You're Still The One

by Janet Dailey

  Cathy was the only person in the world who knew all there was to know about Grant Dodge. And instead of judging her, telling her it was ridiculous to love a man she’d spent only one night with, Cathy listened to the love story over and over again without once losing patience. And here she was again, just when Rebecca needed her. Tears suddenly filled Rebecca’s eyes. Cathy immediately stopped talking and tried to hand Rebecca another beignet. Rebecca laughed, refused the treat, and tried to think of something, anything that would stop the waterworks. She hated this, how Cathy always took care of her, how just the sight of her best friend made her want to break down, how she didn’t know how she was going to make it if she didn’t find Grant Dodge and get this huge poisonous secret out of her for once and for all.

  “Let’s walk along the river,” Cathy said. “Check out the steamboats, work off the four thousand calories from these evil little doughnut balls.”

  It worked—Rebecca laughed, and soon the two were off, arm in arm, strolling along the Mississippi River, just two good friends enjoying the early morning sun, with nothing but shopping, eating, drinking, and dancing ahead of them. Rebecca was able to get Cathy an adjoining room, and she looked forward to being like young girls again, sharing gossip and makeup, running back and forth to each other’s rooms.

  After a nice walk, they headed back toward the hotel, and without even having to discuss it, knew they would end up wandering into little boutiques along the way. Cathy, who loved to cook, bought several spices and an apron decorated with an openmouthed alligator that said KISS MY ALLIGATOR. When they passed the jewelry store where Rebecca had purchased the bracelet, Cathy immediately stopped.

  “This could be you,” she said, peeking in the windows. “In fact, your stuff is so much better than this.” Cathy, along with being a good friend, had always been one of Rebecca’s best customers.

  “I thought the same thing,” Rebecca said. “I could open one of my own.”

  Cathy squealed and grabbed Rebecca’s hands. “You totally should. Our little town needs you. You could open it right near—”

  “Here,” Rebecca said. “I was thinking about opening a little shop here.”

  Cathy stopped talking and even walking. “I knew it,” she said. “Rebecca, I think I’m psychic.” Cathy sounded so serious, and her face was radiating a childlike wonder.

  “Do tell,” Rebecca said. Again, without the need for words, they left the little jewelry shop without even going in, and headed for the hotel.

  “I was on the plane, right? Just thinking about you, and wondering if the weekend was going to turn out how you wanted—and I was thinking, God, Rebecca could move to New Orleans. And suddenly it was like—oh my God! Of course. That’s exactly what she’ll do. And I saw you. I saw you in this little jewelry shop and living . . .”

  They both stopped and looked up at an apartment above them with one of the infamous sweeping balconies. They both pointed.

  “In a place just like that!” Rebecca said.

  “Exactly!” Cathy said.

  “So you don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “I think it’s fate, Rebecca. And with Miles in college, you’re as free as a bird. You’d fit right in here. I’ve always thought of you as this sexy Southern woman, even though you’re from Buffalo.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” Rebecca said. “I don’t even want to go home to pack.”

  “I’ll ship you whatever you need and put everything else in storage. Didn’t you get rid of a lot anyway, when you sold the house?”

  “Almost everything. But I still couldn’t ask you to do all that.”

  “Are you kidding me? It would be nothing. And I’d have this great place to come and stay for Mardi Gras!”

  Rebecca and Cathy daydreamed a little more on the way to the hotel, and continued talking about it in excited bursts as they lay by the pool with a cocktail. In that moment, in the fantasy of all that was possible, Rebecca was giddy and excited, and so, so grateful that she had a friend like Cathy. She told her so.

  “I’m so glad you feel that way,” Cathy said.

  There was something in the way Cathy said it that raised a slight alarm in Rebecca. It reminded her of the way her voice changed whenever she lied to Miles about his father.

  “I want you to be happy, Rebecca. Really, really happy.”

  “I know that.”

  “You deserve it. If anyone freaking deserves it, it’s you.”

  Rebecca pushed up her sunglasses and sat up. “Cathy. You’re scaring me.”

  “I hired a private detective.”

  A chill went through Rebecca. The love you seek is closer than you think. “And?” Rebecca’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Cathy reached over and took her hand. “He’s still here,” she said. “And tonight we have reservations for opening night at his new jazz club.”

  A feeling that could equally be described as excitement or fear bubbled through Rebecca. She could feel her heart beat all the way down to her fingertips.

  “Rebecca’s,” Cathy said.

  “Yes?” Rebecca said, her voice still a mere gasp.

  “That’s the name of his new jazz club,” Cathy said. “It’s called Rebecca’s.”

  Chapter Six

  Opening night, and so far everything was coming together nicely. Grant Dodge had his general contractor go over the place and he proclaimed everything ready to go except for a two-foot section of the balcony overlooking the main stage. It was still loose despite their attempts to fix it. Grant decided he would put his private table against it and stick a reserved sign on it. After more worrying, he also decided he would make up a sign warning people not to lean against the balcony. That didn’t sit well with him, either, because people rarely paid attention to signs, especially when it was dim and they were drinking. So he tried to fix the loose section himself, but the contractor was right, you couldn’t do it without taking down the entire railing. In the end he decided not to put any tables upstairs at all. It would be off-limits to patrons, which would of course reduce the number of people allowed in, but at least he wouldn’t have an accident or a lawsuit on his hands. He just couldn’t afford to delay the opening.

