It Had to be You Page 8

  I already know what they’ll say. They have been dogged in their insistence I become “more than friends” with Will. Since the one and only time they actually saw him, they have been pushing for this. They think he’s the cat’s pajamas and simply cannot fathom how a gal can be “just friends” with a fella. According to them, it’s unnatural.

  But if I can’t get them to listen to me when I tell them that will never happen, because Will and I are the best of friends who might as well be brother and sister because we simply do not, and never will, think of each other that way—

  Well, I certainly can’t share with them that Booker and I have resolved our beef. For the most part, at least. The Brasher girls are dyed in the wool romantics and I know darn well they would cast Will aside as my soul mate in a heartbeat in favor of laying odds on my chances with Booker. And as much as I’m starting to...well, not love them dearly exactly, because that is just begging to have my teeth kicked down my throat. But I sure do like and admire them. Okay, I adore them. And I love spending time in their company. I’ve laughed more with them in the past several weeks than I have in—heck, I can’t remember how long, precisely.

  It’s not as if I’ve been totally friendless aside from Will. I have gotten to know all kinds of other singers and the nonperforming women who staffed the various dives, bars and lounges I have sung in across the state. I have even been downright friendly with a few. But never have I had an honest to goodness bosom bow type girlfriend. Now suddenly I have two. Two women who are boisterous and fun and outspoken. Really outspoken. These girls definitely have opinions.

  If I admit Booker and I are no longer at war, I won’t ever, but ever, hear the end of the catalog of my so-called possibilities for a crafted just for me happily ever after with the fella. I can’t deny part of me gets all atingle at the mere thought of such an outcome. The wiser, battle hardened part of me who barely made it out of my previous relationship with Booker alive, however, knows that particular train left the station a long time ago. And I won’t be buying a ticket if it rolls back through again.

  Not after having been left battered and bruised...but one heck of a lot savvier than the starry-eyed girl I used to be.

  The Twilight Room employs a lot of females. I haven’t taken an actual head count or anything, but between the cocktail waitresses, the coat check and cigarette girls, the cleaning ladies, client photographer and the talent, as Leo Stone, the office manager Booker calls Sarge, tends to refer to us stage performers...

  Well, add those all up and there is a goodly sized number of us. And Lord knows I have heard these women oohing and ahhing over Booker often enough to realize every woman I work with considers him an ab-so-loot sheik. I doubt a single one of them would understand what a risk it would be for me to think of Booker as anything other than my employer.

  Well, I grasp the problem for what it is. Long ago I gave Booker Jameson everything I had to give. Wholeheartedly, I did that.

  And just look how well it turned out for me.

  I adore my singing gig in his club, and I’m due to get fitted for all those lovely, lovely dresses in just a few days. The idea of surrendering either opportunity makes me want to howl like a pack of dogs at the moon. At the same time, I can feel anxiety starting to twine its way up my spine and belly crawl through my innards. It hasn’t taken up permanent lodging in either place yet. But it’s only a matter of time before it does. Which makes me think maybe I had better consider my options.

  Not that I have a wealth of them. The smart money would probably opt to protect myself. To hand in my resignation and get as far away from Booker as I can. He has already warned me he’ll blacklist me in this state if I violate the terms of my contract with the club. But I could always try my luck in Chicago or New York. Somewhere, anywhere, I won’t run the risk of seeing Booker on the almost every darn day basis I currently do.

  And yet—

  Will is here. So how smart can it be to travel across the country, leaving behind the best job and closest relationship with other women I have ever had? How clever to place myself a good five plus days by train away from my only time-proven friend?

  My good mood is rapidly being taken over by clammy hands and a pounding heart. I need to talk to Will now. Looking up the block, I focus in on the clock on the sidewalk in front of Ben Bridge Jeweler. If I leave for Will’s apartment right away, I’ll have, well, perhaps not adequate, but at least a bit of time before I have to have my bottom planted in my dressing room chair to put myself together for my first set of the evening. Time well spent if Will can help me put my options in order. Or at least talk me off this growing pile of anxiety.

  I stop outside Woolworth’s door as Clara pulls it open. “I’ve got something I need to do.”

  “You’re finally going to see Will?” Dot demands. “Now you’re on the trolley!”

  Darn my thin skin! I can feel the heat and color just beneath it spreading from my chest to my forehead.

  “Oooh!” Clara nudges her sister. “She is!”

  “But not for the reason you two think!” I shake my head. “One of you has really gotta make a play for him, yourself. Will is never going to be the Sheik to my Sheba. It is just not going to happen.”

  “Aww, we’re just razzin’ ya.” Clara laughs, then waves goodbye as she and Dot enter the store. I watch for a second as they quickly disappear into its depths.

  Moments later, I hop a trolley to Capitol Hill.

  I don’t have the first idea if my best friend will even be home, but I shrug off the possibility Will might not be. At this point I can only show up and find out. But I think positive thoughts. He often paints this time of day because he likes the late afternoon and early evening light through the northern facing window of the room he uses as a studio.

  When I arrive at his brick building a short while later, I climb the stairs to his third floor walkup and rap on the door. I wait, but no one answers. I knock again.

