Last Chance at Love

by Gwynne Forster

  When the lights came up, he was already seated, tuning his guitar and waiting for the six other band members to walk onstage. His blood accelerated its pace through his veins the minute he heard Buddy’s downbeat. As usual, the dance of his magic fingers up and down the strings brought cries of “Right on, Mac”, “Kill it, man” and “Take it on home, baby” from his devoted fans. And as they did whenever he played, the crowd clamored for his rendition of “Back Home in Indiana,” his signature piece.

  The third and last set ended too quickly. As always, he remained seated while the band took a bow and the lights dimmed. Still high from total immersion in his music, he picked up the glass of iced tea that he’d placed on the floor beside him to resemble liquor, emptied it, and ducked out back. He’d had a ball, but uneasiness pervaded him because, unlikely as it seemed, he was fairly certain that Allison Wakefield had been in the audience. Allison wore her hair up, and this woman’s hair hung around her shoulders, but an African-American woman with big, almond-shaped brown eyes and long sweeping lashes in a flawless, oval-shaped ebony face was not the most common sight. Besides, he not only had the facial similarity for a clue, his reaction to the woman was similar to what he felt when he first saw Allison. He’d thought her the Bach fugue type; it wouldn’t have occurred to him that she’d pay to hear jazz.

  He took every conceivable precaution to conceal his identity at the club, including never being seen standing, since his six-feet-five-and-a-half-inch height and 215-pound weight might give him away. His music was his life, and he cherished those few hours on Friday and Saturday nights with Buddy Dee’s band. He’d have to watch his every move, because a reporter could damage him almost irreparably.

  * * *

  “He got away again,” Allison grumbled to Connie, as they waited outside the club.

  Connie scrutinized Allison’s face. “Are you sweet on Mac?”

  Allison glared at her. “Of course not. With those black glasses, I don’t even know what he looked like. But pins and needles shoot all through me when that man plays, and he sits there, in his element. He’s so mysterious.”

  Connie’s shoulders lifted in a quick shrug. “You reporters are all alike. You have to know everything. It’s a wonder you don’t walk up to the man and interrogate him.”

  “Can you see anybody intimidating that big guy?”

  “Yeah. You might not try to browbeat him, but you’d dig into his business just to talk to him. He’s your type.”

  “My type?”

  “Sure he is. You like a man who’s four or five inches taller than your five feet nine, and you could really luxuriate and feel tiny with this guy. He must be near six feet six. Of course, I’m just guessing; he’s always sitting down.”

  “Yeah, he is,” Allison replied, bemused. He’d already taken his seat when the lights went up and remained sitting after they went down, while other band members walked in and out in full view of the audience. She could only conclude that he had a disability. Maybe he couldn’t walk. She dismissed the matter with a shrug. It was of no import. A jazz musician would be the last man who’d interest her.

  She put on her Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong CDs as soon as she got home and sang along with them while she sorted out her clothes for the tour. With gentle strokes, her fingers brushed the once-yellow leather rose that had long since turned brown from her loving caresses. Half a dozen times, she’d thrown it into the wastebasket, only to retrieve it and return it to her little collection of treasures—the green quilted silk box in which she kept her first bra, the lace handkerchief she’d carried to her freshman high school prom, the empty perfume bottle that had held the first gift she received from a man. The yellow rose had nestled in the elegant bow on the box in which the perfume had been wrapped. Edna Wakefield hadn’t approved of a deliveryman for her daughter, and she’d let him go. But unlike opportunistic Roland Farr—her betrayer—that man had loved her, she now knew.

  What of Mac Connelly? She couldn’t get him out of her mind. Tonight, she’d sensed in him a peculiarly erotic aura that she hadn’t detected the many other nights she’d seen him play. As she watched his fingers tease those strings, an unfamiliar heat had pulsated in her. A laugh rumbled in her throat. First Jacob Covington had poleaxed her, and now this. No doubt about it; she was a late bloomer.

  * * *

  Early Sunday afternoon, two days later, as Allison stepped out of her Jacuzzi, she heard Covington’s voice on her answering machine, interrupted it, and took the call.

  “Don’t forget that our flight leaves at eight tomorrow morning, Allison. We might as well use first names. I’m called Jake. As I was saying, please be on time. I have a ten o’clock appointment, and I don’t want to miss that plane.”

  As soon as her heartbeat returned to normal, she summoned her most professional demeanor. “Mr. Covington, I’m assuming that you don’t make these statements because you want to rile me, but because you’re deficient in the art of conversation. I will be on time, dear, and I will wash behind my ears before I leave home.” His uproarious laughter cooled her temper, and she vowed not to react negatively to every one of his incautious remarks.

  “Did anybody ever try to blunt that sharp tongue of yours?”

  “Now, you...” she began, remembered her counsel of seconds earlier, and stopped. “Jake, do you think we automatically rub each other the wrong way?”

  That deep, dark, sexy laugh again. “I think we rub each other, but I’d be the last one to suggest it’s the wrong way. Rubbing with you gives me a good feeling.”

  “Well, it irritates me,” she huffed.

