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Darcy swallowed, unable to tell him how Kenny had bolted. “He’ll be by to pick me up.”
His expression hardened, and she got the strong impression he’d heard what she hadn’t said. “No need for that. I’ll still be here when you’re finished.”
Relief flooded through her like water cascading over a broken dam. But she couldn’t ask Clay to spend four hours holding her hand, not when he already did so much for her.
“You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll be just fine,” she said, her tone less convincing than she would have liked. “I understand you have a business to run.”
“My business can wait.” Flinging an arm around her shoulders, he steered her toward the elevator.
Her heart felt somewhat lighter, the prospect of four hours hooked up to a machine not as daunting. But she was well aware that the treatment marked the beginning of a long, difficult journey.
If Clay realized that, why hadn’t Kenny?
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.
Her brother Jeff’s words echoed in Jenna’s mind that Friday as she and Corrine stepped into the hotel elevator from the floor where they were sharing a deluxe double room during their first weekend in Memphis. Clay Dillon had made good on his word, putting them up at the Peabody, one of downtown Memphis’s classiest and best-known hotels.
Corrine was strangely silent, giving Jenna time to reflect on her brother Jeff’s reaction to the Memphis gig. She’d told him the news earlier that afternoon when she phoned his brokerage firm to cancel their weekend dinner plans.
“Something about this sounds too good to be true,” he’d said. “What do you know about the guy who owns the bar, anyway?”
“I know he thinks I can sing.”
“Of course you can sing, but you haven’t performed in years. You said yourself you were rusty. So why you?”
“He hired me and Corrine, Jeff, not just me.”
Even as she responded, Jenna feared her answer was misleading. From the moment her eyes had met Clay Dillon’s, she’d gotten the impression it was about her.
“I have a call on another line so I’ve got to go.” He sounded rushed, the same way he always did. “But do me a favor and check him out. People aren’t always what they seem.”
Excellent advice. Too bad he’d issued it too late to take him up on it. She should have thought to check out the tall, dark and mysterious Clay Dillon herself, of course, but she’d been swamped at work.
“Do we know for certain Clay Dillon is legitimate?” she asked Corrine as the elevator car descended to the lobby floor.
Corrine shifted her guitar case from one shoulder to the other and released an audible sigh. “Could you stop already?”
“Stop what?”
“Making me feel guilty for dragging you into this. My career hasn’t exactly played out like I imagined it would. And, well, chances like this don’t come around very often. I appreciate you coming on board.”
“I know that, Corrine. I agreed so you could get the exposure you deserve.” Jenna ignored the internal voice that suggested the pleasure she got from performing had something to do with it, too. “I’m simply asking how closely you checked out Clay Dillon.”
“I took a trip to Memphis to see Peyton’s Place before I sealed the deal.”
“That’s checking out the bar, not the man.”
“The man owns the bar. The bar’s on Beale Street.” Corrine had reported the bar was “cozy,” which probably meant it was tiny. “What are you so worried about? Clay put us up at the Peabody, just like he said he would.”
The Peabody was a Memphis institution, as much a tourist attraction as a hotel courtesy of the ducks that marched to and from the sculpted fountain in the Grand Lobby twice daily to a John Philip Sousa tune. On a red carpet, no less.
Corrine had talked excitedly of witnessing the duck parade after learning where they’d be staying, but hadn’t even complained they’d arrived too late for the show.
Come to think of it, Corrine had been subdued all day.
The elevator opened to the Grand Lobby, the focal point of which was an expansive bar area featuring the sculpted fountain where the mallard ducks spent their days before retiring to a rooftop cage. Stately columns, plush furniture, a stained-glass ceiling and deco-style lights added to the drama of the Lobby Bar, where patrons with drinks in hand were thanking God it was Friday.
As they walked through the richly appointed space, Jenna touched her friend’s arm. “You okay, Corrine?”
“Sure.” Her brittle smile didn’t reach her eyes, but Jenna knew Corrine well enough to realize she wouldn’t talk about what was bothering her until she was good and ready.
The Peabody was on Union Avenue in the heart of downtown Memphis, just a few blocks from the segment of Beale Street closed to traffic every evening. Summer hadn’t yet officially arrived, but the June night was balmy, the air settling heavily over the city and dampening Jenna’s brow by the time they arrived on Beale. They walked the long way, so they could take in the atmosphere.
Shops, restaurants and clubs lined the street, with neon lights proclaiming the names of establishments and live music drifting from doorways. The party crowd didn’t stick to the sidewalks, straying into the middle of the street. Some held huge plastic cups of ale they’d bought at the sidewalk counter advertising Big Ass Beer.
An Elvis impersonator in a sequined outfit and blue suede shoes belted out a song on a street corner, his tip jar in front of him. A massive man with a parrot perched on his shoulder strolled in front of them. Conversation, nearby traffic noise and music blended together, bombarding the senses.
