Know Her, Love Her: Daisy & Belmont, Book ONE (LOVE in the USA 4)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  “Okay,” she answered, watching Jack Lord with stars in her eyes.

  Just for that, Dexter decided he wanted nothing more to do with her. He followed Jack to the bar on the main deck. Jack made himself at home by pouring them both a glass of whiskey.

  “How did you know I prefer whisky?” Dexter asked, trying to hide his nervousness.

  “Who doesn’t?” Jack lifted his glass and took a drink. “My wife has been living with you. Can I ask you something?”

  Dexter threw up his hands. “Sure.” He tried to sound as if he had nothing to hide.

  “Are you fucking her?”

  Dexter choked. “No. She liked my place. I have four bedrooms.” He cleared his throat.

  Jack’s scowl deepened. “Do you talk to her?”

  “We talk. We work together.”

  “I’m referring to personal shit.”

  “Oh…” Dexter shifted in his seat. “No.” He couldn’t believe he had lied.

  Jack nodded as if he accepted that answer. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s okay. She sleeps late.”

  Jack glared at him. “Is that so?”

  “Um…” Shit.

  “Listen, Dexter, I’m going to need your address.”

  “I don’t know… Daisy’s still pretty upset.”

  “Then you do talk to her about her personal shit?”

  Dexter was in the hot seat. “She didn’t give me the details.”

  “But you talk to her?”

  He shrugged. “Well, we live together.”

  The look in Jack’s eyes indicated that he wanted to toss Dexter into the icy lake. “Right. So how’s the project going?”

  “What project?”

  “The TV show.”

  “Oh…” Dexter sighed, relieved by the change of subject. “It’s good. Daisy’s not the host anymore.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “It was her idea. She said the audience wouldn’t want to watch her be adventurous.”

  “I’d watch her.”

  Dexter stopped short of saying that he would too. “I agreed with her. She’s smart.”

  Belmont nodded. Dexter wondered what he was thinking. Did he think Daisy wasn’t smart? Maybe that’s why they weren’t together. Belmont was probably one of those rich pricks who’d rather have a woman who’s seen by his peers, fucked by him, and never heard by anyone.

  They stayed on the subject of the TV show. Dexter was impressed by how familiar Belmont was with Daisy’s work. He even made suggestions for future episodes. After the next round of whisky, Dexter asked Belmont why in the hell he was separated from a woman like Daisy.

  “What do you mean ‘a woman like Daisy’?” Belmont snarled.

  Dexter made himself more comfortable in his chair. “There’s a lot to her. Just when you think you have her figured out, she hits you with something else.” He probably sounded as if he was in love with the man’s wife. The booze had compromised his inhibitions.

  Belmont glared at him. “Sometimes we don’t understand each other.”

  Dexter was surprised and slightly sobered by the answer. “My ex-wife and I understood each other perfectly, hence the divorce.”

  Jack shrugged. “And?”

  Dexter scratched the side of his face. He couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “I still think whatever the hell you did, it wasn’t enough to make her lose interest in you. That’s all.” There was no use mentioning that he knew Jack had cheated.

  Perhaps Jack wanted to say more, perhaps not. But Grey joined them, so they changed the subject to how hot the women were onboard. They never got back around to talking about Daisy, and that was fine with Dexter. He found another girl to pay attention to. Hanna was her name. She was super thin with long blond hair, the exact opposite of Daisy. He made sure Jack saw them exchange numbers, but Dexter didn’t plan on ever calling her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Papa May Have

  I knock on Dexter’s bedroom door. “Are you ready?”

  He opens it. “I am now.” Dexter is wearing a blue shirt that matches his eyes and white-and-tan-flecked pants.

  “You look good all dressed up,” I remark.

  “So do you,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. I haven’t put on any makeup, and I just threw on a little black dress and the heels I’d left by the door. There was no use in going all out since Belmont wouldn’t be there. “The cab is waiting.”

  Dexter puts a hand on my hip. “You’re the one who’s supposed to make us late, not me.”

