Jamal thought about the singing maid for the rest of the day—through the breakfast he attended, through the hour-long seminar he gave at one of the local high schools and during the black-tie dinner held that evening to honor Charles Grady’s life and vision.
When Jamal returned to the hotel, he hurried up to his room to see if maybe she’d left a number on the phone, but there was nothing. Frustrated, he looked down at his watch and saw that it was past midnight. If she were going to call she would have done so by now. He also realized that he hadn’t gotten her name. He called down to the desk and was told very politely that under no circumstances would the hotel reveal the names of its employees unless there was a complaint, and since Jamal didn’t have one, he hung up.
He took off his tux coat and pulled the tie free. Removing the gold cuff links from the wrists of his snow-white shirt, he wondered if he’d ever see her again. It wasn’t like him to be so driven after such a short encounter, but he was. Her phenomenal voice and attitude were more than enough to make her memorable but there was something else in the mix. He’d sensed chemistry, or had it been his imagination?
He hung his tux in the closet. Wearing a black silk undershirt and boxers, he padded barefoot over to the bed and climbed in. Picking up the remote from the nightstand, he turned on the flat screen and clicked through the channels. Nothing he saw held his interest, mainly because memories of the morning’s encounter wouldn’t leave him alone. What singer in her right mind would turn down Jamal Reynolds? he asked himself. Admittedly, he was a stranger and her skepticism was understandable, but his ego asked, how could she not know his name? Maybe she was what Marvin Gaye called a Sanctified Lady and didn’t do popular music, but she’d been singing Anita Baker, so that couldn’t be it. Whatever the reason he had to overcome it. The competitive producer inside didn’t want her to be discovered by someone else, and the man inside was curious to know more about her.
He paused to watch Sports Center for a moment to check out the basketball scores, but her face came floating back, along with her sassy attitude. In his world, aspiring singers threw themselves at the feet of producers like himself, but not Ms. Maid.
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 2
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 concert would help with the purchase of a new one.
The choir was in the middle of Kirk Franklin’s “Brighter Day” when Reggie noticed Trina’s quiet entrance into the gym. Trina waved and Reggie smiled in response, but the jaw-dropping sight of Jamal Reynolds entering on Trina’s heels almost made Reggie lose her place on the piano keys. How in the world? Focusing on the faces of the kids in an effort to calm herself, she did her best to concentrate on the music and not on the tall, dark and handsome man standing by the door, but it was hard.
As the rehearsal continued, Jamal and Trina took seats on chairs positioned a short distance away from where the kids were practicing. Sitting quietly, an enthralled Jamal watched and listened. He couldn’t decide which was more impressive, the voices of the choir or the musical skills of the woman seated at the piano. He knew her name now—Regina Vaughn. From a producer’s point of view, the name had a good sound. Trina had described her as about five foot three, ponytail, cute little body, and that was in her favor, too. He could already envision her draped in a gorgeous gown on stage. He noted the flawless autumn-brown skin and ran his eyes over her erect posture at the piano. He could tell by the way she was beaming at the students that she loved what she was doing.
This wasn’t what he’d expected when Trina invited him to tag along. She’d told him Regina volunteered at a school on her days off, and he assumed that meant in a custodial capacity. Was he ever wrong. He was blown away by her expertise on the keys and the way she directed the children’s intonation and pace. Regina Vaughn was multifaceted; something else he found surprising. Where he came from people were about one thing—getting that break and making it to the top by any means necessary. No one he knew had ever volunteered their time to work with an elementary school’s choir unless there was something in it for them, but that didn’t appear to be the case here. She seemed genuinely enthused.
He also noted that after initially making eye contact with him upon his entrance she hadn’t looked his way again, not even once. More accustomed to women clamoring for his attention, he was beginning to see that a man’s ego was not Ms. Regina Vaughn’s priority, and he kind of liked that. A rousing rendition of “Wade in the Water” ended the rehearsal. Before the children could disperse, Reggie stood and asked, “What time does the concert start tomorrow?”
Twenty-five kids answered as one. “Seven.”
“And what time are you supposed to report to the music room?”
“Five-thirty.”
She cupped her hand around her ear. “I didn’t hear you.”
Giggling, they shouted, “Five-thirty!”
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. You sang like angels today.”
The grinning kids grabbed up their coats and backpacks and headed out the door. Only after they were all gone did Reggie turn to Trina and Jamal. “Trina, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
Trina told Jamal, “If she kills me, my flatirons go to my cousin down in Atlanta.”
Reggie rolled her eyes. “Will you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Reynolds?”
He gave her a nod and she led Trina out into the hallway.
“What the hell are you doing with him?”
“He wanted to see you again, so I obliged. All he could talk about was you. Promised him I’d hook you two up.”
