Reincarnation (21 page)

"Sailing is one of my great loves," he said.

"I've never been," she admitted. "Tell me more about Greece. How did you like it?"

He had loved it. She was intrigued by all he had to tell her. "Did you know that for a while

instead of being the temple of Athena, the Greek Parthenon was dedicated to the Virgin

Mary?" he told her.

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"That's so interesting," she said sincerely. "They changed one strong, divine female figure for another. I wonder if throughout history, people just give different names to powers that are

more or less the same."

"I've often thought the same thing," he said. "And we fight about differences which are really not so different if you scratch beneath the surface."

"I think so, too. It seems so obvious but people will get seriously upset at you if you say

such a thing."

He sat back and studied Delilah as though he also was revising his idea of who she was. A

waiter came by to light a candle in a votive on the table. Del covered it before the waiter

reached the wick. "Please don't," she requested.

"Mademoiselle
does not like the candle?" the waiter questioned.

"No,
s'il vous
plait."

The waiter nodded and moved on.

"I'm a little skittish around fire," Del explained to Bert. "I never liked it, but when Baby was a cub, I had to run into a burning tent and pull her from her cage." Throwing her head back,

she laughed heartily. "I let all the big cats out. It was the only way I could save their lives.

What a crazy scene that caused!"

He laughed, too. "It must have been wild!"

"Yes, but there was no choice: I couldn't let them die in there."

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"I suppose that's when you moved on to vaudeville," he guessed.

"Yes," she said, still laughing at the memory. "The circus owners were not so happy with me after that. But do you know the funny thing? After that incident, I wasn't as afraid of fire

anymore. All my life I had been terrified of it. I still don't like it, but it no longer gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies like it once did."

He pretended to write on his pad. "Delilah Jones has overcome her fear of fire by running

into a burning building."

Hearing him speak those words struck a deep chord within her. What he said was true.

She'd known it but had never stopped to take in how much she'd really accomplished by

running into that burning tent.

Standing, she went to the counter and took a box of matches from a bowl. When she

returned to the table, she struck a match. "To
completely
overcoming our fears," she said as she lit the candle.

"I'm all for it," Bert said, smiling. "Good for you."

"Thanks. It feels good."

"You're an interesting woman, Delilah," he said. "You were once nervous around candles but not man-eating big cats."

That made her chuckle. "Baby is a pussycat. I'm thinking of changing her name to

something more theatrical like Cleopatra or Nefertiti but I'm worried it might confuse her."

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"Delilah Jones is a pretty theatrical name," he remarked. "Is it your real name or a stage name?"

"I heard it in the Bible and liked it so I took it up when I joined the circus. I'll tell you my real name if you swear to keep it secret. If you put it in the article, I'll find you and murder you in your sleep."

"I swear."

"Louisa. Louisa Jones. My grandma, who had been a slave until after the Civil War, named

me for an aunt of mine, her first child, who she never saw again after she was sold

downriver. Later, someone told her that Louisa Jones had died fighting in the Civil War. She

had pretended to be a man to enlist."

"Wow! What a gutsy woman!" he said. "My great-uncle John was a Union soldier. My great-uncle survived the war although he died sort of young anyway; he was in his fifties. After the

war, he opened up a little pottery business and did so well that it eventually became May's

Dishware."

"That's a giant huge business," she said, impressed. "It must be worth a bundle. I thought all you idle rich folks inherited money. I didn't know any of you actually earned it."

"My father and I didn't earn it. Great-uncle John earned the first money, and then the rest of the family inherited it," Bert admitted with a wry laugh. "Great-uncle John divorced his wife and never remarried, so my father inherited the dishware factories.

That's the fate I'm trying to avoid right now."

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"By writing?" she asked.

"Yes. I write articles, but my big love is writing songs. My dream is to somehow make a

living at it."

"It's not such an impossible dream. Can I see some of your songs?"

"Sure, but they're in my hotel room. Want to come back there? I'll show them to you."

Almost at the same moment the words came out of his mouth, he could feel the heat rising

in his cheeks and cursed the fact that he blushed so easily. From the smile on her face, she

had definitely noticed. "I know that just sounded like a cheap line," he quickly stammered. "I promise I'll behave."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she replied, still grinning.

"Well, now I have no choice. I have to behave."

"Let's go," she replied, taking her coat from the back of the chair.

His room was on a shabby side street, but she felt at ease with him as they went up the

steep, narrow stairs. Their lunch conversation had left her with the feeling that she knew him

better than she actually did. "Occasionally you meet people you feel you've known all your

life," she commented when she stepped into his room. Papers, books, and notebooks sat in

loose piles on chairs, dressers, and on the one table.

"I know what you mean," he agreed.

"Is it happening now?" she dared to ask him.

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He nodded slowly, gazing into her eyes. "I think so, yes," he murmured, as if falling into a dream.

Sure he was going to kiss her, she prepared to kiss him back, but after lingering a moment

longer, he turned away. "Let me find those songs."

Her sting of disappointment gave way to admiration. No doubt he didn't want her to think

he was taking advantage of the situation. He had class. And he had promised to behave.

She picked a hardcover book off the table and read its cover.
"Siddhartha
by Hermann Hesse -- what's this about?"

"It's about the life of Buddha and his path to enlightenment," he replied, digging through the clutter of his papers. "It was written about fifteen years ago."

"Are you interested in Buddhism?"

"I like Hesse's writing and I've read some of his other books. But I don't know about this

one. It feels a little predictable. I can always guess what will happen next even though I don't

know much about Buddhism. It's strange."

