Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story (7 page)

“Oh no, her poison is charm. She’ll kill you with it.”

“Listen to her,” someone says. “I’ve been killed a million times.”
 

Angelina and I turn toward the staircase. It’s the legendary composer and music producer, Jacques Blanchard.

“Father?” Angelina’s mouth hangs open.
 

She’s just as surprised to see him as I am.
 

Chapter 5

The Music Man

I bring in our luggage. After conferring with her mother, Angelina shows me to a secluded room on the third floor. And now she’s visiting with her mother. I’m not allowed. Madame Beauchamp doesn’t like to be seen by strangers. Instead I find my way to the back porch so I can get a better look at the view. Jacques Blanchard is there, leaning on the wooden rail, smoking a cigarette. I’m nervous as hell since I’ve wanted to bang the hell out of both of his daughters at some point.
 

He shows me the cigarette. “Do you mind?”

“No, not at all.” It’s hard to believe that he thought he had to ask.

It looks as if he found the view that I was seeking. I’m fond of the beauty of landscapes. That’s why I made Martha’s Vineyard home for longer than I intended. The sun is taking a dive in the west and casting lazy rays across the still water on the right. I’ve packed a lot into this day that began at my house in Malibu and ended here. The temperature is pleasant. The feathery trees planted around and tilting toward the lake are perfectly placed. This is relaxing.

“You’re Belmont Lord’s brother?” Jacques asks, still gazing ahead.

“Yes. I’m his brother,” I say. I’m too nervous. I shake my shoulders to loosen up some.

“Are you anything like him?”

I snort. “Nothing like him. Sorry.”

He blows a cloud of smoke out of his mouth. “Sorry about what?”

That’s a question I don’t want to answer. “That I’m nothing like Jack, I mean Belmont.”

“He’s a cool dude, but controlling as shit. The benevolent king.” Jacques snickers. “If you were like him, then I would advise you to end your chase for my daughter’s ass. Angel is too much like her mother.”

“What?” I sound choked. I rub my collarbone because my skin is hot.

Jacques twists around just enough to get a look at me. He lets out a laugh then goes back to smoking and staring at the lake. Shit, I’m alone with a brilliant man and I’m blowing it. He’s as cool as a cucumber, and I’m about to piss myself.
 

“‘Waltz out of Wonderland,’ ‘Steal Baby,’ ‘Chest,’ ‘The Breezy Bay’… I thought that if I ever got the opportunity, I wanted to tell you that was some brilliant shit, I mean scores.”

“You had it right. When music is good it’s brilliant shit. Like pussy and ganja.” He twists again to get a look at me. “Thank you, man.”

I muster up enough courage to go stand beside him. “Thank
you
.”

Jacques offers me a cigarette. I lift a hand. “I quit.”

“I did too.” He turns his face to blow smoke in the opposite direction. “But Josephine makes me…” He shakes his head. “I take it you’re a music man,” he says.

I’m cheesing like a Cheshire cat. “I play sometimes.”

“What do you play?”

“Guitar mostly. I dabble in percussion, horns, some strings.”

“You sound like a rhythm man.” I dig the way he says that. I waited a long time to feel like a musician.
 

“I guess you can say that.”

Speaking of music, suddenly a melody plays. It’s so pristine that the horns sound live. Jacques and I gaze in the direction of the sound.
 

“Is that live?” I ask.

“No, it’s the acoustics in these parts. That’s why musicians have flooded this neighborhood. That’s Karina Brown’s house. She’s spinning vinyl.” When I first heard about Karina from Angelina she was an urban legend in my mind. Now that Jacques mentioned her, she’s risen from the dead.

“A record player is producing that kind of sound?” I ask.

“She has a Jenson three-speed turntable hooked up to a reinforced audio system,” he says.

“Nice.” I nod and wonder why I never thought to do that myself.
 
I have stacks of old records preserved in the attic in the house on Martha’s Vineyard.
 

Jacques and I take a moment to pay homage to the beautiful verse that’s tinkling through the air.
 

“Did you bring your guitar?” Jacques asks me.

“It’s in my trunk.”

He nods as if I did the right thing. I feel validated.
 