“Wow. It’s crowded,” Jenna said.
A large, noisy group of twentysomethings passed by, nearly separating them. Corrine hooked an elbow through Jenna’s. “It’s always packed on weekends. But why don’t you know that? You grew up here.”
“Mom, Jeff and I moved to Little Rock when I was seven.” Jenna didn’t have to tell Corrine how traumatic the move had been for all of them. Her friend already knew Jenna’s heartbroken mother had left Memphis after a younger, prettier woman had broken up her marriage. “I haven’t been back to Memphis in years.”
Jenna vividly remembered her last visit eight years ago when her boss signed her up for a financial analysis seminar. The seminar had ended unexpectedly early, which Jenna took as a sign to call the father she hadn’t seen in years.
She remembered her fingers shaking when she dialed his office number and her voice trembling when she asked if he was free. He pronounced it wonderful to hear from her and arranged to meet her for a drink at a downtown bar.
After a single martini and some awkward silences, he apologized for having dinner plans and left. Her father had lived six more years, but that was the last time Jenna talked to him. She hadn’t been back to Memphis until today.
“I’m glad you’re here with me.” Corrine nudged her elbow, a quintessential Corrine gesture. The closer they got to Peyton’s Place, the more whatever had been bothering her friend took a backseat to her excitement.
They continued walking along the four-block section of street, the crowd thinning exponentially until Clay Dillon’s bar came into view. The building had a brick facade with bay windows flanking the doorway, over which green neon letters spelled out Peyton’s Place.
The interior of the establishment was long and narrow, with a bar featuring green rails and corrugated steel running half the length of one mirrored wall. Photos of jazz and blues legends hung on the opposite wall above a series of green vinyl booths. A smattering of tables filled the space between bar and booths. Fans and lights on chains hung from a ceiling that had been painted the same shade of green found in the green-and-black checkered linoleum floor.
At first it seemed as though the raised stage was at the very rear of the place, but Jenna spotted a corridor lined with more booths that probably led to the kitchen and restrooms. She couldn’t decide whether Peyton’s Place really was bigger than it looked or only seemed that way because it couldn’t have been more than one-quarter full.
“Let me guess. You two are Two Gals.” A petite woman with long, curly red hair and the tattoo of a butterfly on her upper arm approached them, gesturing at Corrine’s guitar case. “I’m Vicky. Clay asked me to tell you to get started whenever you’re ready.”
“Where is Clay anyway?” Corrine asked.
“He went to pick up a friend of his he just hired to tend the bar.” Vicky shook her head and muttered, “As though giving the guy a job when he knows nothing about mixing drinks wasn’t doing enough.”
“Why’d he hire him then?” Jenna asked.
“The guy needs the paycheck. But, geez Louise. We need a bartender who knows what he’s doing.” She made a face, perhaps realizing she’d said too much. “Anyway, Clay’ll be here soon.”
Jenna followed Corrine onto the stage, then excused herself to find a restroom while Corrine tuned her guitar. Only two stalls occupied the small space, both of which were empty, so she began her vocal warm-ups. She used the same ones she’d learned as a child, hissing like a snake and buzzing like a bee. She was midhiss when she emerged from the restroom.
“I hope you’re not directing that hiss at me.” Clay Dillon suddenly appeared in front of her, heading the opposite way down the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms.
She’d been sitting when they met so hadn’t realized how tall he was, probably a good six inches taller than her five-eight. Too tall, she thought. He was dressed similarly to the other night, in jeans and a collarless shirt, this one in black. The shirt wasn’t so tight that it showed off the definition in his chest, but she noticed how powerfully built he was all the same. Too muscular.
“No, of course not,” she said. “I was just warming up my voice.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Once word gets around about how good you are, we’ll start filling up this place.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and she felt silly for suspecting him of God only knew what. He was a bar owner trying to increase business, and she was a means to that end. “How’s the Peabody? The room okay?”
“The room’s beautiful.” She itched to get back to the stage, but guilt over her previous mistrust of him caused her to prolong the conversation. “I hear you have a new bartender.”
“Oh, yeah. Nick. He’s a friend from high school who just got married. He and his wife had a baby a month ago.”
The new wife and baby vividly explained why his friend needed a job. She couldn’t help admiring Clay for providing one, even if his friend did lack experience.
“I should be getting back to the stage,” she said. “It’s almost time for us to start.”
“Of course.”
She moved to pass him but the hallway was so narrow that her body brushed his. Their eyes met, and awareness washed over her, as surprising as it was acute. She took a breath and caught his scent, a pleasant blend of soap, shampoo and warm male skin.
