by Nora Roberts
She got a nutshell education on artists like John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters, B. B. King and Taj Mahal.
And it occurred to her after they’d crossed into the city, that conversation between them never seemed to be a problem. After he parked, he shifted to take a long look at her. “You sure you were born down here?”
“It says so on my birth certificate.”
He shook his head and climbed out. “Since you’re that ignorant of the blues, you better check it again.”
He took her inside a restaurant where the tables were already crowded with patrons and the noise level high with chatter. Once they were seated, he waved the waiter away. “Why don’t we just wait on drinks until you know what you want to eat. We’ll get a bottle of wine to go with it.”
“All right.” Since it seemed he’d nixed the pre-dinner conversation, she opened her menu.
“They’re known for their catfish here. Ever had it?” he asked.
She lifted her gaze over the top of her menu, met his. “No. And whether or not that makes me a Yankee, I’m thinking I’ll go for the chicken.”
“Okay. You can have some of mine to give you a sample of what you’ve been missing. There’s a good California Chardonnay on their wine list that’ll go with both the fish and the bird. It’s got a nice finish.”
She set her menu down, leaned forward. “Do you really know that, or are you just making it up?”
“I like wine. I make it a point to know what I like.”
She sat back when he motioned the waiter over. Once they’d ordered, she angled her head. “What are we doing here, Logan?”
“Speaking for myself, I’m going to have a really fine catfish dinner and a glass of good wine.”
“We’ve had some conversations, mostly business-oriented.”
“We’ve had some conversations, and some arguments,” he corrected.
“True. We had an outing, an enjoyable one, which ended on a surprisingly personal note.”
“I do like listening to you talk sometimes, Red. It’s almost like listening to a foreign language. Are you laying all those things down like pavers, trying to make some sort of path from one point to the next?”
“Maybe. The fact is, I’m sitting here with you, on a date. That wasn’t my intention twenty-four hours ago. We’ve got a working relationship.”
“Uh-huh. And speaking of that, I still find your system mostly annoying.”
“Big surprise. And speaking of that, you neglected to put that invoice on my desk this afternoon.”
“Did I?” He moved a shoulder. “I’ve got it somewhere.”
“My point is—”
She broke off when the waiter brought the wine to the table, turned the label toward Logan.
“That’s the one. Let the lady taste it.”
She bided her time, then picked up the glass holding the testing sip. She sampled, lifted her eyebrows. “It’s very good ... has a nice finish.”
Logan grinned. “Then let’s get started on it.”
“The point I was trying to make,” she began again, “is that while it’s smart and beneficial all around for you and me to develop a friendly relationship, it’s probably not either for us to take it to any other level.”
“Uh-huh.” He sampled the wine himself, kept watching her with those big-cat eyes. “You think I’m not going to kiss you again because it might not be smart or beneficial ?”
“I’m in a new place, with a new job. I’ve taken my kids to a new place. They’re first with me.”
“I expect they would be. But I don’t expect this is your first dinner with a man since you lost your husband.”
“I’m careful.”
“I never would’ve guessed. How’d he die?”
“Plane crash. Commuter plane. He was on his way back from a business trip. I had the TV on, and there was a bulletin. They didn’t give any names, but I knew it was Kevin’s plane. I knew he was gone before they came to tell me.”
“You know what you were wearing when you heard the bulletin, what you were doing, where you were standing.” His voice was quiet, his eyes were direct. “You know every detail about that day.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it was the worst day of your life. You’ll be hazy on the day before, the day after, but you’ll never forget a single detail of that day.”
“You’re right.” And his intuition surprised her, touched her. “Have you lost someone?”
“No, not like what you mean, or how you mean. But a woman like you? She doesn’t get married, stay married, unless the man’s at the center of her life. Something yanks that center out of you, you never forget.”
“No, I won’t.” It was carved into her heart. “That’s the most insightful and accurate, and comforting expression of sympathy anyone’s given me. I hope I don’t insult you by saying it comes as a surprise.”
“I don’t insult that easy. You lost their father, but you’ve built a life—looks like a good one—for your kids. That takes work. You’re not the first woman I’ve been interested in who’s had children. I respect motherhood, and its priorities. Doesn’t stop me from looking across this table and wondering when I’m going to get you naked.”
She opened her mouth, closed it again. Cleared her throat, sipped wine. “Well. Blunt.”
“Different sort of woman, I’d just go for the mattress.” At her strangled half laugh, he lifted his wine. And waited while their first course was served. “But as it is, you’re a ... since we’re having this nice meal together I’ll say you’re a cautious sort of woman.”
“You wanted to say tight-ass.”
He grinned, appreciating her. “You’ll never know. Added to that, we both work for Roz, and I wouldn’t do anything to mess her up. Not intentionally. You’ve got two kids to worry about. And I don’t know how tender you might be yet over losing your husband. So instead of my hauling you off to bed, we’re having dinner conversation.”
