by Amanda Wen
Garrett’s hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. That sounds painful.”
“Thank you.” She balled her hands into fists, then relaxed them. “So I asked a bunch of questions—”
“You?” Cautious amusement danced at the corners of his mouth as his hand slipped from her shoulder. “Surely not.”
She threw him a half-hearted glare. “Do you ever have a thought you don’t speak out loud?”
“Do you?”
“Touché.” How glad she was for his wisecrack. It yanked her back from the painful path she was about to go down. The path she hardly ever let herself travel. “Anyway, I guess that’s why I’m so passionate about history. If I can’t know my own, at least I can help everyone else know theirs.”
Garrett tilted his head to the side. “That makes perfect sense.”
“I’m glad you think so.” She shook out her hair. “I don’t usually talk about my family issues with strangers.”
Garrett’s lips curved; his kind gaze swept over her face. “Surely we’re not strangers at this point, are we?”
His smile drew out her own. “Well, you’ve seen me with mud up to my knees, and I’m digging through stuff you rooted out of your attic, so I guess not.”
“Friends then?”
The word draped over her, warm and cozy. “Definitely. Friends.”
Garrett couldn’t believe how much fun sorting through dusty old books could be with the right company. A whole afternoon had whizzed by, and they’d barely made a dent, but he was pleased to have several tubs of books boxed up to donate. Even more pleased to have discovered a couple more of Annabelle’s diaries. Sloane had pounced on them, her eyes shining with an adorable eagerness that made him want nothing more than to scour every nook and cranny of his grandparents’ house to see what other treasures he might uncover.
He walked her to the front door. “You’ll let me know what you find?”
Hugging the stack of diaries to her chest, she rewarded him with a sassy smile. “Have I won a convert to the history-verse?”
“Learning about it in school was never anywhere near this interesting, I can tell you that much.” Outdated textbooks, too-small desks, and dry-as-toast Mr. McConathy couldn’t hope to make history come alive the way Sloane Kelley did.
Round cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “In that case, absolutely. You’ll be my first call.”
“Great.” He pushed open the storm door, and her warm, sweet fragrance mingled with the fresh spring air as she passed. “Drive safe.” Mischief tugged at his lips. “Don’t make me push you out of the mud again.”
Tossing a withering glare over her shoulder, she descended the porch steps, and his amusement turned to outright laughter.
As her mud-spattered car grumbled to life, Garrett surveyed the long driveway. The afternoon sun had shrunk the puddle considerably, and the scarred patch from their earlier struggle had lightened and dried. Sloane’s chances of getting stuck now were practically zero, but he still watched the blue Elantra until the taillights disappeared.
“You like her, don’t you?”
He whirled and found Lauren leaning against the doorway, arms folded, a teasing smile on her lips.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you like her.”
He pulled out his phone and checked for messages. “That’s ridiculous. I barely know her.”
“That’s what you said in tenth grade about Jenny Hickok, and you ended up going out with her for, what, three years?”
Garrett stared at his smug, smirking sister. “Sloane is nothing like Jenny Hickok.”
“I know.” Lauren turned back toward the kitchen. “That’s why I like her.”
Shaking his head, Garrett started up the stairs. Sloane seemed nice enough, and this afternoon’s conversation had definitely forged a bond between them. But with work and Grandma and all the plates he had to keep spinning, he had neither time nor inclination right now for anything more than friendship. And even if he did, it’d be with someone back home. Not here.
As usual, Lauren was reading too much into things.
His trips to Wichita were to tie up loose ends.
Not to create new ones.
CHAPTER FIVE
GARRETT STOOD ON a moonlit sidewalk, staring at the rough brick building, the Wichita city flag mural beside the door, and the half-lit blue neon sign that had clearly seen better days. Marty’s on Main—or MA Y’S N M N, if the sign was to be believed—didn’t look like much.
Then again, the best places usually didn’t.