  “In what way? I’d be happy to soothe whatever I irritate. Just let me know what I’ve...uh...inflamed, and I’ll gladly cool it off.” His laugher caressed her. Warmed her. If she didn’t watch out, she could find herself enamored of... Was she out of her mind?

  “I don’t suppose it has occurred to you that you can keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  “It has, but doing that wouldn’t be fun.”

  She could imagine that a grin covered his face. “You’re not going to tease me into letting you trap me with innuendos. I’m onto you. Aren’t you ever serious?”

  “I’m always serious,” he shot back, “but I’m not a rash man. If I told you in plain English what’s on my mind, I could damage our relationship. I don’t want that.”

  She wondered if her nerves would riot. After that comment, he might as well dump it out, but she refrained from saying it. “Thanks for being circumspect,” she replied instead, and she did appreciate it. “Having to suffer my boss’s coarseness is a big enough price for getting ahead in this business.”

  “I can well imagine that. See you at eight in the morning.” As though he’d received an unpleasant reminder, his manner changed when she mentioned Bill Jenkins. Who could blame him? She told him goodbye, dressed quickly, and made her way to Mother’s Rest.

  * * *

  Allison took Leda from the nurse, looked into the child’s sad face, and told herself that, if she were ever fortunate enough to have one of her own, she’d love it so much that it would bubble with joy all the time.

  “Leda,” she cooed to the solemn little girl, “smile for me.” She sang “Summertime” and was rewarded with the baby’s rapt attention. She cuddled Leda to her breast and paced the colorful, well-lighted room, singing as she did so. Leda quickly learned that a smile brought another chorus and, when the two hours had passed, Allison surmised that she had sung the famous song well over a dozen times. The nurses let her stay beyond the allotted two hours because the child fretted when she attempted to leave. Finally she managed to sing her to sleep, but for the first time, pangs of separation after leaving one of the children tore at her, and she vowed to have some of her own. But when?

  She got home, saw the house’s dark windows, and realized she’d forgotten to s
et her automatic timer. She searched for the small flashlight that she always carried in her pocketbook, found it, and opened the door.

  After sleeping fitfully that night, she arose before daylight, dressed in leisure, and stood leaning against the check-in counter for the Delta Air Lines Washington to New York flight when Jake Covington got there. Captivated, she watched him approach her, his gait loose and his stride lazy. Suggestive. He walked up to her and grinned. Then he winked. Unaccustomed to a promiscuous onslaught of desire for a man, she had to battle the frissons of heat that swirled within her, unsettling her. Six weeks of him could be her undoing.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, replacing the smile with a look of genuine concern.

  She wasn’t so foolish as to tell him what seeing him had done to her. She turned to the ticket agent and handed him her credit card. “New York. One way, please.”

  * * *

  They took their seats in business class, and Allison immediately opened a newspaper, but Jake couldn’t resist closing the paper and relaxed when her inquiring look bore no censorship.

  “I want us to get along well, Allison,” he began. “I grew up in a peaceful, loving family, and I’ve accepted that as the kind of life I need. I do not allow myself to spend a lot of time with contentious people. If you can’t stand my company, I’d rather we called this off before the plane leaves the gate.”

  “I’m a little unsettled. It’ll pass over, I hope. In any case, Jake, contentiousness is not part of my disposition, so if that’s what you detect, you probably precipitated it.”

  He ignored the remark. “What happened to you back there?” Whatever it was, it had plowed right through him. Oddly, he didn’t expect an explanation, because the incident had the appearance of spontaneity, a phenomenon unto itself and of its own power, so her answer held no surprise.

  “I wish I knew. Don’t worry, though; I’m fine.”

  He let his hand touch the side of hers; he couldn’t help it. Something in her called out to him, sparked a need in him, and it wasn’t one-sided. He knew she’d deny it, but there it was. She reacted to him exactly as he responded to her, and though he wasn’t anxious for them to get involved, he knew from experience that when nature decided to take a hand in such things, it didn’t ask permission. So he told himself he’d better take his mind off the matter, because the more he thought about her, the more she intrigued him. When the odor of fresh, perking coffee wafted into the cabin, he inhaled deeply, savoring its aroma, grateful that it overrode Allison’s tantalizing scent.

  “I’d like some coffee. Sugar and cream,” he told the flight attendant.

  Allison asked for plain black coffee and didn’t reply when he commented, “Unadorned, huh?”

  She also hadn’t moved her hand from beside his fingers. What was he supposed to make of that?

  Trying for a reaction, he teased, “Scared of gaining weight? From where I sit, you’re perfect.” He wouldn’t have thought that a simple blush could give him so much pleasure, but he relished the sight of her embarrassment as evidence that his compliment pleased her.

  He sensed her uneasiness, too, but he didn’t think she’d want to be questioned about it, so he opted for impersonal conversation. “My network appearances will be taped at seven-thirty in the mornings and aired at nine-thirty,” he said, “and I have to be there an hour early. You want to go with me, or would you rather—”

  That did it; immediately she removed her hand. “You’re not losing me, Mr. Covington, so please don’t try it. If I had wanted to watch you on television, I could have stayed home and done so in the comfort of my bedroom.”

