Rainey slept on.
Jacques turned in his seat to face her. Her head was tilted back against the headrest, her ivory neck angled and her chin braced against her right shoulder. In sleep, her face had lost its worry, its outrage, its humor. She looked completely peaceful.
He knew he shouldn’t stare, but with her mouth softly closed, the bow of her lips made him think of raspberries, and his eyes wanted to have their fill.
Just then, another ride request came through on his phone. He stared at it. He could wake Rainey, accept the next ride, and be on his way.
Jacques pressed Decline.
Whatever time he had with her, he didn’t want to rush it. He tucked his phone in his back pocket, and it was this movement that woke her.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, shooting up and rubbing her eyes. “How long have we been here?”
He smiled. “Not long. Not even a minute.”
“Mm.” She shook her head. “I need coffee… Would you like some?”
“Yes.” He spoke without hesitation, and he saw that his quick response made her smile. Even if it was at his expense, it was worth it.
“Great. Let’s go in.”
Jacques got out of the car just in time to open the door for her. She thanked him, and he followed her up the path to the inset front porch, the one that cascaded with terra cotta pots, each spilling over with herbs and flowers.
She stopped at the orange double doors and pulled out her keys. “My dog Archie might jump on you, but he’s harmless,” she said, unlocking the door.
As soon as she opened it, a golden blur bounded out, jumped up on Rainey’s legs, and then turned and ran to Jacques, giving him the same treatment, before he darted back inside, springing high around them as they followed.
“Archie, calm down.” She dropped down to her knees, and the dog, practically vibrating with excitement, hit her with his squirming body.
“Is he a poodle?” Jacques asked, dropping into a squat next to her and reaching out a hand to the dog’s curly coat. Archie’s brown eyes and nose gave him a friendly look, and his golden curls yielded under Jacques’s touch.
“Something like that. Archie was a rescue, so there’s no way to be sure,” she said, scrubbing the medium-size dog until he stopped squirming and just drooped. Then he flopped onto the floor and gave her his belly. Jacques laughed.
“We used to have a dog,” he said, smiling at the memory of Ace, Pal’s Catahoula, with his patchwork coat and ice blue eyes.
Rainey shook her head. “I can’t remember a time when we didn’t. I’d be lost without a dog.” Archie gave a sigh of contentment as she scratched his belly.
“Seems like he knows he hit the jackpot.”
“Yeah, he’s spoiled,” she said, giving Archie a pat and getting to her feet. “C’mon.”
They hadn’t gone farther than the foyer, but once Jacques stepped through that into the open living room, he saw that the whole house — inside and out — was tongue-in-groove cypress. The interior was stained a rich honey — floors, walls, and ceiling. Framed artwork and wall hangings broke up the view, making the power of the woodwork that much more arresting.
His lungs filled. Not simply because of the beauty of her home, but because the surroundings made him feel like he could catch his breath. Breathe deep.
“Wow,” he murmured. “It doesn’t feel like we’re in town anymore.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I love this house.” She gestured to the living area with its welcoming furniture — a deep sectional sofa, moss-colored but scattered with crocheted orange and turquoise throw pillows, and a low coffee table. “Make yourself at home. I’ll start the coffee.” She turned then to the right where the room opened to a galley kitchen, separated from the living room by a counter flanked with stools.
He was about to take a seat on the sofa when his eye fell on the fireplace, bricked out in rough-hewn slate. Actually, his gaze landed above it to the vintage guitar mounted just over the mantle. Despite its obvious age, its round, aluminum body gleamed, and the gold plating at the top of the headstock teased him with letters he couldn’t make out.
“How old is this?” he asked, pointing to the relic.
Rainey turned from the kitchen counter where she was filling the coffee basket and looked at the guitar.
“1930s, I think,” she said with a shrug. “It’s my dad’s.”
He gazed back at the beauty. “What is it?” he asked, marveling.
“It’s a Rickenbacker Frying Pan, the first commercially made electric guitar.”
Jacques’s head whipped to face her. “No shit?”
She shrugged again, and this time Jacques caught a hint of impatience. “Yeah, my dad bought it at an auction. He’s…” Her voice trailed off as she frowned and searched for the words. “…kind of obsessed with blues history.”
“Really?” He walked over to the counter and leaned his elbows against it, hoping she’d see that he was much more interested in looking at her than at any old guitar. Even the granddaddy of electric guitars.
She tucked the coffee basket into the brewer and grabbed the carafe. “Yeah, so much, he named us after blues icons.”
“Rainey?” he asked, testing her name with a frown. “I don’t get it. Like I said yesterday, I’m not really into blues.”
She smiled then, looking pleased, and she carried the carafe to the kitchen sink and started filling it.
“Ma Rainey, or…” Rainey tilted her head and proceeded to recite. “…Gertrude Malissa Nix Pridgett Rainey. She’s considered the Mother of the Blues. I guess Rainey is better than Gertrude, Nix, or Pridgett, but I would have been okay with Malissa.”
Jacques shook his head. “Rainey is way better than Malissa,” he avowed. “Rainey is unforgettable.”