He had to hand it to Lauren and her Google-fu. Sensing he needed to unwind, she’d suggested a long bike ride and an evening at a jazz club. He’d taken her up on the former, pedaling mile after mile through fresh air and green countryside, but scoffed at the latter. Whatever jazz scene Wichita boasted would pale in comparison to the one back home.
Lauren kept pressing him to give Marty’s a chance, though, and after skimming several glowing reviews, he decided to call her bluff. At best, he’d hear some decent music. At worst, he’d be able to fling a well-deserved “I told you so” at his sister.
Tugging on the worn brass door handle, he stepped into a cozy yet swanky atmosphere. Over the laid-back thump of bass, the swish of brushes on cymbals, and the tinkle of piano, a sultry saxophone riff crooked a teasing finger at him and invited him to sit down and take a load off.
Hmm. Maybe Lauren would be flinging the “I told you so.”
A perky maroon-haired hostess strolled up, menu in hand. “Booth or table?”
“Table.”
“Right this way.” She turned, and he followed.
And then a voice joined with the music. A smoked butterscotch of a contralto. Smooth and sweet, with enough of an edge to make it interesting.
No, not just interesting.
Irresistible.
The corner of a table thudded into his thigh.
“This okay?” the hostess asked.
With a distracted nod he groped for the chair and sat. Now he could focus on that voice.
Or rather, its source. He was seated near the stage but off to the side, resulting in a perfect profile view of a woman who looked as breathtaking as she sounded. Creamy shoulders peeked from a shimmery, dark blue dress, and shapely legs emerged from a shortish fluffy skirt.
His usual club soda with a lime thunked onto the table. Had he ordered already? He didn’t remember doing so. He took a sip, still staring at that beautiful, crazy-talented singer in the blue dress. He was going to eat major crow with Lauren, but he didn’t care. No one in Kansas City had ever transfixed him so completely. Not the way that gorgeous voice in this little hole-in-the-wall club had.
Full crimson lips issued the sound that dove deep into his soul. Bouncy dark curls shone a deep blue-purple in the stage lights. Sparkling earrings set off the gorgeous shape of her face. Wide cheekbones, long-lashed eyes, and—
Icy soda hurtled down his throat in a gulping attempt not to choke.
He knew those curls. Those eyes. That face.
That singer—how was this even possible?—was Sloane Kelley.
The applause from the small but enthusiastic audience rang in Sloane’s ears as she reached for the water bottle on the wooden stool behind her. She took a few swigs while Eric chatted up the crowd. Stage patter was traditionally the singer’s domain, but the standard “How y’all doin’ tonight?” and “Thanks for coming out!” came far more easily to their ebullient guitarist than it did to her.
She could scat with the best of them. But small talk? Not so much.
“Got a live one tonight, mama.” Jamal, the heavyset bass player, bent his head over the thick steel strings and adjusted a tuning peg.
“I’m sorry?” Sloane leaned closer.
“Cat over there at table two hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he sat down.”
Brow furrowed, Sloane glanced around the club. Table two … table two …
Was that … Garrett?
What was he doing here?
His gaze met hers, and he lifted a glass to her with an appreciative smile that still managed to be a smidge cocky. With the coolest nod she could muster, she turned back to Jamal.
“Oh, man. I cannot shake this guy.”
Jamal peered at her over black-framed glasses. “He stalking you or something? Want me to put a stop to it?”
“No, he’s not a creep. He’s just popping up everywhere lately.”
Jamal gave the tuning peg another crank. “Maybe there’s a reason for it then.”
“Maybe.” She brushed the thought aside and pulled taut the strings of her stage presence. Only one number remained, an audience-favorite Sarah Vaughan cover. Normally by this part of the evening she could cruise.
But tonight her heart hammered. Her breathing was shallower than she liked. Her palms dampened, and her grip on the microphone slipped a fraction.
Why the sudden stage fright? This was her refuge. No one here knew she was a straitlaced academic who spent her days amid dusty artifacts. And no one from her day job knew what she did on her off time. The circles of her life were separate, and she liked it that way.
