You're Still the One (17 page)

Rebecca bought a dress, just for the occasion. It was a similar color to the blue dress she wore on that night twenty-one years ago. It had a low-cut V-neck and was made of a satiny material that hugged her curves and twirled around her shapely calves every time she moved. She tucked three pictures of Miles into her purse—a baby picture, one from his tenth birthday, and one she took on his first day of college. Just looking at the brief recap of everything Grant had missed out on, almost brought Rebecca to her knees.

Miles had Grant’s tousled brown hair and her blue eyes. There was no doubt he was his father’s son. Rebecca decided that if she did indeed see Grant tonight, she wouldn’t approach him until way after the show. It wouldn’t be fair to ruin his opening. She’d waited this long; she could wait several more hours.

Cathy looked lovely in a little black dress. The pair of them turned many a head on the walk to the club. Several times Rebecca almost turned back. Cathy, who sensed this, kept her occupied with constant upbeat chatter. It was less than a fifteen-minute walk, but it felt like forever. When they finally neared the street, there was already a long line forming around the corner.

Rebecca turned to Cathy and clutched her arm. “Listen,” she said. “If we don’t get in—that’s fate telling me it’s a mistake, and I’m never coming back here again. If that happens, I want you to promise never to mention him again.”

Cathy glanced at the line snaking its way down the block. “You’re scared,” she said. “I get that. But this isn’t about you, remember?” Before Rebecca could react, Cathy snapped open Rebecca’s purse and whipped out a baby picture of Miles. Rebecca wanted to reach out and touch his chubby cheeks. What if he hated her for this? What if he never spoke to her again? She spoke her fears out loud.

“That kid would defend you to the ends of the earth, and you know it,” Cathy said. “He’ll understand, Rebecca. Maybe not right away. But eventually he’ll understand.”

“What if Grant is a horrible person?”

“Then you walk away.”

“What if we don’t get in?”

“Then we come back until we do.”

A man carrying a bucket of red roses passed by the line. He walked by Rebecca, stopped, and continued to the front. In the distance, Rebecca could see him looking up. Within seconds, he came back with a rose in his outstretched hand. “You match the sign,” he said. “But you need this to complete the circle.”

Rebecca held her breath and didn’t move. Cathy bought the rose, snapped off the stem, and gently placed it behind Rebecca’s ear. Just like Grant did with the rose he gave her way back when. The rose she’d preserved in a heart-shaped locket she usually wore around her neck. She had it on tonight—how could she not?

“It’s a sign,” Cathy whispered. “We are so getting in.” Cathy had barely finished the sentence when a collective groan rose, and throngs of people began walking away from the club, blaming each other for not arriving sooner and bickering about where they would go instead. Rebecca craned her neck to have a look. Ahead, a velvet barrier was blocking the entrance.

“We’re to capacity,” a large man at the front of the line called down. “Sorry, folks. That’s all for this evening.”

Rebecca turned back. Cathy grabbed her arm, whirled her back around and began marching to the entrance. Uh-oh. Cathy was on a mission. Whoever the eleven-foot bouncer was, Rebecca felt sorry for him.

She stayed out of the way and surveyed the ornate wooden doors in front of which the bouncer stood, legs shoulder-width apart, hands folded over his chest, wearing sunglasses despite the lack of sun. A pretty young blonde leaned against the front brick wall, smoking a cigarette. She was wearing what appeared to be an old-fashioned wait staff dress: black with ruffles and a white apron. The only color she wore was on her shoes, sparkling red stilettos. Grant was obviously trying to recreate the twenties. The lights from the club were cozy, the air was sticky sweet and smelled like baking bread. Even the smoke curling from the cigarette before vanishing into thin air added a very Big Easy feel. Although there wasn’t a band playing yet, Rebecca could hear music being piped in over loudspeakers, and animated voices could be heard from within.

“Look,” Cathy said suddenly, head craned to the sky. “The moon.” It glowed low and fat. It was the moon from that night.