“And suppose I don’t want to be hooked up?”
“Do you know who he is?” Trina asked as if she couldn’t believe they were even having this conversation.
And before Reggie could respond, Trina went on a two-minute tear, ticking off a verbal list of all the singers he’d worked with. “And that’s just the folks I know about from reading Essence and People. Not only is the man gorgeous, but he really can make you a star, Reg.”
Reggie sighed. “Trina, you know I don’t want anything to do with the music business.”
“I do,” she said with sincerity, “but I also know that you’re wasting what the good Lord gave you and it’s gotta stop. Think how much you could do for Gram if you had some real cash to work with. Think about this school. You owe it to yourself to at least hear him out.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you’re going to have to. It’s not like you can snap your fingers and make him disappear.” Trina’s phone sounded and she fished in her big black tote until she found it. Opening it, she read the message and said to Reggie, “It’s Brandon. He’s outside.” Brandon was Trina’s current man du jour and owner of the building where she styled hair on the weekends.
While Reggie looked on, Trina texted him back a reply. Done, she looked up. “Gotta go. He’s taking me to dinner.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yep.” Trina gave her a quick peck on the cheek, followed by “Love you,” and hurried down the hall in her high-heeled boots toward the doors. “Keep an open mind!’ she called back.
Reggie couldn’t believe this. Outdone, she glanced back at the gym doorway and there he stood, dressed in all black and looking like a man out of GQ magazine.
“Guess it’s just me and you, huh?”
His low-toned voice vibrated through her like a softly plucked bass string. His disarming smile didn’t help. She fought to keep herself focused. “Did the two of you plan this?”
“Not that I know of.”
Reggie understood that Trina thought she was doing the right thing by hooking this up but…
“I just want to talk to you, Ms. Vaughn. That’s all.”
“I thought you were flying back to L.A. today?”
“I am. Taking the red-eye.”
He was persistent, she had to give him that. Dark-chocolate gorgeous, too, an inner voice crooned. She pushed that aside. It was also obvious that he wasn’t going to go away until he had his say, so to hasten that, she said, “Okay. You can talk to me on the walk home.”
“How about we take my car. It’s out front.”
“You’re a stranger, Mr. Reynolds. We walk or we don’t talk.”
Tough lady, Jamal noted admiringly. She was right about him being a stranger, no getting around that. However, it was freezing outside. Being a Californian, he wasn’t accustomed to temperatures in the twenties, and he was not looking forward to being out in the cold, even for a short walk. But to allay her fears, and to keep her from rescinding her offer, he agreed. “We walk.”
“Fine. Let me get my coat.”
Moments later she returned wearing a long blue down coat, a bulky knit hat and gloves. He had a coat, too, but it was lightweight cashmere, more suited for show than warmth, and it was in the town car. “Mind if I get my coat?”
“Nope.” That said, she walked off down the hall toward the doors.
Shaking his head with amused amazement, Jamal hurried to catch up.
Jamal was freezing. So far, they’d only walked a short distance, but his feet in the fancy, black Italian tie-ups felt like blocks of ice. His hands and head were no better, and he got the distinct impression that she was enjoying his plight.
“So, talk,” she said as they rounded a corner onto a dimly lit side street lined with houses that had older model cars parked out front.
“How long have you been with the school?” he asked. By the look she gave him it was obviously not the question she’d been anticipating.
“Almost two years.”
“Not the question you were expecting?”
“No.”
“Good. Keeping you off balance is probably my best shot.”
“And why is that?” she asked, glad he wasn’t finding this easy.
“Because you’re different.”
“Used to women falling all over you, are you?”
“Something like that.”
“There’ll be no falling here.”
“Figuring that out.”
They didn’t
need to look at each other to know they were both smiling.
He asked, “Do you enjoy being at the school?”
“I do. I’m hoping to finish my degree in Music so I can work there full-time.”
Another surprise. “How close are you?”
“Eight more credits. I had to withdraw when I lost my job at the hotel desk. Housekeeping pays a whole lot less.”
“Money from recording could help.”
“True, but I’m not interested.”
In spite of their not seeing eye to eye, walking beside her made Jamal feel like a kid in high school walking a honey home, although this honey was like no other. “Are you making this hard on purpose?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll give up and go away, of course.”
He threw up his hands. She laughed.
Jamal couldn’t believe how much he was enjoying her. “Woman, you are something.”
“I’m just a chick from the east side of Detroit.”
They’d stopped walking and were standing under a streetlight. She was looking up at him from beneath that knit hat, and he swore she had mischief in her eyes; there was a seriousness in them, too, as if she were trying to figure out who he really was. He told her softly, “I’ve never been turned down, and you’re not going to be the first.”
“Don’t be so sure,” came her softer reply.
Rhythms of Love Page 2