“It happens pretty often, I suppose, though Stan lets me skip out on rehearsals as often as he can. I have a high school girl who comes in when I need her.”
Jeff’s chuckle sent a warm current bubbling through her veins. Lord, what she wouldn’t do to be able to spend a few hours, a few minutes even, with him. But she closed her eyes and thought of the money she’d be making from Mitch’s gig.
“I’m flying down to Houston for three days around the first of the month. I guess that’s next week, isn’t it?”
Her spirits plummeted further, and she rubbed her throbbing temples. Just as well she hadn’t backed out of the convention.
“Cecil,” His voice dropped a few decibels. “I wish there were some way I could do this in person, but I can’t, so… consider yourself kissed.”
“Ditto,” she replied. And then, on a gentle sigh, she added, “Thanks. I needed that.”
Cecilia entered the church basement where Stan’s band practiced, and blinked in surprise. The usual group had swelled to almost twice its dozen members, and from the youth and wild appearance of the extra musicians, it appeared Mitch had drafted some of his friends from the university.
“Hey, babe, lookin’ good,” he greeted her, showing her to the stool and mike in front of the band. “Perfect timing. We’re ready for you. Hope you’re a quick study.”
He shoved a notebook filled with sheet music at her and turned back to the band. “Okay, from the top.”
The blaring brass introduction, along with a grinding rhythm suggestive of speakeasies and burlesque, almost knocked her off the stool. “What in the world?” she asked, but Mitch didn’t hear her over the music. She opened the folder to find the vocals for “Minnie the Moocher” on top.
“Is this some kind of joke?” she demanded. But then a giggle rose from her throat. Stan would absolutely die if he had any idea. When her cue came, she was helplessly in tears, laughing harder than she had in a long time. Somehow she choked out the first few bars, then slid into the mood.
By the time they got to the chorus of “Hidy-hidy-hidy-hoes” her reservations had melted away, and the band members were repeating each line with unleashed enthusiasm. They finished on a blaring high note, then burst into hoots and applause.
“You know,” Mitch said regretfully when the tumult had died down, “I really wanted to do 'Just a Gigilo,’ but I couldn’t figure out how to pull it off with a female singer.”
“Thank goodness for small favors,” Cecilia retorted, reaching for a tall glass of water. “Mitch, I hate to tell you this, but one more like that and I won’t have any vocal chords left.”
“Okay. Once through was plenty. And we’ll save it for late—the foot doctors’ll be more in the mood for it after a few drinks under their belts, anyway.”
The podiatrists had no idea what they were in for.
~o0o~
Jeff had originally entered Fiona’s Shear Ecstasy establishment with an apprehensive shudder. But after seven years of sharing the same office building and handling all Fiona’s financial records from her divorces to her taxes to her buy-out of the salon, he had grown accustomed to her particular brand of panache. Pushing through the stained glass doors, he was relieved to see the back of Fiona’s blond, corkscrewed head. At least he wouldn’t have to risk Trevor and his punk scissors.
“Ready?” Jeff asked.
She nodded and gestured Jeff back to the shampoo room. Minutes later he was just settling into the yellow contoured chair in her bay, when Fiona appeared over his shoulder in the mirror, gleaming scissors in hand. “The usual?”
“The usual.”
“Oh, you conservative accountant types are no fun at all. With this hair, I could do magnificent things.” She fingered a damp, curly tendril. “It’s sinful. Just sinful.”
“The usual,” Jeff repeated firmly.
Fiona combed and clipped, spritzing with an occasional squirt of water, jabbering nonstop about her love life, her financial woes, her astrological forecast.
“How’s your little girl?” Jeff interrupted suddenly. Fiona stopped in mid-clip, mid-sentence, mid-breath. Her blue eyes widened in mock-shock and her mouth formed a perfect circle of surprise. “Why, Jeff, is this a personal interest you’re taking, after all these years?”
Flaming color crept up his neck and flooded his face. “I didn’t mean... I mean, I didn’t mean to say...”
