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“Which is where the metalwork probably came from. I know. I’m still not interested.”
Her folded hands dropped to the table with a thump. “Why?”
He would have liked to avoid this confrontation, but couldn’t. “Look. There was a man, an Indian, who made a big point of his heritage, his cultural pride. He knew the legends and the language of his tribe. He could trace his people back for a hundred years and more. He talked about forcing the whites to acknowledge Indian rights, to make reparations for the land they’d stolen. He wanted to bring the Indian race back to its rightful place of power, on the same level with whites.”
Emma nodded without speaking. Her gaze encouraged him to finish.
“This man lived on land his family had claimed for generations. One day, a car pulls up in front of his house—a house hung with signs and symbols of Indian power. An Oklahoma oilman gets out, nice guy, good suit, and offers the Indian an indecent amount of money for that land.”
“He took the money?”
“Of course not. It was Indian land. So the white men came back one night and caught him out at the barn, then beat him up until he agreed to sell.”
“I know these evil things happened. But that doesn’t explain—”
He held up a hand. “The man was my grandfather. My mother was his youngest daughter. They moved to the reservation after that, where he drank himself to death. My dad did the same, a little while after he told me the story. I was eight years old.”
“Jimmy—”
“I figured out right then and there that being an Indian was an accident of birth. A correctable birth defect, even. I found the cure. I walked away from that history and I don’t look back. For any reason.”
Emma stared at him from across the table with her twined fingers pressed tight against her lips. The hurt in her eyes said she’d taken the story into herself.
Shaking his head, Jimmy lurched to his feet. “Don’t be so sad, Emma. All of this was a long time ago, and doesn’t matter anymore. That’s the point.”
He would have liked to comfort her. But that would mean controlling the contempt for his grandfather’s weakness that roiled in his belly—not something he could handle in a minute or two. Without another word, he abandoned the kitchen, leaving Emma by herself.
ON HER THIRD AFTERNOON at work, Emma fortified herself with a deep breath, then left the kitchen and headed for Jimmy’s office. She peeked in. “Do you have a moment?”
He looked up from his account book with that heart-stealing grin. “For you, always. What’s up?”
They’d overcome their differences over the medallion by simply avoiding the subject entirely. Jimmy spoke with her, laughed with her—but not about anything that mattered. He didn’t get to the club until midafternoon, when she was already deep into prep work. Once the club opened, Emma was too busy to do much more than breathe, and too exhausted afterward to argue when he paid for the cab to take her home. Their situation bore little resemblance to the easy enjoyable reunion she’d anticipated.
But then, nothing about Jimmy seemed to be as easy as it had been twenty years ago. He wore armor now, invisible but quite impenetrable. By unspoken consent they’d ignored the revelation he’d made of the tragedy in his past. A tragedy, as far as Emma was concerned, still active in his present.
But she knew better than to broach the subject again so soon. This was a different mission. “Have you ever considered a more…um…adventurous menu?”
His reaction was not the encouragement she expected. The engaging grin faded, and his straight eyebrows drew together. “I think I told you, the food isn’t the draw.”
“You also told me the guests are enjoying their meals now. Why not expand a little?”
“This isn’t that kind of place.”
“It could be.” They both watched his long fingers rotate a pencil between point and eraser.
When he looked up, his gaze wasn’t angry, just wary. “Why change what works?”
“Why do something halfway?”
He gave a choked laugh. “Did I hire you to argue with me?”
Emma shrugged. “You hired me with the understanding that I would do my best. I’m telling you I can do better than ham-and-cheese sandwiches and dill pickles. The music deserves more than that.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Jazz is not polite music. It’s down and dirty, gut-wrenching. It doesn’t need polite food.”
“Jazz is also elegant and sophisticated and profound. We could provide that kind of food.”
“Your third day at work and you’re already rocking the boat?” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a second. “What do you want to do?”
She sat in the chair across the desk. “A salad or two, I thought. And a featured entrée—an actual dinner on an actual crockery plate.”
