The only thing he’d gotten right was the nose ring.
Kate Crawford, in high-heeled boots, was all of four-foot-nine. Her hair was a springy mass of brown curls that fell past her shoulders. Her lips, painted a vivid red, were full, and her cheeks fuller. Fair skin, freckles, and bold eye makeup rounded out her look.
One glimpse, and Jacques got her immediately. Kate Crawford was rude and pushy because she had to be.
He’d also guessed wrong about her band’s musical genre. After their two — albeit short — conversations, he’d been expecting alternative punk. But what he got was dream pop. A little Silversun Pickups, a little Beach House, and a twist of Day Wave. But younger. And female.
Heroine was definitely hard to pigeonhole, and Jacques liked that. With his sound and theirs, they might be able to make something new. And Kate hadn’t lied. They were good. By the sound of it, even if they were young, the girls had been honing their talents for years. And the lyrics weren’t bad.
But they could be better.
Those were his thoughts as he approached the front door of her family’s palatial home in Bendel Gardens. The white stucco, sprawling two-story smacked of money in a way that the home he’d just left had not.
Jacques smiled to himself as he rang the doorbell, his mind’s eye turning inward to the hour he’d just spent with Rainey Reeves. She’d opened and closed a dozen times before his eyes — like a butterfly’s wings — and the show had been fascinating. He wanted more.
The door swung wide, punching a hole in his reverie, and he found Kate Crawford scowling in front of him. With the briefest greeting possible, she dragged him through the monstrous house — which also attested to money and lots of it — and she didn’t stop talking the entire time.
“Dad’s a personal injury attorney and Mom’s a pediatric cardiologist, and they are always at work, so Kara and I do pretty much whatever we want.” She told him all this as she pulled him past the formal dining room, a service kitchen and a “presentation kitchen” — whatever that was — and then finally outside to a brick patio that led to a custom-designed pool.
“We practice in the pool house,” she announced, tugging him by the sleeve past the luxury outdoor furniture. And then he could hear the resonance of a bass guitar and the accompaniment of a synthesizer.
Without hesitation, Kate pushed open the door of the pool house and yanked him inside.
“Heroines, this is Jacques Gilchrist,” she said, jerking a thumb back at him. “Jacques, this is Kara and Des.”
Des, the girl on bass guitar was an Amazon. Lean, long, with natural hair, clipped close at the sides, light brown skin, and huge dark eyes. Eyes that were trained on Kate after they’d given him the most cursory of glances. Kara moved from behind her keyboard and came at him with an outstretched hand.
“Hi. I’m Kara Crawford, Kate’s sister,” she said, and except for the dark hair and the full mouth, Jacques wouldn’t have known it. Their demeanors were nothing alike. But Kara had a good four inches on her sister — and she had Kate for a sister, so there was bound to be a contrast. Jacques guessed Kara probably never had to fight her own battles since Kate waged them all for her.
“I saw you last month at Agave downtown. You did a cover of Peter Gabriel’s ‘In Your Eyes’ that left me speechless,” she gushed, pumping his hand. “Say Anything is my mom’s favorite movie, and I love that song.”
“Wow. You saw that show?” Jacques asked surprised.
“We all did. It was the first time I had the chance to see you, but Kate and Des have caught a few of Epoch’s shows at The Grouse Room.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “I wasn’t eighteen then, so I couldn’t—”
“Enough smoke blowing,” Kate interrupted. “Let’s see if this shit’s real.”
They jammed for four hours. The shit was, indeed, real. And Jacques loved every minute. He slipped into Heroine’s songs as though they were made for him. Sometimes his voice harmonizing with Kate’s. Sometimes singing solo. About midway through the session, Kate handed over her Strat, and he led them through three of his songs, and Kara’s synth, Des’s artistry with the bass, and Kate’s voice made them all new.
Serotonin spiked his blood, and the rightness of the union made his feet leave the ground more than once. He’d heard synergy like theirs up close before— when Pal would play with two of his cousins from Arnaudville — but he’d never been a part of it himself, and it was the closest he could ever claim to a religious experience.
