Troubled as to how she would let Lydia know she was there, she sang “Silent Night” as she walked toward her.
“Clarissa. Clarissa. I knew you had to come either today or tomorrow, because you said you’d see me before the end of the year. Come give me a hug.” They held each other for a long while. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come here Christmas, ma’am. The recording was important, but maybe if I had insisted, the company would have let us do it after New Year’s.”
“Oh, for goodness sake! You’re here now, and that’s what counts. My regret is that you didn’t get to meet my son, but you will. I hear that your career is skyrocketing, and I’m delighted. The next time you perform here in D.C., I am going to be in the audience.”
Clarissa told her about the recording venture and her date for a televised New Year’s Eve performance in the largest hotel in Toronto. “I’ve always known that you will be famous. It’s just beginning. You can’t imagine how pleased I am.”
“Any place you want me to go with you tonight, or have you hired another aide?”
I’ve interviewed a lot of women, but I haven’t lucked out yet. I don’t suppose I’ll find anyone like you, though. How’d you like to go with me to see Diane Reeves? I can send Sam for tickets. Just what you’re wearing will be fine. I’d love to hear her.”
It was a plea, and she lowered her gaze so as not to display her humility that this woman to whom she owed so much would beg her to do something. “I’m trying to think of something you could ask of me that I wouldn’t do, and nothing comes to mind,” Clarissa said, forcing joviality. “I have a dress in my suitcase that tops this one. What time do you want us to leave?”
The woman’s eyes shone with pleasure. “Wonderful. A quarter of eight. Sam will be happy to see you.”
At the concert that night, she absorbed the great diva’s performance into every pore of her body. I’ve got a long way to go, she told herself as she settled into her old bed that night, but I will get there.
“I’m going to try to come to see you more often,” Clarissa told Lydia the next day as she prepared to leave. “I hate that you aren’t going places and doing interesting things.”
“I’ve had my life, and it’s time you were having yours, but I will be happy any time you walk through that door.”
She thought about those words as the big Douglas 80 roared through the sky en route to Toronto. Lydia had told her several times that her home was Clarissa’s home. But how could she treat it as her home when she didn’t work there and didn’t want to appear to take advantage of the woman to whom she owed her career?
At the hotel, she stepped out of the taxi into swirls of big snowflakes that created a picturesque world all around her. “Nobody’s coming to our show tomorrow night,” she told the band members when they assembled New Year’s Eve morning for a rehearsal.
“This isn’t Kansas City,” Raymond said. “Canadians don’t run inside at the first sign of snow. They see almost as much of it as the Russians do.”
“How’s Cindy?” she asked Konny.
“Fine. She’s upstairs in her room.”
“What?”
“Yeah. How else could we spend New Year’s Eve together?”
She stared at him. “Honey, you’re a fast worker.”
His shrug was meant to be off-putting. “Not necessarily, but when I’m hungry and I get some food, I eat.”
Oscar’s laugh could be heard in the next suite. “Right on, man. When the brother moves, he really makes time.”
After the rehearsal, Clarissa rushed to Cindy’s room on the twelfth floor. “I see you’re a smart one,” she told Cindy after their greeting.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re smart enough not to shack up with him here in front of his buddies.”
“Honey, I’m not Konny’s woman.” Giggles poured out of her. “At least not yet, but that man is so sweet that I’m in danger of breaking every one of my rules—and soon. He’s wonderful, Clarissa.”
“Hmm. That’s what he said about you. I’m glad you’re here, not that I expect to see much of you. He got you a nice room up here on the floor with the bigshots.”
“There was nothing else available. We’re having an argument about who’s paying for it.”
“You mean, you . . .” Clarissa nearly swallowed her tongue. “What’s that? Somebody’s singing my song. My brand new song that isn’t even published. Turn that up.” Cindy ran to the TV cabinet and turned up the volume on the radio.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Clarissa said, groping for a chair. “Good Lord, that’s me singing.”
Cindy’s eyes seemed to grow to twice their size. “That’s you? Konny said you’re the best jazz singer today.” She eased herself to the bed and sat on its edge. “Gee, with that voice, you can sing anywhere. Girl, you’re fantastic.”
Clarissa sat there, shaking her head from side to side and rubbing her hands together as if she were washing them. “I hope I sound as good in person as I do on the radio.” She jumped up, ran to the phone, and dialed Raymond’s room number. “We’re on the radio right now. How do I know what station it’s on? Right now, I’m doing well to know what my name is. Do some surfing. Tell Konny and Oscar. No, I’m not losing my mind. ’Bye.”
At their performance in the hotel’s grand ballroom that night, they played to a crowd that filled the vast room and the corridors adjacent to it. Clarissa got her first taste of the downside of celebrity life when policemen had to escort her from her dressing room to a private elevator. She had wanted to mingle with the people, to thank them for their generosity to her, but when several fans grabbed at her and a crowd surged toward her with such strength that her band members couldn’t protect her, the police moved to her rescue.
“I’m not sure I like that kind of success,” she told Cindy and Konny during breakfast in her room the next morning. “Give me my Kansas City gigs. They’re good enough for me.”