He rocked his chair back, putting more distance between them. “We don’t have plates. Or forks or spoons or knives.”
“I can solve that problem with one telephone call.”
He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “You’ll blow my profit, buying dishes. The margin’s not all that great to begin with.”
“Of course.” She lifted her own eyebrow and regarded him skeptically. “What kind of car is it you drive? Some sort of animal…Pinto..? Bronco..? Cougar?”
“Might be worth a try, boss.” Tiffany came in to stand at her shoulder. “Draw some folks in who stayed away because of the food.”
After staring at them a few moments, his face unreadable, Jimmy shook his head. “Emma, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to get into that kind of trade. Thanks for the effort, but no thanks.”
She drew a deep breath. “Jimmy—”
He held up a hand. “I never argue with a beautiful woman. And especially not with two beautiful women. Take away the distractions so I can get back to my numbers here, okay?”
With a sigh of surrender, she made her escape, Tiffany following close behind.
“That went well.” Emma sank into the chair at the kitchen table. “I’d say we left him at the point of conceding.”
Tiffany gazed at her with a frown. After a moment, her face cleared. “Oh, I get it. You’re joking again.”
Emma propped her chin in her hand. “Yes. I’m joking.” With the thumb of her free hand, she stroked the grain of the worn worktable. “Who’d have thought he would be so stubborn?”
“He’s a man, isn’t he? They’re all like that. They want their own way.”
“You sound as if you’ve had plenty of experience.” Emma pushed her own losing encounters with the male drive for control to the back of her mind.
“Yeah, well, my Brad pretty much says what goes.” The bartender put up a hand to massage her shoulder, wincing a little. “He’s six-four and two-fifty, so most people don’t argue.”
“What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
Tiffany dropped her hand. “Brad and me were fooling around last night—play fighting, you know. I hit a chair leg and got a bruise. That’s all.” She stepped through the doorway into the club. “See you later.”
Could she really be that clumsy? Or…Emma followed her into the dark. This was meddling—again—but she had to ask. “Tiffany, does Brad hit you?”
Wiping down the bar, the other woman shrugged. “He gets mad sometimes. And he forgets how strong he is. Nothing major.”
“How long have you two been together?”
“About three years.”
“But you aren’t married?”
Tiffany laughed. “I was already married once. To a real loser. I don’t plan to be trapped like that again.”
That should have been reassuring. Wanting to be convinced, Emma started back to the kitchen. At the doorway, she turned once more. “You probably have lots of friends and family already. But if you ever need help, please feel free to call me.”
“Thanks.” Intent on polishing a spotted glass, Tiffany didn’t look over again.
Alone in the kitchen, Emma tried to put the matter out of her mind, without success. Tiffany probably didn’t weigh much more than nine stone—one hundred twenty pounds or so—and she was half a foot shorter than Emma’s five-ten. Why would such a big man even think about wrestling—“play fighting”—with someone so much smaller?
Sighing, she focused her attention on the food yet again—sweet, ripe tomatoes and crisp lettuce, fragrant onions. Block cheese didn’t cost much more than fabricated cheese sauce for the nachos, especially when grated by hand, and tasted better. There was such peace in preparing food, a sort of rhythm…
Outside in the alley, glass hit concrete with an unmistakable shatter. Someone cursed, loudly and fluently.
Emma went to the screen door and peered out.
A boy stood just across the narrow lane, with a pile of rubbish at his feet, evidently fallen through the ripped bottom of the white plastic sack he held.
Harlow, the homeless boy she’d given money to her first night in Denver. The one Jimmy had rescued in the fight.
As Emma stepped outside, he looked over and grinned. “I guess I got greedy. Tried to carry too much.”
Emma crossed her arms. “What in the world were you trying to do?”
“Just looking for some lunch.” He started backing away. “Sorry if I bothered you.”
“Lunch? In the rubbish bins?” She spared a glance for the mess at his feet. “You were going to eat that?”