But even though he knew Pal would be able to relate, he didn’t leave the Crawford’s house eager to share the experience with his grandfather. He wanted — for reasons he couldn’t name — to share it with Rainey Reeves.
So much so that he texted her as he walked back to his car, the sun already draining from the sky on the cool April evening.
Jacques: Have you had dinner yet?
He popped the locks on the Impala and waited just a few seconds for her response.
Rainey: Not yet. You?
He grinned to himself. Her response hinted she welcomed the idea of having dinner with him. Their time that afternoon had been too short, and he wanted to sit across from her and take his time listening to her talk.
In fact, he was ready to start right then. He tapped her number and listened to the call ring through.
“How’d the session go?” she asked.
Her greeting made him smile. Did she somehow know what the afternoon had meant to him?
“Like magic,” he said, unable to tamp down on the excitement he felt. “I wanted to tell you about it. Can I take you to dinner?”
“Oh, I… I— Yes.” He could hear the anxiety in her voice, but she accepted anyway. Rainey had a blend of nerves mixed with courage he found disarming. The urge to reassure her warmed his blood.
“Do you like Pho?”
“Um… is that Vietnamese?” she asked.
“Yeah. You’ve never tried it?”
“I… don’t eat out often,” she hedged and then quickly added, “but I’d love to try it.”
The day could not have gone any better. Finding Heroine. Picking up Rainey a second time. Coffee with her. The jam session. And now the prospect of taking her to dinner.
“Great. Can you be ready in…” Jacques looked down at himself. Four intense hours of uninterrupted playing had taken its toll. A shower and a change of clothes were definitely in order. “… like an hour?”
He heard her breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I thought you were about to say ‘ten minutes,’ and I was going to have to lie to you.”
His laughter caught him off-guard. “Why?”
“Jacques, I cannot get ready in ten minutes,” she said, not a hint of humor in her voice. “I can do an hour, but in case I can’t, I’ll leave the front door unlocked. Just come in and make yourself at home.”
“No rush.” He chuckled.
“Oh, there’s a rush. I’ve been pretty much comatose since you left. I need to shower and rejoin the living.”
He laughed again. “That’s some nap. You must have needed it.”
Jacques heard her sigh. “I did. Sleeping in a chair in the hospital sucks,” she said. “I feel a lot better. But enough about that. I have to hurry.”
Rested Rainey was adorable. “Okay. See you in an hour.”
Ten minutes later, Jacques stepped into Pal’s kitchen to discover his grandfather, Floyd, and Netty sipping coffee. One of Netty’s chocolate pecan pies sat decimated at the center of the table.
“You missed a good dinner, yeah,” Floyd said by way of greeting.
“And a better dessert,” Pal added.
“I can still fix you a plate,” Netty offered, pushing up from the table with effort. “Got some good peppers an’ rice dressin’.”
“No thank you, Mrs. Netty,” Jacques said, crossing the kitchen to stop her with a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t get up. I’m going out.”
“Goin’ out?! Mais, you just got in!” Pal exclaimed.
> “Noodles, North, and neckin’.”
All eyes shot to Floyd. Jacques’s spine tingled.
“Don’t look at me,” Floyd said, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Them’s his words.”
Pal pinned him with a sharp look. “You gotta young lady, T-boy?”
Jacques rolled his eyes. He hated when Pal called him T-boy. At six-foot-one, it had been a long time since the nickname fit him.
“I’m having dinner with someone, yes,” he hedged. “And I need to get ready.”
“You feedin’ her noodles?” Netty asked, her nose wrinkling with disapproval. “You should bring her here for some stuffed peppers.”
Jacques fought his smile. “I’m sure they’re delicious, Mrs. Netty. Maybe another time, though,” he sidestepped. “Besides, between Albert and Floyd, there’d be too much competition for her attention.”
The three old folks tipped forward with laughter.