He watched a blush stain her cheeks as the carafe filled. He discovered he liked making her blush. Jacques wanted the chance to do it again. She moved back to the coffeemaker and poured the water into the reservoir.
“My sister is Billie Holiday Reeves,” she said, seeming to shake off his words. “But everyone calls her Holi.”
“Is she older or younger?” he asked, glad she was sharing part of her history.
“She’s six months older,” she said, and when his face betrayed his confusion, she shrugged again. “She’s my half-sister.”
“Oh,” he said stupidly as if this news clarified things. Six months older?
“It’s a long story,” she said, easily reading his expression. “Suffice it to say musicians aren’t really the most steadfast of men.”
Jacques winced at the way she’d hissed the word musicians. She’d said it with so much disdain he felt the air leave his lungs.
“I’m going to um…” she started, without looking at him. “I’ve been in these clothes since yesterday. I’m going to go change while this brews. Okay?”
“Sure, yeah,” he stammered, glad for a minute to get his head together. He watched her cross the living room and skip up the stairs, a sight he liked a lot more than he should have. Then he stood staring at nothing.
How the hell am I going to tell her?
Chapter 6
Rainey flew to her closet and proceeded to peel off her clothes. No time for a shower — though she needed one. She’d just have to make do with a bar of soap and a washcloth.
Her thoughts were running along those lines when she sped into her bathroom and caught sight of her reflection.
“Oh, holy hell.”
The barrette she’d clipped into her hair the day before had clearly fallen down on the job. What little she’d slept that night had occurred in the armchair of Holi’s hospital room, and it showed.
And now, looking at her reflection, she remembered the crying.
“Oh, Rainey, you idiot.” She grabbed a clean washcloth from the frosted glass shelf above her bathroom counter, turned on the hot water, and got to work on the dregs of mascara and eyeliner. She never wore much, but even the little she did was bou
nd to smear when she couldn’t keep the tears at bay after hearing Holi’s diagnosis.
The hematologist, Dr. Lambert, had gone over everything yesterday with the three of them — Holi, Ash, and herself. It wasn’t a death sentence, she’d stressed — probably for Rainey’s benefit — but hearing that it was life-threatening had been enough to tip her over the edge.
She’d pulled herself together and listened. They’d have to run more tests and then further tests to try to identify the cause of her aplastic anemia, which ranged from anything from exposure to toxins to viral infections to autoimmune disorders. Dr. Lambert had been honest about the fact that they might never know the cause, but that knowing would help them better treat Holi.
For now, the protocol was to continue what they were already doing, blood transfusions, antibiotics, and antivirals to help Holi fight her pneumonia and keep her from getting sick with something else.
Dr. Lambert had gone over the worst-case scenarios — if they could not identify the root cause or if the root cause did not respond to treatment. And Rainey didn’t want to think about those. She could only comfort herself with the fact that Holi was in good hands; she was getting the care she needed with the information they had, and they’d move forward from here.
The hardest part was accepting that this was their new reality. No matter what, Holi was going to be sick for a long time. And she was going to need Rainey’s help.
So Rainey had to try to be strong.
As she brushed out her tangled hair and swept it into a ponytail, a nagging little voice in her head told her she should be doing something to make herself useful instead of flirting with an Uber driver, but seeing Jacques again that morning had been the one bright spot in the seemingly endless succession of dark hours since she’d arrived at Lourdes.
She’d been able to relax talking to him and listening to his music. She’d been so relaxed she’d actually slept for part of the ride, and it was the best sleep she’d had in two days.
And the thought of coming into the house alone and staying there alone with nothing but her worries had made her shiver, so even though she’d never done anything like that in her life, she’d invited him in.
And if you don’t hurry up and get your shit together, he’s going to leave, she scolded herself as she loaded up her toothbrush and attacked her mouth while she dashed back to her closet to find something to wear.
Finally, in another five minutes, when she was dressed in a pair of gray leggings, a sangria tunic, and her black ballet flats, she headed back downstairs.
She found Jacques Gilchrist at the cedar armoire, which she had refurbished and retooled to serve as storage for their sound system and all of their music.
His wide eyes hit hers before she reached the ground floor. “This vinyl collection is incredible.”
“Thank you,” she said, hoping she appeared only half as rattled as she felt. “It’s a work in progress. Holi and I are both collectors.”
His gaze turned appreciative, and Rainey could only smile with pride. His eyes took on a measure of caution. “So this is all yours? Yours and Holi’s?”
“You mean as opposed to my dad’s?” she asked, raising a brow at him.
The two points high on his perfect cheekbones turned pink. He nodded.
Her smile grew.
“Yeah. When my mom finally kicked my dad out for good, and he moved to Memphis full time, he took his collection,” she explained, talking past the blush that stained her own cheeks. “Which, I’ll admit, is about three times the size of ours, but we knew what we wanted and where to find it, so we started building our own.”
Jacques gave a slow nod of understanding, his eyes watching her closely. “My dad’s doing twenty years at Angola for two counts of vehicular homicide, so if you’re pissed at your dad for being an idiot, I can relate.”