Cathy tugged on her sleeve and Rebecca forced herself to look away. She was being silly. She wasn’t some love-struck teenager reading signs into everything she saw. It was a normal night, and a gorgeous moon, and there was nothing more to it. They had simply gone out to listen to a little jazz, see an old acquaintance, and too bad, they weren’t getting in anyway. Tomorrow all of the mystery would vanish with the morning light.

She hoped Grant had a fabulous night. He certainly had a spectacular turnout. She was thrilled he’d stayed with music, and from the looks of the place, he had many admirers in town. She was happy for him. She hadn’t ruined his life at all. Maybe this was what she was meant to see. Maybe now she could let go of some of her guilt.

“Let’s go,” Rebecca said.

“Not on your life,” Cathy said.

“Unless you want to take on the beef kebab guarding the door, I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

“But I’ve come all this way,” Cathy said, raising her voice to a near shout. “I can’t miss this.”

“Sorry for your loss,” Rebecca said.

Cathy nodded to the bouncer. “Why don’t you just tell him you’re the mother of Grant’s child?”

Rebecca was about to tell Cathy to keep her voice down when suddenly the waitress from the wall was advancing on them, throwing out her cigarette and crushing it with her heel as she did. God bless her, Rebecca thought. She wouldn’t have been able to walk from a motel bathroom to bed in those things, let alone wait tables in them.

“Oh my God,” the waitress said, taking Rebecca’s hands. “You’re Megan’s mom? Amy?”

“No—”

“Hey,” the bouncer said to the blonde. “You’re late. You missed the opening meeting—all the dos and don’ts—”

“Relax. I’ll ask one of the girls,” the waitress said before returning back to Rebecca. “I’m so sorry. I just saw Megan go in with a man and a woman, and I just assumed the woman was her mother, Amy—”

“Honest mistake,” Cathy said. “You know how messy divorce is.”

“I thought you remarried your first husband. That’s on the skids, too?”

Cathy gently pushed Rebecca out of the way. “She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“You poor thing.” The waitress smiled, revealing a little gap between her teeth. It produced a slight whistling noise when she spoke. “And he brought his new girlfriend?” she said, leaning in. “Scum.”

“Total scum,” Cathy said.

“It’s fine,” Rebecca said. “I’ll come back another night.”

“No no, please,” the waitress said, still hanging on to Rebecca’s hands. “You’re so beautiful. I know—I’ll sit you at Grant’s private table.”

“Perfect!” Cathy said.

“No!” Rebecca said.

“Now that you’re single again, and looking so gorgeous—who knows, right?” The waitress winked. Cathy winked back.

Still holding on to Rebecca, the waitress nodded to the beef kebab, who opened the door and gestured them in. From there, the waitress almost broke into a sprint as she led them through the crowd to a set of stairs leading to a balcony overlooking the stage. With one smooth move she reached out and unclipped the rope blocking the stairs.

“I can’t do this,” Rebecca said. “I can’t just plop myself down at his private table.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice,” Cathy said. “I think the spirits are controlling this one.” It was hard to hear Cathy over the noise of the crowd and the music playing over the loudspeaker. “I just love this song, don’t you?” Cathy said.

Rebecca was glad she was walking ahead of Cathy so that she didn’t have to look at her. It was shaping up to be a strange evening: the man with the rose; being led to Grant’s private table; and of course the song blaring over the loudspeakers. “Black Magic Woman.” Maybe Cathy was right. Maybe the spirits were in charge this evening. She just hoped they were on her side.

At least Grant wasn’t up here. She certainly didn’t want to ambush him. The table was a two-seater right at the edge of the balcony, with a perfect view of the stage. What in the world was Grant going to do when he found out a couple of strange women, one of them claiming to be Megan’s mom, had taken over his table? In fact, nobody else was allowed upstairs, which was strange because it was a pretty large space. He could have definitely fit more tables up here. Maybe he was just trying to be exclusive and generate excitement.

Rebecca scanned the crowd below, wondering which ones were his daughter and ex-wife. She wondered if Megan looked like Grant. Miles had a sister. Yet another facet of his life she’d denied him.

“Stop hovering over the balcony,” Cathy said. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I know. I could fall to my death.” Suddenly the waitress appeared with a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and a bucket of ice.

