by Carla Ryan
You catch the bartender's eye. She finishes up her order and comes over. "I didn't catch the piano player's name," you say. "Do you know it?"
"You buying a drink?" she asks.
Do you have a choice?
"Ginger ale please," you say.
She gets out a tall glass and fills it with ice. "Her name's Marigold Jemison."
Does she have gray eyes? Did she used to work at a hotel bar in San Rafael? Is she single?
"Thanks. What time do they play until?"
"Eleven."
Ugh.
"Cool."
You pay for your drink and settle in, praying that Marigold -- you know her name! -- will make her way to the bar, but apparently fate doesn't like jazz either and already hit the road. Soon the musicians are back on stage, and you're fighting to stay awake.
Actually, the music isn't so bad. Jazz is definitely better live -- and when there's no singer. That shoo-bop skee-dat nonsense drives you crazy. It's also cool that the band is all women. Seeing a female drummer and bass player sharing a stage is refreshing. And hot.
But the one you can't take your eyes off of is Marigold, as you try to determine one way or the other if she's your mystery woman. Her name is an obvious point in your favor, but her keyboard is oriented towards the other musicians rather than the audience, so most of the time you can only see her profile, and the distance between the stage and your seat at the bar offers only a vague impression of that. At least you have a good view of her body from this angle. Her simple black dress hugs her full chest, which bounces every now and then as she shifts her position or gets really into the music. However, you don't need a front row seat to tell that she's the best player out of the three. Okay, maybe you're a little biased, but she's clearly the most comfortable of the musicians, and when she plays, the music is so interesting and catchy that by the end of the night your applause isn't entirely forced.
Popping a couple mints, you wait patiently as Marigold introduces the players again, and then the lights dim as they all start packing up their instruments.
Now's your chance.
Clutching your purse tightly against your side you make your way to the stage. You feel as nervous as you did all those years ago. Will this work? Is it really her?
Coming into her line of vision, you smile, about to say the words you've been rehearsing for the past hour. As soon as her gray eyes land on you, she freezes, whispering one word.
"You."
Chapter Eight
She's still gorgeous. Those eyes that have haunted your subconscious for years are as captivating as ever, and the desire to kiss those puckered lips burns as fervently now as it did then. Her dark wavy hair, piled in a high bun, sticks a little around the hairline from the warm stage lights, stirring up visions from your earlier daydream. But this is really her, your mystery woman in the flesh, and she remembers you! You search for the right words, but like the last time she spoke to you, you're struck dumb.
Maybe actions are louder than words.
You take a step towards her, ready to make your dream a reality, when you notice her expression changing from shock to disdain.
"Mary," the bass player says, unaware of the life-changing moment occurring mere feet away, "you're standing on my cord."
"What?" Marigold looks down at her feet and steps back. "Sorry."
During those few seconds, the truth of the situation sinks in. Marigold might remember you, but clearly not with fondness. If you let on that this meeting is anything but coincidental, she'll undoubtedly recoil. You need to play it cool. You need a new plan.
"Have we met before?" you ask her.
"No," she says flatly, folding up her piano bench.
Oh no you don't.
"I swear we have," you say, climbing the few steps to the stage. "You look familiar."
She doesn't look at you as she starts unscrewing her keyboard from the stand. Her bracelet, the same small copper key from before, shimmers in the light, and just like last time, it's the only jewelry she's wearing. "Just one of those faces, I guess."
"You sounded great tonight," you say. Raising your voice and looking at the drummer and bass player, you add, "Really hot."
"Thanks," says the drummer -- Willa something? She gives you a wide smile and winks. "You too."
A girl after your own libido. If you weren't already committed, you'd be more than happy to take those muscular arms home.
"Keep it in your pants," Annette, the bass player, teases.
"That's funny," Willa says, "because I distinctly remember your mom telling me to do the opposite last night."
"Oho!" Annette laughs in appreciation.
Marigold smiles indulgently but rolls her eyes as she heaves her long keyboard off the stand.
"Want some help with that?" you ask, reaching out to her.
"I've got it." Her tone isn't harsh necessarily, but it's sharp enough to draw the attention of her bandmates. They glance over at her, then at you. You decide to use their presence to your advantage.
"I know where I remember you from," you say, pretending it's just now dawning on you. "Didn't I hit on you... what was it... it must have been... it was the day I got my first investor, so... six years ago?" You chuckle in supposed disbelief. "Wow. I can't believe it's been that long."
"I think you've got me confused with someone else," Marigold says, zipping up her keyboard case.
"No, it was definitely you. It was at the bar in the TJ Hotel in San Rafael."
Annette, all done strapping her amp to a small hand truck, starts helping Willa with her gear. "She did work there back then," she says, earning a dirty look from Marigold. "What?" she protests. "It could be true love!"
No thank you.
Marigold's clearly thinking the same thing.
"I bet she shut you down," Willa says with a knowing smile.
