The days and nights they spent together blended swiftly into weeks and any free time they had to spare they spent together, sharing most of it at Rawn’s. Upon returning from a spur-of-the-moment trip to Victoria with D’Becca, Rawn was greeted with four messages from Sicily, two messages from his best friend, Khalil, and one from a musician friend inviting him to play at Moody’s Jazz Alley the following evening.
“Where are you?” Rawn asked Sicily when she answered her cellular.
Waiting for a red-eye near the pick-up bar, Sicily replied with, “And where have you been?” The way in which she spoke came across possessive. “I’ve left…”
“I know, Sicily. I’m home.”
“But where have you been? I thought something might have happened to you.” When he chuckled, Sicily was not amused. “Rawn! You always return my calls. What was I to think?”
“I was out of town.”
“Out of town? Did you go to visit Khalil in L.A.? You didn’t mention you were going down to SoCal.” Sicily reached for her order and pantomimed “thank you” to the barista. Making her way to the door, she continued, “You’re being awful evasive.”
“Listen…”
“You know, you really need to get a cell phone. It’s 1999 for goodness’ sake.”
“You and Khalil are always on my back about…”
“The landline is so passé. That’s as old-school as basic cable. You’ll be lucky if you can find a payphone in a few years. So where did you go?” She stepped into her SUV.
“Come to the Alley tomorrow night.”
“The Alley? You know I don’t like that place.” Sicily adjusted her drink in the beverage holder. She switched the mobile from one ear to the other. Turning over the engine, she said, “I assume you’re playing.”
“So I’ll see you tomorrow night?”
She pulled out of the Third Avenue parking space and reached for the omnipresent paper cup. Ever the multi-tasker, Sicily held the drink while managing to balance the cellular against her ear, and turned effortlessly off Third onto Seneca, halting for a pedestrian in the process. “Yes, I guess. What, about eight, nine?”
“Nine sounds good.”
• • •
Plein Soleil was playing at a theatre in the University District. Years before, Rawn read the novel, The Talented Mr. Ripley, on which the film, Plein Soleil, was loosely based. When he read that the 1960s dark and suspenseful thriller was playing for one week and its run would end in two days, he invited D’Becca. After the film, and while walking to the car in the parking lot adjacent to the U-District theatre, D’Becca suggested they go to Palomino for dinner.
On the drive to the restaurant they talked spiritedly over each other while discussing the film. Determined to make Rawn jealous, D’Becca went on and on about the sociopath played by Alain Delon—“he’s so sexy”—and she was sucked in by the stunningly photographed Tyrrhenian Sea. Rawn, on the other hand, saw the film from a strictly artistic perspective. He was impressed with the Hitchcockian plot and progressively perplexing schemes, the melodrama—a slow and methodical build-up—which he believed was severely lacking in popular blockbusters of the late-twentieth century.
Generally energetic and a good place to be seen, it was a slow night at the restaurant. Prior to being served after-dinner coffee, the ambiance at their table changed within moments solely because of the sound of D’Becca’s ringtone. She took her cellular everywhere—when she sat on the toilet, in the shower, even when she jogged. Finally, Rawn asked her what was the need for having her mobile phone at her fingertips 24/7, and she offered him a justification he would later consider lame and having something to do with her work. It was progressively turning into a way of life, using mobiles in public places. She was terribly presumptuous, assuming Rawn was not put off by her talking on her cellular to Troy and Beth Ann and Savannah and someone whose name she never dropped while in his presence. He went along with it as much as his temperament could tolerate, but he tactfully pointed out to her a few times that she lacked basic manners by taking a call while she was in his company. Sitting across from her at the table, he said, “How important can it be? It’s almost ten o’clock, and we’re on the West Coast. For once, don’t answer.”
D’Becca detected an edge in his tone. Not once had Rawn been testy or provoked by anything she said or did prior to that evening. Accordingly, she chose not to answer and slipped the mobile in her clutch bag, but the discord put a damper on the entire evening—a good film, a nice meal, and agreeable company. It was not until they ran through a heavy rain—and they laughed generously about having to run through rain yet again—did D’Becca laugh from the heart. Her charming, girlish laugh captivated Rawn in some way, and her inexplicable spirit. He was not certain, but he sensed he had fallen entirely in lust with this woman.