The words came out in his deep voice so evenly, Rainey thought she’d misheard them. She stared at Jacques long enough for a slow grin to claim his mouth, and he stared back, unflinching.
Rainey was so used to the sting of shame that came with any discussion of her father she didn’t think the two could be separated. But with Jacques’s declaration about his own father, that sting of shame eased. Not completely, but some.
She kept her eyes on his serene face when she asked her first question. “When did that happen?”
His grin held as something in his dark eyes changed. “Fourteen years ago. When I was ten.”
Rainey swallowed. That would have been a hell of a blow for a ten-year-old. “And your mom? Did she have anyone to help her with you after that?”
“My mom?” His eyebrows went up in surprise. “My mom split two months before, which is why my dad soaked himself in Jack Daniels in the first place.”
Her mouth fell open. She couldn’t help it. And the way Jacques kept his expression so even — that grin never slipping as though it were made of steel — let her know that he might not have felt quite as calm as he appeared. He was gauging her reaction.
“That… that’s terrible.” A stunned whisper was all she could manage. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.” She swallowed again. If he could come out and say that to her after only knowing her all of two days, maybe she could tell him anything. Everything.
She took a breath and opened her mouth…
And knew she couldn’t. His eyes narrowed on her, and she was sure he was trying to make sense of her tongue-tied struggle.
“I think the coffee’s ready,” he said gently, releasing her from herself.
“Right,” she said nodding, and then she moved to the kitchen. “How do you take it?”
He followed her to the counter and dragged a stool between his legs. “A splash of milk and two sugars. Thanks.” He spoke as though he hadn’t just shared the darkest moments of his youth with her. As though they didn’t still hold him hostage. He could bring them to light and tuck them away again just like he might try on a shirt.
For Rainey, it was nothing like that.
Shoving those thoughts aside, she opened the cabinet and debated for a second about serving him in an actual coffee cup with a saucer or one of the mugs that she used every day. Looking back and finding him giving her an easy smile in his black T-shirt — which she now realized featured a carton of milk pouring itself into the Milky Way — and army surplus jacket, Rainey decided on two mugs. Jacques Gilchrist was not the kind of guy to be impressed with saucers.
He liked candor. She could already tell.
She poured their coffee, handed over his, and stood across from him, leaning against the kitchen counter.
With his eyes on her, he brought the mug to his lips and sipped.
“That’s good,” he murmured.
“Thanks.”
She sipped hers while her cheeks colored again, and she wondered what they could talk about after his declarations and her contrasting silence. And then there was the rest of her life to consider. How quickly would he figure out that she almost never left the house? How long until he sensed that she was not okay? Weak… damaged… strange.
“So…” Jacques set down his mug. “You like music, but you don’t like musicians. Is that right?” He raised a brow in a way that teased her, and the tension that had been building in her chest melted.
She laughed at herself. “I guess that doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“I didn’t say that,” he offered, but even though he smiled, Rainey could tell he was waiting for more.
“Musicians are fine in the abstract,” she tried to explain. “I mean, I love musicians. I would totally fangirl over The 1975 or The Neighborhood or The Lumineers…”
She took another sip of her coffee and watched to see if this satisfied him. By the look in his brown eyes, it didn’t.
“It’s just that I’ve lived up close to that world, and it isn’t a pretty one. The famous musicians I’ve known in person — not just my dad — the headliners, the big names…” She shrugged, struggling to sound diploma
tic, not like some complaining brat. “…so many of them are too caught up in themselves to be very good for other people.”
Rainey knew this wasn’t a universal truth, but it was the experience that had shaped her. And she didn’t fool herself. Dylan Reeves’ absence from her life — as much as his presence in it — had done much of that shaping.
“You don’t like talking about this,” Jacques said evenly. It wasn’t a question; he sounded sure.
She laughed again nervously. “You’re right.”
“We don’t have to talk about it.” The left side of his mouth came up, his lopsided smile showing up again. But something in that smile looked guarded.
Rainey stood up straight, realization striking without mercy. “Oh my God.”
“What?” He frowned at her.
“You’re a musician.”
His eyes went wide, and then his lopsided smile wobbled into laughter. “I am.”
“Oh God.” She joined him, laughing, but she did so covering her face. “I’m such a moron.”
She could still hear him laughing when she felt hands close around her wrists. “No, you’re not,” he said, gently pulling her hands away.
At his touch, the skin of her wrists hummed with feeling. It was as though a bow, silken and white, dragged over a steel-cored cello string. The sensation echoed down her arms and into her chest.
“…I should have said something sooner,” he was saying, his hands still on her, her skin still awash in feeling. Thank goodness he kept talking because she certainly could not. “I was just testing the waters… making sure it was safe.”
Rainey gulped a breath. Safe? He was perfectly safe. She was the one in peril because now that he was touching her she didn’t want him to let go.
“I-I should have known,” she managed, shaking her head. “I mean, that voice of yours…”
He brought her wrists down to the countertop, but he didn’t release her. “I grew up with music — maybe not the same way you did — but it was a constant,” he said.
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