His shoulders lifted in a shrug, and his face flushed. Emma watched him a moment, then ducked back into the kitchen for another sack and a dustpan. “Clean that up and put it back where you got it. Then come inside.”
“That’s nice ’n all, lady, but…”
“But?”
“Well, this part of town is where I hang out most of the time, and I’ve tangled with Mr. Falcon before. He’s not big on handouts.”
Jimmy had warned her about this boy and his friends. They were drug addicts, he’d said. Best left alone.
But Jimmy wouldn’t expect her to ignore a hungry boy. “I’ll pay for the sandwich, if that will make you—and Mr. Falcon—feel better. You’ve got five minutes.”
Just as she set a full plate on the table, he tapped at the door. “Are you sure, lady? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”
For an answer, Emma opened the screen and waved him inside. “Wash your hands and then sit down. And my name is Emma. Emma Garrett.”
He grinned again, and she blinked against the shine of it. “Pleased to meet you, Emma Garrett. I really appreciate the lunch.”
And he did—he ate every crumb in silent pleasure and asked for a refill on the glass of milk. Draining the last drop, he sat back with a sigh. “I won’t be hungry again anytime soon. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She’d worked while he ate to give him privacy, but now she leaned back against the counter, watching him as she dried her hands. “Isn’t there somewhere you call home where you can get a meal?”
“Not this side of Amarillo. I’ve been on my own for a couple of years now.” He stood and picked up his paper plate and cup. “All right if I put these in the can over there?”
“Yes.” She waited until he closed the lid. “You don’t have a job?”
“Not steady work, no.” He glanced at the table. “I got a drop of mustard on your table. Let me wipe it up.”
Emma handed him the sponge. “Do you go to school?”
“Not since Amarillo.” A sheaf of dark blond hair fell over his eyes as he bent to his task. He was too thin and not very clean. Except for his hands now. Beautiful hands.
With a glance at the door into the club, he placed the sponge in the sink and stepped back. “I’d better get lost. Mr. Falcon’s car is out front. He wouldn’t like finding me in here.” At the screen door he paused. “Thanks again, Emma.”
“You’re welcome, Harlow.” She thought of urging him to come back. But he seemed convinced that Jimmy would disapprove. Until she had that situation figured out, she wouldn’t press. “Take care.”
With a quick nod, he slipped out the door. Emma looked outside an instant later to see which way he went. But the alley was empty. Harlow had disappeared into thin air.
WHEN EMMA CAME OUT of the kitchen at about six o’clock, Tiffany was in the storeroom, Jimmy had disappeared behind the closed door of his office, and Darren was sweeping the main room, with a book propped between his hands on the broom handle.
Smiling, Emma sat on a bar stool. “I hope you’re getting a lot of reading done, because you’re missing quite a bit of the stuff under the tables.”
Jerked out of his concentration, he looked at the floor around him. “I should know better.” He sighed, slapping the book onto a tabletop. “I guess I’ll just pull another allnighter after work.” He ran a hand through his curly brown hair, then gripped the broom handle with grim determination.
The next question came automatically, after twenty years in academic life. “What’s the assignment?”
Darren bent to brush napkins and potato chips out from under a chair. “I’ve got a paper to write for my history class. I have to get this primary-source reading done before I can even start thinking about what I want to say.”
“When is the paper due?”
“Tomorrow by three.”
“Darren! And you’re just starting this afternoon?”
“Well, I had a music-theory final this morning. I’ve been studying for that all week.” Darren’s passion for music—his dedication to the band he’d organized and played with—was the reason he worked at The Indigo. More than once he’d confided to Emma his dreams of performing and composing jazz.
“Are you a fast writer?”
“No. I hate it. But I have to take this history course to meet graduation requirements.”
“How much do you have left to read?”
“Four stupid pages.”
“Here.” She crossed the room and held out her hand. “I’ll sweep. You read.”
“Nah, that’s okay.” He kept hold of the handle.