  “You couldn’t have known that I’m a decisive dresser.” I laugh as he walks me to the door. I apologize to the cabbie and thank him for waiting while Dexter locks up. Once we’re on our way, I ask, “How was the yacht?”

  He shifts uncomfortably. “Fine. How was the bath?”

  “Very much needed,” I say.

  He chuckles. “And that’s all you did today?”

  “I worked on a new article.”

  “Humph.”

  “Humph, what?”

  “You’re thinking about leaving us?”

  I sigh. “I’m with you now. Can’t that be enough?”

  “Hell no. Do I have to make you sign a contract?”

  “I’m not going to sign a contract.”

  Dexter blows on his palm and holds it out for me to shake.

  “Did you just spit in your hand?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Just a little. Put a little on yours.”

  “You want me to spit on my hand?”

  “A little, not a lot.”

  I lick my palm, and he’s entranced by the act. I wonder if I went too far by doing that. Belmont always warns me about appearing sexy when I don’t mean to. He says it usually starts something I may not be in the mood to finish.

  “You don’t wear makeup, do you?” he asks.

  “Every now and then, but not often.”

  “You’re that confident?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It was something Heloise said once.”

  “Your mom?” he asks.

  “Yes, my mother. I think I was fourteen. I went to the Beverly Center with a friend, and we got our faces made up. When I got home, my mom was on the phone. She studied me and told whoever she was talking to that she’d call them right back. She said, ‘Come here, ma fleur.’ Then she lifted my chin, turned my face in different angles, and asked, ‘What have you done to Jacques’s and my masterpiece? The one beautiful thing we made together.’ She shook her head and returned the phone call.”

  Dexter grins, appearing amused.

  “So I went into the bathroom, wiped the makeup off, and stared in the mirror, searching for my parents in my face. And I saw them. Since then, I hardly wear it.” I grunt thoughtfully. The enlightenment is slightly unsettling. “I guess I like looking in the mirror and seeing Heloise and Jacques.”

  “You look good with or without it,” he says.

  I hold up my palm. “It dried.”

  He weaves his fingers between mine. “Don’t lick it again. You’re with me now. I’ll take that.”

  Traffic is thick on the streets and sidewalks, as though the whole world had decided to visit Chicago tonight. I’m nervous about seeing Jacques. I’ve never attended one of his concerts. I’ve never been acquainted with his musical side, but Angelina has.

  A week after Belmont and I confirmed that I was pregnant, we flew to L.A. to see Jacques. He was very leery about our relationship, and granted, he should’ve been. But instead of voicing his concerns, he was rigid and cold. Perhaps if Jacques had said something, then I would’ve never married Belmont. I knew our relationship was happening too fast, and I’d even questioned whether or not I was the marrying kind. I sensed Jacques had the same reservations, but he had better things to do than correct my mistakes.

  However, I saw a different side of him after Madame Beauchamp, Angelina’s mother, died. He had loved a woman and his daughter. The woman wasn’t Heloise and the daughter wasn’t
me, but at least he had the capacity to care. For some reason, that gave me hope in myself. I always knew that I was more like Jacques than Heloise, so I thought if he was capable of love and making a stable home for his family, then maybe I was too.

  “Hey, are you shaking?” Dexter asks. He massages my shoulders as though I’m a prized fighter getting loose for a bout.

  I look at my trembling hands. “I’m nervous.”

  “What’s there to be nervous about?”

  “I told you Jacques and I aren’t that close. I’ve never heard him play live. I mean, other than at his mistress’s funeral.”

  “Did you say mistress’s funeral?”

  “My sister’s mother. Don’t get me wrong, I harbor no bitterness toward either of them. I used to blame Jacques and Heloise for their farce.”

  “What was the farce?”

  I sigh. The list is long. “Not loving each other, ever.”

  “Why would they get married if they didn’t at least think they loved each other?”

  I snort. “Think they loved each other?”

  “That’s how it all starts.”