“Sorry,” he said, continuing past her as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
She moved to the stage without looking back, telling herself she’d imagined the moment. She drew her share of male interest, but she was hardly a femme fatale who knocked men dead with her stunning looks. And he certainly hadn’t done anything to indicate he’d hired her for anything more than professional reasons.
Clay Dillon, by all indications, was a stand-up guy who gave jobs to friends in need and thought Two Gals could improve his bar’s bottom line.
Jenna disregarded her lingering suspicion about the gig being too good to be true. In a very short time her temporary singing career would come to a screeching halt. She intended to enjoy her good fortune before it did.
CLAY STOOD BEHIND THE BAR, his arms crossed over his chest. The rich texture of Jenna’s voice washed over him as she sang an Aretha Franklin song. Her dark slacks and button-down shirt were only slightly less casual than the clothes she’d worn in Little Rock. She again seemed like a different woman on stage than off: more spontaneous, less guarded and lit by an inner passion he couldn’t detect while talking to her.
He felt the unwelcome pull of attraction, but pushed it aside. It could only lead to complications in a situation already complex enough. She finished the song, acknowledged the applause from the light crowd, then sipped a glass of water while Corrine took center stage with an instrumental version of a Ray Charles song.
“Clay, did you hear a word I said?”
Vicky Smith, the best waitress in Memphis, stared up at him from across the bar, her elbows perched on the wooden surface. She stood about five feet nothing, but what she lacked in height she made up for in personality.
“You need a couple drafts?” he guessed.
“Not right now, I don’t. All my customers have what they need.” Her gaze challenged him to try again.
“You were complaining about Seth?”
“That doesn’t prove you were listening,” she rejoined. “I always complain about Seth.”
“I was listening. You said he accused you of having an affair.”
“He always does that, too, the big jerk. He’s gentle as can be with me but swears he’ll tear apart the guy I’m sleeping with. As though I’d fool around with one guy while dating another. You know I’m not that kind of woman, right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Then why doesn’t he?”
“He’s got a jealousy problem.”
“You think?”
“I know.” With difficulty he tore his attention from the stage and focused his full attention on Vicky. “Guys like Seth, they don’t change, Vick. If he’s this jealous now, it’ll only get worse if you marry him.”
“If? You’re saying I should rethink the engagement?”
Hell, yeah, except he would have used the word “break” instead of “rethink.” This was a conclusion Vicky needed to reach on her own. “I’m saying I want you to be happy. Since you started dating this guy, I haven’t seen a whole lot of smiles from you.”
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, he saw resignation. “I knew there was a reason I go to you with my problems. Sometimes you’re pretty smart.”
“Sometimes? Mensa would be lucky to have me,” he teased.
“I said sometimes, and I meant sometimes. You hired Nick, didn’t you?” She nodded toward the new bartender, who consulted a book while mixing what looked to be a gin and tonic. “By the way, you should go for it.”
He brought his gaze back to Vicky. “Go for what?”
“The singer. You can’t take your eyes off her.”
Had it been that obvious? “That’s because she’s talented.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right.”
Vicky left to tend to her tables. Clay wondered how the waitress would react if he confided the primary reason for his interest in Jenna, not that he was free to do so. Darcy had begged him not to tell anyone at the bar about her kidney problems.
No matter. He’d done what he needed to get Jenna to Memphis. His next step was bringing Darcy to Peyton’s Place so the half sisters could finally meet, which could happen tonight because he’d suggested Darcy stop by with her boyfriend to hear the duo.
“Hey, Clay.” Darcy appeared at the bar as though his thoughts had conjured her up. But, no. If he imagined his sister, her smile would be genuine. She usually appeared lit from an inner glow, but her essence seemed dimmed today.
“Hey, Darcy. Can I get you something?”
“What I’d really love is a big old glass of wine,” she said wryly, “but I suppose tonic water will have to do. Half a glass, please.”
“Coming right up,” he said.
As he filled the glass part way and topped it with a lemon, he mentally reviewed what he knew of her dialysis routine. The physically taxing treatments took her out of commission for the rest of the day, but she usually bounced back on off days. She’d settled on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays for the treatments, so today was an off day. Still, if her rate of kidney failure had increased…
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked as he handed her the tonic water.
“Shh.” She brought a finger to her rosebud lips and raised the light-colored eyebrows that marked her as a true blonde. “If your employees hear you, they’ll ask me how I’m feeling every single time they see me, the same as you do.”
He couldn’t argue her point. Most of the people who worked for him knew Darcy, either from when she’d helped out at the bar last summer or her impromptu visits.
He was careful to keep his voice down. “I wouldn’t keep asking if you promised to tell me when you don’t feel well.”
“I feel fine today,” she said.
It didn’t escape his notice that she’d qualified her statement with “today” and that she hadn’t made any promises. “Then what’s wrong?”
“Am I that transparent?” She rolled her eyes, seemingly more at herself than him. “It’s Kenny.”
