Songbird

by Syrie James

  They sat at a window-side table, overlooking the wide expanse of white beach and rolling surf one flight of stairs below. Desiree had never been inside Maximilian’s, although she’d often admired its stunning blend of plate glass and California redwood when she passed by during an evening walk on the Huntington Beach pier.

  The interior was both comfortable and sophisticated with its nautical theme, tables draped in royal-blue, solid oak chairs, and vases of chrysanthemums scattered about.

  She’d noticed several women’s heads turn as she and Kyle made their way through the crowded restaurant to their table. No wonder. Kyle was easily the best-looking man in the room.

  Their conversation flowed as smooth as the wine. The waiter, when he stopped to take their order, apologized for intruding, which made them laugh. Kyle seemed to want to know every-thing about her, and she was equally fascinated by him, each new and exciting detail of his life only whetting her appetite to learn more.

  “How long have you been working at KICK?” Kyle asked after the waiter had served bowls of thick clam chowder.

  “Two years.”

  “I read a review of your show in the Times on the flight down this morning. You’re quite a celebrity.”

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “It’s a pretty small station. Few people recognize me by voice, and nobody knows me by sight. Thank goodness.”

  “What do you mean, thank goodness?” Kyle sipped his wine. “I thought all performers liked to be recognized.”

  “Not me. My voice—I’m sure you’ve noticed. It’s so...throaty and low. It doesn’t match up with the rest of me. People have kidded me about it since I was twelve. My listeners seem to expect some tall, curvaceous beauty. You can imagine how disappointed they are when they meet me.”

  He fell silent, watching her. “I wasn’t disappointed,” he said softly.

  She felt a flutter in her stomach and wanted to look away, but couldn’t bring herself to break their eye contact. “You weren’t?”

  He shook his head. “I think your voice fits you perfectly.” He seemed to want to say more.

  She held her breath, waiting, wondering again what he was thinking. How would she respond if he told her she was beautiful? Would she believe it if he said the words?

  He glanced away. She swallowed her disappointment.

  “While you were getting dressed, I took a look at your library,” he said, picking up his knife and spreading sweet butter on a chunk of crusty sourdough bread. “Very impressive.”

  “My library?” She let go a short laugh. “You mean the books piled on the coffee table, or the ones stacked three-deep on the shelves?”

  “Both. I saw quite a few of my favorite contemporary authors and titles. And you have all the classics that I love and re-read all the time: Shakespeare, Austen, Dumas, Dickens, Twain, and Carroll.”

  She smiled with delight as she took a spoonful of chowder. “I ran out of shelf space long ago, but books are like best friends. I can’t stand to part with any of them.”

  “Me neither. My whole living room’s lined with bookshelves. Reading’s the best kind of company for someone living on their own.”

  “I know what you mean. Reading keeps me from noticing how lonely I am. I read while I eat, before I go to sleep—”

  “It does get lonely, doesn’t it?”

  She froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. His eyes locked with hers across the table.

  “Do you like living alone?” he asked softly.

  A current of awareness seemed to travel across the space between them. She lowered her eyes, toyed with the blue linen napkin in her lap. “I don’t mind it. I’ve been alone for five years. I guess I’m used to it by now.” She laughed lightly. “I’d better be used to it, anyway. I tried marriage once. It didn’t even last a year. I’ll never try it again.”

  “Never say never. Maybe you just married the wrong man.”

  “I don’t think so. The divorce was inevitable, no matter who I’d married.” She hoped he wouldn’t pursue the subject further. She considered the last months before the divorce to be the lowest point in her life. She preferred to forget them.

  “How about you?” she asked. “Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Really? Thirty years old and never been hitched?”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Thirty-five. But thanks for the compliment.”

  She expected him to add more, to explain that he, too, was against the idea of marriage. After all, she reasoned, a man this handsome, this charming and successful, could hardly have escaped marriage unless he had an aversion to the institution in general. But he said nothing for several heartbeats, just continued to look at her over the rim of his wineglass.

