His Uptown Girl

by Liz Talley

  Blakely was fine, that was for sure. But she looked like every rich chick he’d ever seen. Shoulders straight, hair down her back with a sort of eat shit and die attitude that a brother couldn’t touch. But she was a dime—perfect ten.

  “Hey, Mom. Took you so long I was starting to worry you’d already taken up old-lady driving,” Blakely said with a sassy smile. On the surface, the words sounded teasing, but there was an edge to her tone, a sort of I’ll show you.

  Made him wonder about Blakely.

  About why she felt threatened by her mother.

  Then Eleanor glanced at Dez and something fired between them. Then Tre knew. Dez didn’t want Blakely. He wanted Eleanor.

  “Your mother is far from granny driving,” Pansy said, wrapping Blakely in a hug after introducing Eddie to Dez. “She scared me silly the other day when she drove me to the pharmacy. Mario Andretti ain’t got nothing on her.”

  “Who’s that?” Blakely laughed, true warmth flooding her blue eyes as she returned Pansy’s hug. “Besides, you’re already silly, Petunia.”

  “Ha, ha, monkey girl,” Pansy said, wrapping an arm around Eddie, who’d turned to talk to a couple who wore business suits and looked moneyed up. “Have some punch and sandwiches. I gotta go mingle and drum up some sales for Eddie.”

  Eddie set Kenzie down with a smile, leaving Tre and Shorty D standing with Dez, Eleanor and Blakely.

  “Give me Kenzie,” Shorty D said, his voice reflecting boredom…or hunger. Probably both. “I’m gonna go get us a plate and sit her over on that couch.”

  Shorty D grabbed the little girl’s hand and wove through a few old white hippies to the nearby table. Tre could see the couch from where he stood. When Tre returned his gaze to the others, he saw recognition in Dez’s eyes.

  “Dez, Blakely,” Eleanor said, “this is Tre Jackson. He works with me at the Queen’s Box doing our deliveries and helping keep Pansy in line.”

  Blakely stuck out a hand. Her smile looked genuine, and he wondered if he’d imagined earlier the animosity between her and Eleanor. “Hey, I’m Blakely. Sorry I didn’t get to meet you at Christmas.”

  He took her hand, catching a whiff of perfume, which smelled like a sample he had once been handed in the mall. “Good to meet you.”

  Dez held out a hand. “And we’ve met before.”

  Tre shook Dez’s hand, which was hard, strong and callused. “What’s up?”

  “Trevon Jackson. You played the hell out of the sax.”

  Tre withdrew his gaze and begged the sucking wound inside him to remain hidden. The thoughts of his short-lived music career always burned more when he was around someone who created music, around someone who had the pleasure of putting his emotions into notes.

  When Tre sold his horn, it had felt as if someone had cut off his arm. But he’d gotten over it for the most part. He wasn’t quite whole, but he was managing. “Yeah. I played back in the day.”

  Dez lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t play anymore? You were one of the most talented guys I’d met.”

  “Nah,” Tre said, tearing his gaze away again. He didn’t want Dez to see the lie in his eyes. “I’m done with that.”

  “Tre is saving to go to college next fall. He’s going to study business,” Eleanor said, sounding somehow proud of him, which made him feel like such a fraud. He was no one worth being proud over.

  “That’s good,” Dez said, slapping him on the back. “But I’d love to riff with you. Why don’t you bring your horn and we’ll play on your breaks or after work?”

  “Nah, dude, I sold my horn a while back. Don’t have time to mess with that no more. Gotta work, you dig?”

  “Damn, that’s a shame,” Dez said.

  “Yeah. Maybe one day I’ll take it up again. If I get the time.”

  Blakely tilted her head. “I have a saxophone you can have. Daddy bought it for me when I was, like, in the sixth grade. I thought I wanted to be in orchestra. Turns out I’m not good at music. It’s been in my closet for years.”

  Eleanor frowned. “I thought I donated it after Katrina, when so many of the schools were looking for instruments and trying to bring back their programs.”

  “Nope, I saw it over Christmas on the top shelf,” Blakely said. “You must have forgotten about it.”

