Smooth: A New Love Romance Novel (Bad Boy Musicians)

by Hazel Redgate

  ‘You’ll miss your plane.’

  ‘There’ll be other planes. If you need me, I’m here.’

  I stare across at Drew, who looks momentarily pained but nods in agreement. If I need her – if I need them – then they’re here for me. That’s what family is for, after all. I won’t lie, there’s a part of me – a small, stubborn, selfish part – that wants to tell her to stay and look after me in my hour of crisis, but somehow I manage to shake my head. ‘No. Don’t be an ass. Go and have fun.’

  The look on Drew’s face is one of tremendous relief. I’ve already taken a lot of the spotlight after their wedding; it would be a tremendous dick move for me to ruin their honeymoon.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m going to stick around here for a couple more days, I think. Give things time to settle before I go back to Chicago. Maybe give Carter a chance to grab his things from my apartment.’

  ‘And then what?’

  I shrug. I wish I had more of an answer for her than that.

  But for the first time in a while, I think I’m going to be OK.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The park is enormous, but I don’t mind that; all the better to get lost in. At the moment, that’s just what I need.

  After I negotiated another week in my room at the Hotel Belle View and finagled the same amount of time off work, I was at kind of a loose end. I wandered for a while – first down by the waterfront, watching the artists plying their trade around Jackson Square, and then into the heart of the city itself. No matter where I went, I was faced with the single, unassailable truth.

  I was free.

  Sure, I’d have to go back to Chicago eventually; my life was there, after all. But when I did, it would be to a terrifying, exhilarating new world. A world full of potential. I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen to me for the next week, the next month, the next year.

  And I couldn’t recall ever having been happier.

  I walked north through the city, enjoying the crowds of tourists – the voodoo shops and bars, the statues, the wide open spaces. The whole city felt like it was my playground, open for me to explore.

  The park seemed as good a place to start as any.

  I remember a brief sliver of advertising copy I’d seen on a leaflet back at the hotel, proudly proclaiming City Park as almost one and a half times the size of Central Park in New York – the crown jewel of the gardened city of New Orleans. I hadn’t quite believed it until I saw it, but it really was something quite special. The trees in the park were filled with faded strings of purple, gold, and green beads. Tourists and locals alike shared smiles and enjoyed one another’s company. In the centre of the park, there was a bandstand, where a group of amateur musicians were just jamming together while people around them danced and laughed and sang along.

  Where the hell would that happen in Chicago, eh? Where the hell would that happen anywhere?

  I grab myself a bottle of water from one of the stalls surrounding the bandstand, and lay myself out on the grass. Follow the music, Chuck had said. Well, he wasn’t wrong about that. Right here, right in this moment, I feel completely at peace.

  And that’s when I hear it: a low, mournful trill on a trumpet, some distance away from the bandstand itself. Whoever is playing, he’s playing along with the same tune as the people on stage, but the music is softer, somehow – the music weaving in and out of their melody, adding a bitter undertone to their song. The music is sad and sweet, a change from the usual raucous energy of the jazz I had become accustomed to hearing from every club on Bourbon Street and beyond. It’s the kind of music that can only come from truth, the sound of a broken heart stitching itself slowly back together.

  I hadn’t heard music like that since my first night at the Coeur de Vie.

  It can’t be. What are the odds?

  It can’t be.

  The trumpet sounds out into the cool evening air, beckoning me towards it. I close my eyes and listen to my surroundings, trying to feel out where the music is coming from.

  Over there. On the bridge.

  A small stone bridge crosses a decorative lake, about two hundred yards away – far enough that I can’t make out the features of the figure with the trumpet. All I can see is a broad-shouldered man with his back to the band, playing to no audience but himself.

  Can’t be. Can’t be. No how, no way.

  You’re going to look like a real idiot in a minute, Mossberg, when it turns out just to be some total stranger playing a sad tune, and not some grand signal from the universe.

  No one’s that lucky. No one.

  I race up the desire path between the trees, feeling the dangling beads from Mardi Gras past stroke my face, but I don’t care. I have to know. I just have to. The path leads up to the bridge, empty except for a lone figure.

  A tall black man in a suit jacket, with a bright brass horn pressed to his lips, deep in contemplation.

  It’s him. It’s impossible, but it’s him.

  Jackson Robichaux.

  He carries on playing for a moment, but even through the haze of concentration, lost in the music, he can’t ignore his audience for long. He breaks off mid-bar and slowly lowers his trumpet, staring at me with a fixed, confused expression.

  ‘Ella?’ he says, as though he’s not sure it’s really me. I half expect him to reach out and pinch me, to make sure I’m not some kind of optical illusion. ‘What are you doing here?’ And then, a second later: ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I… I don’t know. I just heard people playing, and…’ And this can’t be real. It just can’t. ‘And I followed the music, I guess.’

  ‘I thought you had a flight to catch.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I decided to stay. For a little while longer, I mean.’

  He nods, slowly. ‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘New Orleans is a fine city. You could do worse.’ There’s an imperceptible pause, a frown that doesn’t suit him. ‘I’m sure you and your boyfriend will have a lot of fun.’