When they were in the car, he said, “Let’s go to your place tonight. It’s been a month since we hooked up at Street Two Books, and I’ve never been to your place.”
She turned over the engine, and while pulling out of the parking space, asked, “Why are you suddenly so interested in going to my place?”
They were at the street signal at Second and Union. Rawn had been distracted by the fashionably dressed mannequins in a men’s clothing store window. He turned to meet her profile and mindlessly studied her staring out into the night beyond the windshield wipers tossing the steady rain to and fro. He replied soberly, “I’ve never been to your place. That’s all.”
• • •
A few years after Crescent Island was established in the early 1900s, a Scandinavian immigrant purchased commercial property on the east side of Crescent Lane, a quiet, tightly constructed street tucked out of the way. Directly beyond the pier, Crescent Lane could easily go missed. The street was small but retained some of the most exclusive commercial property on Crescent Island, precisely because of its stunning views. In the early sixties, a black man by the name of Jesse Moody, who was the first person of color to purchase property on the island, approached the Scandinavian immigrant about opening a restaurant on upscale Crescent Lane. He was turned down flat and numerous other times subsequent to his initial approach. The Scandinavian immigrant’s son was of a different generation and with a liberal mind-set, so following the death of his father and when he ran into Moody, the Scandinavian immigrant’s son inquired if he was interested in space he had available. Not only a good businessman, the immigrant’s son understood that the tone and texture of the ethos had evolved; consequently, Crescent Island—it was only a matter of time—would become diverse.
Many years had come and gone since Moody wanted to open his restaurant. He had been plotting the idea of a jazz club when he ran into the Scandinavian-American on the golf course. He explained his ideas. Because of the late-night noise, the immigrant’s son suggested that Moody use space that had been sitting for quite some time in the basement of an art gallery with an alleyway entrance. Hence, the night-spot took on the name Moody’s Jazz Alley. Since its opening in the early 1980s, it became legendary. Quite a few famous musicians strolled in unannounced to play sets with the regulars. Moody’s did not only put Crescent Island on the map; the once very private island became one of the state’s primary tourist traps with romantic bed-and-breakfasts and tranquil parks and hiking trails. Despite the Washington State invasion as a result of advanced technology and the invasive dot-com phenomenon, the island maintained a rare quaintness with extraordinary scenery from every direction.
More commonly referred to as the Alley, Moody’s was a popular jazz club that attracted an eclectic crowd. Saturday was the Alley’s busiest night, and to negotiate parking was always a challenge since there were no parking lots within walking distance. D’Becca lucked out when a couple was getting into their car no sooner than she pulled into the crammed and narrow street two blocks from the popular night-spot. She made her way toward the club through the cobblestone alleyway and heard the familiar and sensuous sound of George Michael’s voice sin
ging “Father Figure.” To her surprise, there was a queue wrapped around the building. Rawn had not warned her that she might encounter problems getting into the club. D’Becca bypassed the crowd of laughter and high-pitched conversation and walked up to the bouncer. He was a large man with a shaved head and nicely trimmed goatee; cubic zirconia studs sparkled from his ears, and his eyes were veiled behind sunglasses the Blues Brothers made fashionable back in the day.
With a few musicians in her past, D’Becca knew how to work the situation. “Good evening,” she said, throwing the bouncer adequate charm. “I’m a guest of Rawn Poussaint.”
The bouncer, who did not change his demeanor, looked D’Becca up and down. He fingered the doorman. When he approached, the bouncer leaned into the doorman and spoke a few words low enough so that D’Becca could not overhear. The man nodded and looked straight into D’Becca’s eyes. “Come with me,” the doorman said.
When the bouncer removed the black velvet rope to let her enter, D’Becca heard a few derogatory and irate outcries by those still hoping to get in, and the protests followed her straight into the noisy club.