Fiona tossed her blond head back and crowed with laughter. “Don’t lose your breakfast, sweets. You just caught me off guard. I imagine you remember every detail of my financial affairs, but somehow I never figured you’d remember Brandi.” She snipped a little more, then winked. “And she’s just fine, thank you. Gorgeous, absolutely beautiful. I’m thinking about placing her with an agency, letting her do some modeling.”
It was Jeff’s turn for dismay. “How old is she?”
“Four-and-a-half. Five in October. Blond hair, blue eyes...” Fiona grinned. “A winning combination if ever there was one.”
“Who keeps her while you work?”
Fiona’s eyes clouded. “A day-care center, right now. She was staying with a neighbor, but it didn’t work out.”
“But you’re home nights.”
“Are you kidding?” She swept a wisp of hair out of her eyes and began snipping the other side of his head. “Since Ramon quit, I’ve been opening and closing every day except Mondays, and I always work out on Monday nights— exercise to keep the mind healthy, wealthy and strong.”
“Hmm.” He thought of Cecil, whose turbulent schedule kept her life turned upside down, and how she managed to cope without shortchanging anybody, except maybe herself.
“Well, surely you’re going to explain why the sudden interest. Are you thinking of investing in a day-care center or something?”
“Not hardly.”
Fiona snatched the drape from his shoulders with a flourish. “Finis. And this time I’ve outdone myself.”
Jeff felt a twinge of panic. “What do you mean?”
She pursed her lips in thought. “Yes, I do believe that curly little tail adds just the right touch.”
“What?”
She gave the chair a spin and slapped a mirror into his hand as he reached behind and felt his customary smooth neckline.
“April Fool.”
Jeff had written the check and was halfway through the door, when he stopped, spun and said, “April Fool?”
Fiona cocked her head. “Yes?”
“Damn, how could I have forgotten?” he demanded.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she deadpanned back.
“Well, what am I going to do?”
Fiona stroked her cheek with a long, emerald-tipped fingernail, then shrugged. His time was up; her next client was already grabbing the chair.
Ten minutes later, in his office, he had reassigned the Houston trip to McVay.
Jeff considered the departure of one of his most precious accounts with a shudder of apprehension, but not because McVay couldn’t handle it. She could. What bothered him was that turning it over to her was so easy. Canceling the trip to Houston was easy. Wrecking his schedule for the entire weekend was easy.
He wasn’t acting like himself at all.
April Fool, indeed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CECILIA STEPPED FROM the hotel’s service elevator and wove her way among tall, multitiered serving carts and bustling waiters to reach the grand ballroom where the podiatrists were in the midst of their banquet. Once she pushed through the swinging doors, the behind-the-scenes bustle of the hotel staff took a sharp turn to the elegant. A colossal chandelier illuminated the immense room with subdued splendor; the carpet was thick, plush green, patterned with gold fleurs-de-lis. A hundred candlelit tables occupied by conventioneers and their spouses surrounded the gleaming parquet dance floor on three sides, and the stage rose behind the fourth.
“Ooh-la-la!” Mitch’s eyes twinkled and he held his arms wide, a baton in one hand, a gleaming silve
r trumpet in the other, as Cecilia stepped onto the bandstand. “Cecilia, you’re wonderful.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia said primly, fluffing her curls with her red-lacquered nails. The black feather boa she’d snatched from the back of her closet on a whim fluttered with every movement, tickled her neck with the slightest breeze.
Mitch tipped his stout torso toward his trumpet case and produced a tissue-wrapped parcel from within the old-fashioned mute. “For you, my lady.”
The distinctive fragrance hit her before she’d uncovered the creamy white petals. “A gardenia. Why, Mitch, how... how quaint.” Her lashes fluttered and she laughed to hide the catch in her throat. A flower, tonight of all nights, was fitting. She pinned it high on the shoulder of her contour-fitting, black satin dress, then spun in a half circle, relishing the swirl of the gored satin skirt striking her at mid-calf.