“On the house,” she said with her slight whistle.

“Perfect,” Cathy said.

“We’ll pay,” Rebecca said. “I insist.”

“Can’t have the boss thinking I’m treating the mother of his child poorly, now can we?” The waitress grinned, popped the champagne, and poured them each an overflowing glass. Then she set the bottle in the bucket and trounced off.

“We’re going to end up in jail,” Rebecca said.

“There’s no one else I’d rather be locked up with,” Cathy said, holding up her glass. “Except maybe George Clooney.”

Rebecca laughed and toasted. Maybe she should just relax and enjoy herself. It wasn’t exactly her fault the evening was turning out like this. It’s not like she was deliberately trying to sneak in and crash the party. Besides, it was so crowded and the wait staff was so busy that the chances of their waitress running into Grant and explaining what happened were slim. He would probably just think they had been accidentally seated at his private table with a reserved sign on it and served the finest champagne on the house. It wasn’t too late; they could leave now, and no one would be the wiser. Just as the thought hit and Rebecca geared herself to stand and flee, the lights dimmed onstage and musicians began to take their places. The anticipation of seeing Grant again and hearing him play overrode everything else. Rebecca leaned forward as her stomach twisted into a series of tight braids.

And it hit her, harder than anything else had so far. She hadn’t come here just to confess her sins. She came because she had to see him. Just one more time. Twenty-one years of pent-up longing. It was no wonder she had almost single-handedly finished the champagne.

Soon the seven musicians onstage began playing an upbeat Dizzy Gillespie tune. Rebecca was immediately entranced.

“You should see your face,” Cathy said. “It’s glowing.”

Rebecca just smiled. She didn’t want to talk or even breathe too loud over the music. For a few minutes she allowed herself to be transported to another world. Great jazz was like being hoisted atop a crowd of people and gently thrown from one stranger’s arms to the next. Some people didn’t get as lost as others in jazz. Cathy was one of them. Rebecca didn’t know how she could be checking her cell phone at a time like this.

“It’s a long song, isn’t it?” Cathy whispered.

Before Rebecca could answer, the downstairs room erupted in applause. At first she thought they were just applauding the song, and she heartily joined in. Then, as she leaned over the balcony, she noticed heads turning toward the back of the room, following someone’s path toward the stage. Tall. Tousled brown hair. Easy smile. Trumpet held as if it were a part of his body. It was him. It was Grant, coming onstage. Every nerve ending in her body started firing.

And just like that, twenty-one years faded away. He was older, of course, but sporting the same boyish grin and confident stride as he took the stage. Rebecca held her breath, and although she didn’t slink back into the safety of darkness, she half prayed he wouldn’t look up. Not yet. Instead he looked straight ahead as he raised his trumpet. Just when he reached center stage and it seemed as if he was about to play, he lowered his trumpet and leaned into the microphone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Welcome to Rebecca’s. This dream was a long time coming, and I’m honored you’re here to share it with me.” The crowd showed their support and Grant smiled and waited for the applause to die down.

My God, he was still the sexiest man Rebecca had ever seen.
I’m here. I’m right here
.

“I’m going to slow it down with a little Miles Davis.”

Rebecca gasped, and the sound was like a thunderbolt in her head. Cathy reached out and touched her hand as Grant began to play “I Thought About You.” It was instrumental only, but Rebecca could hear the words in her head as the poignant voice of his trumpet conjured up a dozen images in rapid succession: rain coating the side of a kitchen window late at night, lights glittering off train tracks, lonely alleys, soft kisses, and his body on top of hers on the damp cemetery grass. All this went on in her head as down below his trumpet carried on, as if calling out just for her. It was official. She was under a spell, and it hadn’t lost an ounce of its power.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” Cathy handed her a cocktail napkin. Rebecca hadn’t noticed the tears running down her cheeks until then.

“I used to sing this to Miles when he was a baby,” Rebecca whispered. She did, too. Every night. And every night she thought about Grant. And this was the song he opened with. It was some kind of sign. It had to be. The magic between them wasn’t all in her head. It was happening all over again, right now. Rebecca folded her arms over the balcony and leaned in.