  He looked over the balcony, surveying the main floor, and tried to soak it all in. Twenty-plus years of dreaming of this very day, and here it was. A club evoking the Roaring Twenties. Oh, the plans he had for this joint. He would hire big-name bands, and little-known guys, and hold small jam sessions along with huge swing-dance parties. The décor was classy yet simple. Mostly dark wood and a little trim of gold here and there, with one extravagant exception: the chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling. It was so ornate you could drop it from Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

  Rebecca’s. Just outside the French Quarter, nestled in between the tourist sections and Louisiana mansions. Opening at last. Everyone he hired was in the spirit, working nonstop to get things ready. A local florist was dropping off elaborate displays of flowers: roses, calla lilies, peonies—all white with one pop of red in each bouquet like a burst of sound after a quiet intro. It was amazing how everything in life was like music, with its own beat, rhythms, and innuendos. His bartender was stocking the shelves with their finest liquors and putting champagne on ice for the formal opening toast, and several barbacks were polishing the small round tables. No reservations—Grant preferred an open concept, where anyone and everyone was welcome to walk in at a moment’s notice—but he knew from the word on the street that they’d be jammed.

  He was most proud of the sign. Flowing black letters spelling out the name against a blue background, starting with one swirl of jet-black hair before the R, and ending with a painting of a vibrant red rose. Everyone wondered why he named it Rebecca’s. He told them a tale about a great-great-grandmother with a beautiful voice. In reality his great-great-grandmother was a seamstress named Myrtle. The truth wasn’t something he wished to share. You never forget your first love. Or, should he say, your first time—becau
se it just didn’t seem possible to fall in love after one night. But she was his first, and that night set a precedent of passion and on-the-edge excitement that he’d never experienced before or since. Just saying her name turned him on. Sick, maybe, but there it was. He’d whispered her name so many times to himself that it was almost a relief to see it in print.

  Rebecca. You never forget your first. It was fitting, the sign. Besides this club, she was the only thing he’d ever really dreamt about these past twenty years. Now, at least, he was about to have one of his dreams come true. His ex-wife would have a royal fit if she knew who he’d named the club after. But wasn’t she the one who left him? Went back to Megan’s biological father, even though Grant had been the one to practically raise her. But even that he couldn’t blame her for; he’d tried to be a good husband, but his mind was always elsewhere. On playing the trumpet, on opening a club of his own some day, and on that curvaceous raven-haired beauty who almost seemed to possess him. Some days he wasn’t even sure if she was real. Just a figment of hormones and alcoholic concoctions that should be illegal.

  He’d even gone back to the old witch’s shop a few times and stood outside the door. That’s as far as he ever got. Because he didn’t trust what he’d say to her if she was even still alive. After all, she was the one who’d cursed them. The one who said they’d lose everything if they kissed before midnight. What a fool he’d been. He hadn’t believed a word of it, so he’d egged Rebecca on, practically dared her to kiss him before midnight. He wasn’t thinking beyond the overwhelming need to press his lips against hers. And oh, what a kiss, and what followed it. He hadn’t planned it, certainly didn’t go into that cemetery to take advantage of her, but once they started they just couldn’t stop.

  Sometimes now, secretly, he tried to replay the evening, delaying their kiss another minute, and wondered what could have been. Would they be married with a ton of kids right now? Could he have had a lifetime of her flashing blue eyes, silky hair, and laugh that made him want to scale skyscrapers? Could he have had it all?

  Not that he’d had a horrible life. Parts of it he wouldn’t trade for anything. And there was his stepdaughter, Megan. He’d raised her since she was four. So at least the father bit he got right—if the close relationship he had with Megan was any indication. And last year had been the most trying of their lives, what with Megan and that older boy. He was such trouble, you could see that a mile away. Megan almost stopped speaking to Grant when he sided with her mother that she was way too young and the boy, who was twenty-one, was way too old.

  Thank God, they’d survived it. It still made him furious, how a twenty-one-year-old would even consider getting involved with a teenager. Made his blood boil. At least they’d stopped it before it had gone too far. Grant rarely let himself imagine what would have happened if his little girl had actually engaged in sex so young. He would have absolutely lost his mind. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to stop himself from getting violent. Megan’s biological father—if Grant did say so himself—was a wuss. Grant was the one who went to the boy’s work—he was a bartender, no less—and threatened the life out of him if he ever contacted Megan again.