“Is that Karina?” Angelina asks. We both whip around to see her. Damn, she’s beautiful. I wonder if she knows her nipples are poking out like that. Man, do I have a serious thing for all that she is.
 

“Yeah, baby,” Jacques says.

Angelina walks up to him and puts her arm around him. She dips her head so that he can plant one on her forehead. They’re close. I didn’t know that.
 

“She must know I’m here because she’s playing
The Crack of Dawn
. It’s a tragic love song about a woman who wants to kill herself after her lover breaks her heart.” She explains to me what Jacques seems to already know.

“She’s been waiting for you,” he says.

“But what are you doing here, daddy?” Angelina’s voice has changed. She’s speaking with a drawl.

“You know Josephine always gets what she wants.”

“You know I know,” Angelina says with a sigh. “I thought you were stuck in Paris.”

“I am. Was.” Jacques puts out his cigarette in a flowerpot. He sits down, so I sit and Angelina plops down beside me, close. “What did your mother say to you?” he asks.

“That she’s dying. I knew that already.”

“Did she say how soon?”

Angelina shakes her head. “But she was curious about this one here.” She hammers her thumb in my direction. “Daisy’s husband’s brother.” Angelina chuckles.

I slap my chest. “Me?”

“She has this fascination with Daisy. They met once in Caracas years ago, but Daisy didn’t know my mom was involved with her father, our father.” Jacques is looking off as if he’s tuned Angelina out. “That’s when she really got crazy about me becoming a doctor. She just won’t let that shit go.”

One of the French doors opens. The nurse wheels a frail woman, who looks to be in her fifties, out on the porch. I recognize the woman’s face from all the portraits hanging on the walls. She’s not as lively and vivid as she had once been, but her eyes still have a jovial and seductive quality to them. From what I remember, her playful eyes have always been her trademark.

“I had to see for myself,” Madame Josephine Beauchamp says.

“Mama, what are you doing out here?” Angelina says, shocked to see her.

“Thought I should join my guests since y’all are never here.”

“That’s not my fault,” Angelina says.

Madame Josephine Beauchamp ignores Angelina and continues to size me up. The nurse gets her IV drip situated and checks the oxygen.

“Remember to push the button when you feel some pain,” the nurse says as she taps the arm of the wheelchair.

“Don’t worry about me, Dorothy. Angel can take it from here.”

Dorothy winks at Angelina. “All right then. I’ll go make dinner.”
 

Angelina squeezes my thigh to thrust herself forward. “You don’t have to do that, Miss Dorothy. I got it,” she says.

I look down at her hand. It’s awfully close to my dick.

“Uh-uh, Angel. You stay seated. Enjoy your family time. It’s good to see y’all together.”

When I look up, Josephine is still staring at me.
 

“Is your brother half as handsome as you are?” she asks.

Angelina moves her hand, but pokes me in the shoulder with her elbow. I think she’s mortified. I extend my arm across the top of the bench behind her in an effort to get her to relax.

“The consensus is that he’s the finer spawn of the two of us.”

Jacques laughs a little.
 

“Then he must be Zeus, darling, because you are gorgeous.” She ruffles her eyebrows curiously. “And you flew all the way out here with Angel. Why?”

My first inclination is to tell the truth. That’s what Josephine’s voice and the expression on her face make me want to do. But I catch myself before that happens. “Because we’re family now,” I say. Damn, that sounded insincere, which is probably why Jacques and Josephine are chuckling.

I turn to study Angelina, and she looks puzzled. I’m hoping she didn’t get it like her parents obviously have. I’m a liar.
 

Thankfully, Josephine changes the subject. “Jacques, you bring your harmonica?”
 

“I have it right here.” He slips the harmonica out of his pants pocket.

“Then play something for me.”

“I’m not the only music man out here,” he says and tilts his head in my direction.

“Is that right? What do you play?” Josephine asks. Her tone is lyrical. Although it’s hampered by her illness, it still sounds as though she’s singing when she speaks.

“I play Betty. She’s in the truck of the car.”

“Oh, Betty,” she sings. “Is she a guitar?”
 

I’m surprised that she guessed it. “Yeah!”

“Then you better go get her.”

I leap to my feet so quickly that my head spins. This is a pivotal moment in history. “Really?” I’m still dizzy as hell.