He found his marble notebook of songs. "Here it is." Though he had no piano, he sang the songs for her and she quickly picked up the tunes, singing along. They were smooth

together, seamlessly flowing with each other so that it was impossible to tell who was

leading and who was following. They were simply effortlessly together.

"My voice never sounded better."

"My songs never sounded better."

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They spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping, and then they laughed at the

collision of their words. As their laughter drifted off, they continued to look into each other's

eyes.

"These songs are great," she said after another moment, meaning it. "Would you really let me sing one of them in my act?"

"All of them, if you like. I never dreamed they could sound so wonderful until I just heard

you sing them."

"They
are
wonderful," she agreed. "I especially like this one about the lovers who have just met feeling that they've met before. Did you write it about someone special?"

He shook his head. "No, it just came to me one day. Funny ... I could have written it just

today because that feeling is so strong." The red came into his cheeks again. "Not that we're together, of course."

"Of course," she echoed, though she now knew it was inevitable that they would be.

Another moment thick with possibility passed between them as they stood just a little too

close together, neither one speaking. Longing to kiss him, she resolved not to make

the first move forward.

"Could I come to the club tomorrow in the morning?" he asked, breaking the spell. "We could use the piano there to run through the songs."

"That's a swell idea," she said jauntily. "Be there at ten in the morning. Wait -- make it twelve. I sleep late."

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"Great. I'll walk you home."

"You don't have to."

"No. I want to."

"All right, then. I'm not going home, though. I have an appointment: It's sort of a doctor I've been seeing, a psychoanalyst."

"I've heard of Sigmund Freud. Like him?"

"Yeah." She gazed up at him, suddenly worried. "Don't mention that in your article.

Promise?"

"Promise. Is something bothering you, if you don't mind my asking? Is it the fire thing?"

She shook her head. "Someday when I know you better, I'll tell you."

"Okay-On the stairs, he held her arm to stop her descent to the first landing where the hotel owner was sweeping. "Wait 'til he goes, okay?" Bert whispered.

She smiled at him. "Can't pay?"

He nodded, reddening a bit once again. "Not yet."

"I know how it feels," she assured him. "Don't worry. You're going to be famous soon. We both are." Reaching into her purse, she took out some bills. "Want a down payment on your songs?"

"Thanks. I'll wait," he declined.

"For what?"

He smiled. "Pay me when you make your first recording of the songs."

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This was not fake; Delilah could tell he meant every word. "Do you really think I could make

a record?" she asked.

"You've got the talent. Now you've got the songs. All you need is the right break," he replied confidently. "It'll come."

The very idea of her own record made her sigh with longing. "Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

At three the next afternoon, Bert hurried up the steps to his hotel room sure of one thing:

He was in love with Delilah Jones.

They'd worked together since noon down at the club. He played the piano while she sang

each of his songs. If he'd ever believed the songs were good, now he was positive.

Her voice made every word take on a deeper meaning. He couldn't imagine how such a

young woman could breathe so much worldly suffering and poignancy into each phrase.

The things she must have been through and seen to bring so much depth to her

performance. It was a long way from Isis, the nicest on the Nile.

Hearing her today made him explode with love and longing for her.

He hadn't kissed her because he hadn't wanted to cause gossip there at the club. Lenny was

lurking, making excuses to pass by, commenting that he wasn't sure the songs were right

for the club. Del had told him to be open-minded.

Finally, at two-thirty, Lenny had told them they had to

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go. He needed the stage so the chorus girls could rehearse a new number.

"Let me keep these," she'd said, gathering up the songs. "I'll go over them myself and then rehearse them with Al, our pianist."

"Okay. See you tonight," he said, taking hold of her hand. "I know you'll be great."

"If I am, it will be because of these songs," she replied. "They're beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

Just then, the chorus girls came clacking onto the stage and Al the pianist, a thin black

man, came in to claim his piano. Letting go of her hand, Bert left ... even though he keenly

wanted to stay.

Coming into his room, he threw himself onto the threadbare loveseat. He closed his eyes in

order to conjure the image of her face, to hear again the honey tones of her voice.

She had his songs. Maybe she was singing them right now. Was she thinking of him as he

was imagining her? He hoped so.

Tonight after the show, after she debuted his songs, he would tell her how he felt. He'd find

the right moment to kiss her. He was pretty sure from the way she gazed into his eyes as

she sang that she felt the same about him.

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That night, Del had tears of happiness in her eyes as the people in the club jumped to their

feet, applauding. They'd cheered for her before, but this was different. There was no

stomping or whistling, like when she did her comic material. She had moved these people

by singing Bert's songs. Some of the women were crying with abandon.

Standing at the piano with Baby seated in front of her, she presented Al to the audience,

encouraging them to give him his share of the applause. She saw Bert out in the audience

and waved for him to come forward. He shook his head.

"Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen," she said, quickly wiping her eyes. "You are so kind. The genius who wrote these great new songs is in the audience tonight. Please give a

hand to a brilliant songwriter, Bert Brody." She signaled the man who ran the spotlight to

direct it at Bert.

Caught in the round circle of light, Bert waved sheepishly to the applauding audience.

Later, when everyone had finally left, she changed her clothes, leashed Baby, and came out

again to the front of the club. Bert was waiting for her, sitting alone at a table. He stood

when he noticed her.

There was nothing she could think of to say to him. He'd said it all in his songs and she'd

echoed it back to him. When she reached his table, he put his arms around her and drew

her close.

Reaching around his neck, she fell into his embrace, kissing him. Something within her