“That’s over,” Konny said. “You’re big-time now.” She knew he was right, though she didn’t want to accept that her peaceful, ordinary life would change so drastically that she would lose her freedom. Yet, she was soon to learn firsthand the truth of his remark.
They returned to Kansas City to reopen at Pilot III on the first Friday of the New Year. “They’ve been playing that song of yours on the radio ever since New Year’s Eve,” the club’s owner told Clarissa. “People have been calling here from everywhere—” he gestured with his hands to include the world—“wanting to know if you were coming back here. What the hell went on up there in Canada?”
If he was perplexed, so was she. “Must have been the CD. Whatever it was, I’m thankful for it.”
At their opening, a huge crowd welcomed her, and many waited outside in the cold, blustery weather, hoping to get into the club for her second show. Well, she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, and she definitely didn’t plan to question God as to the reason for his blessing.
At the end of her second and last set, she slipped from the stage to her dressing room, didn’t see fans anywhere, grabbed the fur-lined cape Lydia gave her, and headed for the exit. But as she stepped onto the street, fans waiting to purchase tickets for her next performance saw her and plowed toward her. She told herself not to panic as, to her amazement, a pair of strong arms lifted her and broke through the small group.
“Put me down. Where are you taking me? Stop.”
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head. That crowd would trample you.”
His voice, deep, strong and calm, put her at ease, though he didn’t set her on her feet until they reached the door of a small restaurant nearly two blocks from Pilot III.
“Thank you, whoever you are,” she said. “You can please put me down now. Going out there was foolish, but I haven’t gotten used to this.”
He eased her to her feet and opened the restaurant’s door. “They meant well. They only wanted to
touch you, but the way they were shoving, they would have knocked you down. Let’s sit over here. It’s rather secluded, and you won’t attract attention. What would you like?”
“Coffee, please. Who are . . . ?” She gasped. “Oh, m’gosh! It’s you! I looked all over for you last night and tonight, but I didn’t see you. I was so disappointed. Who are you?”
Close up, he fired her as a kiln fires porcelain. A big man with smooth brown skin, chiseled features, and large, expressive eyes that reminded her of someone. But it was his voice that unsettled her. It commanded her acceptance of him.
“I thought I was going to meet you at Christmas, but that didn’t work out,” he said, and a smile flitted over his face. “I’m Brock Stanton, Lydia Stanton’s son.”
“What? You’re . . . how’d you—?”
“I live in St. Louis. My mother told me to keep an eye on you, so I went to hear you. I went back, because I loved to hear you sing, and then, I went because I had to, because you intrigued me. I stayed away for a couple of weeks, hoping to get you out of my system, but let me tell you it was easier to give up smoking. So I went back. Then, you disappeared, and I was disturbed about it until my mother told me where you were and what you were doing.”
This couldn’t be happening to her. This man who, from outward appearances, could have any woman he wanted, was telling her in so many words that he wanted her. She told herself to talk sense, to ignore all those silly and girlish things running through her head.
“If I hadn’t gotten into trouble tonight, would you have continued to sit through my performances and leave without coming to see me?”
“No. After the night you sang ‘Solitude’ and sang it directly to me, I knew I had to find a way to meet you that wouldn’t make me seem like a stalker or an overwrought fan. I got the opportunity tonight.”
She felt so comfortable with him, and she knew she would have been equally contented in his presence if he hadn’t been Lydia Stanton’s son. “I’m glad,” she said, without reticence or the need for games or coyness. “I wanted to talk with you, to know what you’re really like, who you are deep down inside.”
“And I want to show you.” He didn’t smile, made no effort to charm or seduce her, and she liked that.
“Brock.” She rolled his name around on her tongue. “I like your name.” She said it as if she were nursing a memory, reminiscing about something pleasant. “I’ve never known anyone with that name. So to me, it’s uniquely yours. It belongs to you. I mean . . . oh, I don’t know what I mean.”
Her cellular phone rang, and she grimaced as she removed it from her pocketbook. She glanced shyly at him. “Would you believe that Clarissa Mae from Low Point, North Carolina, owns a cell phone? The members of my band gave it to me for Christmas. Now they can pester me anytime they feel like it. Hello.”
“Miss Holmes, this is Officer Cameron. Sorry to disturb you, but we’ve been trying to locate you. Where are you? Your band members are worried.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She looked at Brock. “A policeman wants to know where we are. Seems my band members are looking for me.”
“The Raven. Tell ‘em you’ll be at the hotel in a couple of hours.”
“Officer, tell the fellows I left because I have a date. They could have telephoned me.”
“Yes, ma’am, but they didn’t think of it till I asked if you had a cell phone. Sure you’re all right now?”
“Absolutely. Thanks.” She hung up and turned off the phone. “Now they can’t bug me.” She leaned forward, aware that she wanted more from him than polite conversation, more than the satisfaction of her curiosity about him. “I’ve thought about you a lot,” she said. “Brock, talk to me.”
He reached for her left hand and began to play with her fingers. “These many weeks I’ve had a hundred things I wanted to tell you, but now that you’re here with me, I can’t think of a single one of them. I’m thirty-nine, single, and enchanted with you. For a living, I manage my own properties.”