Moody’s was packed. D’Becca was told by the doorman that she would most likely have to stand since there were no seats at the tables or at the bar. She pulled out her cellular and leaned against a wall. “Hey,” she said. “I know it’s late. Are you alone?” D’Becca waved to a passing waitress. “How’s South Beach?”
“Yes?” the waitress greeted D’Becca.
“An apple martini, please.”
Wordless, the waitress made note of D’Becca’s request in her head, and before she could walk away was stopped by another club guest wanting to order a drink.
“I’m at Moody’s Jazz Alley. Have you ever been?” D’Becca looked around the crowded room and did not see Rawn anywhere. She suspected no one in the club would recognize her. “Rawn’s playing, that’s why. No, he plays piano. He played ‘Moonlit Sonata’ for me and I was floored. He’s really pianistic, Troy. No, at the Alley he plays jazz. Well, what can I say, he loves jazz. He’s crazy about Godreau. Yeah, the jazz pianist killed last month. Look, it’s not what you think. I like him. He’s complex but still easy to be with. And yes, I know what I’m doing. Troy, I miss you. Maybe that is why I started a friendship with Rawn, I can’t really be sure.” D’Becca listened for a while, and ended her call with a solemn, “Sure, okay. Love you.”
Ten minutes later the cocktail waitress returned with her martini, and D’Becca gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. She squeezed through the crowd attempting to make her way to the bar to find somewhere to sit. A gentleman always gave up his seat for a lady. By the time she reached the bar, Rawn and four other musicians were walking to a corner of the room and stepping up on the elevated platform. The area closest to the platform was set up like a cozy living room with intimately arranged velvet chairs, sofas and ottomans of deep charcoal and vermilion, and lava lamps that glowed in psychedelic colors against the dim backdrop of the club. The area was roped off, and beyond the rope were conventional nightclub tables which surrounded the platform. On nights when a band did not play, the platform was made into a dance floor.
The musicians began to play a breezy number, and when it ended, they eased into another song. In this number the primary instrument was the piano, and for most of the performance Rawn played solo. D’Becca never saw him so loose, so secure within himself. It struck her how much time she had spent with him but had not noticed the lights and shadows of his persona; and she realized how intimate they had been without really getting to know each other. In her head she saw him as a mysterious yet sensitive schoolteacher, not someone who sat in a dim club, traces of alcohol mixed with body odor and perfume and cologne suspended in the air, playing jazz. But he was fully in the moment, and played like it was his life’s calling—a divine purpose. When the song ended, the crowd clapped and whistled. A loud, masculine voice bellowed, “Bravo!” from the rear of the club, and cheery voices, slurred by alcohol, echoed praise. The energy in the room was electric.
• • •
While she leaned against a wall, Sicily could see clearly that Rawn was in a good place. In fact, she had never seen him so free-spirited. While he was a confident personality, there were times when she felt Rawn overanalyzed life and he could be quite deliberate. An old soul, it was his gift and his curse. Rawn once told Sicily that he felt an unexplainable connection to his Haitian grandfather. He was a solitary man, contemplative, but he was likewise engaging and quite amusing. Sicily thought Rawn was describing himself. Despite her swearing that she would never set foot in the Alley again, something in Rawn’s voice persuaded Sicily to cross the floating bridge. After two years of knowing him, Sicily had not yet figured out how he managed to talk her into things.
The musicians had ended their set when a man holding a penny-colored drink in his hand stepped up to Sicily. “Howyoudoin’?” he asked ever so nonchalantly.
This man and everything outwardly about him was the very reason Sicily loathed the Alley: she had to switch up. To be polite, she replied, “Good, thank you.”
“You like da band?”
Sicily took a small sip of her burgundy wine. “Yes.”
“Can I refill that forya?”
To get a better read on the man standing in front of her, Sicily met his dark and narrow eyes. She put on her public façade and said, “No, I’m good.” She hoped that her voice came across neutral. “I have to drive back to Seattle. One’s my limit. Two if I drink it an hour before I get behind the wheel.”
