The Odd Ballerz (28 page)

“I am, although it’s Memphis Jones. My friends call me Memphis,” she said.

“Good to know. I’m Marisa,” she said before turning her gaze to Z. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said.

“Thanks for offering to help me and Z. Lord knows I don’t have time to organize a party,” she said, her gaze returning to Memphis as she wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist.

“No problem,” Memphis said, darting her eyes to Z. So she would be working with Marisa and not on her own, as she’d thought, or as he’d allowed her think. Not that it would change anything. She would still help him.

“Marisa’s a very busy woman, so we both appreciate the help,” he said, as if reading her mind. His face was blank, of course. “She organized something similar for her shop when she opened here, and knows most of the folk in this town. I asked her to help me, and now you’re here, volunteering to help her,” Z said.

“Right,” Memphis said.

“So, do you have time now to talk? It’s good for me. After you see Z’s place, of course,” Marisa said.

“Today is good,” Memphis said.

“Good. I’ll let you finish your tour then. The future home of Sloan Glassworks,” she said, her gaze tied up with Z’s again.

# # #

They were standing outside of his place a few minutes later, and she was watching him unlock the front door.

“It’s identical to Marisa’s place,” he said. He turned on the lights and remained standing near the front door, watching the back of Memphis as she looked around.

“Except yours is empty,” she said, scanning the room, taking in the same red brick walls and cement flooring as next door.

“Shelves will go here. The counter, checkout area are in the back, along with the restrooms,” Z said, moving toward her then in full-out tour guide mode, pointing as he talked. There was a small room to the left of the main room, a little past the counter. “This will be a small office, with shelves along the back wall to hold a small amount of inventory,” he said.

“Nice,” she said, standing beside him at the back of his shop, looking around the space. “Why the shop?”

“A number of reasons. I needed a place to sell my work, one where I retained most of the control, and I wanted to be a part of a larger community. I grew up with that. A small commune was what it was, but one of the things I liked about it was a sense that we were available to help each other,” he said, surprised that he’d shared that part about his childhood. He almost never did. “There are local art tours that I’d like to participate in, and here is a much better place than my home to accommodate those,” he said.

“So you want me to work with Marisa, to plan an opening for you? I don’t know why I thought I’d be going it alone, but it makes sense, given that I don’t really know you or what you like, and you don’t really know me. It’s a lot to put into the hands of a stranger.”

“You can ask me whatever you need to know, and Marisa really does need the help.”

They spent another five minutes inside, and then the tour was over. He was in his truck going wherever, and she went back over to discuss details with Marisa.

M
emphis entered Beans and Things again and found Marisa sliding a towel over the counter.

“You’re back?” she said, smiling.

“I am.”

“Let me grab my tablet from the back and then I’ll join you. Sit wherever you want,” she said over her shoulder, smiling as she walked away.

“Sure,” Memphis said, looking around the space, deciding on a table close to the counter. Interesting she thought of the framed pictures on the wall of Bastrop through the ages.

“You want anything to drink?” Marisa asked, standing beside the table.

“No, thanks, I’m good.”

“So,” Marisa said, pulling out the chair beside her. “So,” she said again, smiling, “Z, huh?”

“Z,” Memphis said.

“You’re here to help me help him. He wants to organize a party, and not just any party, his grand opening. You have experience at this?”

“I’ve hosted something similar. I manage an insurance agency. I’m an insurance agent,” Memphis said.

“I see,” Marisa said, hitting the button to bring her tablet to life and leaving Memphis with no clue as to what that meant.

“Well, Jones, here is my card, with my business vitals on it. Here is the list I put together of things that need to get done, a few suggestions for companies that could work for us, and the target dates we need to hit so that Z’s opening goes off without a hitch. Give me your email address,” Marisa asked, and typed it in as Memphis recited it. “Isn’t that what Z calls you?”

“What, Jones?” Memphis asked, pulling out her business card and sliding it across the table to Marisa.

“Yes… Thanks,” she said, pulling it closer, her eyes moving between it and her tablet. “Do you know why he calls you that?”

