The Other Woman's Son

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.