  Speaking of Megan, she was going to be here tonight; another thing that had started a giant argument between him and his ex, Amy. Only after he invited Ken, Megan’s biological father, who Amy had recently remarried, did Amy finally relent. Grant didn’t mind. He wasn’t jealous of either of them. Even though he thought of Megan as his daughter, he wasn’t going to deny her a relationship with her biological father. Even if he was a complete wuss. Even if he had disappeared on her when she was four. Blood was thick; kids longed to know who their real parents were. It wouldn’t change a single memory he had, nor would it affect the ones they would make in the future. He wanted both women in his life to be happy. For a split second, as he did on numerous occasions, he once again thought of Rebecca. God, what beautiful children she would have made. Probably did make. On one hand, he’d love to know what she was up to now, and on the other, it would probably ruin his romantic notions. Reality could never compare to the imagination. She might no longer even be beautiful, although that was hard to imagine. He would toast her tonight, silently, the sexy girl who started it all, and made all others pale in comparison.

  It was all shaping up. It was time for him to go home and freshen up. Maybe catch a little nap. If he was lucky, ex-wife notwithstanding, it was going to be one hell of a night.

  From a balcony across the street, Rebecca and Cathy spied on Grant’s club. Rather, Rebecca spied and Cathy sat on the railing eating beignets. Through her binoculars, Rebecca stared at the sign.

  The minute she saw the wavy strand of black hair and the rose painted on it, there was no doubt. He named his club after her. The color blue against which black letters splashed out her name was the exact shade of the dress she’d worn the evening they met. It hadn’t been all in her head; it hadn’t just been youth, or alcohol, or sex. That night meant something. She meant something. But Rebecca was still making excuses, still pretending the sign had nothing to do with her. “Maybe he has a wife, or girlfriend, or aunt, or grandmother, or dog named Rebecca.”

  Cathy was quick to counter. “According to Bernie, his ex-wife’s name is Amy. Their daughter is Megan. I got nothing on an aunt, a grandmother, or a dog.”

  “Bernie?”

  “My private investigator.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis with your PI? That’s just weird.”

  “Oh, I’m weird? You’re the one who just paid a little old lady eighty bucks to stand on her balcony with dollar-store binoculars, and sunglasses that make you look like the Unabomber, so you can stake out the man who took your virginity.”

  “Touché.”

  “Can you see anyone?”

  “There are a lot of men coming and going. So far, no Grant.” Rebecca sighed and allowed Cathy to take over the binoculars. “I can’t do this. Let’s go to the airport. Get me on the first flight home.”

  “Or, we have a nice little drink at the hotel, gussy up, and come back to the club.”

  “Why didn’t he ever contact me?”

  “Who knows? You ruined his phone number while you were mucking around—maybe he did, too.”

  “I gave him enough information to locate me.”

  “Well, he obviously remembers you. Nobody ever named a club after me.”

  “Maybe I should go in right now, so I don’t mess up his show tonight.”

  “Now who’s being dramatic?”

  “He named his jazz club after me, Cathy. I’ve been trying to be humble, but that’s huge. Isn’t it?”

  “It’s pretty damn huge.”

  “God, this is terrifying.”

  “I know. I can feel you vibrating.”

  “Let’s go get that drink.”

  “Good,” Cathy said, linking her arm through Rebecca’s. “Because you suck at surveillance.”

  “Hey.” Rebecca pouted. “Why do you say that?”

  Cathy sighed, took the binoculars and turned them the other way around. Silently she handed them back to Rebecca, who, doubtful, looked through them again.

  “Right,” Rebecca said, handing them back. “If you’re the type who prefers everything magnified and in focus.”

  Cathy laughed and Rebecca joined in, and before long they were back at the hotel bar having a glass of wine and playing out every scenario that could possibly unfold that evening. Cathy’s were romantic and usually ended with Grant on his knees proposing; Rebecca’s usually ended with the club on fire and patrons stampeded to death in the race to get out.

  Cathy soon had enough of Rebecca’s doom-and-gloom scenarios. She shook her finger at Rebecca. “You can’t be so negative,” she said. “Close your eyes. Remember that night? It was the most romantic story I’d ever heard. And I should know, because you told it a hundred thousand times. You were young, and felt confident and on top of the world.”

  “That’s because I w
as young and confident, and on top of the world,” Rebecca said.

  “No, you weren’t. You were a geeky clarinet player getting punked by a trio of bitches.” Cathy said it like it was. It was one of the things Rebecca loved most about her. “And yet,” Cathy continued with a gentle hand on her arm, “you somehow transformed from a geeky clarinet player to this magical, voluptuous woman who reached out and grabbed a stranger’s heart.”

  There it was again, that word. Magical. Rebecca closed her eyes and for a few seconds she really felt like that young girl again.

  “That’s it,” Cathy said. “You’ve still got it. And you’re going to blow his mind.”

  “Absolutely,” Rebecca said. “Especially when he hears I’ve denied him twenty-one years of his son’s life. Now that’s going to be a showstopper.” Unfortunately, once in a while, Rebecca, too, could call it like it was.

  Chapter Seven

  Rebecca bought a dress, just for the occasion. It was a similar color to the blue dress she wore on that night twenty-one years ago. It had a low-cut V-neck and was made of a satiny material that hugged her curves and twirled around her shapely calves every time she moved. She tucked three pictures of Miles into her purse—a baby picture, one from his tenth birthday, and one she took on his first day of college. Just looking at the brief recap of everything Grant had missed out on, almost brought Rebecca to her knees.