You're Still The One

by Janet Dailey

  “Want more beads?” one of the men said with a wolfish grin. “All it would take is a bit of flash to the boys below and you’ll be covered in ’em.”

  Rebecca laughed. “I’m weighed down as it is, and I didn’t flash a soul.” Except for Grant, a long time ago in a cemetery not so far, far away. She’d better stop thinking about it. Grant hadn’t taken his eyes off her. What if he could tell what she was thinking?

  “Give her time,” a third said. “She’ll come around.”

  “Time? Hell. Give her another drink.” Now all but one in the circle of five men had spoken to her. All except Grant. He had yet to say a word, but she felt as if they’d spoken volumes. Was this love? A connection that needed no words? Or was she just slightly feverish from her first Mardi Gras?

  Grant was subtle about it, but he made his way over until he was standing directly beside her. When he leaned in to talk to her, he placed his hand on the small of her back. She wanted to freeze the moment in time, stand there like that for a thousand nights.

  “We’ll have to clear off the balcony in an hour or so,” he whispered in her ear. “Those who are left tend to get sick or start fighting. It’s not pretty.”

  It was settled: she was unhinged. You had to be when even that comment turned you on.

  “It’s her first Mardi Gras,” another of the men said. “Let her have the full experience.”

  “Speaking of experiences,” the oldest one, a short black man with white hair and an ample belly where he liked to rest his hands, said, “Joe isn’t going to get the likes of this in his fancy college.” The men all laughed.

  “We were just talking about a buddy of ours,” Grant said. “His kid just got into Juilliard.”

  College. Kid. Rebecca felt ill. Soon she was going to be the one getting sick, and it wouldn’t be from drink. “That’s fabulous,” she said. The men exchanged strained smiles around the semicircle. “Isn’t it?”

  “Not if he wants to be a real musician,” said a middle-aged man with a faded red beard.

  “Hear, hear,” the older black man said.

  “What?” Rebecca said. “You can’t be a real musician if you go to college?”

  “Those who do, do,” the black man said. “Those who can’t, teach.”

  “We’re not talking about teachers, we’re talking about students,” Rebecca said. She sounded defensive, but she couldn’t help it. The sacrifices she’d made to get Miles into college. Selling her house, no less. Not that she would ever make it seem like a big deal to her son. She was so proud of him. And he loved it. Didn’t he? “College is a wonderful experience.” She hoped she sounded convincing. She hadn’t gone to college, so she was striking out in the dark. “It’s a supportive environment where you have a network of people with the same interests, talented teachers, music competitions—”

  “Real musicians play,” Red Beard said. “That’s all.”

  “We’re not saying kids shouldn’t go to college,” Grant said in a soothing voice.

  His curiosity was piqued. She’d better be careful.

  “Not one of us has a college degree,” the older man said. “And we can outplay any Harvard—”

  “Juilliard,” Grant interrupted good-naturedly.

  “Juilliard,” the man said, over-pronouncing it in a jazz-like singing voice. All the men laughed. “We can outplay any Juilliard graduate any day.”

  “Maybe it’s just jazz,” Grant tried to explain to Rebecca. “It lends itself to more of a freewheeling lifestyle.”

  “I see,” Rebecca said. She was suddenly relieved Miles wasn’t here, and not for the most obvious reason. She wouldn’t have wanted these men influencing him. Because at first Miles hadn’t wanted to go to college. He wanted to take his trumpet and travel. Europe, New York, New Orleans. It absolutely terrified Rebecca. She couldn’t imagine never knowing where he was, if he was okay, if he was making enough for a decent meal, if he had a place to sleep. She had never been a bully like her parent; thanks to her father, she didn’t want to be that guy. She didn’t want to parent out of fear; she didn’t want to squash her only child’s dreams. But she had lost it when Miles floated the idea. She just lost it.

  She couldn’t eat or sleep and she began crying frequently. Finally, she begged him—she out-and-out begged Miles—to go to college for at least one year. She said if he put in a year and still wanted to run off and see the world, he would have her blessing. She ordered every college catalogue from schools with good music programs and began placing them in his path: his bed, the dining room table, even the bathroom sink once, when he was in the shower. The day he picked one and applied was the happiest day of her life. The day he was accepted was the second.