She took a minute to think it through. At the root, she couldn’t find anything wrong with his logic. In fact, she agreed with it. “All right. First Roz. I won’t do anything to mess her up either. So whatever happens here, we agree to maintain a courteous working relationship.”
“Might not always be courteous, but it’ll be about the work.”
“Fair enough. My boys are my priority, first and last. Not only because they have to be,” she added, “but because I want them to be. Nothing will change that.”
“Anything did, I wouldn’t have much respect for you.”
“Well.” She waited just a moment because his response had not only been blunt again, but was one she appreciated a great deal. “As for Kevin, I loved him very much. Losing him cut me in two, the part that just wanted to lie down and die, and the part that had to go through the grief and the anger and the motions—and live.”
“Takes courage to live.”
Her eyes stung, and she took one very careful breath. “Thank you. I had to put myself back together. For the kids, for myself. I’ll never feel for another man exactly what I felt for him. I don’t think I should. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be interested in and attracted to someone else. It doesn’t mean I’m fated to live my life alone.”
He sat for a moment. “How can such a sensible woman have an emotional attachment to forms and invoices?”
“How can such a talented man be so disorganized?” More relaxed than she’d imagined, she enjoyed her salad. “I drove by the Dawson job again.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I realize you still have a few finishing touches that have to wait until all danger of frost is over, but I wanted to tell you it’s good work. No, that’s wrong. It’s not. It’s exceptional work.”
“Thanks. You take more pictures?”
“I did. We’ll be using some of them—before and after—in the landscaping section of the Web site I’m designing.”
“No shit.”
“None whatsoever. I’m going to make
Roz more money, Logan. She makes more, you make more. The site’s going to generate more business for the landscaping arm. I guarantee it.”
“It’s hard to find a downside on that one.”
“You know what I envy you most?”
“My sparkling personality.”
“No, you don’t sparkle in the least. Your muscle.”
“You envy my muscle? I don’t think it’d look so good on you, Red.”
“Whenever I’d start a project at home—back home—I couldn’t do it all myself. I have vision—not as creative as yours, maybe, but I can see what I want, and I’ve got considerable skill. But when it comes to the heavy, manual labor of it, I’m out. It’s frustrating because with some of it, I’d really like to do it all myself. And I can’t. So I envy you the muscle that means you can.”
“I imagine whether you’re doing it or directing it, it’s done the way you want.”
She smiled into her wine. “Goes without saying. I’ve heard you’ve got a place not far from Roz’s.”
“About two miles out.” When their main courses were served, Logan cut a chunk off his catfish, laid it on her plate.
Stella stared at it. “Well. Hmmm.”
“I bet you tell your kids they don’t know if they like something or not until they’ve tried it.”
“One of the advantages of being a grown-up is being able to say things like that without applying them to yourself. But okay.” She forked off a tiny bite, geared herself up for the worst, and ate it. “Interestingly,” she said after a moment, “it tastes nothing like cat. Or like what one assumes cat might taste like. It’s actually good.”
“You might just get back some of your southern. We’ll have you eating grits next.”
“I don’t think so. Those I have tried. Anyway, are you doing the work yourself? On your house.”
“Most of it. Land’s got some nice gentle rises, good drainage. Some fine old trees on the north side. A couple of pretty sycamores and some hickory, with some wild azalea and mountain laurel scattered around. Some open southern exposure. Plenty of frontage, and a small creek running on the back edge.”
“What about the house?”
“What?”
“The house. What kind of house is it?”
“Oh. Two-story frame. It’s probably too much space for me, but it came with the land.”
“It sounds like the sort of thing I’ll be looking for in a few months. Maybe if you hear of anything on the market you could let me know.”
“Sure, I can do that. Kids doing all right at Roz’s?”
“They’re doing great. But at some point we’ll need to have our own place. It’s important they have their own. I don’t want anything elaborate—couldn’t afford it, anyway. And I don’t mind fixing something up. I’m fairly handy. And I’d really prefer it wasn’t haunted.”
She stopped herself when he sent her a questioning look. Then shook her head. “Must be the wine because I didn’t know that was in my head.”
“Why is it?”
“I saw—thought I saw,” she corrected, “this ghost reputed to haunt the Harper house. In the mirror, in my bedroom, just before you picked me up. It wasn’t Hayley. She came in an instant later, and I tried to convince myself it had been her. But it wasn’t. And at the same time, it could hardly have been anyone else because ... it’s just not possible.”
“Sounds like you’re still trying to convince yourself.”
“Sensible woman, remember.” She tapped a finger on the side of her head. “Sensible women don’t see ghosts, or hear them singing lullabies. Or feel them.”
“Feel them how?”
“A chill, a ... feeling.” She gave a quick shudder and tried to offset it with a quick laugh. “I can’t explain it because it’s not rational. And tonight, that feeling was very intense. Brief, but intense. And hostile. No, that’s not right. ‘Hostile’ is too strong a word. Disapproving.”
“Why don’t you talk to Roz about it? She could give you the history, as far as she knows it.”
