Dancing with Venus

Copyright © May 2010 by Roscoe James

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

eISBN 978-1-60737-588-3

Cover Artist: April Martinez

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Loose Id LLC

Chapter One

The stars were gone, the moon had faded to a pale disk floating above the far horizon of the cityscape, and the sun was hard and hot two hours over Lake Michigan. Chicago, the great meatpacker, the city of steel, was awake and shaking its fist at the world.

Jessie opened her eyes and waited for things to come into focus. A discolored ceiling with cracks in one corner brought to mind a spider's web holding a water stain in place. The smell of the old building conjured snippets of a mumbled, disjointed conversation. How 'bout a drink? I come to see you perform whenever you're in town… Not far away… Sure, we can stop and get a bottle… taxi…condom…

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked to her right.

His hair was black with a pillow-head slop that reminded her of a Little Rascal kid. His shoulders were broad but not impressively so. The sheet covered his ass, and her recollection, while cloudy, was that there was nothing special underneath.

Music played softly from a clock radio on the nightstand. Jessie closed her eyes and imagined the notes. They floated in a cloud just out of reach. Something classical. Something she couldn't name. Each pull of the bow across the instrument's strings danced on her chest.

Her reverie ended with the music. The deep baritone of a Sunday-morning coffee-mug-hugging announcer intruded. “'Improvisations on a Theme for Cello.' That was from a live performance given by Miss Dionysius last year at Carnegie Hall. Next we have a more conventional piece from that same concert…”

As much as she'd like to lounge in bed and listen, Jessie tuned the announcer out. No time… She slid off the side of the bed she'd won in their early-morning struggle of grunts and shoves, steadied herself on the corner of the nightstand, and searched the floor for her panties. She found them wrapped around the neck of an empty Jack bottle.

Fifteen minutes later she stopped at a table beside the door to her strange bedfellow's messy apartment and perused some unopened mail. Jethro Sullivan. She cringed. She couldn't recall doing a Jethro before, and if she'd been sober enough to know, she might have found another candidate. Her Aunt Trudy would have said his name sounded too much like a cartoon character.

The building was full of morning noises and unpleasant smells. A baby was crying behind an ugly brown door in the apartment across the hallway, a man sneezed somewhere to her right, and a TV evangelist was chasing demons on the next floor up.

Down one flight, past a row of tarnished brass mailbox fronts she vaguely remembered being groped against, and out onto the three-step concrete stoop of one of Chicago's lesser examples of Victorian architecture, Jessie tried to get her bearings. The street was noisy and smelled like sewer and tar. The air was already hot and muggy. The bright morning sun made the top of her head feel like it would break off and float away. She could only hope.

She plopped her Stetson in place, fished in her oversize purse for her mirrored Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, and took refuge.

A taxi appeared at the corner half a block away, and she tucked her purse under her arm and ran.

* * *

“Have you seen Bob?” Jessie leaned against the bar and watched a black kid she didn't know rack clean glasses behind the bar.

“He's in the back.” The kid finished the glasses and walked off with a J&B box full of empty bottles.

“Did he leave an envelope for me? Should have my name on it. Jessica Butler.” What she really wanted was something to make her head stop throbbing. She looked around the empty dive and tried to find the charm. The cozy atmosphere that oozed up onstage when she was singing. Just like Jethro, the Blues and Booze's morning-after appeal was lacking.

Where's the fucking magic?

She'd anguished for weeks over her upcoming pilgrimage. At first she'd ignored the oversize envelope that had found its way to the Blues and Booze. She hadn't been home for over a year and didn't relish her mother, the Good Ship Disapproval, sailing up her river. But the lure had proven too great. Wednesday past she gave in and sliced the top of the envelope open.

“He said ya gotta talk to him.”

She got her guitar out the stage prop room, leaned the love of her life against the bar beside her duffel bag, and headed for the kitchen.

Bob Fletcher was sitting behind his cluttered desk in his T-shirt, going through bills. He looked like a surly black Buddha with a penchant for Cuban cigars.

“Damn, Jessie, you look like shit.”

“Drop dead, Bob.”

Bob chuckled, chewed the business end of his cigar, and flipped an envelope across the top of the desk. Jessie stuffed the envelope in her shirt pocket and pulled out her smokes.