“It’s a coaching thing, I think, and since he’s the coach, and I’m the trainee, I guess it’s appropriate. He calls everyone by their last name; or he did in camp.”

“Sure, makes sense,” Marisa said. Memphis smiled. No idea what to do with that answer either. “He and I watch out for each other, you know. One can never be too sure with people and their motives. We’ve both learned the hard way to be cautious,” she said.

“I’m only here to help so you can be sure of mine. It’s payback for training. There’s no other motivation besides that,” Memphis said.

“Good to know,” Marisa said, eyeing Memphis. “We go way back to childhood, Z and I. That’s the case with most of Z’s friends. I moved here two years ago, and he helped me get started. He’s a good artist, and a good friend. Not a bad football player either, or so I’ve heard. If you get closer to him, you’ll see he has a lot of acquaintances but very few true friends.”

“Right, so I’m to find invitations, and locate a caterer and music, is that correct?” Memphis said, reading from the email she’d received from Marisa, hoping to steer the conversation back to business.

“Yes, the E-vites have been sent to those customers and friends with email addresses. But Z knows his share of people who live off the grid so he’ll have to give you that information and you can make sure those get mailed. These are the invites for them, once you get those addresses from him,” she said, sliding a stack of envelopes toward her. “All you need to add are addresses and these are ready to mail.”

“Okay, thanks,” Memphis said.

“So that’s everything for now. You can email me progress updates or call if you hit a snag. Make the target dates and you won’t have a problem with either of us,” she said, smiling that bouncy, perky smile again.

“What kind of music and food does Z like?”

“Ask him.”

“I thought that was the point of working with you.”

“That’s part of the reason. But not all of it.”

“Right,” Memphis said, and smiled. Not going to ask what that comment meant either.

“I’m busy, so you’re helping me, and indirectly helping him. I have my own studio and work in between it and this place, so I don’t have much time either. So thanks in advance for your help.”

“You might want to wait to see how it turns out before you thank me.”

“I’m a pretty good judge of people. It will be fine, I can tell. Now as to Z’s tastes, he’s sort of particular, so you probably
should
ask him what he wants for this thing.”

“Okay… sure. So which of us is to keep him up to date?”

“You.”

“Okay then. Talk to you later,” Memphis said, standing up to leave. She looked back after she had gotten outside, meeting the eyes of Marisa, staring back at her.

# # #

Saturday

It was closing in on seven, and Z was seated on his deck, alone, enjoying the end of the day, about to dive into his dinner. Meredith was gone, and who knew what or where she’d gotten off to, back to her and her free spirit thing. He didn’t care or mind. He turned his thoughts to Jones. It’s what he did now when he had free mental space, unwittingly at first, less so now, and growing the more he learned of her.

He was impressed with how she handled things. Didn’t ruffle easily. Took meeting with Marisa well and finding out that she wasn’t going to lead with more than a bit of grace, at least outwardly. Everything in stride was Jones.

He looked up at the sound of a car approaching, pulling into the parking area in front of his home. He didn’t recognize it; however, he
did
recognize the woman that stepped out of it minutes later. It was Aubrey.

She waved, smiled, and then was en route to him. She’d called him yesterday, a surprised as he hadn’t seen or heard from her since camp. She said she’d heard he was helping Jones. No, he didn’t have any more time to train anyone else, he’d told her. A quick answer to a quick question, but the conversation continued; all her, of course, while he’d mostly listened, and when he’d had enough, made some excuse to go. He wasn’t feeling her, had never felt her, had been bothered by the ease and delight in which she, a friend, had shared Jones’s problems and secrets with him. He placed a high value on his friendships, more so than apparently she did.

She was attractive, he’d give her that. Pretty wearing a dress that flattered; conservative, but nice; body contouring, falling softly over a slim figure.

“I’ve always admired this deck, driving by it on my way to camp. Would you believe I miss camp?” she said, smiling, stepping onto the first step, and then the next one, and over to stand across the table from him. “Hi,” she said, shyly.