  Eleanor smiled. “Well, for good reason. It was meant for Tre.”

  Everyone smiled at him as if they’d bestowed upon him the greatest of gifts. But he didn’t want their damn charity. He’d been living with people giving him shit for so long it made him feel sick to think about taking something else, especially since the check Eleanor just wrote burned in his pocket.

  “Naw, it’s no big deal. I ain’t playin’ no more. In fact, I’m going to take on an extra job on weekends if I can find something. No time for blowin’. Thanks, though.”

  Dez studied him for a moment, looking as if he was weighing Tre’s words. Finally, he nodded. “All right, but if you change your mind, I want to blow with you. You were tight on that thing, and my man Johnny Zeber’s looking for someone to work with since his regular guy went to L.A.”

  Hope fluttered in Tre’s heart but he beat it down.

  Hadn’t he learned a long time ago that hope was a dangerous thing? Good things don’t happen unless a man’s willing to shave off part of himself, unless he’s ready to bend and give way to evil. Trevon Jackson wasn’t meant for music. He wasn’t meant for luck. He was meant for facing shit flung at him, scraping it off and moving forward.

  ’Cause standing still wasn’t an option. He had to keep moving forward so the life he didn’t want didn’t catch up to him.

  *

  DEZ SHUT THE FRONT DOOR to his Uptown apartment and tossed car keys onto the black granite bar.

  Hell of a night.

  And he was so close to having Eleanor beneath him, loving her, taking a small piece of pleasure to knit into his soul.

  In the darkness of his roomy place, his piano occupied the middle of the room, beckoning him to give it some well-deserved attention.

  He strode across the carpet and plinked one finger on the ivory keys. This piano wasn’t as pure as the Fazioli, but rather well loved and well played, a gift from his grandmother, who had received it from a wealthy paramour back in her wilder days, before she fell in love with a tuba player at a gig in the Quarter and gave up her life of crooning ballads and running with Mafia boys. A full-out grand piano with mellow strings, and smoothness gained from seasoning.

  Dez sank onto the bench, his fingers striking keys, creating a haunting melody he’d never put together before.

  Huh.

  He tugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the leather sofa, wiggling his fingers, allowing the passion to wash over him, take him to a place where he could create. It was like waiting for a wave, paddling slowly, searching for just the right crest, just the right color of water.

  His fingers returned to the keys and he allowed the melody to return, playing the same progression. A tweak here and there, and then, yes, it worked. He played the same chords over and over, letting the fire pour from his fingertips, building crescendo, pulling back to play softly when necessary. Over and over he played, the magic weaving around him, absorbing into his pores and spilling onto the keys, becoming one with his instrument.

  And all the while he thought of Eleanor.

  Of her smooth skin, so soft, smelling as a woman should. Of her green eyes, the fear within, of her giving herself to him. Yielding while at the same time wrapping him in her essence, demanding he give forth to her.

  Eleanor.

  His fingers flew across the keys too fast. He slowed, reached out and grabbed the blank sheets awaiting the music that hadn’t come for years. A black charcoal pencil sat beside it, freshly sharpened, awaiting use.

  Minutes later, he had three stanzas of soft, plaintive notes.

  Notes that begged for surrender.

  During the next three hours, those notes grew and wandered a bit along the melody befo
re gathering at the chorus, and by the time day crawled over the windowsill, Dez Batiste had written his first song since Katrina.

  And it was beautiful, powerful and so full of angst that tears had streamed down his face.

  The words to accompany the piece had floated nearby, and he knew he’d write them down, but not now. His body felt depleted, and his fingers shook with exhaustion. He needed food and sleep, and then when his body had recovered, God willing, he’d find the words to go with the chords he’d created. They were there, hovering in his soul like small birds with rapidly beating wings.

  Dez dropped his head onto the piano and allowed the heaviness of life, of sheer exhaustion, to soak into him. One yawn. Two.

  He slid from the bench and fell onto the sofa, shoving his jacket to the floor. He’d close his eyes for a few moments and dream of Eleanor.

  And of the future that didn’t seem as empty as it once had.