Jacques points his head toward the driveway. “Go get her.”
 

I nearly jump off the patio on my way to the car.

Jacques Blanchard is leading the jam session. It’s been a while since I had to get in sync with another player, especially one of his caliber. The sun has already set. Jacques has changed melodies more than a woman changes her mind. I’ve surprised myself by keeping up. Josephine jumps in at times to hum some bars. If she pushes it too far, she’ll cough, take a deep breath, and smile. Angelina dances her shoulders and snaps her fingers to whatever rhythm we’re playing. I’m trying not to look at her because she’s damn inspiring and I’m hopping to Jacques’ tune, not my own. Then, she taps the beat out on my thigh, and I rip the wrong chord. It’s so bad that Jacques stops playing.

I shake my head. “Sorry, sorry about that.” I don’t want to stop. I’m waiting for him to start up again.
 

He’s about to say something, but then a woman exclaims from the lawn, “I give up, I give up, I give up!”
 

Josephine straightens the silk scarf on her head and tugs at the red robe she’s wearing. I don’t think she expected to have another visitor. Angelina takes off running down the steps of the porch to hug the woman.
 

Jacques stands against the rail, grinning. “Thought we’d go ahead and put you to shame,” he says jovially.
 

“That you did!” The woman must be Karina. She has gray eyes the color of mud and thin red lips. Her hair is pulled back into an unrelenting bun, which shows off her pretty Russian face.

“Why haven’t you come over to see me yet?” she says, chastising Angelina.

“We got caught up.” Angelina matches Karina’s accent. I feel like I need to speak a little Southern myself to fit in.
 

Karina narrows one eye at me. “That’s your new type?”

Angelina looks petrified.
 

“They’re family,” Jacques says. It sounds like he’s mocking me.

“Are you Heloise’s son?” she asks.

“Nah, not that kind of family.”

“What other kind is there, darling?”

“Will y’all leave him alone, please?” Angelina says.

“All right, but I’m still confused,” Karina says but then tilts her head to focus on Josephine. “It’s nice to see you out and about, Josephine.”

Josephine smiles, but it’s frigid. Her whole demeanor matches her smile.
 

“I heard you singing before I showed myself. It sure was lovely.”

Angelina squeezes my thigh, and I stare at her hand because it’s almost against my cock. What the hell is she doing? The two women are talking, but I can’t concentrate on a damn thing they’re saying. My dick is growing, and if she leaves her hand there, she’s going to feel it real soon. I try to think of something less stimulating than our eventual collision. Then it happens. Angelina glances at me, but she doesn’t remove her hand. My heart is racing. I struggle to keep my cool as Karina fills Josephine and Jacques in on the whereabouts and welfare of people I don’t know. I swear that if Angelina were to rub me one time, I would blow.
 

All eyes are on me. I think Karina asked if I’m a trained musician.
 

I clear my throat. Twice. “Um, mostly self taught.”

“That’s why he can keep up with you, Jacques,” she says.
 

“Naturally gifted,” Josephine says. She’s more relaxed now.

Angelina and I smile at each other. I want to kiss her.
 

Miss Dorothy steps out on the porch to announce that dinner is ready. She takes Josephine upstairs while the rest of us sit down to butter noodles and pepper steak. Of course there’s bourbon. Jacques and I are the only ones who partake in the libations. Angelina doesn’t drink. And then he gives me a master class on inspiration and putting it into music as he tells me how some of his most popular work came to be. When we get to the end of the session, Jacques puts his full attention on Angelina.

“Have you left Los Angeles for good?” he asks.

She freezes with a bite of noodles halfway to her mouth. “Not yet, but I’m going to stick around here for while. Until mother gets a little bit better.”

“She’s not going to get a little bit better, Angel.” He says it bitterly. “She’s dying.”
 

“I know that,” Angelina snaps.

“The months she had are now days.”

“But she seemed to be doing just fine out back today.”

“Dr. Pete found a cocktail of pain medications that are making it better. She can’t take them for more than a week, but the medication is giving her that extra energy she needs to get through this stage.”

Angelina puts her fork on her plate with the noodles still on it. “I still haven’t seen her like this in a long time,” she says sort of dismissively, kind of like someone who doesn’t want to accept the truth.