  Once again there is no answer. “Come on, c’mon!” This time I pound. But I already know Will is not home and, blowing out a sigh, I rest my forehead against the solid wood of his door. Okay, perhaps that favored northern light is a bit closer to twilight than I cared to admit.

  Accepting I won’t be receiving the comfort I’d been counting on from my best friend, I slowly straighten. I turn away from the door even more slowly, as though if I procrastinate long enough, he will somehow magically appear.

  Quite clearly that is not going to happen, and I finally walk away. On leaden feet, feeling as though I’m forging a path through molasses, I trudge down the hallway, then make my way down the stairs. I prod myself to take one step at a time, one foot after the other, until I find myself out on the street once more.

  Where, with a final glance up at Will’s darkened window, I turn and start walking toward downtown and The Twilight Room.

  11

  susan andersen

  Creative types move to their own beat

  BOOKER

  Christ, the woman is slippery! How’s a fella supposed to get his girl back when he can’t get within ten feet of her?

  Since our last conversation several days ago, I have kept my eyes peeled for Lena. Not that my watchfulness has done me any good.

  Not a damn bit. Aside from when she’s on stage, Lena might as well be a shadow glimpsed from the corner of my eye. By the day after our talk, I’d already lost track of how many times I would have sworn—sworn!—I saw her in my peripheral vision. Yet, time after time, the instant I whipped my head around to face that hazy silhouette head-on?

  She wasn’t there.

  Too restless to sit still a moment longer, I shove back from my desk and stand. To hell with this. Tonight is the night. I am through waiting—I’ll track Lena down if it takes me the entire damn evening. Filled with renewed determination, I stride out of my office and head toward her dressing room.

  When I arrive a minute later, however, no one answers in response to my somewhat overenthusiastic
pounding. Opening the door, I peek in, but it’s as unoccupied as I anticipated. I pull the door closed again and check the Omega Swiss watch strapped to my wrist. In addition to keeping damn fine time, the watch was a gift to myself the day I opened my club. I smile, because I suppose it’s a reminder I am making a success of myself, by myself. The piece is a talisman of sorts.

  I know Lena’s in the club—I heard her come in with the Brasher sisters while Leo and I were discussing how pleased we are so far with Kusak’s, our new glassware vendor. They are a huge improvement over the last one. But my time check also made me realize it’s too early for Lena to be getting ready for her shows. She is no doubt visiting with Clara and Dot. Those three have been thick as thieves since Lena’s very first night.

  I hear laughter from behind the sisters’ door as I approach. One giant stride brings me within reach and I give it a good hard rap.

  Something I seem to be doing a great deal of tonight.

  The laughter on the other side quietens. A second later the dressing room door is whipped open.

  Clara blinks up at me for a second, but quickly hides her apparent surprise. “Hey, there, Mr. Jameson. Can I help you with something?”

  “Is Lena here?”

  She blinks again but immediately composes herself with a shake of her head. “No. She had an engagement.”

  Denial and rage compete in my gut like a knock down bout between ice and fire. “What?” I demand.

  “Well, I s’pose it’s not an engagement so much as an…appointment? She said something about meeting with Henry Boggs, anyhow. You know, to talk about one of the new numbers she’s introducin’ next week?”

  “Of course,” I agree, ignoring the wash of relief. As it happens, I actually do know something about this. Henry caught me at the tail end of last night’s shift. He had a question regarding one of Lena’s new songs and wanted permission to talk to her about it. Of course, I agreed. I even joked he didn’t need my permission to do his job. I also admitted I appreciated him taking the time to keep me informed.

  I might have a slight issue with control when it comes to the Twilight Room. What can I say—I’ve had my hand in every aspect of the business. Except for the building itself, I have built every bit of it from the ground up. This club is my baby.

  Thinking about that conversation now, I acknowledge being kind of surprised at myself. Considering the game of hide and seek Lena’s been playing with me, ordinarily I would have already considered ways to capitalize on such an opportunity. As owner, I can sit in on any discussions I damn well want to between my band leader and my singer. Lena can hardly walk away from her appointment without looking unprofessional.

  I mentally wince. Because while it’s within my rights as the Twilight Room’s owner, sitting in just because I want to be near her would be woolly ethics on my part. I am the one who insisted we treat each other with professionalism. I’d damn well better honor my decree.

  If I’m being honest, though, had I known last night what time Henry meant to meet with her, I can’t be a hundred percent certain I wouldn’t have horned in on their discussion. Guess I’ll just have to live with never knowing if I took the high road...or simply knew Henry hadn’t, in all likelihood, had a firm timeline in mind himself when we spoke. I have learned over the years that creative types tend to move to their own beat. More often than not, they work under timelines and deadlines of their own making.

  Seeing Clara still looking up at me questioningly—and her sister doing the same from an overstuffed chair deeper inside the dressing room—I drag my attention back on task. “Thanks, Clara. I’ll catch up with them backstage.”

  “You betcha, Mister J.”

  She was closing the door even as I turned away.