  His left hand went to his forehead. How did a man deal with such suspicions? He decided to ask her.

  “Do you distrust everybody? Or just me? Allison, I cannot and I will not spend the next six weeks tiptoeing around your tender feelings.”

  He watched her lift her chin in a display of aristocratic disdain. For heaven’s sake, not a stuffed shirt, he said to himself.

  “My feelings are not tender,” she corrected him. “I want to make it clear that I won’t let anything or anybody prevent my carrying out this assignment, and that includes you.” Tired of hassling when he wanted to be gracious, he resorted to silence.

  “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” she said after a time. “I’m not usually so touchy, but you seem to... I don’t know... I haven’t been my best self this morning.”

  He rewarded her with an obliging smile, though it wasn’t what he felt. She’d glanced up at him for his reaction, and he’d smiled because she needed to be absolved.

  * * *

  Allison hadn’t considered that the simple business of registering at their hotel could prove embarrassing. After determining that they really did want separate rooms, the Drake Hotel registration clerk asked if they were traveling together. Jake said no, but she said yes, not realizing that they were being asked if they wanted adjoining rooms with a door that opened between them.

  “Which is it?” the clerk asked. Heat singed her face when Jake replied that they didn’t want to be together. Flustered, she looked everywhere but at him and cringed before the clerk’s knowing gaze. She’d rather neither of them had known that she’d never checked into a hotel in the company of a man, not that it was their business.

  “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” he said when she walked out of the elevator. “Can you make that? We’re going first to my publisher, then lunch, after which I sign at Barnes and Noble. Okay?”

  She nodded. It was one thing to be attracted to him, but if she wasn’t careful she’d like him more than was healthy. Her reaction to him in the Washington Airport had distressed her, and when he’d sensed her unease and almost covered her hand with his, he’d told her more about himself than she needed to know right then. She changed into a burnt-orange suit and brown accessories, refreshed her makeup, and met him in the lobby with minutes to spare. His smile of approval had nothing to do with business and everything to do with a man liking the looks of the woman who approached him.

  He held the taxi door for her and took his seat beside her. “I may not be in this evening, Allison; bright lights hold a lot of fascination for a country boy.”

  She turned her body fully to face him. “Did you say you’re a country boy?”

  “Surprised?”

  She nodded. “I am, indeed.”

  He winked. Voluntarily or not, she couldn’t tell. “Yep. I was born in Reed Hollow, Maryland, about a mile from the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. I was wondering when you’d get around to asking. Couldn’t be that you intend to stick to my present daytime activities, as you promised?”

  She glanced down at her long, perfectly manicured fingers. “As a man of the world, you ought to know the folly of whetting a reporter’s appetite. The obvious is far less interesting than that which is obscure or hidden.”

  She felt the tension in him, as one feels a speeding object just before it hits, and wondered at his anxiety. “Don’t get antsy. I promise to write nothing but the truth.” She watched in astonishment as he withdrew.

  “Another person’s truth isn’t necessarily yours to tell. A man’s privacy is sacred.”

  She refused to give quarter. “Public figures have to forgo some of their cherished privacy.”

  He eased into the corner, away from her. “And the public has a right to know, damn the individual and what disclosure does to him. Right?”

  Stunned, her breath lodged in her throat, and she stared at him. When she regained her equilibrium, she told him, “I’m not a monster, and I never write lies. Never.”

  But her words evidently didn’t placate him, for he stared straight ahead, his expression grim. “That’s more than I’ve come to expect from reporters. Some of you can twist the truth to the point that...that love of country seems like a crime. I want to see your text as
you go along, and if at any point it’s out of line, this deal is off.”

  “In your dreams, mister,” she sputtered. “Not even my editor sees my copy until I’ve finished it.”

  “We’ll see about that” was his dark reply.

  Allison figured she’d better check in with her boss, though as always she dreaded talking with him.

  “Jenkins.”

  “Just checking in, Bill. We’re at the Drake.”

  “We? Now you’re talking. Squeeze everything out of him. I’ve never yet seen a man that couldn’t be had if a woman played her cards right.”

  She swallowed hard. Didn’t he ever elevate his mind? “I called to let you know where I am. My room number is eleven-B, and I believe Mr. Covington is in sixteen-H.”

  She imagined his look of incredulity when he said, “You’re joking. I gave you credit for more than that.”

  “I hope I didn’t misunderstand what you said, Bill.”

  His snort reached her through the wires. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m in the business of scooping other papers. Play it any way you choose. Just bring me a good story, and if you find out that the guy smokes opium or sniffs coke, it had better be in your story.”

  She didn’t know why she laughed, because his words hadn’t amused her. When she could control it, she asked him, “Have you ever met Jacob Covington?”

  “No, and never wanted to. Why?”

  “He’s a gentleman. If he’d heard your reaction to our room arrangements, he’d probably cancel this deal; he doesn’t trust The Journal. If you want this story, you’d better ease up and let me handle it my way.”

  His long silence told volumes, but she waited. “I’ve been in this business thirty years,” he said at last, “and you’re a lamb born yesterday, but you know it better. Do what you please, but you get me that story just like I want it.”