“Mais, Net, I think we’d be gettin’ in da way of dat neckin’,’” Pal said. His two friends howled with laughter while Jacques cleared his throat and made his excuses.
Upstairs, Jacques turned on the shower and stripped down while the water warmed up. He stepped under the hot stream and let the spray spill over his hair, his scalp, his neck.
Noodles, North, and neckin’.
A shiver danced over his shoulders. Floyd’s prediction didn’t necessarily mean he and Rainey would kiss, though if he were honest with himself, he had every intention of doing just that as soon as the right moment arrived.
Jacques poured shampoo into his palm and scrubbed it through his hair, letting his fingertips work along his scalp and down his neck. He snickered at Floyd’s old-fashioned expression for making out, but when he closed his eyes and pictured the porcelain skin of Rainey’s long neck, the term suddenly fit.
The thought of putting his lips and teeth to that delicious, white flesh sent his blood rushing south. Jacques rinsed the suds from his hair and grabbed the soap, resisting the urge to take matters into his own hands.
Not losing any time, he finished his shower, dried off, and went to his closet in search of a decent shirt and a clean pair of jeans. By no means was Jacques a slob, but laundry always seemed to be an afterthought, something he did when the need arose. And the need had arisen. He managed to find an olive-green Henley and a pair of black-washed jeans, trading his army surplus jacket for a charcoal blazer.
Checking his phone, Jacques saw he still had a good twenty minutes before Rainey expected him, and their neighborhoods weren’t far, so he descended the stairs and headed for the living room. He moved to the middle shelf on Pal’s bookcase. The structure held a few books, but mostly it held music.
Sheet music, vinyls, CDs, even some old cassettes.
The middle shelf housed Pal and Grandma Lucille’s old records, but it also held what belonged to his father, Xand. Jacques hadn’t touched them in years, but he knew exactly what he was looking for. It just took him a little while to find the U2 album, and judging by the dust that lifted from its neighbors as he pulled it free, it hadn’t been touched for years. Probably not since Grandma Lucille got sick and stopped emptying the shelves yearly to “clean behind and below,” as she used to say. Maybe not even since his dad’s collection had been stored there after he went away.
The jacket, with its brick-red border, gold lettering and central image of a ruined castle, wasn’t in perfect condition, but it was close. Jacques nodded in approval, tucked it under his arm, and made his way to the kitchen.
“What you got dere?” Pal asked as Jacques grabbed his keys and tucked his phone in his pocket.
He held up the album. “The girl I’m seeing tonight has all of U2’s albums except this one. I thought she might like it.”
The line of Pal’s mouth crimped as he pressed his lips together. “Das your pop’s?”
“Yeah,” Jacques admitted.
Pal nodded. “Don’t think he’ll mind none.”
“Nope.” It was all Jacques would let himself say. He failed to add that he didn’t care much whether Alexandre Gilchrist minded or not. If the album helped Jacques win the attentions of a beautiful girl, it would be one less thing his father owed him for throwing his life away and jettisoning Jacques’s in the process.
He walked over to Pal, kissed his balding head, and tucked the album under his arm. “Goodnight, y’all.”
“‘Night, cher. Be careful on da roads,” Pal told him.
“Will do.”
As Jacques drove, he listened to “Space Song” by Beach House, hoping its slow-drip rhythm and his own thoughts of Heroine would take his mind off the butterfly tremors in his stomach. That quickening in his gut he hadn’t felt since high school.
He didn’t question what it was about Rainey that did it. What little he knew about her called to him. And he wanted to know more.
When he pulled into her driveway, he remembered her saying she might not be ready. So, when he knocked on her door and was met only with the sound of Archie’s lone bark, Jacques tentatively turned the knob and pushed the door open. Archie stood in the foyer, tipped his golden chin up, and gave a longer, baying bark, but the dog didn’t approach or growl at Jacques, so he stepped inside.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, Archie whined and trotted up to sniff his shoes, wagging nervously.
Jacques reached down a hand to pet his curly head. “I hope she doesn’t leave the door open all the time,” he said aloud. “You’re not much of a guard dog.”
