The Other Woman's Son

“Would you have agreed to sing at my bar if I had?”

“Definitely not.”

“You’ve proved my point.”

She aimed a finger at him. “Your point seems to be that you feel justified in manipulating me. And manipulating your sister, too. She obviously doesn’t know who I am.”

Clay didn’t like the way her accusation made him sound but could hardly argue. “I meant to tell Darcy, the same way I meant to tell you, but I haven’t managed to find the right time.”

“Don’t tell her,” she retorted. “She seems like a nice girl, but she’s not someone I want in my life.”

“That’s crazy. She stops by the bar pretty regularly.” He threw up his hands. “How can you expect to keep something like that from her?”

“Easy. I’m not going to keep singing at your bar.”

His breath caught at the implication of what that would mean to Darcy. “But Corrine signed a contract.”

“And you’d hold us to it? After the secret you kept from me?” She annunciated every word, her expression incredulous.

He’d do almost anything to help his sister, but forcing Jenna to sing at Peyton’s Place wouldn’t accomplish that goal.

Helping her reach the decision not to abandon the gig was a different matter.

“Maybe not,” he said. “I know you’re not looking to make singing your career, but Corrine’s eager for a chance to prove herself.”

He started to ask if Jenna could take that chance away from Corrine but swallowed the question when he realized how manipulative it would sound. He wasn’t so blinded by Darcy’s condition that he couldn’t understand Jenna’s anger.

She glared at him, her dislike as visible as the neon signs that dotted the Beale Street establishments. He didn’t like himself very much at the moment, either.

“Jenna, where the hell have you been?” Corrine, her face appearing pale beneath her fall of black hair and matching dark clothes, rushed toward them on stacked heels. “We were supposed to go on ten minutes ago.”

The guitarist tapped the toe of her right shoe, communicating her impatience.

Clay couldn’t have orchestrated a scenario that would demonstrate more clearly how Corrine felt about performing at Peyton’s Place. He glanced at Jenna, but she wouldn’t look at him.

“It’s my fault, Corrine.” Clay returned his attention to the guitarist. “So it’s okay with me that you’re running behind schedule.”

“I’d hate for the customers to get restless and head off to find live music somewhere else.” Corrine talked fast, as though every moment spent away from the stage pained her. “Are you coming, Jenna?”

Clay felt his gut tighten as he waited for Jenna’s answer.

Corrine started to walk toward the bar, but Jenna didn’t move, didn’t speak. Time seemed to lengthen, although no more than a few seconds elapsed.

Obviously realizing Jenna wasn’t following her, Corrine stopped and turned. “Jenna. Come on.”

Jenna cast a final fierce glance at Clay before replying, “I’m coming.”

Clay tried to relax as he watched Jenna trail her smaller friend into the bar, but relief wouldn’t come. Jenna would perform as scheduled tonight, but there was no guarantee she’d take the stage tomorrow.

CORRINE WAITED UNTIL JENNA left the hotel room in search of coffee and a danish on Saturday morning before she auto dialed her home phone number. She listened to the phone ring at the house in Little Rock, her hands sweating so badly she could hardly grip the phone.

One ring.

Her husband Maurice loved to indulge himself on Saturday mornings by sleeping late, claiming he didn’t have the chance any other day of the week.

Two rings.

Although Maurice had been known to sleep as late as ten, he usually rolled out of bed at around nine-thirty.

Three rings.

Corrine couldn’t remember the last time he’d awakened before eight-thirty.

Four rings.

The time on the hotel’s bedside alarm clock read seven fifty-nine.

“Yo. Talk to me, man.”

Corrine’s relief at hearing Maurice’s trademark greeting was so great she almost dropped the phone. “Maurice, I—”

“If you’re someone me or Corrine wants to talk back to, one of us will give you a call.”

A beep sounded, confirming that the answering machine, and not Maurice, had picked up her call. He must have forgotten to tell her he’d changed the recorded greeting.

She disconnected the call without leaving a message, then cradled her head in her hands. He should have answered. They kept a phone beside the bed, because Maurice couldn’t stand the thought of not being reachable if one of his aging parents should need him.

A full five minutes must have passed before she told herself not to jump to premature conclusions and lifted her head. Maurice always kept his cell on when he wasn’t home. She speed dialed his number, the way she had last night when she couldn’t reach him at home. He picked up on the third ring. “Yo.”

“Maurice, it’s Corrine.”

“Hey, babe,” he mumbled, as though he’d been awakened from a sound sleep. “Didn’t we just talk a couple hours ago?”

He’d claimed to be at his friend Eddie’s house at a poker game that was just breaking up. He’d said he was heading home.

She swallowed and supplied the excuse she’d invented to justify her early morning call. “I was afraid the dehumidifier would flood the basement. I think I left it running.”

“I’ll check,” he said.

She listened carefully, she wasn’t sure for what, but couldn’t hear any noises in the background.

“I called home before I tried your cell.” Her heart beat so fast she thought she might pass out. “Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I must have been outside getting the newspaper. I thought I heard the phone.”

She didn’t ask why he hadn’t checked the answering machine for a missed call when he got back inside the house. He’d have an explanation. Maurice always had an explanation.

“You’re up early today,” she remarked.