"Totally," you say, laughing, "but I don't blame her. I was such a prick back then -- especially that day. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I'm pretty sure even I would have turned my sorry ass down."
Willa makes a point of looking at your butt. "Doesn't look so sorry to me."
"You should have seen it six years ago," you quip.
She grins. "You better claim this girl, Mary," she says, giving me another wink, "or else I'm keeping her for myself."
Marigold, with the long keyboard case strap over her shoulder, starts walking backstage. "No argument here," she calls without looking back.
"Harsh," Annette says.
No kidding.
Your eye falls to Marigold's amp and seat, secured to her own hand truck but still sitting onstage.
"Would it be bad manners to bring this out to her?" you ask the others. "I don't know what the rules are for touching a musician's equipment."
"You can touch my equipment any time," Willa says.
The idea is tempting, you have to admit. The path of least resistance has been your default for so long when it comes to women. Why not give up on the woman who is stubbornly opposed to you, and spend the rest of your vacation with the woman who is clearly into you?
"Normally it's a no-no," Annette says, "but I'm sure there's a second-chance-at-true-love loophole, so I give you permission."
Yikes. Enough with the love business. That almost pushes you over the edge to Willa's side.
But even as you imagine it, you know it wouldn't fill the hole inside you. It has to be the woman who said no. It has to be Marigold.
You wheel the hand truck backstage and find your way to the rear exit. Marigold is at one of only a handful of cars in the tiny parking lot, about to close the hatch when she sees you.
"What are you doing?" she asks, meeting you in a few strides.
"Annette said I could bring it out to you."
She takes the handle from you and wheels it to her car. "You didn't have to do that."
"I figured it was the least I could do after the way I behaved last time we met."
"I told you --"
And gave you the tingles.
"The truth is," you continue, "that was one of the most important days of my life, but I can't think about that day without attaching an asterisk to it, without regretting how it ended."
She unhitches the amp from the hand truck and heaves it into the back of the car beside the keyboard and bench. "Because I didn't sleep with you?" she accuses.
Aha! She admitted she remembers! Don't smile. Don't smile!
"Because I thought getting a yes from one person meant I deserved one from you too."
She grabs a sweater from the back of her car and puts it on before slapping the hatch shut. Crossing her arms, she turns her full attention on you for the first time. The breeze blows strands of hair across her cheek, and you fight the urge to kiss them away.
"Why are you telling me all this?" she asks.
"Don't you think it's a crazy coincidence that we're meeting up again? That less than 24 hours after I arrive in town I run into you?"
"So?"
"You really are not a romantic, are you?" you ask, liking her the better for it.
Her frown deepens.
Wow. She is tough. Time for the hail Mary.
Ha! Nice pun.
"Okay, fine," you say, going serious. "I'm not going to be that girl again. I know when to back off. It's just... I'm on vacation -- my first vacation in a long time. I'll spare you the details, but I came out here hoping to figure out why, when everything about my life is going perfectly, why the hell none of it makes me happy anymore. Now I'm thinking maybe part of the answer to that question is... you."
Ooh, that was good.
Maybe too good. You got a little carried away there. Don't forget: you're not here to bare your soul to this woman, you're here to get her to bare her body to you.
Your honesty has worked its magic though, allowing you a peek beneath the cloak of hostility she's been wearing since she recognized you. Her arms are still crossed, her brow still furrowed, but her eyes are studying you with the same intensity -- the same desire -- that they held all those years ago.
It's working. She's going to give in this time.
You hold your breath, silently begging her to say something -- or even better, do something. Her lips part.
"Awww," says a voice behind you.
Another voice hushes the first one, but once again the spell has been broken. Marigold glares at the people behind you, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to keep from doing the same.
"Sorry," Annette says weakly, stepping through the dark doorway into the lot. "That was just so sweet."
"But did it work?" Willa asks from beside her.
Marigold looks back at you, hidden behind her cloak once again. "Enjoy your vacation," she says, and without another look in your direction, she gets into her car and drives away.
Willa and Annette start loading up their cars in the next two spots. "I am so, so sorry about that," Annette says, "but it really was the most romantic thing I've ever heard in real life. I can't believe she said no to you."
"I can," Willa says. "I love Mary, but romance is about as low as it can get on her to do list."
Still rooted to the pavement, you stare at the road where Marigold's car disappeared, unable to believe it's over. You couldn't have come this close to lose her now!
"I think you should keep trying," Annette says. "Go surprise her at school or something, like in the movies."
"Is she a teacher?" you ask.
"Yeah, over at the --"
"I don't think that's a good idea," Willa says, giving Annette a stern look. "Besides, if you're only in town for vacation, there's no use anyway. Mary's not the bam-bam bye-bye type."
"That's not what she's looking for though," Annette says, coming to your defense. "You heard what she said. She's looking for love."