  12

  susan andersen

  Not my usual after-set experience

  LENA

  “I’m sorry, Henry; I know I should just shut up and agree.” Yet I can’t seem to force myself to do just that. Instead, with a sense of urgency I lean in, reaching out to touch his arm. For a good fifteen minutes now, the two of us have been arguing about the single line change I want to make in a song I had quickly sung for him last night.

  Heaven knows, the band leader has probably forgotten more about music than I will likely ever know. Still, I desperately want him to say yes to my version. “I hate fighting with you, because I so admire your work. But I just can’t seem to accept no for an answer. Please. Listen one more time.” I sing the contested phrasing again, making it drop low for the last few bars where the original song ended on a higher note.

  I didn’t even know those things had specific names until Henry told me what I was talking about were a major fall and minor lift. Accordingly, when he sits now with his eyes closed, I don’t interrupt. The band leader deserves my respect. He is always willing to answer my questions and has been teaching me the names of techniques I have picked up over the years spent listening to others.

  Finally, when I can’t stand the suspense a moment longer, I cross my fingers hopefully, even though I have sung the same section the same way several times already. I try not to sound wheedling when I ask, “Can’t you see it’s more dramatic?”

  He cracks an eyelid. “I do see it, Lena, and personally I love the change. So maybe we should take this to Booker. It’s a cover of a popular song—and one thing I know about popular songs is changing one in any way can blow up in our faces. Folks tend to get testy when their favorite tunes are sung differently from what they expect to hear.”

  “I know. I honestly do understand the risk we take.” And God knows the last thing I wanna do is involve Booker. If I have to, however, I will. Because... “I also believe with all my heart this is the part our audience will find themselves humming instead of the popular version.” I sure as the dickens can’t seem to get it out of my head.

  “She’s right,” a deep voice says behind me, and a bolt of lightning zings through me, searing my nerve endings. I whip around in my seat.

  Booker is standing on the edge of stage left, not far from where Henry and I have been sitting on a couple of chairs we’d dragged behind the backstage scenery so we could hash out the details of this song with at least an illusion of privacy.

  “I am?” I blurt, caught by surprise. Booker is agreeing with me?

  His eyebrows raise. “Have you changed your mind about the drop?”

  “No! Of course not. It’s definitely the direction we should go in. I guess I just never thought you would agree with me over Henry.” Heat crawls up my face. “That is—Henry has a lot more experience than I do in the business, and he knows all the right terminology and reads music and whatnot.”

  “While you,” Henry responds, “have a passion and natural affinity for music that transcends mere music education.”

  Electrified, I beam at him. “I do? It does? Transcend means… to rise above?”

  “Yes, or go beyond.” Henry grins and reaches into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

  “He’s right, you do,” Booker agrees. “The change you fought for is a perfect example. It’s unexpected, and that’s exactly the type of thing the audience you’ve been drawing in with increasing numbers every night has come to expect from you.”

  I beam at him as well, thrilled right down to my toes with the compliment.

  For a moment, however, I’m not sure he even notices. He has a funny, faraway expression that makes me think he might be looking inward. Slowly, he murmurs, “Expect the unexpected.” His eyes sharpen and he grins back at me. “I think that would look damn eye catching on a reinforced poster on an easel board outside the club. Something crisp and clean—maybe just Lola Baker in big letters and a photo of you with the tagline under it.”

  “Oh, my. Really?” A big poster featuring me? The mere thought tickles my heart. It sounds so glamorous. Like I’m some kind of celebrity or something.

  “Yes. We’ll need to get a new photo done of you, though. The one you gave Leo doesn’t have enough
clarity, so let’s see if Elsie can capture a live shot of you singing,” Booker says, naming the woman he pays to roam the Twilight Room taking photos of and selling to the speakeasy clients.

  “Could we wait for one of the new gowns to be completed?” I ask hesitantly. Booker’s already offering so much, I know shouldn’t ask for anything extra. But...the dresses!

  “Yeah, sure, not a problem. We’ll start with the candid shots. If those don’t work out, we’ll have you sit for Elsie.” He turns to Henry. “So, how much work is this change going to cost you?”

  Henry lights his cigarette and shrugs. “Not that much. I have to change the sheet music in one spot, but that’s a matter of minutes. If I had to hand print a copy for each of the fellas it would be more labor intensive. Lucky for us, I only need one for myself.” He favors me and Booker with an engagingly lopsided smile. “My band is a lot like Lena, here. They’re short on education in music theory, history and composition, but long on talent and intuition. Most times I only need to play changes for them once and they’re on the trolley.”

  He turns to me. “I’ll leave you in Booker’s hands and go talk to the boys. You two don’t need my input to hammer out details for his promotional idea.” He rises to his feet, then pauses mid step to look down at me.

  “You did good today, kid, fighting like a demon for your vision. Don’t ever be afraid to do it again exactly the way you did with me. You refused to give ground, regardless what you believed about your music education versus mine. Your willingness to stand your ground for something you believe in that strongly is part of what makes you such a good musician.”

  I probably look like an imbecile, standing here with my hands clasped together atop my breasts and giving him a huge, goofy smile. I am just so awed, so delighted, I can’t help myself.

  Booker laughs and gives me a nudge. “Come on. Let’s go to my office and discuss my promotional idea.”