  *

  ELEANOR PLACED THE TRAY of sandwiches on the low coffee table, which was surrounded by a group of Blakely’s sorority sisters. “There’s the last of them.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. T,” one of the girls said, choosing a small cucumber sandwich and popping it into her mouth before picking up a pair of tweezers and turning toward Eleanor’s daughter. “As soon as I shape up Blakely’s eyebrows, I’ll do yours if you want. I’m really good at it. I worked at the MAC counter last summer.”

  “Uh, no, thanks, Caroline. I think mine are okay,” Eleanor said, folding herself into a straight-back chair beside the big-screen TV in the den, watching four girls prep for a night on the town.

  Caroline surveyed her and raised her own awesomely sculpted eyebrows. “If you say so.”

  “Do you think I need some reshaping?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Caroline smiled before angling in on Blakely like a deranged scientist.

  “Owww,” Blakely said, jerking away.

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  A redhead who Eleanor couldn’t remember the name of said, “Yeah, stop being such a baby.”

  “Screw you,” Blakely said, jutting her face at Caroline. “I’m not the one who cried when Margaret Ann got engaged.”

  “You’re such a bitch, Blakely,” the other blonde in the group said. Eleanor was certain her name was Reese because she reminded her of the actress who shared the same name.

  “You know it,” Blakely said with a laugh. “Oh, and check it out. Across from my mom’s store is this nightclub, and the guy who owns it is on frickin’ fire.”

  “Ooh,” Reese said, looking away from the compact mirror and grabbing a sandwich and another swig of some obnoxious energy drink. “Do tell.”

  Eleanor’s heart dropped into her still-chipped toenails. Blakely talked about Dez as if he was a decadent chocolate.

  Okay, he kinda was.

  She eyed her bare feet and then the metallic nail polish sitting on the table next to the sandwiches.

  “He’s so hot—looks like the Rock. Swear to God.”

  “Oh, my God. I would so do the Rock,” the redheaded girl said.

  “You’d so do half the Sigma Nu frat house, Darcy,” Blakely said, clearly trying not to cringe as Caroline plucked away. “But this guy, Dez, is like honey. He’s, like, part Creole, part white and full-on yummy. That whole ethnic thing is so hot.”

  Eleanor wondered how many times the girls could fit hot into their description of Dez. It could be a drinking game. A shot every time they said hot.

  “So you gonna go after this hot guy?” Reese asked.

  Blakely shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s kinda older.”

  “Yes, too old for you,” Eleanor chimed in, relinquishing her role of gargoyle in the corner. She couldn’t handle much more of the Dez talk, not after watching her daughter make an idiot out of herself at the gallery.

  “Mom, he’s not that old. I’m in college, in case you didn’t get the memo.”

  The other girls cast looks at one another, nodding their heads as if being in college made it okay to do whatever one wished.

  “How old is old, Blake?” Reese asked.

  “Like maybe thirty or something. But he’s seriously hot. I mean—”

  “Smoking,” Darcy finished for her.

  “And y’all haven’t even heard the best part,” Blakely said, smoothing a finger over her eyebrows because Caroline had moved on to lip liner. “He’s a musician.”

  Darcy squealed. “He’s in a band?”

  “Not a band. He’s a jazz pianist.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Eleanor said, rising and pointing a finger at her daughter. “You stay away from Dez Batiste. He’s too old for you and too experienced. Stick with frat boys.”

  Blakely rolled her eyes. “Frat boys? Please.”

  “Davey Weiss thinks you’re the cat’s meow, Blakely, and his daddy owns a shipping company,” said Reese.

  “So?” Blakely’s gaze caught Eleanor’s, and she saw in their depths rebellion, which Blakely had never shown before. Where was her sweet girl who made bracelets from parachute cord and sang in the school choir? “You didn’t stick with frat boys, Mom. You were my age and daddy was Dez’s age.”

  Eleanor felt as though she’d been hit in the face with a wet towel.

  Dear Lord. Blakely was right. She’d been nineteen the day she’d met Skeeter Theriot at the Blind Gator bar in Midtown. Sipping on a beer, wearing ripped jeans and a white shirt that had embroidered little mirrors on it, Eleanor had had big dreams of being a historian and little protection against the charming assault launched by one of the city’s favored sons. Skeeter had been wealthy, smooth and entitled. Eleanor had been easy pickings.