“What's December look like, Bob? You still looking for coverage?”

Bob stared daggers at a piece of paper with a lot of numbers on the back and grunted. “December's lookin' cold as hell, kid.” He dropped the offensive bill in a pile, knocked ashes off his stogie, and leaned back in his chair. “That's high season, Jessie. I don't know… I'll have to see what I can do. You know how it is. I've got the tourists coming in. Maybe you can drop your cut?”

She jerked her feet off Bob's desk, pushed up from the old chair, and blew a cloud of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. She smiled down coyly.

“Not dropping my cut, Bob. Give me a call. See what you can do with the last two weeks in December and the first week of January. Do it 'cause you love me, Bob. Who else puts up with your shit like I do?” She turned and headed for the door.

“If I book you in here in December, you're going to have to find something besides blue jeans and cowboy boots to wear. I mean it, Jessie. That shit's okay the rest of the year, but we get suits and swanky evening gowns in here during Christmas and New Year's.”

“You tell me the last time B.B. King wore a low-cut full-length evening gown.”

“Doesn't have to be a dress, Jessie. But even B.B. King wears a suit. I mean it, Jessie.”

She flipped Bob the bird and left.

“And get rid of that fucking hat! This is a blues bar! Not some goddamned rodeo joint!”

Jessie gave the kid behind the bar the evil eye on her way out. She threw her duffel bag over her shoulder, her purse over the other, grabbed her guitar, and hit the street.

Chicago had grown old. Or she had. She wasn't sure which.

* * *

At the bus station on Cumberland, Jessie made her way through the smokers, junkies, and soldiers gathered around the front entrance and got in line for a ticket. It wasn't that she couldn't afford to fly. She could. But she did most of her gigs traveling on Greyhound, and given the way things ended the last time she'd made a pilgrimage home, she didn't feel any need to rush.

She put her duffel bag on the floor in front of door seventeen and found a place she could sit. The bus station was full of Chicago weekenders heading home. She put her sunglasses back on, pulled the front of her Stetson down, crossed her arms across her chest, and propped her feet on her guitar case.

She had an hour to wait and she was too restless to sleep. She dug in her purse for some aspirin, chewed, and dry-swallowed two. She let her head nod and eyes droop, but generally watched for people to start gathering alongside their luggage.

Fifteen minutes later the line started beefing up and she took up post beside her duffel bag. Before they hit Gary, Indiana, she was sound asleep. By two o'clock in the afternoon, they rolled into the station at Indianapolis. Her stomach was howling, so she sprinted across the back of the parking lot and bought some sliders and the biggest soft drink they had at White Castle.

Jessie barely made it back before the bus left. She settled into her seat, enjoyed her meal, and let her mind wander. Twenty miles south of Indianapolis, anxiety jumped out and got a stranglehold on her.

* * *

The sun was hiding behind dark clouds that seemed to tug on the tree line in the distance, the grey dog was humming, and the other passengers had settled into quiet conversations or gone to sleep. The seat beside her was empty. A summer drizzle turned to a summer downpour as they continued south. Lightning off to the west was followed by muffled claps of thunder.

It wasn't being alone, independent, and always on the road that made her chest feel tight and uncomfortable. It was the prospect of always being alone with nothing but her independence to keep her company that brought on the anxiety attacks.

And then there was them.

Jessie dug in her purse until she found her little black book. Not actually black. It was a small pink spiral notepad with the stub of a pencil slid into the metal binder at the top. She held it and tried to decide how her life had gotten so screwed up.

At twenty-eight Jessie thought she harbored far too many regrets. She didn't know enough about other people's lives to have any idea. Since leaving home at twenty-two to pursue music seriously, she'd spent all her time wandering from town to town, small burgs and big cities included, and really had no idea what other people's lives were like.

They started in high school right after that night. The night everything changed. This far removed the details of that night were sketchy, but where she put the blame wasn't. She no longer recalled the details of why she'd blamed her mother for her aunt's death. She only knew she had. Conviction could be much stronger than memory when you're thirteen years old.

Jessie had gone to school one morning, still too young to make such heady decisions, filled with anger and determined to defile herself in the most unretractable way she could devise. She didn't want any take-backs. Nothing that kind words could fix. It wasn't about defiling herself. It was about telling her mother afterward.