“Oh, baby.” The man grinned. “Ain’t chew responsible.” He eased in closer because he wanted to make sure she could hear him over the noise—the chatter and laughter and a duet by Babyface and Stevie Wonder playing. He pressed his free hand against the wall, moving even closer to Sicily to the point she felt trapped.
Sicily smelled his musk, which might have indicated he had not bathed or showered prior to dressing up in his trying-too-hard suit and coming to the club. He attempted to mask that fact by putting on strong cologne. Or is that Aramis I smell? Sicily was rather embarrassed for the man. Besides his less-than-impressive style, the shirt sealed the deal for Sicily. A polyester blend, it was unbuttoned to expose several gold chains tangled into a large gold medallion. It’s so Mr. T!
“Are you a man who’s responsible?”
“Oh, yeah, baby. I takes responsibility.”
I takes responsibility?
She dropped her eyes in her drink. “There’s a woman out there who’d be lucky to meet you.” She stood off the wall the color of Sangria, and to put the chitchat to bed, said, “I need to find my friend.”
“Hey, listen, I’m Rodney. What’s yo name?”
“Sicily.”
“Sicily? Wow!” He never stopped grinning. Perhaps his most redeeming physical trait was his teeth. They were amazingly white. “That’s like Cicely Tyson, right? That’s one fine woman!”
Sicily extended her hand. “It was nice chatting with you, Rodney.”
Rodney held Sicily’s hand momentarily before he reached down and kissed it, and flabbergasted, Sicily’s eyes almost popped out their sockets. When he looked into her eyes, he said, “Whoever said eyes was windas to the soul, they musta’ been talkin’ ’bout you, lady. Are them your real color? I mean, you know, are they contacts? Don’t matter; I feel somethin’ in yo eyes.”
The Alley gained a reputation as a need-to-be-seen-there place. While its status leaned more on the musicians who played there, both renowned and local, the crowd it attracted made it the place to hang out. Hence, the clientele expanded, mostly because of word-of-mouth. Moody hired a bouncer from New York to weed out the riffraff. Apparently, the bouncer’s judgment was questionable. For a few quiet moments, Sicily held Rodney’s shifty eyes. She retrieved her hand, and with an insincere smile, turned to leave, saying over her shoulder, “Take care, Rodney.” He tried to keep the conversation going with something about exchanging e-mails, but S
icily could not bear another minute in his presence.
• • •
Rawn stepped up to the bar behind D’Becca, who was having a conversation with a woman seated next to her. The bartender, Derric, leaned against the bar engaged in their exchange. Rawn walked up behind D’Becca and playfully placed his hands over her eyes. She let out a girlish snicker while removing his hands. When she looked up to him, her face softened. D’Becca took his face into her hands, and they kissed each other on the lips. The woman seated next to D’Becca said, “Bejesus! The pianist. You were absolutely fabulous. You should be opening up at Carnegie Hall, or somewhere.” Her small teeth shaped her especially jovial face.
Rawn acknowledged Derric behind the bar with a nod. “Thank you,” he said to the sociable woman.
“No, really. You’re good. How long have you been playing?” The chummy woman picked up her rainbow-colored drink with an umbrella tilting to the side and sipped through the straw like she was drinking Kool-Aid.
“I started taking lessons at seven.”
“A rum and Coke, Rawn?” Derric yelled over the lively voices at the bar and Brian McKnight’s “Anytime” playing.
“Sounds good. Thanks, Derric.”
“My treat,” the friendly woman said, not directing her comment to anyone in particular.
“Candace was proposed to. She and her fiancé went shopping for rings today.”
The friendly woman, Candace, held out her hand to show off her engagement ring. Rawn’s left brow lifted subtly at the size of the karat. “Congratulations,” he said.
“There you are!” Sicily approached Rawn at the bar. “I was looking high and low for you. I collected two business cards and then there was Rodney!” Sicily eyed her good friend. Gingerly, she brushed loose curls away from her face.
“Sicily, I want you to meet D’Becca.”
Sicily and D’Becca shook hands.
The friendly woman extended her hand and said, “Candace.”
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