  She felt her skin grow hot under his gaze and she glanced out the window beside them, where the setting sun painted a watercolor wash of purple, pink, and gold across the sky. A few hardy surfers still sat astride their boards, rising and failing on the water’s dark surface like bobbing ducks.

  “I guess we can’t get married, anyway,” he said.

  Her eyes flew up to meet his, astonished by the stab of disappointment those words had brought.

  “We’d have two copies of every book in the house,” he teased.

  She laughed. “True. It’d be so...redundant. And since I can’t throw anything away, it’d create quite a storage problem.”

  He grinned in response but didn’t comment. She had no idea what to say next. To her relief, the waiter chose that moment to arrive with their dinners. For Desiree: a platter of mesquite-broiled halibut, with wild rice, French-cut green beans, and honeyed carrots on the side. When the waiter placed Kyle’s meal before him, she felt a pang of envy rise in her chest. He’d ordered lobster. Fresh American lobster, flown in that morning from Maine.

  “Ahh. Look at this beauty.” Kyle spread his cloth napkin across his lap. The lobster reclined on a bed of rice in reddish-orange splendor, head and tail intact, arched shell up. The detached claws, already cracked, were arranged beside a cup of melted butter. She could smell its rich scent across the table.

  She watched him pierce a wedge of lemon with his fork and squeeze it into the butter. Her mouth watered. He used the fork to scoop a large piece of white meat from one claw, dipped it into the lemon butter and lifted it to his lips. He caught her eye and stopped, the fork poised in midair.

  “I told you to order the lobster,” he said.

  It was true. The waiter had also highly recommended it. But the complimentary dinner pass stated plainly that lobster was not included. Favorite food or no, they came for a free dinner, and she insisted that at least one of them should take advantage of it. Besides, she could eat for half a week for the same price.

  “This is fine,” she said. She quickly tasted a piece of halibut. Firm. Meaty. Mildly flavorful. One hundred and ninety-four calories per four ounce serving. The healthier choice. “Delicious,” she lied.

  “Try this.” Kyle extended his forkful of lobster across the table.

  “Your first bite? No, I couldn’t—” Before she could protest further, he popped the morsel into her mouth. She closed her eyes and chewed, savoring the moist, buttery flavor.

  “Oh, yum,” she said. “A rare treat. It’s been ages.” She heard his laugh, followed by a scraping sound. When she blinked open her eyes, the lobster stared back at her. Her own plate sat in front of Kyle.

  “I got a sudden, uncontrollable craving for halibut.” He picked up the plastic bib the waiter had brought, leaned forward, and tied it around Desiree’s neck. “This looks better on you than it would on me, anyway.”

  Her eyes widened. “No, Kyle. I wouldn’t dream of taking your dinner.”

  “Go ahead. Enjoy.”

  Hesitantly, she added, “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She pounced. Picking up the lobster’s steaming shell in two hands, she turned it soft side up and arched it until the tai
lpiece pulled loose from the body. With one deft movement she bent back the tail flipper section until it cracked off. She lifted the tailpiece downside up, expertly inserted the lobster fork through the hole left by the flippers and pushed the tail meat out through the open end.

  “I can see,” he said, watching her, “just how rarely you get lobster.”

  “It’s only been rare recently.” She took a bite, pausing for a moment of appreciative silence as she chewed and swallowed. “I lived in Maine for a year and a half. Every chance I got, I’d buy a lobster or two at the wharf. Three dollars a pound, plucked right out of the tank, and cooked while you wait.”

  His eyes never left her face. “No wonder you can’t stand the prices here.”

  She broke off one of the lobster’s legs, softly closed her mouth around the open end. With lips and tongue she slowly and gently sucked out the contents. Across from her and watching, Kyle drew a single breath that was out of rhythm with the others. His green eyes glittered with sudden brightness, and a smile lingered on his mouth.