She'd picked Tommy Watson, the senior quarterback, for the deed.

She'd walked into her mother's perfect kitchen that day after school and thrown her book bag on the counter beside a tray of cookies that were still cooling.

“Hi, honey. How was school? Did you—”

“I fucked Tommy Watson today. We did it behind the Dumpster at school. I think a bunch of kids saw us.”

She could still recall her mother's face morphing into a mask of something—anger, fear—she was never quite sure. Whatever it had been had outshone anything Jessie could have imagined. Then the yelling had started.

When the yelling stopped, her mother had tried to talk to her. The talk. The one about virtues and self-respect. Honesty and the good old what, when, and where of the down and dirty of sex.

The last thing she wanted was to talk, so two weeks later it had been one of the Sanchez boys. That earned a trip to the doctor's office and the pill. She almost panicked when her mother went into the exam room with her. She didn't know what might be said, but the doctor was going to know the truth. Fortunately her mother hadn't shut up long enough for the doctor to get a word in edgewise.

Her mother's reaction had rated a big number one with a bullet on her own personal hit parade. Jessie often wondered if things would have turned out different if her mother had known that Tommy Watson had turned her down flat. “Hell, kid, you ain't even got no tits yet. How old are you, anyway? Come back and see me when you grow up.”

Tommy was right, and she knew it. She'd been tall for her age and flat as a board. Her legs were skinny, and her butt was as interesting as a washboard. Her ears stuck out, and she was covered in freckles from head to toe. Her strawberry blonde hair hung straight and uninteresting down to the middle of her back.

She hadn't even bothered throwing herself at Fernando. She'd just borrowed his name.

After that she'd devised a new way to torture her mother. She'd bought the frilliest, pinkest diary she could find and noted every one of her imaginary indiscretions in painstaking detail. Then she'd leave her diary lying around.

What good was keeping the stupid thing if her mother wasn't going to read it?

Jessie slid the pencil out of the notebook's spiral and flipped to the middle. In a meticulous, flowing script she noted the number—fifty-six—in the upper left hand corner. Beside that she wrote Jethro Sullivan's name. Then she proceeded to document, as best she could recall, her night of drunken debauchery with the man who had a water stain on his ceiling. When she finished she checked her notations carefully for facts. No physical description of Mr. Sullivan was included. Nothing personal about the man she'd picked almost at random from the raucous crowd after her last set. He was just a faceless name in the most recent incarnation of her pink diary. No longer meant to torment her mother, her little pink book was her scrapbook of promises not made and hearts not broken.

She didn't think other women had little pink books full of faceless names. Her behavior had started as a propaganda campaign in her pink diary. A war of words aimed at her mother with the hope of… What? She no longer knew and wasn't sure she ever did.

They were all just a blur. They were something that happened in her life like the passing of seasons or unstoppable changes in the weather. At times she thought that keeping them close, like favored enemies, was, ultimately, her way of keeping them away.

The bridge at the Ohio River into Kentucky brought Jessie out of her reverie. They'd driven out of the rain, and she watched skiers chase boats up and down the river. The stop at Louisville was thirty minutes, and she spent that time at the smoker's corner in back of the parking lot talking to a trucker named Kevin, a man with a nice smile who was deadheading back to St. Louis. She thought, in passing, of giving Kevin the thrill of his life. She could tell he wanted to. She could always tell when they wanted to. A trip to St. Louis would delay the inevitable by at least ten hours.

Jessie let the impulse pass and got back on her ride to perdition. By the time they left the Bluegrass State behind and crossed into Tennessee, the sun was getting low and she was curled into her seat, sound asleep in spite of the demons rattling around her head.

* * *

Jessie's cell phone woke her just as they pulled into Nashville. Groggy and sore from sleeping in a corner, she answered without looking at who the caller was.

“What?” She was in a foul mood. When she identified the caller, she turned up the ire.

“Hey there, beautiful.”

“Who is this? Do I know you?”

“How you doing, Jessie? Long time no talk—”

Jessie snapped her phone shut, grabbed her purse, and pushed into the line of people getting off the bus. She knew Bernie would call back. What she couldn't figure out was why he was calling at all. Their last face-to-face had been over a year ago, and she distinctly recalled firing his sorry ass.