  Miles wasn’t a pushover by any means, but he had a soft spot for his mother. He knew what she’d given up to have him, and he hated seeing her upset. It shamed her now, her manipulations, but she’d done the right thing, hadn’t she? Or had she crushed his dream?

  College, a waste! They couldn’t really believe that, could they? She was tired of feeling as if she’d always made the wrong decisions. This couldn’t be one of them, it just couldn’t. The Big Easy. Why didn’t they just call it the Big Lazy?

  “Surely there are plenty of famous musicians who went to college,” Rebecca said.

  “Of course,” Grant said quickly. He looked at her with concern—he and Miles were so alike. “We’re just a bunch of old dogs,” he added with a wink. “Don’t mind us.”

  “Soul comes from here,” the older man said, stepping closer to Rebecca. He touched his gut. “And here,” he said. He touched his heart. “Nothing good ever came from just using this.” Last touch was to his head.

  “Or this,” another said, grabbing his crotch. Laughter broke the tension, and the mood lifted.

  “Who needs anything?” Grant said. “Another drink? Something to eat? I think I saw pigs in a blanket—”

  “They’re crab dogs,” Rebecca said.

  Grant raised his eyebrows. Rebecca laughed. They were having a good time now. She should let it go.

  “I just think you can’t overestimate a college education—” she started to say.

  Red Beard didn’t even let her finish. He even gave her the hand. “If rich folks need something to waste their money on, who are we—”

  “Rich? You really think most parents who send their children to college are rich?” Stop, Rebecca, just stop.

  “Of course not,” Grant said.

  “Some people sacrifice everything they have.”

  “Not too smart, are they?” Red Beard continued.

  “Joe,” Grant said. His tone carried a warning.

  “I can’t believe you people,” Rebecca said.

  “What people?” said Joe—or Red Beard, as Rebecca was always going to call him.

  “Musicians, New Orleaners—take your pick. I’m—”

  “Lady. You want to send your kid to college, send your kid to college. We’re talking about musicians. We learn by jamming, man. Jesus. Someone’s got her feathers all in a ruffle.”

  Grant gently touched her on the arm. “Rebecca,” he said softly, “don’t be upset. We’re harmless, I swear.”

  Before she could answer, Mae Lin popped into the group. She hip-bumped Rebecca. “What’s up, lady? We can hear you inside even with a drummer and two guitarists jamming.” Mae Lin laughed and Rebecca tried to smile, but she couldn’t believe it. Mae Lin telling her she was loud? The world was upside down.

  “Maybe this will calm you down,” Mae Lin continued. She passed Rebecca a joint. Rebecca hesitated, then, what the heck. It was Mardi Gras. It was dressing up, and letting your hair down, and flashing them if you had them. Not lecturing aging musicians. She inhaled, held it in, then slowly let it out. Before she could take another drag, Grant took it out of her hand and gave it back to Mae Lin along with a dirty look. What was the big deal? Didn’t all musicians smoke a little weed?

  As if reading her mind, Grant leaned in and once again whi
spered into her ear. “Mae Lin’s been known to lace it,” he said.

  Startled, Rebecca just nodded as if she totally understood. But given that was only her second drag of pot ever, and she had never remotely done any other drugs, she was clueless. Laced? With what? Was one drag going to do her damage? Should she be concerned here, or was the pot just making her paranoid?

  “So,” Mae Lin said. “Have you told him?”

  Rebecca was floored. How could she say that right in front of Grant? “Mae Lin,” she said. She had already come across as a shrew, and she didn’t want to start a fight with Mae Lin on top of it. Besides, Mae Lin had been smoking a few of her own joints and she was looking at Rebecca as if Rebecca were a piñata and it was Mae Lin’s turn at bat.

  “It’s a yes or no question,” Mae Lin said.

  “No,” Rebecca said as quickly as possible. “Not yet.”

