frankly, he’d never run into a situation like this one before and he wasn’t really sure how to proceed.

       Chapter Two

      Jamal awakened the next morning with a plan. He would be flying home that evening, but was scheduled to spend the day checking out some of the local recording studios Detroit was so famous for. He got on the phone and moved the studio appointments to later that afternoon. He was going to work from his room and wait for the singing maid. All he wanted was an opportunity to have an honest conversation and prove to her that he was all business. The music industry was filled with scam artists, but he wanted to reassure her his intentions were honorable.

      But he had to see her again first, so with that in mind, he called room service and ordered breakfast.

      The meal arrived a short while later. While he was enjoying it and looking over some of the lyrics one of his singers wanted on her next CD, a knock sounded on the door, followed by a cheery female voice calling out, “Housekeeping.”

      Taking in a deep breath, Jamal strode to the door and opened it.

      “Morning,” the unfamiliar woman standing on the other side said. She had short spiky brown hair, light skin and freckles.

      For a moment he was caught off guard. “You’re not her,” Jamal heard himself say.

      She blinked. “What?”

      “Sorry. I was expecting the woman who was here yesterday.”

      “You mean Reggie?”

      “Describe her.”

      “Brown skin. About five-three, ponytail, cute little body.”

      The description fit but to make sure he asked, “Does this Reggie sing?”

      “Everybody in Detroit can sing, but girlfriend can sang, as we say here.”

      He smiled. “Do you know how I can get in touch with her?”

      “Why?”

      “I’m Jamal Reynolds, and—”

      “The producer?” she asked excitedly. “I saw you on the BET Awards.”

      Jamal was glad somebody knew who he was.

      “You want to produce Reg?”

      “Maybe, but I need to talk to her.”

      “Hold on.” She moved aside a stack of white towels piled neatly on the cleaning cart and took out a cell phone hidden beneath. “Do you mind if I come in?” she asked him while punching up a number and placing the phone against her ear. “Not supposed to be on the phone. I get caught one more time, Ms. Harold’s going to fire me for sure.”

      Jamal, wondering how anyone could be so animated this early in the morning, stepped aside to let her in.

      “She isn’t answering.” The woman listened for a few more silent seconds then ended the call. “Sorry.”

      “That’s okay. Can I have her number?”

      “No. You may be famous, but I don’t know you like that.”

      He understood, and, truthfully, applauded her caution. “Can I ask your name?”

      “Trina Maxwell.”

      “Nice to meet you, Ms. Maxwell.”

      “Same here. Does Reggie know how cute you are?” she asked slyly.

      He laughed. “We didn’t talk about that.”

      “And you didn’t get her number either?”

      “No. I did give her my card. She promised to call, but didn’t.”

      “That’s because no woman in her right mind keeps a promise to a stranger. You live in L.A.?”

      “Yes.”

      Jamal was accustomed to women hitting on him, and he could see Trina sizing him up. “What’s Reggie’s real name?” he asked.

      “Regina. Regina Vaughn.”

      “Will you let her know how serious I am? All I want to do is to put her in the studio, nothing more.”

      “You must be blind then, because girlfriend is gorgeous, even though she refuses to work it.”

      “No. Not blind. Just professional.”

      “Okay. I’ll track her down and see if I can’t hook you up. Just remember I get to carry her moneybags once she gets famous.”

      “Noted.”

      “Good. I’ll come back and clean your room after you finish your breakfast. Ciao.”

      “Ciao.” A pleased Jamal closed the door. He now had an ally.

      Seated at the piano, Reggie stopped playing in the middle of the song and glared at the reason. “Shana Thomas, why are you singing with the sopranos?”

      The nine-year-old tried to look defiant for a minute, but in the face of Reggie’s obvious displeasure seemed to think better of that approach and looked away.

      Reggie sighed. “How many times do we have to do this, girl? You have a beautiful alto voice, please use it the way you’re supposed to.”

      “Yeah, you’re making the rest of us sing flat,” ten-year-old Alta Wayne snapped at Shana.

      Grumbles sounded from the rest of the twenty-five-member choir of the Madame Sissieretta Jones Elementary School of Music. It was unanimous; Shana was getting on everybody’s last nerve.

      “Okay, settle down,” she warned the grumblers.

      Shana’s twin, Shanice, gave her sister an impatient look. “Quit it, or I’m telling Mama.”

      Good, Reggie thought to herself. Mrs. Thomas wasn’t going to be happy hearing that her joke-loving daughter was cutting up at rehearsal again.

      “All right, let’s start over.” Reggie played the opening chords and the children raised their voices in the singing of “Peace Be Still.” The sweet angelic tones filled the old gym and the purity gave Reggie goose bumps. They were fine-tuning the gospel concert scheduled for tomorrow evening. “Beautiful,” she said quietly as she accompanied them.

      Madame Sissieretta Jones, for whom the school was named, was one of the most famous singers of the nineteenth century and the first black woman to sing at Carnegie Hall. The staff’s emphasis on academic excellence and music had resulted in much praise, but like most big-city schools, it struggled to pay its bills. There were infrastructure issues, too. The old building they were using was in dire need of a new furnace. The staff and parents hoped tomorrow’s fundraising СКАЧАТЬ