  ‘Jack…’

  ‘Ella.’

  ‘There is no boyfriend. No fiancé either. Not now.’

  ‘That’s not the impression I got back at the hotel.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. About everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘No. Not everything. Not us spending the night together.’ Or the dancing at the wedding. Or the nights at the Coeur de Vie. Not that. Not a moment of that. ‘Just what happened when you left. In the lobby.’

  He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Is this where you tell me it wasn’t what it looked like?’

  I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘But I did tell you the truth, back at the hotel. I went downstairs to tell Carter I was done with him. I was done with him. And then…’

  ‘And then you weren’t?’

  ‘And then he got down on one knee, and pulled out the ring, and I watched you walk away, and…’ I take a deep breath. ‘And I panicked. That’s all. You were gone, and he was there, and I didn’t know what else to do. But none of what I told you was a lie. I can promise you that much. I wasn’t just looking for a quick thing. I wasn’t trying to get over Carter. I just…’

  I fell for you, Jack Robichaux. I fell for you hook, line and sinker. And if you don’t believe anything else I might tell you, believe that. Please. Believe that.

  In a better world, I might have been more eloquent. I might have been able to come up with the perfect expression of what I’m feeling – hell, I would probably have known what I was feeling, rather than it being a swirling vortex of confusion with Jack at the centre. But I don’t. I can’t. The words trip on my tongue, and so I stay silent.

  Waiting. Hoping.

  ‘I… didn’t think I’d see you again,’ he says at last. ‘Figured you would have hopped a plane at the end of the week, and that would have been it. And that bothered me a lot more than I was expecting it to.’

  ‘Why
?’

  ‘Come on, Ella. You know why. I told you, way back at the wedding. It really wasn’t just some line, you know. I just had a feeling about you, the minute we first spoke. The minute I first saw you. And boy, did that throw me for a loop.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mm-hmm. So I figured you were just one of those things, you know. One of those people who sailed through my life and right out of it again. Two ships passing in the night, you know? A great might-have-been.’ He smiles. It’s a sad smile; wistful. ‘I was going to write the best blues song about you.’

  Even now, he’s going for the laugh. Ever the performer, even for a crowd of one. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Oh, sure. I would have made a fortune off of it too. And I figured one day you’d hear it on the radio, and you’d think, Damn, that boy down in New Orleans was fine.’

  ‘Just fine?’

  ‘I would have taken it. And then I saw you with your boyfriend, and I realised I never would. Because someone else had seen how amazing you were first. My bad luck, I guess.’

  ‘Not so much.’ I hold my hand up for inspection. ‘See?’ I say. ‘No ring. No fiancé. And I understand if you never want to see me again, but…’

  But.

  But what?

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing with this,’ I say. ‘Any of this. I’m a thousand miles from home, I’ve had a bitch of a week, and I’m single for the first time in God only knows how long. But I know I like you, Jack Robichaux. I like you a lot.’

  ‘Ella…’

  ‘Because you’re nice. And I know you hate hearing that, but…’

  ‘Ella.’

  ‘… but I’m here for another week or so, and I’d really like it if we could meet up sometime. Just to talk. I mean, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Ella, for God’s sake...’

  ‘What?’

  He moves towards me, and in one stroke closes the gap between us. His body presses against mine, and I can feel the cold stone of the bridge at my back as he places his hand gently on my cheek and pulls me in for a kiss. It’s a long kiss, a slow kiss – real, and heartfelt. In that moment, I might easily have felt penned in… but I don’t. Not with Jack. With Jack, I never feel anything but safe.

  And yet eventually, as with all the best moments, it has to end. He pulls away and smiles at me. ‘Do you always talk so much when you get all nervous?’ he asks.

  ‘… sorry.’

  He grins. ‘Don’t be. It’s cute. I guess that’s something I’m going to have to get used to, eh?’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to…’ I say. ‘I mean, I don’t know where any of this is going, yet. I’m kind of flying blind here.’

  ‘Why don’t we start with a date?’ he says. ‘An actual, honest to God date. See how that goes?’

  ‘Revolutionary. I like it. Got anywhere in mind?’

  He grins. ‘I figured we’d just wing it. How does that sound?’

  I snuggle close to him. No plan. No end goal. Just seeing where the night takes us. ‘That sounds pretty much perfect,’ I say.

  ‘I know a great little place. The best beignets I’ve ever tasted – and I gotta tell you, I’m real picky when it comes to beignets.’ He pauses. ‘You want to get going?’ he asks.

  I’m not looking at him, although I probably should be. My attention is captured by the view in front of me, over the water: the picturesque bandstand, and the tourists milling around, just having fun as the sun started its downward path towards evening. The first signs of a city preparing for another night of what it does best: just New Orleans being New Orleans.

  ‘Could we just…?’ I begin.

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘Could we just stay like this? Just for a minute?’

  Jack smiles, and slips an arm around my waist. ‘Sure we can,’ he says. ‘For as long as you like.’

  Might be a while, I think. The happy beats of the musicians on the bandstand drift over the lake towards us, as the sky darkens to a deep mauve.

  And I could stay that way forever.