  All at once aware of what he might be thinking, Desiree felt her cheeks flush red and hot. She swallowed hard. Picking up one of the legs, she held it out to him. “Would you like to share?”

  He shook his head. “Not just now.” Finally he picked up his knife and fork.

  As they enjoyed the meal, they talked. Desiree found herself relaxing as the conversation moved from one topic to another. They discovered they liked the same movies, listened to similar music, and both enjoyed the theater. She told him about the wonderful Victorian house in Pasadena where she grew up, and how sad she’d been when her parents sold it and moved to Florida.

  Kyle had lived in Seattle all of his life, he said. His parents and most of his relatives still lived there.

  “Washington’s beautiful. Everything’s green all year round. From my office window on the tenth floor I’ve got a fantastic view of downtown and Elliot Bay. When the sun shines, the sky is the bluest blue you’ve ever seen.”

  “Do you come to Southern California very often?” she asked.

  “I’ve been down here a few times. But it’s too hot for me.”

  “Not always. Today you could have fried pancakes on the sidewalk, but generally it’s mild and wonderful—and at times, I’ll bet our sky’s as blue as yours.”

  “I’ve seen days where it comes close,” he admitted. He folded his napkin on the table and sat back in his chair. “But I’d still never leave Washington state. I like having four seasons.”

  “Well, after a few summers in Tucson and winters in Detroit and Bangor, Maine, I’ll take this weather any day. I don’t know how long my gig will last, but I’m grateful to be here, especially since I finally got my own drive time show. Seven years of nights is enough for anyone.”

  “Seven years? Why’d it take so long to get a decent shift?”

  “There’s a built-in prejudice in this business against women. We’re stuck with the worst hours for the least pay. Midnight to dawn—they still call it the Women’s Shift. And that’s one of the nicer names for it.” Five years ago, she explained, you rarely heard a woman on the air during the afternoon, even in Southern California. “They’re a bit more progressive here. Most deejays would kill for the chance to work in L.A. or Orange County. It’s the hottest market in the country.”

  “Why? Because you’re so close to the television and film industries?”

  “That’s a big part of it. A jock with a good voice can earn good money on the side in commercials, voice-overs, and animation—or so I’m told, I haven’t explored that yet. But the biggest attraction here is the pay scale.” She finished her wine. With instinctive awareness Kyle reached for the bottle and raised an eyebrow in her direction. At her nod, he refilled her glass.

  “AFTRA, our union, takes care of us,” she went on, “sees to it that we have decent wages and working conditions. Other markets aren’t so lucky. Just a few years back, I was working ridiculous hours for starvation wages.”

  “Really? I imagined deejays were paid handsomely. Like television stars.”

  “Far from it. This might be show biz, but we’re on the bottom rung of the ladder.”

  She reached across the table to offer him her last bite of lobster. He smiled and leaned forward, then closed his lips around her fork. At the same time his hand closed around hers. A spark shot through her veins at the warmth of his touch.

  “Nice,” he said, his eyes lighting up appreciatively. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to the taste of the food or the feel of her hand. He took the fork from her and set it down, leaned her elbows on the table, and wrapped her hand in both of his. “Why have you lived in so many places? Detroit, did you say? Tucson? And Maine?”

  “Change of jobs.” His hands, she noticed, were large and covered with dark springy hairs. They felt warm and dry and wonderful against hers. “In this business after a year at the same station you’re practically considered an old-timer. Unemployment’s always looking over your shoulder.”

  “Why is it so hard to keep a job?”

  “Ratings.”

  The candlelight flickered across the side of his face and caught in minute flashes the reddish-gold of his day’s growth of whiskers. She wondered if his cheeks felt smooth or rough to the touch. She wondered what color his beard would be. Brown? Or bright red, like the highlights in his hair?