  “When I was a kid, I never saw two people in love. I believe they liked each other. They used to throw these parties. They would send my brother and me to a neighbor’s house. Her name was Mrs. Crawford, and we used to wait until she fell asleep in her chair, watching the news. Like clockwork, at 11:58 p.m., she was out. Then Daniel and I would sneak out and go back home to see what they were doing. The first time, it was shocking. Jacques was getting a blowjob from another woman, and my mom was banging some guy who looked like Jesus Christ Superstar. The room was smoky. Naked people were in the swimming pool, screwing each other. It was an orgy of the gods.”

  “Damn,” Dexter says. “Sounds like fun.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, they were having loads of fun. And a lot of those people weren’t strangers.”

  “Shit, you’d seen them before?”

  “Yep.”

  “How old were you?” he asks.

  “Ten or eleven.”

  “And what did you do the next morning?”

  “I couldn’t look either of my parents in the eyes, but my mom went on with business as usual, and Jacques locked himself inside his studio as though they hadn’t made our home into a love den. I guess I believed mothers and fathers should be Carol and Michael Brady.”

  “Like on The Brady Bunch?”

  I chuckle. “I even told Heloise that. She said, ‘People like me are paid to make that shit up, ma fleur.’”

  Dexter chuckles. “So the orgies made you conclude that your parents didn’t love each other?”

  “Oh no. I realized that when they started bringing some of their guests home during the day, and sometimes at night. They would disappear into their offices to”—I draw quotes with my fingers—“‘discuss business.’ Heloise and Jacques stopped sleeping in the same bedroom. They only spoke when discussing which series she wanted him to compose a theme song for or her using her contacts to finagle hard-to-land projects for him. They were in it for the benefits. Still are!”

  Dexter shrugs. “Hell, Daisy, their shit is only shit if you look at it as shit. It sounds like your parents had a partnership. And hell, it worked. Look at them!”

  “I know. I don’t hold their mistakes against them—not anymore.”

  “Who said it was a mistake? They made you.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “But they lost a son. I used to think they would have rather have lost me instead of Daniel. Then I believed they wouldn’t have cared if we’d both gotten hit by a car. I still believe that. Don’t get me wrong, I have a good relationship with my mom now, thanks to Belmont, but I’m nonessential in their lives.”

  Dexter furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t know about that.”

  My frown deepens.

  “You’ve said a lot about what your mom taught you when you were younger,” he says. “It’s a lot of the same things I want my daughters to learn. And I would thank my lucky stars if they grow up to be like you.”

  I smile coyly. “Thanks. And you’re right. I used to look at it as Heloise messing with my head, but she was merely teaching me her philosophies.”

  “My mom knows how to fuck with my head too, but that’s not always so bad. Look at you.” He sniffs me. “You smell like life.”

  I gaze into his bright blue eyes, which are extra vibrant because of his caramel skin. I feel as if we should kiss or something, but I look at him and remember how it feels to have Belmont’s mouth on mine, especially while he’s thrusting into me. I look away to catch my breath. I think I’m getting horny for my husband again. “Thanks. So do you.”

  The car stops in front of the venue. The building has a strange shape, like something between a gray tongue and a horse’s saddle. We’re at least thirty minutes late, so the line is short. Dexter opens the door, and I slide out behind him. He pays the driver and holds my hand as we head to the box office. It doesn’t feel like romantic hand-holding though; it’s friendship hand-holding.

  When we get to the window, I tell the girl behind the counter that I’m picking up tickets for Daisy Blanchard. Her eyes expand, but she still manages to look at me as though she hates me. This sort of unfriendliness is common with the females I’ve encountered in this city, and it’s strange. However, she gives us our passes.

  An attendant escorts Dexter and me inside. The lights are down, and the venue is crowded. The attendant clears a path for us to the front of the pit. Jacques is center stage, playing the trumpet. The crowd is so tight that Dexter has to stand behind me and wrap his arms around me. He’s grown wood. I guess I can’t hold it against him. It’s a nice, hard, heavy load though—quite impressive.

  “Oh hell,” Dexter says.