“You look ravishing,” he said expansively. “Straight out of the forties.” He tapped his baton on the music stand, and gradually the band quieted from its subtle, warming-up sounds to an expectant silence.
Dishes clattered and glasses clinked in the background. Voices murmured and laughter crackled as the podiatrists and their spouses, sated and wined, lingered over their last evening before dispersing to the four corners of the nation.
Cecilia stood at the microphone and adjusted her boa. Contrary to custom, Mitch was foregoing the usual instrumental dance tune intended to lure the more dedicated or attention-seeking dancers onto the floor. Instead she heard his low-voiced, “One, two, one, two, three, four,” and four bars of rousing intro. It was up to her.
She stepped forward and flung her arms wide, then gave her shoulders a seductive shimmy. “’Come on, baby, let the good times roll!”
Startled faces angled up at her as the blaring music shattered the serene mood. She lowered her lids snapped her fingers, and let a sultry half smile curve her lips as she continued, "'Come on, baby, let me thrill your soul...”
She felt that familiar electric tingle rippling up her back, down her shoulders, and was only vaguely aware as the dance floor filled. Mitch’s plan was working so far. Before the evening was over, she would strut all her “voices,” crooning heartbreaking ballads, warbling country/swing and belting out roadhouse blues. And damn, it felt good.
After finishing the first set of vocals, she finally was able to drop to a small padded stool behind the drums and grab a tall glass of ice water from a tray, catching a drip with a linen napkin before it could spatter her skirt. She dabbed her forehead with the cool, damp fabric, relieved to be off her feet and out of the public eye for a few numbers. She slipped her right pump off and rubbed her little toe. She’d forgotten how much these shoes pinched.
And then she noticed the note on the tray. “SONGBIRD” was scrawled across the paper in bold, black letters. She sighed in disgust as she unfolded the note. “I’d like to meet you. Room 1123 after the dance. Your admirer, Dr. Myron Rhodentucker.” Just as she’d anticipated.
Cecilia crushed the paper in her fist. “I must have forgotten and twitched,” she grumbled.
“Twitched?” Jeff’s voice repeated in her ear.
Stunned, she twisted on the stool and saw him towering over her. Her mouth fell open. “Jeff?”
“Shh...” He raised a finger to his lips, then pointed to the name tag on his lapel that read Hello! My name is Myron Rhodentucker, Peoria, Illinois.
“Where did you get—what are you—”
“Hush.” Jeff sat beside her. “I’m operating on the thin assumption that since he didn’t pick up his name tag before dinner, Dr. Rhodentucker left the convention early.”
“But what if he shows up?” She stifled a giggle. “What if someone sees you and knows you’re not... Myron.”
“Why do you think I’m hanging around behind the band?”
“Because you’re hitting on the singer.”
“Sheer coincidence.”
“Seriously,” Cecilia said. “What are you doing here?”
“Being with you.”
She gulped and glanced away, and caught Mitch staring curiously at them. “You’re ruining my reputation.”
“How do I continue to do that without actually getting any of the side benefits?” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Ruining a good woman’s reputation should be more lascivious, more titillating, more scandalous, don’t you think?”
“In this kind of job I have to bend over backward to keep men from thinking I’m open season. I have three ground rules—no alcohol, no men, no exceptions.”
“And I, of course, am intoxicating, male, and the exception.” He grinned.
“No,” she retorted. “And you still haven’t answered me. Why on earth did you crash a foot doctor’s convention?”
He reached for the boa and twirled one fine feather around his finger. “You look... different from yourself tonight.”
“Not different from myself. Just different from the way you usually see me.” She was mesmerized by his nearness, by the way his hand came so close to touching her bare arm, but didn’t. The music shifted into a Cole Porter standard, the last number before her next vocal. Mitch had stopped staring, but Cecilia didn’t feel any less exposed.
Her throat was dry. “I thought you were flying to Houston.”
“I sent McVay, instead.”
“Why?”