  “Ratings?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath and continued. “If the station isn’t doing well, the program director often wipes the slate clean and starts off with all new talent. Or he might decide to switch the format of the station from music to Talk Radio or All News, which also requires a whole new crop of people. And there are so many young kids, beating down the door to take our jobs. If we forget to play one spot or say one thing the P.D. doesn’t like, he might decide to can us, try somebody else.”

  “Sounds too precarious for my blood.”

  “Not me. Once you’re in the business, it’s like a compulsion. Any other job would pale in comparison.”

  She watched, transfixed, as his fingers gently rubbed across the back of her knuckles. The tingling sensations that began there raced the length of her arm, down through her body. She wondered what it would feel like if his fingers were to touch her in more intimate places, in places that had been so long denied, and even now seemed to swell with—

  She tore her eyes away and looked down at the table, drawing a mental curtain over the pictures forming in her mind. To her surprise, their plates were gone, replaced by steaming cups of coffee. When had the busboy stopped by?

  “Cream?” he asked, letting go of her hand.

  “Y…yes,” she managed in a strangled voice. Stop thinking of him that way, she scolded herself. You’ll drive yourself crazy.

  She took the pitcher of cream from him and allowed herself a small dab. “We’ve talked far too much about me. Tell me, how’d you come to be such a power in the business world?”

  He answered her questions simply, but with enthusiasm. He seemed proud of his achievements, and showed no trace of conceit or arrogance. He studied engineering in college, he told her, worked for a while at Boeing, and eventually decided to start his own company to manufacture tooling and parts for aircraft. The business mushroomed after a few years, and he invested in other companies, including an engineering firm. Sparkle Light was his latest acquisition.

  “Why a soft-drink company?” she asked, after a rather bemused busboy had refilled their coffee cups for the third time. “Everything else is related to aerospace. It doesn’t seem to fit in.”

  He shrugged. “It looked profitable. Keeps things interesting.”

  “And you started the whole thing on a shoestring.” She shook her head in amazement. “I’ll bet when the other kids were playing cowboys or cops and robbers, you were out learning how to close business deals.”

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gazed out the window at the midnight-blue sky, which descended toward the
rippling dark water in gradually lighter shades of blue.

  “To tell you the truth, I never intended to go into business at all,” he said in a low voice. “From the time I saw Cary Grant in Only Angels Have Wings, all I ever wanted to do was fly. As a kid I was crazy about airplanes, helicopters, spaceships—anything that flew. I made models, read every book I could find on the subject. I vowed I’d someday be a commercial pilot or join the air force.”

  “So that’s how you knew the answer to that obscure trivia question about the helicopter. I thought for sure I had you stumped on that one.”

  He grinned and reached for her hand again across the table. “Lucky for me I got it right.”

  Why did she feel such a sizzling jolt each time he touched her hand? “Then why didn’t you become a pilot? What happened to change your mind?”

  “I didn’t change my mind.” To her surprise and disappointment he jerked his hand away. “Circumstances prevented me from becoming a pilot. I thought designing airplanes would be a good substitute for flying them, but…” He remained silent, staring moodily into his empty coffee cup.

  She read resentment and suppressed frustration in his gaze. Her fingers ached to reach out and touch his cheek, to smooth away the lines of tension she saw there. As she debated the advisability of such a move, he abruptly pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “Well, what do you say we go, before they start charging us rent for this table?” Kyle said as he paid the check.

  Desiree fumbled for her purse and quickly followed Kyle out of the restaurant. Conversation was strained during the twenty-minute drive back to her house.

  She sank back into the Maserati’s deep leather-cushioned seat and watched the darkened rows of stucco housing tracts whiz by. What had prevented Kyle from becoming a pilot? she wondered. He’d been so free to tell her everything else about himself. Why did he suddenly become withdrawn when that subject was brought up?

  He pulled into her driveway, got out, and walked her to her front step.

  She considered asking him in, then thought better of it. She reached into her purse and rummaged for her key. “Well, good night, Kyle. Thank you for—”