  I get not only my temperament from my father, but my height too. He’s tall and lean, and he has the most incredible stage presence. I’ve never been this close to him while he’s playing. As a voyeur, I’m searching for something new about him, something I could’ve missed along the way.

  “Want to dance?” Dexter asks.

  No one else is dancing, but I want to bury my face in someone’s shoulder and think about what the hell is going on with me at the moment, so I nod. Dexter rocks me slowly to Jacques’s sensual music. I rest my cheek on Dexter’s chest and gaze up at the music man. That’s my father. I close my eyes, hug Dexter tighter, and bury my face in his neck. He doesn’t smell like Belmont, but he smells good in his own way.

  I remember my dad walking past the pool on his way to the guest house, where he spent most of his time. He’s wearing the same white loungewear he always wears when he works. He waves at Daniel and me. We’re building another doghouse for our nonexistent pet. Heloise and Jacques wouldn’t let us have a dog because they were positive we wouldn’t take care of it, and they sure as hell wouldn’t do it for us. They were probably right. Daniel and I were never home. But we wave back at our father. Then we look at each other for a long moment, and I continue holding the plywood while he hammers a nail through it. I wonder what Daniel had been thinking. What had I been thinking? I can’t recall.

  Tears roll from my eyes as Jacques plays the final note. The crowd applauds. I wipe my eyes and sniff back the rest of the tears. The spotlight turns off, and when it cuts on again, the beam is on Dexter and me.

  “Look who’s here,” Jacques says.

  I smile at him and wave.

  “Isn’t she something?”

  The audience applauds and whistles. A few guys shout, “Yeah,” and “She’s hot.”

  “Watch out now… That’s ma fleur, ma belle fille. My beautiful daughter, Daisy,” Jacques says.

  There’s more applause. The floodgates have reopened, and my tears are unstoppable. Thankfully, I’m still holding onto Dexter.

  “A man…” he says and waits for complete silence. “A man never knows how much he can love something until he has his first belle fille. There ain’t much I love more than you, ma fleur, and t
hat’s for sure. This one’s for you, baby.”

  Jacques announces Betty Moreland, a renowned nouveau soul singer. A curvy woman in an emerald gown with fluffy hair strolls on stage, and the audience goes wild. Betty Moreland is probably in her fifties, but she looks as if she’s in her late twenties. She waves at the audience and sings a few bars of “I Love You Too.”

  “Where is she, Jacques?” she asks in a soulful voice.

  The spotlight points me out.

  “Oh, wow… You would have another gorgeous daughter. Daisy?” She gazes at me. “Oh my Lord, glad you got a man, girl.” She points at Dexter. “Is she yours?”

  Dexter grins. “We’re friends!”

  “Um-hum…” She twists her mouth as though she’s not buying it.

  He laughs and shrugs.

  Betty’s smile is infectious. “Ma fleur, this is from your papa to you.”

  Jeez. I hadn’t called Jacques Papa since I was fifteen. Jacques winks at me. He gives his horn to a stagehand in exchange for a saxophone. The stage is set. My father raises the instrument to his lips as if he’s about to kiss his lover. He closes his eyes, and I see the transition from Jacques Blanchard into the music man. It’s “God Bless the Child.” Dexter wipes my tears with the back of his hand. I shake my head, because I’m upset with myself for being unable to control my blubbering.

  “It’s okay,” he says in my ear.

  Betty sings so beautifully. The emotion in the notes of the saxophone stirs my soul. I focus on Jacques through my tears. This is so surreal. I have been seeking the perfect moment my entire life, one that had some staying power, a life-altering one. That moment has finally come.

  When the last verse is sung and note played, I look at my father with puppy-dog eyes. Jacques hops off the stage, and we hug.

  He kisses me on both cheeks and says, “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Papa,” I say, kissing him back.

  We embrace tighter. As the concert continues, Dexter and I dance. I’ve never danced like this—not even in Louisiana at Madame Beauchamp’s repass. Those people danced, sang, and played music until the next morning. Before the last song ends, an attendant asks Dexter and me to follow him backstage.