But Garrett had unknowingly hopped from one circle to the other. There he sat at table two. Chin propped on his right hand. Drink lightly grasped in his left. Watching her.
Seeing her.
The piano intro made her jump. Had she missed Eric’s introduction? Was it time to sing already? Yanking her attention from Garrett, she called up an old trick from her voice teacher and sang not to the audience but to the exit sign at the back of the room.
By the end of the first verse, she’d calmed down enough to sneak a glance in Garrett’s direction. To her relief, he wasn’t watching her anymore. Eyes closed, he swayed slightly in time to the music.
Sloane fought a smile. In a million years, she’d never have pegged Garrett Anderson as someone who liked jazz.
When the song ended, the audience burst into applause. Garrett’s eyes twinkled as he whistled his approval. She basked in the glow for a moment, warm and content.
The stage lights dimmed and the crowd began to disperse, and Sloane blinked as she made her way toward the staircase at stage left. The rickety stairs always made her nervous, especially in heels.
Sure enough, one of those blasted stilettos caught the edge of the second step and she wobbled—but a firm grasp on her elbow steadied her. She glanced up.
Garrett.
Of course.
“Thanks for bailing me out. Again.”
“Are you kidding? It’s the least I could do. That was incredible. Unbelievable. Sensational.” The smile lines around his mouth deepened. “I’m running out of adjectives, so I hope you get the drift.”
“Thank you.” His effusive praise warmed her to the tips of her toes. Toes that suddenly protested being crammed into stilettos. She stepped out of the ridiculous contraptions, and her aching feet seemed to sigh with relief.
“Would you like to sit down?” He pulled out the chair across from his.
“That does sound nice.” She sat, then kicked her shoes beneath the table while he made his way to his chair.
She smiled across at him. “So I didn’t know you like jazz.”
“Jazz, gospel, blues, I love it all. Grandma’s always listened to gospel and jazz piano, and I guess it rubbed off.” He cradled a half-empty glass of melting ice cubes and something clear and fizzy. “I think what I admire most is how you all improvise. The way you just let the spirit take you where it will. It’s almost like prayer. Worshiping in church is great, but sometimes it’s easier for me in a place like this. Does that make any sense at all?”
“Absolutely.” For as long as she could remember, singing had been the best way for her to connect with God. And not always at church either. For whatever reason, the old jazz standards resonated more deeply within her soul. Not the words, necessarily, but the music. The spirit. The way her heart seemed to soar toward heaven when she improvised.
She’d never met anyone else who felt the same way.
It looked like Garrett hadn’t either, from the slow smile spreading over his face. And was it her imagination or had his hand inched closer to hers on the scarred wooden tabletop?
“Could I buy you a drink?” he asked.
She held up her mostly empty water bottle. “Water’s fine for me.”
“Then how about dessert?” He reached for the menu. “Something good. Something with gluten.”
A laugh burst from her lips. “If it’s gluten you’re after, their chocolate lava cake is worth your while. I usually treat myself to one after I sing.”
“Perfect.” He closed the menu as a server approached. “Two chocolate lava cakes, please.”
“Great choice.” The tall, sandy-haired server collected the menu from Garrett. “Can I get you another club soda?”
“I’ll take a coffee. Dark roast, if you’ve got it. And could you bring her a glass of water, please? No ice?”
“We’ll have those right out for you.” The server bustled away.
Sloane studied Garrett. “No ice. How’d you know?”
“Lauren did some musicals in high school, and her voice teacher was a stickler about no cold drinks.” Ice cubes clinked in his glass as he drained the last of his soda.
“Lauren’s a singer?”
“Not so much anymore. It’s a shame. She’s got a great voice. So did our mom.”
“Talent runs in the family then. What about you?”
“I play a little piano.”
He certainly had the hands for it. Long, nimble-looking fingers. Neatly trimmed nails.
She arched a brow. “How little?”