“Oh. Just like your parents.”
“Not quite.” He locked his fingers through hers. “They gave me a new car for a graduation present when I finished college. I sold the car, bought a bike, and used the rest for a down payment on a house. I rented out the house, got a job, and began saving to buy another house. That’s how I got started. Dad inherited his first house from his grandparents, and I liked to remind him of that.”
Pain clouded his brown eyes and his fingers tightened around hers. “My mother’s whole existence changed for the better when you came into her life, and she loves you deeply.”
“And I love her, more than she’ll ever imagine. She introduced me to a new world. I’m here because of her.”
They talked on into the night, past the time he’d said she would return to the hotel; talked until the restaurant owner came to their booth with three glasses and a bottle of cognac. He poured three drinks and lifted his glass. “I wish you a long and happy life together. But if I don’t close up and go home, my wife will be in a rage and my own happy life will cease.”
Brock clicked the man’s glass with his own and then let the fiery liquid slide down his throat. “Thanks for your good wishes, brother. We’re out of here.” He stood, took Clarissa’s arm, and dropped a bill on the table to pay for the coffee. “Thanks for your hospitality.” To Clarissa, he said, “It’s too late to go to the hotel. Call one of your band members and tell him I’m taking you home.”
She called, but got a busy signal and hung up. Arm in arm, they strolled the short distance to the apartment building in which she lived. “When may I see you?” he asked. “You work nights and I work days. Can you join me for lunch? I’m going back to St. Louis day after tomorrow.”
She stood beside him at the elevator, wondering how she could manage to get him to kiss her. She needed a deeper level of intimacy with him, but she wasn’t ready to invite him to her apartment.
“Aren’t you listening to me?” he asked.
“Yes. I mean, no. I was wondering . . . uh . . . what did you say?”
“Lunch tomorrow. I can be here at twelve-thirty or whenever you prefer.”
“Make it one.” The elevator door opened, and she reached up and quickly kissed his cheek. “Good night.”
She stepped into the elevator, and both of his arms went around her, holding her tight and stunning her with the swiftness of his action. He ran his tongue across her lips and, giddy with joy, she parted them and took him in. He possessed her, shocking her with the force of his passion. When he left her at the door of her apartment a few minutes later, she had no doubt that, if he staked a claim, she was his.
Chapter 12
Inside the apartment with her back against the door and her eyes searching the darkness, she steadied herself and began groping for the ringing telephone. “Hello,” she said in a voice strange for its unsteadiness.
“Where the hell were you, Clarissa?” Raymond wanted to know, as if he had the right. “With all that fracas in front of the hotel, we thought you’d been kidnapped. The police were all over the place.”
“Oh, Raymond, I’m sorry. After all that applause and adulation, I was suffocating. I wanted to get away from it, to get some air and find my way back to reality. I went out the back way intending to walk home, but I didn’t know about the crowd out there, and those people came after me like a wild herd. I’d have been trampled if Mr. X hadn’t rescued me.”
“If Mr. . . . who did you say? You mean that guy? Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I was with him, Raymond.”
“Yeah? From the way you sound, I can see he made a hit with you.”
“He did, indeed. Thanks for your concern.”
She hung up and sat on the high stool near the kitchen door, reflecting upon the past months and Brock Stanton. It was as if she had always known him and always loved him.
“In his arms, kissing him, was so natural,” she told Konny at rehearsal the next morning while Raymond and Oscar were revi
sing an arrangement. “The first time I saw him, I had a premonition that he’d be important in my life.”
She noted the vacant expression on Konny’s face, his thoughts evidently elsewhere. He shrugged. “And you think you love him although you’ve only been with him once?”
Clarissa nodded. “I know I do. Almost from the first, his presence when I sang comforted me, and his absence always saddened me. When I’d see him again, my heart would pound, and I’d get a feeling of contentment—I guess you could call it that—a feeling I wasn’t used to.”
Konny answered his cell phone, put his hand over the receiver and said, “Excuse me, Clarissa, but the manager of Pilot III wants to see you in his office around one if you can make it.”
“Sorry, but I have a one o’clock appointment. I can see him at noon today, but I have to be back in my apartment by ten minutes to one.”
Half an hour later, Clarissa sat in the club manager’s office, gazing at the original oil paintings, polished walnut furnishings, and deeply cushioned leather chairs and sofa. The man had great taste. And a lot of money, she thought, with which to indulge it.
“Thanks for coming, Miss Holmes,” he said. And at that minute, two policemen entered the office. Her eyes widened and a feeling of apprehension stole over her.
One of them approached her. “At that melee last night, we arrested a man carrying two guns and a grenade. A waitress said he was about six feet from you and moving toward you.” He showed her a photograph. “Do you recognize him?”
Annoyed at having been lulled there by a misrepresentation, she narrowed her eyes. “I would have gone to the police station, Officer, if you had asked me. This wasn’t necessary.”
The officer seemed nonplussed. “But ma’am, we didn’t think you’d want to be seen entering a police station . . . a person with your status.”
Destiny's Daughters Page 21