  Mae Lin shook her finger at Rebecca and made a tsk-tsk sound.

  Grant took Rebecca’s arm and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Come on,” he said. Arm in arm they started for the living room. There they ran smack into the blond goddess. She didn’t look happy. She stood directly in their path, scowling.

  “Careful,” Mae Lin said, coming up behind them. “You already took a drag. That stuff is a truth-teller. And it’s Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday, baby. Also known as Shrove Tuesday from the word shrive, which means to confess.”

  Rebecca felt the room closing in on her. Everywhere she looked there were bodies. Standing, sitting, kneeling, lying down, doing headstands against the wall. The vibe was still lively, but slightly mellower as a group gathered around several musicians playing a set that would last well into the next morning.

  “I want to go,” the blonde said. “Now.”

  “So go,” Mae Lin said. “There’s the door.” For a split second Rebecca liked Mae Lin again. Loved her even. The blonde turned with a huff and headed for the door.

  “Grant,” Rebecca said. “Before you go—”

  “Go? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Your girlfriend,” Rebecca said, pointing at the retreating blonde.

  Grant laughed. “Never met her,” he said. “That’s not my ex.”

  “Oh,” Rebecca said. Then, insert lightbulb, screw in. “Ex?”

  “Yes,” Grant said. “It’s over. I moved into the club. Not glamorous, I know. And I don’t have a college degree. Probably not what you’re looking for in a guy.”

  “Grant—”

  He pulled her away from Mae Lin, away from everyone, to a tiny unoccupied space against the wall and drew her to him. “Rebecca,” he whispered. “Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca. You’re here. You’re really here.” He traced her lips with his finger. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” And then he was leaning in. And then he was kissing her. Their bodies pressed together so tight, a feather couldn’t have slipped between them. And then it all started to disappear, all of it, and they were moving in unison, still kissing, heading for Mae Lin’s bedroom. And although Rebecca wished there was any other place to go, she had originally been told she could use the bedroom. And she couldn’t think of any better use for it. Images flashed through Rebecca’s mind—the cemetery, the fat yellow moon, Mae Lin’s red feathers. Red feathers. Rebecca pulled away from Grant.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right, not here, not now—”

  Mae Lin stood on top of the coffee table with a microphone in her hand. It screeched when she turned it on, and silence descended upon the room. The one with the red feathers will betray you. Oh God, why hadn’t she seen it?

  “Has everyone met my new roomie?” Mae Lin shouted into the microphone. “Rebecca. Rebecca like the club. Rebecca like the mom.”

  Rebecca turned to Grant. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Who likes secrets?” Mae Lin belted out.

  The guests—they did. They loved secrets. They laughed and clapped and encouraged her. Who didn’t love delicious secrets? Tell us!

  “Rebecca has a secret. Don’t you, Rebecca?” And then Rebecca spotted what was in Mae Lin’s hand. She was holding the picture of Miles. And Grant was trying to have a look at it, like everyone else.

  Rebecca took her hands and put them on Grant’s beautiful face, gently pressing until he looked at her. “Miles,” she whispered. “His name is Miles.”

  Grant was still smiling at her; he was still a man who wanted to love her. “I remember,” he said. “Your son.”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said. “My son. And yours. He’s your son, too.” There was a split second of confusion. The smile faded slowly.

  “Miles!” Mae Lin bellowed. “Rebecca and Grant have a son named Miles. Isn’t he handsome? Like his father?”

  Grant stumbled back. His expression gutted Rebecca. It wasn’t anger. It was worse. He looked absolutely terrified. And then he recovered. He moved in on Mae Lin and swiped the picture out of her hands. Tears ran down Rebecca’s cheeks as she watched Grant take in the face of his son for the first time. She stepped up to face Grant as her life with Miles flashed before her. Bringing him home from the hospital in a lavender blanket that belonged to her as a baby, feeling the soft, heavy weight of him in her arms. Looking into his big, curious eyes, his little smiling lips. His smell. His coo. His first step, his first word—mama. How big that trumpet was in his five-year-old hands, how it all but obscured his face when he played it. Elementary school, high school, he grew up so fast. She wanted it all back. Not for her; for Grant. She wanted to give it all to him. She was a liar. She’d kept father from son.