A shy smile bloomed. “Okay, a lot. Started lessons when I was five and kept at it until college. My piano teacher thought I should major in performance, but ultimately I decided to go with something I could make a living at.”
“Smart move.”
“Yeah, my dad was pretty relieved he wouldn’t be supporting a starving artist in his old age.”
“Did you ever play any jazz?”
“I tried in high school. Turns out I can’t improvise worth a lick. I need notes in front of me or it all falls apart. I guess that’s why I admire you all so much.”
She laughed. “Do you still play? I’d love to hear you sometime.”
“Not a lot.” He picked up his glass and turned it in his perfect piano hands. “Mom loved to listen to me when I practiced. She’d always hum along. But when she died, I guess the music did too.”
Sloane’s heart ached for him. She started to tell him she was sorry, but the look in his eyes changed from misty and faraway to focused and forward-thinking. He thunked the glass down. “What about you? How’d you get into jazz?”
“Well, my mother, in her constant effort to turn me into her mini-me, signed me up for choir as soon as I could walk. She was a beauty queen—first runner-up in the 1977 Miss Minnesota pageant and still bitter about it—and her talent was opera. She pushed me in that direction, but when I discovered jazz in high school, there was no turning back.” Sloane quirked a grin. “One of a long list of reasons I’m a big disappointment. Mom was okay with it eventually, though. She said it was nice for me to have a talent even if I’d never be a beauty queen.”
Garrett’s brows lifted. “Charming.”
“That’s her.” Sloane lifted the freshly arrived water glass in a silent, sarcastic toast.
“Did she push you to study music in college?”
“No, I arrived majoring in the ever-popular ‘undecided.’ But my gen-ed American history class roped me in. Not writing papers so much as the research. Learning how people used to live, how events shaped them. I was hooked.”
“And the rest, as they say, is history.” Dark blond lashes framed deep blue pools of mischief. “Bet you’ve never heard that one before.”
She gave an affectionate roll of her eyes. “Never.”
“So how’d you start singing with these guys?” Garrett gestured toward the stage. “Did you sing all through school?”
“No. Too many papers to write. But once I got settled with my job, I realized I missed singing. A couple weeks later, I saw a poster on the bulletin board at my favorite coffee shop. A band needed a new lead singer. I auditioned on a lark, and here I am. Second Saturday of every month.”
“Life complete?”
A hunk of gooey, delicious-looking chocolate cake slid in front of her, and a matching one arrived seconds later in front of Garrett.
Mouth watering, she picked up her fork. “It is now.”
It was past one in the morning when Garrett creaked open the farmhouse door and crept inside. Fatigue bled into his bones, reminding him of just how long it’d been since he saw that hour.
Worth it, though.
He and Sloane had stayed at Marty’s long after most others had left, talking about music, faith, family, and anything else they could think of. Her singing had bolstered his spirits, but her presence afterward had slaked a soul-deep thirst. When was the last time he’d made it past small talk and truly connected with someone? When had a conversation about something other than dividends and portfolios flowed so easily?
Probably about the last time he’d stayed out until one in the morning.
Something rustled in the living room, and a curly blonde head peeked over the back of Grandma’s blue recliner. For a second he was seventeen again, sneaking in after curfew and hoping this was the one time his mom had gone to bed early.
But that was Lauren in the chair, not Mom.
“So.” Lauren rose, her smile devilish. “Wichita’s jazz scene. Nothing to write home about, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah. Rub it in.” Rolling his eyes, Garrett swept past his sister to the kitchen. Something smelled delicious, and his stomach growled. How could he be hungry? That chocolate lava cake wasn’t small. And it had real sugar. Gluten, even.
But he couldn’t remember eating it. All he remembered was Sloane.
A plate piled high with cookies proved the source of the aroma, and he popped one into his mouth. Odd that she’d described herself as chubby earlier. Chubby certainly wasn’t the word he’d use. Curvaceous, maybe. Voluptuous. In that dress, she’d looked—