"It's not up to us to get in the middle," Willa replies firmly. "If Mary says no, we can't say yes for her. Sorry," she adds, looking at you.
So this is it. This is how it ends. You know her name, but what good does that do you? Looking her up online and trying to coordinate another "accidental" encounter is a bit too close to stalking for your comfort level -- you're pushing that boundary as it is even being out here. The dream is officially over.
"No, I understand." You start walking towards the street, slowly, your arms and legs feeling like they've doubled in weight within the last sixty seconds. "See you guys."
Annette makes a sympathetic whimpering noise.
"You're still welcome to come back to my place," Willa says. "I'm sure we could find a way to lift your spirits."
It's a testament to how depressed you feel that you're hardly tempted at all to say yes. "Thanks, but no. Good night."
You're almost to your car when Annette's SUV pulls up beside you.
"I don't care what Willa says," she calls through the passenger window. "Everyone needs romance in their life, even teachers at Mexia Elementary School. Oops! Did I say that?"
With a grin and a wave, Annette pulls away and drives off. Hope flares back to life in your chest.
The dream is officially back on!
Chapter Nine
"Can I help you?" the intercom asks.
You smile at the camera mounted to the brick wall of the school and say, "I'm here to see Marigold Jemison." Holding up the bouquet of flowers and gift basket of teaching supplies, you add, "It's a surprise."
The door buzzes and you hear the lock disengage.
"You'll have to wait in the lobby until the children have all been dismissed," the secretary says.
"That's fine, thank you." You take a seat on the only bench in the small room as a steady stream of parents file in, signing out their children for pick up.
Thanks to Annette's tip and another amazing night's sleep, you're refreshed and ready to dive back in. Based on last night, however, you've been forced to adjust your expectations. Barring a miracle, getting Marigold into bed isn't going to happen in the next five days. You have to go long for this game, using patience and persistence to convince her that you're worth it.
Surprisingly, you're okay with this turn of events. You've never done this sort of thing before, always preferring to get physical as soon as possible, and the challenge intrigues you. The toughest part to manage will be all of the emotional stuff. You want to hook her enough to be comfortable sleeping with you, but not so much that she falls for you.
You're not a monster.
One of the parents holds the door for someone, and from outside a woman's voice cuts through your thoughts.
"...not in this business to make them feel better, you're in this business to make money."
Oh no. You know that uncompromising voice.
Raj!
Jumping up, you turn your back to the sign-in sheet, holding the flowers beside your face as you pretend to read the newsletters posted on the bulletin board.
"Trust your instincts..." she says.
Yup. That's definitely her. She must be here to pick up her grandson. Why does he have to go to this school??
She's only a few feet away. If she notices you, she'll find out that you're not working on Spare's growth strategy like she advised. She could even leave the board if she doesn't think you're managing the company well.
I needed a vacation! you mentally shout at her.
Thankfully there's no cause for you to say it out loud. Still on her phone, she passes right behind you and enters the school, joining the rest of the adults waiting in the cafeteria.
Yikes. That was close. On the slim chance that she comes back into the lobby, you stay turned away from the interior door until the secretary gives you the signal that you can go in. Even then you hightail past the cafeteria with the flowers by your head.
The wide hallway walls are decorated with the standard student art, mura
ls of nature scenes, and inspirational sayings. One self-portrait, of a boy with orange hair, catches your eye. Far superior in detail and skill, the picture also differs from the others in style as the only one not painted as a flat face-forward image. Instead, the artist was channeling his inner Picasso, representing himself via cubism. The name at the bottom doesn't surprise you: Gustave S. Everybody goes to this school.
Following the secretary's directions, you go all the way down past the gym, which is still noisy for some reason, and find room 27 on the left. Marigold's classroom is open but empty, the air thick with the scent of wet glue and pencil shavings. Based on her piano skills you were expecting her to be the music teacher, but according to the sign on the door this is the S.T.E.A.M. room. Instead of desks there are eight kid-sized lab tables, and the walls are lined with open bins full of empty egg cartons, paper towel tubes, and other cardboard castaways. Sunlight streams through the long wall of windows onto completed student projects, but other than a couple bridges, you can't tell what half of them are supposed to be.
Your gaze glosses over the colorful signs about science, technology, and the rest of the room's eponymous acronym, and settles on a headshot of Marigold above her desk. Her smile is bright and kind, exactly what an elementary school teacher's smile should be.
I'm going to make her smile like that, you decide.
Over the photo, rainbow cutout letters say Miss Jemison, and beneath it is a sign with her favorite quote:
"Above all, don't fear difficult moments. The best comes from them."
Rita Levi-Montalcini, Neurobiologist, Nobel Prize Winner
"Thank you," says a young voice.
You turn back towards the door and smile. "I was wondering if I was going to run into you."
Gus stands sideways in the doorway, looking past you to the long row of windows. "Thank you for finding my cat Shahk-Tastic," he says in a monotone voice.