  Epilogue

  Tonight’s to-do list is brief, and nearly finished. Rocky, my English bulldog, is struggling to recover from a quick walk around the block in the sweltering New Orleans heat, and has taken up residence under the cool breeze of my air conditioning unit. (Check.) I’m showered and ready to head down to the bar, wearing a delightful cream linen summer dress that I would have previously thought of as far too kitsch to be seen dead in. (Check.) A buzz from my phone tells me that Lauren is waiting for me, right on schedule. (Check, check, check.)

  It’s a good feeling, having everything just fall into place.

  I reach down to give Rocky a quick pat before I leave, and he looks up at me imploringly: Please, no. Please, don’t take me out there again. I was worried about how he’d cope with the move from Chicago down to New Orleans, but other than the oppressive heat, he seems to be doing OK. ‘It’s alright, buddy,’ I say, checking his water and kibble levels. ‘You’re done for the day. You can just chill here, alright?’

  He barks an affirmative, and waddles his chubby little dog-butt over to the fan I’ve left on for him. That’s him settled for the evening, at least.

  The air outside hits me like a solid block of warmth, like opening an oven door, but it isn’t long before an evening breeze blows past me, straight off the waterfront, taking the edge off the oppressive heat. For the first couple of weeks, I thought I was dying whenever the temperature got above sixty-five or so, but by now I’m used to it. I can’t say the same for the city’s party attitude, though. I’ve been living here for six months now, and it still amazes me that the whole city really does never sleep. I worried at first that the tourists would annoy me, but I can’t imagine a New Orleans that doesn’t bristle with the sound of raucous laughter on every street corner, where the night air isn’t saturated with jazz music and lights, where the smell of the honeysuckle vines doesn’t linger.

  There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

  I don’t have time to linger tonight, though; there are people waiting for me. As I make the way down the stairs to the club, Eddie breaks off from serving a couple of out-of-towners and gives me a little wave. Gotta remember to go over and say hi later, I think. When he’s a little less busy. He’ll never forgive me if I don’t.

  That’s the thing about the Coeur de Vie: when you’re in, once you’re one of them, it feels like home. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn’t made the snap judgement to walk down that stairwell six months earlier. It’s like a whole different world now – my own personal uncanny valley, where everything is familiar but just ever so slightly wrong. Where everything was just a little bit less satisfying than it should have been. Where the plan was king, and the trains ran on time, but there wasn’t a smile to be found.

  ‘Eleanor Elizabeth Mossberg, you get over here right now and give me a hug!’

  The shout comes from a booth in the corner pretty much the instant I set foot through the door, but seemingly before I can turn around Lauren has made her way across the floor of the bar and has wrapped her arms around me in a bear-hug that’s months overdue.

  ‘Easy, easy,’ I say. ‘Shouldn’t you be taking it a little easier? Doctor’s orders?’

  ‘Oh, farts to taking it easy,’ she replies. ‘And I am the doctor. You just don’t want me to say I told you so.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Which I did. I told you so. I told you so.’

  I throw up my hands. What’s the use in fighting it? It’s going to come out eventually. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You were right. Completely and one hundred percent.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘You told me so.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Fine. The psychic was right.’

  ‘Twins, El,’ she says, rubbing her abdomen protectively. ‘Twins.’

  I don’t tell her about my little conversation with Chuck the psychic, the day after her wedding. I wonder if perhaps it’
s better that she doesn’t know, that maybe finding out he was a fraud would make the babies growing inside her just a little bit less special, somehow. Then again, I don’t think anything could do that. She looks more alive than I’ve ever seen her. The spark of excitement about her impending motherhood radiates out from her, all but lighting up the bar around her.

  Drew comes up behind her, a beer in one hand and a fruity cocktail confection in the other. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, beaming at me as he gestures to their table. ‘It’s virgin.’ Once the drinks are down, he pulls me in for a hug. Married life has been good for him, it seems. It looks like he’s finally grown into himself, and managed to shed some of that nervous, awkward energy. ‘We’ve missed you up in the windy city,’ he says. ‘Lauren keeps trying to talk me into moving down here again.’

  I cast my eyes to the side and give her a conspiratorial grin. It would definitely be nice to have my best friend close by, especially with what’s coming. ‘Well, you know,’ I say, ‘I hear it is supposed to be a lovely place to raise a family…’

  Drew lets out a mock groan. ‘I might as well start packing then, eh?’

  It’s still too early for Lauren’s bump to be showing – three months, according to her doctor; just time enough that it’s safe to start telling people – but she’s already buzzing with excitement. This baby is everything she’s ever wanted, everything she never thought was possible. When the doctors gave her the thinnest possible hope of ever getting pregnant, she just about gave up, but…

  Well, miracles happen. Maybe certain places get more than their fair share. Maybe New Orleans and the Coeur de Vie are just lucky in that respect. Who’s to say?

  I haven’t seen Lauren in person since the wedding, but it takes us no time at all to catch up; we talk on the phone at least a couple of times a week, and text almost constantly, but there’s still nothing like being able to pull her into a close hug when I need one.

  ‘What’s that for?’ she asks as I stand up and wrap my arms around her.