He stepped into the living room, the warmth of it filling him again with a sense of peace and contentment, and he took a seat on the sectional and put the U2 album on the coffee table at his knees. Archie jumped up beside him and laid a paw on his arm.
“What? You want me to pet you now?” he asked, lifting a hand and patting the dog twice. As soon as he dropped his hand to his thigh, Archie dragged a paw over his wrist, attempting to rake his arm back toward his little dog body. Jacques laughed.
“Okay, buddy, I’ll pet you.” This time he ran his hands down the dog’s back, liking the bumpy texture of his soft curls. As soon as he did, Archie flopped onto his side and gave Jacques his belly. “Wow, you’re easy.”
With his free hand, Jacques reached into his pocket for his phone.
Jacques: Just wanted to let you know I’m here. Archie let me in.
He listened for sounds of activity upstairs but heard nothing. Then his phone trilled.
Rainey: I’ll be another few minutes. That okay?
He grinned. So, she’d been telling the truth about needing plenty of time to get ready. Jacques wasn’t in any hurry. He hadn’t driven much that day, so he’d need get in some rides before he called it a night, but for now, he was glad for the hours ahead of him that would belong to her.
Jacques: Take your time. Archie insisted I pet him, and then he showed me his privates, so I’ve got that going for me.
He pressed send and then hoped his joke wasn’t too much for her. The sound of her laughter from upstairs set him at ease.
Rainey: You can ignore him, and he’ll eventually get the hint. I’ll be down in 5. I swear!
Shifting his fingers, he found a spot on Archie’s ribs that set the dog’s hind leg into full-on phantom scratch. With a bittersweet sting, Jacques remembered Ace doing the same thing. Ace wasn’t a puppy when Jacques had moved in with his grandparents after his dad was arrested. And he’d lived to be an old dog, dying in his sleep the winter before Grandma Lucille got sick, when Jacques was sixteen.
They hadn’t owned another dog since, but Jacques wondered now why they couldn’t get one. Maybe not a puppy, but a rescue. One that was already housebroken. Pal would probably get a kick out of that.
A noise on the stairs pulled him from this daydream, and he turned. Breath stuck in his throat at the sight of Rainey descending. She was slipping on a leather jacket over a little maroon dress with lace sleeves. Black tights skimmed her legs, and her feet stepped lightly in bla
ck-suede ankle boots. When she came closer, he saw that the maroon lace of her dress was an overlay that covered the bodice as well, letting the porcelain skin at the top of her chest and shoulders peek through. The dress drew in at her waist and flared out again in a short skirt with soft pleats. It fit her so well, he longed to run his hand down its length so he could touch every slope, every curve.
As good as her outfit looked, the best thing she wore was her smile. She must have noticed his appreciative gaze because she beamed as much as she blushed, and the effect left him dumb. Since his tongue wouldn’t work, he got to his feet and smiled back at her. And by the time she reached the foot of the stairs, he thought he could speak, but she beat him to it.
“You look great.”
Jacques shook his head. “No, you look great… stunning… amazing.” He closed his mouth before he could embarrass himself further, and then he remembered his gift. Jacques tagged the album and stepped around the coffee table. “I brought something for you.”
He handed it to her and watched as her eyes went from curious to astounded. “Jacques! Oh my God! Unforgettable Fire? You brought this for me?” Her gorgeous eyes, sparks of green and gold, lit for him and filled with a look of delight.
“Yeah, I noticed it was the only one you were missing. We had it at home,” he said, letting his voice drop. “I want you to have it.”
She didn’t need to know it was his dad’s. Probably something he’d bought during his junior year of high school. Before he met Jacques’s mom. When he had his whole life ahead of him. Picturing his dad at that age — young, dumb, but carefree — made something hard inside Jacques’s chest soften just a little.
And then softness, warm and sweet-scented, crashed into him. Rainey’s arms wrapped around him in a hug, and his took the chance to close around her.
“Thank you so much!” she said.
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