“Hi,” he said.

“What am I doing here is what you’re thinking,” she said and smiled shyly again. “To be truthful, I don’t know the answer to that question. I was done for the day, visiting a customer nearby, and I thought of you. It was nice talking to you yesterday, and before I knew it, my car was pointed in this direction and, well, here I am,” she said, her mouth lifted in a small smile. “You’re quiet, so maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” she said after a bit of silence that was starting to turn awkward.

He sat staring at her a second more before he answered. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked.

“That would be great, if you don’t mind. If I’m not interrupting.”

“No, it’s just dinner. I don’t mind. I am going to have to kick you out afterward, though,” he said with a smile. “Work, and it’s back to the studio. I have a deadline to meet,” he said.

“No, I understand, this is more than I expected,” she said.

“Let me get you a plate. What would you like to drink?”

“Water’s fine,” she said, pointing to the pitcher on the table.

“Be back in a second,” he said. Aubrey took a seat in the chair across from his, her gaze following his departure. He was moving around his kitchen; she could see him through the French door, pleased that she’d made the decision to stop by, crazy irritated with herself for not doing it sooner, particularly after she’d learned that he was training Memphis. What was up with that? No way could he choose M over her, so she’d decided another talk with him was in order, and had called him yesterday. He couldn’t fit her into his training schedule, but that it didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. He’d lingered on the phone afterward, listening to her, so maybe he was shy or something, and now see, her aggression her yielded her a dinner invite.

“Thank you, this looks delicious,” she said, admiring the plate of food he placed in front of her. Silverware, cloth napkin; who was this guy?

“Sea bass, rice pilaf, and veggies,” he said, taking his seat again.

“You are so many things, and all of them good,” she said, looking at him, not even going to hide her desire.

He chuckled but didn’t respond beyond that, just held her gaze, and oddly she fought against the desire to squirm. He was handsome, sitting across from her, at home in a t-shirt and shorts, feet bare, beautiful greenish brown eyes staring back at her. She fought against fanning herself.

“So how’s training with Memphis? I forgot to ask you that when I called. Is she improving?”

“She is,” he said, smiling. It was a small smile, as if he had some private memory that he was seeing in his mind again. It irritated her to see it on his face.

“She has always needed help of some kind, for as long as we’ve known each other. She and her family,” she said, the same irritation causing those words to come bubbling out. He met her gaze, not that it mattered. She’d always had trouble reading this one.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“They were poor, you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with being poor. They moved in the house next to mine, rented it, to the dismay of the others in our neighborhood, including my parents. It was a nice neighborhood too, where we grew up: middle income, good schools, which was the reason they moved in, that’s what her parents told mine. Wanted good schools for their kids,” she said, taking a bite of her food. “This is so good,” she said.

“Glad you like it.”

“Her dad was a musician, played the sax and her mother stayed home with her and her younger sisters. Her dad was always practicing on his sax out in their garage and M would sit at this little chair and table he’d built for her, and listen to him play, pretend that she was in the audience of a fancy club. M was the ultimate daddy’s girl.

“Her father took side gigs when he could, worked odd jobs when he couldn’t. He died of pancreatic cancer; he found out too late to do anything about it. Not that he could. It’s a hard cancer to beat and even harder without insurance. I’ve always been friends but we became really close after that.”

“That’s an interesting story,” he said.

“It is. It’s the reason I took her under my wing. I’ve always had to watch out for her.”

“That was nice of you.”

“I do what I can. We have to do what we can for those in need, that’s what my mother taught me growing up. She grew up in the south, Mississippi, and she grew up knowing that she would always have to help some people,” she said.

“It’s a good lesson to learn,” he said, sitting back in his chair, watching and listening, his gaze and focus solely on the woman seated across from him.

Aubrey sat up straighter, smiled at him. He was listening so intently to her story, which meant he was listening so intently to her. She smiled again. “We are alike, you and I. We like to help others, the less fortunate, you know?” she said.