  She couldn’t breathe. Tears were running too fast, her throat was starting to close, and she could feel her body shaking. When Grant finally lifted his eyes and looked at her, all she could manage was the barest of whispers.

  “I was sixteen,” she said. “My father was furious. He threatened to make your life hell. But still. I tried. Your phone number—it was smeared—I couldn’t read it. So I waited. But. You never called.”

  Grant nodded solemnly. Slowly he pulled something out of his pocket. It was a torn and dirty napkin. Rebecca knew what it was immediately. Through the blur, she recognized her scrawl.

  “I don’t always carry this around,” he said. “But I brought it tonight. To show you. Why I never called.” Gently he reached up to wipe away the tears still rolling down her cheeks. She grabbed his wrists and held them.

  “Every day,” she said. “I thought of you every single day. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to be there. Please, don’t hate me. I think it would kill me. I really think it would kill me.”

  Grant lifted her chin with his finger and stared into her eyes. “I could never hate the mother of my child,” he said. “Never.” Then, still holding the picture, he took her hand. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Rebecca, heart swelling in her chest, held on to Grant’s hand. He knew. He was still here. He was still talking to her. He was still touching her. She would follow him anywhere.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even though the parade was long over, they found themselves in the middle of a giant mass of still-partying, squirming people. Grant kept a firm grip on her hand, which helped to somewhat lessen Rebecca’s fear that they would be crushed to death and buried in a grave of glitter, feathers, and beads. Grant had the framed picture of Miles inside his jacket, and as they maneuvered through the crowd he kept his free hand on it the entire time. When they came to a spot where they literally could not move, Grant pulled Rebecca into him and wrapped his arms around her. Now the picture was sandwiched between them, and Rebecca could feel it against her chest. Music, voices, stomping, and cheers filled their ears. The air smelled smoky and sweet, the heat clung to their skin. There was something else in the air—the unmistakable feel of magic. They were magic together. He gazed into her eyes, and then slowly he came in for another kiss. It reverberated through her entire body. Then suddenly, from behind, they were shoved. Rebecca felt a thump, and then something
sharp pierced her chest.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Grant said. He pulled the picture away, then stared at the little drops of blood on the cracked glass. Rebecca looked at her chest, and to her relief, she’d been barely grazed. Grant, too, had been pricked.

  You will be crushed. You will draw blood . . .

  “Are you okay?” Grant said.

  “We have to get out of here,” Rebecca replied. “Now.” Without further discussion, they began to push their way through the throbbing mass of bodies. From out of nowhere, a hand came toward Rebecca’s neck, wrapped around her beads, and yanked them off. She didn’t mind the beads, but her locket—she’d been wearing her heart-shaped locket, the first necklace she ever made, the one with petals from the rose Grant gave her—

  Your heart will be ripped from your chest—

  Grant navigated them through several side streets, and slowly but surely the crowds were less and less. “This way,” he said, pulling her down a narrow alleyway. It led to a tiny park surrounded by a black iron fence. In the center was a fountain where two stone cherubs playfully squirted water out of their mouths. Three street lamps illuminated their shenanigans in a soft glow. Rebecca and Grant sank onto a bench and watched shadows play at the base of the fountain. The air was starting to cool, but the last traces of humidity still clung to their skin. Grant set Miles’s picture down and touched the spot above Rebecca’s breast where the glass had nicked her. His touch sent an electric thrill through her and she could almost hear the cherubs tittering.

  “Back there,” Grant said with a tilt of his head, “you were clearly frightened.”

  “The high priestess,” Rebecca said. “I saw her a few days ago.” Grant’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt. “She remembered me, Grant. She remembered us.”

  “I hope you don’t believe all that stuff about curses—”

  “We’ve lived it for twenty-one years, haven’t we?”

  “No,” Grant said. “It’s just life, Rebecca. You were only sixteen. How else was it going to end?” Grant took both of her hands in his, then kissed each of them.