He continued to play with the feathers, brushing them this way and that without ever quite touching her skin, yet she tingled with the awareness of it. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you spending your birthday alone.”
“My birth—” She felt a flush spreading across her cheeks. “How did you know?”
“April Fools’?” His hand fell away from her, and his smile was gentle, teasing. “How could I forget?”
The birthday she was working on, because she thought nobody remembered. Cecilia’s fingers fondled the velvety gardenia petals on her shoulder. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, 'Yes, I’ll meet you in room 1123 after the dance’?”
“What?” Her fist clenched and the poor gardenia caught the worst of it.
“That was a joke. But really, Cecil, do you mind?” When she didn’t respond immediately, he repeated, “Do you mind if I stay? I don’t want to create problems for you.”
He was creating problems right and left.
But still, she found herself saying, “I don’t mind.”
“Then maybe... afterward, we could have dinner.” After a night’s work she’d be exhausted, and definitely not hungry. But, what the heck? It was her birthday. And he was Jeff.
And she refused to examine the significance of the latter when she responded, “I’d love to.”
~o0o~
Juggling bags, Jeff swung open the door of his town house, and Cecilia stepped into the cool, sophisticated simplicity that greeted her. She walked across the polished marble floor of the small foyer and thought of the muddy footprints she hadn’t had time to wipe from the floor at home. Night and day.
When she reached the Oriental rug in the living room, a squawking, screeching, vocal assault sent her stumbling backward.
“Give ’em hell, Harry!”
She fell right into Jeff’s arms. “Good grief—what is it?”
“It’s only Toulouse,” he explained, laughing. But he held her securely. “My uncle’s parrot.”
“Give ’em hell, Harry!” the bird screeched again.
“Is he going to attack?”
“Come on. He can’t hurt you.” Jeff touched a switch and the living room was flooded with light. But before she could register the effect of the startlingly vivid painting on the opposite wall, the squawking, which had stopped momentarily, reached a new frenzy.
“Hey, buddy,” Jeff said in a soothing tone of voice and snatched a handful of sunflower seeds from an Oriental jar.
But the bird refused to be distracted, and Cecilia was obviously the target of his wild-eyed wing-beating fury.
I
t didn’t matter that the feathered beast was in a cage bigger than she was. She backpedaled toward the door, her eyes frozen on the gaping, hooked beak.
“I really don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Jeff said. “He’s probably just mad because I didn’t come home earlier for dinner.”
Cecilia stared at the orange eyes. The orange eyes glared back. “I don’t think that’s his problem.” She shuddered. “He hates me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a bird. He’s incapable of hating you.” But the uncertain glance Jeff aimed in her direction when Toulouse shrieked maniacally belied his words. “I’ll give him some mango and let him out on his perch. That’ll calm him down.”
“You let that bird out of that cage and I’ll—I’ll—” The threat died on her lips when Jeff left the room. She exchanged venomous glares with the bird.
“Hussy.”
Cecilia’s mouth fell open.
“Brazen hussy!”
“Jeff, your uncle’s bird is insulting me!”
The bird screeched, then cocked its head and glowered. “Round up the usual suspects.”
“What?” Appalled, she called out to Jeff, “What is this crazy bird talking about?”
The parrot fanned the green feathers on its neck. Its eyes were glowing orange accusations aimed directly at her. “If she can stand it, I can. Play it!”
Jeff returned with a palmful of mango pieces. “This isn’t like him at all.”
“So you keep telling me,” Cecilia muttered from her spot safely within reach of the French doors on the other side of the room.
Jeff deposited the fruit in the cage. “There you go, you crotchety old bag of feathers.”
“When is your uncle taking him back?”
“Never. He died three years ago. Left Toulouse to me in his will.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” For the first time, Cecilia noticed the seed shells and feathers spattering the otherwise immaculate carpet, and knew instinctively how much of an adjustment Jeff had had to make. “What a dreadful inheritance. Do you ever consider giving him away?”
Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy Page 10