  Her fate had been sealed, and she’d found herself wedded and painting a nursery while trying to finish up her degree in history at Tulane. She’d been twenty years old when she’d delivered Blakely. Twenty-three when she finally got her degree. Twenty-seven when she opened the Queen’s Box, her little hobby that she managed to grow into a business. At thirty-two she’d sat through Hurricane Katrina. At thirty-four she’d found out her husband was dead at the hand of a mistress she’d never known existed. And now at thirty-nine, she stood looking at her daughter on the precipice of adulthood.

  Yeah, age was only a number, but it was a number that added up to life not being as picturesque as a nineteen-year-old girl envisioned. Prince Charming often turned into a toad far too quickly, and dreams of a career often withered on the stalk.

  “You’re right, honey,” Eleanor said, scooping up the empty sandwich tray and wadded-up napkins and heading toward the kitchen. “But I was stupid. You don’t have to be.”

  She walked out, not bothering to hear Blakely’s argument. Having a nineteen-year-old daughter was harder than she’d ever expected. She and Blakely had always had a good relationship, and even when Skeeter had been killed, they’d maintained openness with each other, a sort of “us against the world” attitude that had been a small measure of comfort during a media attack that literally had them hiding in their house for weeks on end.

  They’d been a team, but it had changed last summer when Blakely had spent two months in Europe with her father’s family. When Blakely had returned, she’d been different. There was a distance Eleanor couldn’t bridge, and the gulf had widened during the fall of Blakely’s freshman year at Ole Miss.

  Eleanor hurt and mourned for the daughter who had once picked her daisies and turned down invitations to parties so she could go see Gerard Butler movies with her mother. And even scarier than the distance was Blakely’s new focus on the “right” friends and the “right” clothes. That scared Eleanor because it felt as if Blakely was turning into a Theriot…and not in a good, philanthropic kind of way. But in the way that allowed one to talk out of both sides of her mouth…like her father.

  Eleanor slid the tray into the dishwasher as Blakely appeared in the doorway, lips glossed, moccasin boots past her knee. “We’re heading out, Mom. Don’t wait up.”

  “You sure?”
/>   “God, Mom. I’m not ten anymore.”

  “Hey, honey,” Eleanor said, walking toward her daughter.

  Blakely watched her with a guarded expression and Eleanor’s heart pinged. She lifted a hand and brushed her daughter’s golden hair from her face. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  Blakely looked away. “Mom, you have to think that. You’re my mother.”

  “No, you are, but don’t grow up too fast, okay? It’s fine to date frat guys and enjoy being nineteen.”

  “Yeah, okay,” she said, stepping away.

  “I love you, Blakely. That’s all I’ve ever done. Remember who you are, sweetheart.”

  “I know who I am,” her daughter said. “Remember, don’t wait up.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DEZ FOUGHT OFF a dull headache as Chris Salmon went over the plans for the last stage of the renovation. After many calls and Dez’s threat to contact his attorney, the contractor finally showed up early Friday morning with an apology. And the special reclaimed wood to install on the wraparound bar at the back of the club.

  “So three weeks ought to do it,” Chris said, propping a work boot on the iron bar rail Dez had found in an old railway station in Plaquemines Parish.

  “Three weeks has to do it. I’m opening on March fifteenth.”

  Chris made a face. “Isn’t that a bad-luck day or something?”

  “The Ides of March?”

  “Yeah. Don’t people get killed on that day?”

  Dez smiled. “No, it’s a movie. Oh, and I guess it was bad luck for Caesar. Hmm, maybe I should figure out a drink—Ides of March martini. I like it, and that would be a great signature drink we could build into our history.”

  Chris shrugged and waved his men inside. “You creative types. I don’t get you.”

  “You don’t have to. Just use your creative abilities to get this place ready to roll. The interior decorator Reggie hired will be by to consult with you this afternoon about the paint colors for the bathrooms and the location of art that needs electrical, so stick around. I gotta go rehearse for the gig tomorrow. I got my cell.”