“Maybe. You said you’ve never seen it?”
“Nope.”
“Or felt it?”
“Can’t say I have. But sometimes when I’ve been working a job, walking some land, digging into it, I’ve felt something. You plant something, even if it dies off, it leaves something in the soil. Why shouldn’t a person leave something behind?”
It was something to think about, later, when her mind wasn’t so distracted. Right now she had to think about the fact that she was enjoying his company. And there was the basic animal attraction to consider. If she continued to enjoy his company, and the attraction didn’t fade off, they were going to end up in bed.
Then there were all the ramifications and complications that would entail. In addition, their universe was finite. They worked for the same person in the same business. It wasn’t the sort of atmosphere where two people could have an adult affair without everyone around them knowing they were having it.
So she’d have to think about that, and just how uncomfortable it might be to have her private life as public knowledge.
After dinner, they walked over to Beale Street to join the nightly carnival. Tourists, Memphians out on the town, couples, and clutches of young people wandered the street lit by neon signs. Music trickled out of doorways, and people flooded in and out of shops.
“Used to be a club along here called the Monarch. Those shoes going to give you any trouble with this?”
“No.”
“Good. Great legs, by the way.”
“Thanks. I’ve had them for years.”
“So, the Monarch,” he continued. “Happened it shared a back alley with an undertaker. Made it easy for the owners to dispose of gunshot victims.”
“That’s a pretty piece of Beale Street trivia.”
“Oh, there’s plenty more. Blues, rock—it’s the home of both—voodoo, gambling, sex, scandal, bootleg whiskey, pickpockets, and murder.”
Music pumped out of a club as he talked, and struck Stella as southern-fried in the best possible way.
“It’s all been right here,” he continued. “But you oughta just enjoy the carnival the way it is now.”
They joined a crowd lining the sidewalk to watch three boys do running flips and gymnastics up and down the center of the street.
“I can do that.” She nodded toward one of the boys as he walked on his hands back to their tip box.
“Uh-huh.”
“I can. I’m not going to demonstrate here and now, but I certainly can. Six years of gymnastic lessons. I can bend my body like a pretzel. Well, half a pretzel now, but at one time ...”
“You trying to get me hot?”
She laughed. “No.”
“Just a side effect, then. What does half a pretzel look like?”
“Maybe I’ll show you sometime when I’m more appropriately dressed.”
“You are trying to make me hot.”
She laughed again and watched the performers. After Logan dropped money in the tip box, they strolled along the sidewalk. “Who’s Betty Paige and why is her face on these shirts?”
He stopped dead. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“I guess you didn’t just live up north, you lived up north in a cave. Betty Paige, legendary fifties pinup and general sex goddess.”
“How do you know? You weren’t even born in the fifties.”
“I make it a point to learn my cultural history, especially when it involves gorgeous women who strip. Look at that face. The girl next door with the body of Venus.”
“She probably couldn’t walk on her hands,” Stella said, and casually strolled away when he laughed.
They walked off the wine, and the meal, meandering down one side of the street and back up the other. He tempted her with a blues club, but after a brief, internal debate she shook her head.
“I really can’t. It’s already later than I’d planned. I’ve got a full day t
omorrow, and I’ve imposed on Roz long enough tonight.”
“We’ll rain-check it.”
“And a blues club will go on my list. Got more checks tonight. Beale Street and catfish. I’m practically a native now.”
“Next thing you know you’ll be frying up the cat and putting peanuts in your Coke.”
“Why in the world would I put peanuts in my Coke? Never mind.” She waved him away as he drove out of town. “It’s a southern thing. How about if I just say I had a good time tonight?”
“That’ll work.”
It hadn’t been complicated, she realized, or boring, or stressful. At least not after the first few minutes. She’d forgotten, or nearly, what it could be like to be both stimulated and relaxed around a man.
Or to wonder, and there was no point pretending she wasn’t wondering, what it would be like to have those hands—those big, work-hardened hands—on her.
Roz had left lights on for her. Front porch, foyer, her own bedroom. She saw the gleam of them as they drove up, and found it a motherly thing to do. Or big sisterly, Stella supposed, as Roz wasn’t nearly old enough to be her mother.
Her mother had been too busy with her own life and interests to think about little details like front porch lights. Maybe, Stella thought, that was one of the reasons she herself was so compulsive about them.
“Such a beautiful house,” Stella said. “The way it sort of glimmers at night. It’s no wonder she loves it.”
“No place else quite like it. Spring comes in, the gardens just blow you away.”
“She ought to hold a house and garden tour.”
“She used to, once a year. Hasn’t done it since she peeled off that asshole Clerk. I wouldn’t bring it up,” he said before Stella spoke. “If she wants to do that kind of thing again, she will.”
Knowing his style now, Stella waited for him to come around and open her door. “I’m looking forward to seeing the gardens in their full glory. And I’m grateful for the chance to live here a while and have the kids exposed to this kind of tradition.”