She'd met Bernie in some dive in South LA. She was fresh off the farm, literally, and playing her second bar, just learning the ropes, when Bernie came up after her last set. There was a lot of smoke blowing up cavities not for public perusal, and she had a real live agent who was going to make her famous. His job was records. She'd continue to work the circuit and build a following, and Bernie was going to put her on every iPod in the world.

That had been six years ago. She'd taken a lot of phone calls from Bernie that first year, listened to his high talking, even recorded a two-song demo. The last three years she'd heard from Bernie exactly once. That was at a meet-and-greet in New York. He'd bought her coffee and she'd told him he was fired. He'd laughed the whole thing off, and she'd followed up with an official written notice scribbled on three panels of toilet paper stuffed in an envelope and sent registered mail. She hadn't heard from the man—until now.

Jessie stretched and hit the ladies' room. Bernie called just as she was flushing. She flipped her phone open and held it close to the bowl.

“Hear that, Bernie? That's what I think of you.” She heard him cursing as she closed her phone a second time. She grabbed a sandwich at the food counter and headed for the smoker's corner. This time when Bernie called, she just held the phone to her ear and listened.

“Listen, Jessie. Don't hang up. I got us a gig.”

She took a drag on her cigarette and waited.

“In Los Angeles in two weeks. Studio work for a big name. There's gonna be a producer there who wants to look you over. Might be—”

“I book my own gigs, Bernie. That was the deal. You were gonna get me the big record—”

“But this is it! The real deal. This guy heard your tape. He wants you to do some album work for his singer. Then he wants to talk—”

“I'll think about it, Bernie.” She closed her phone a third time. But she was smiling. She measured Bernie's sincerity by his persistence. He might not call back tonight, but if he called back in the next few days, then she figured there might really be an opportunity waiting.

* * *

At four in the morning, bleary-eyed and smelling pretty ripe, Jessie crawled off the grey dog in Memphis. She got her duffel bag and guitar and headed for the bus terminal exit. She put her Stetson firmly on her head so it wouldn't blow away and crossed US 51, where she dropped her bag and her guitar case and stuck her thumb out. The night air was cool and muggy. She could hear a train whistle in the distance and crickets chirping off in the shrubbery.

There wasn't much traffic, and when three cars and a semi rolled past without stopping, she pulled her Marlboros out, sat on the edge of her guitar case, and lit up. Five minutes later trouble arrived. The police cruiser's light bar flashed to life, and the passenger window rolled down.

“Sorry, cowboy, but… Is that you, Jessie?”

“Hey, Wendell. How the hell you been?”

“Just throw your stuff in the backseat and get on in here.” Wendell reached across and popped the passenger door open.

Jessie flipped her cigarette butt on the pavement and settled in.

“Dispatch, this is sixteen. I checked out that hitchhiker down by the Greyhound. Didn't find nothin'.”

“Sixteen, Dispatch clear.”

“Your daddy said you might be coming in. 'Course, he wasn't too sure on that count.”

“Yeah? When'd you talk to him?”

“Couple a weeks ago. I was over there helpin' bring in this year's soybeans. I guess you heard about your sister.”

“That's why I'm here, Wendell.”

Wendell's police radio filled the silence for a few miles. Jessie's stomach was in knots, and her head had started pounding again.

“Sixteen, Dispatch.”

Wendell took a call for a traffic accident out on River Road.

“Listen, Wendell, if you can drop me down at Mercer's, I'll get a ride out on one of the trucks.”

“Sure can. How long you gonna be here?”

“Too long, Wendell.”

“I hear ya. You gonna be playing anywhere?”

“Wasn't planning on it. But you never know. Might get kind of stuffy at home. Might hit Red's just to get out of the house.”

Wendell pulled into the lot at Mercer's Dairy and waited while she got her things out of the back. She leaned down and thanked him.

“Glad to see you're back, Jessie. Your dad will be too. Try to stay out of trouble this time.” Wendell laughed. Jessie did too, but her heart wasn't in it.

“Thanks for the ride, Wendell.”

Wendell was still laughing as he turned on his reds and blues and squealed his tires leaving the parking lot.

“Get a life, dickhead!” Jessie flipped her old high-school classmate the bird as he drove off, grabbed her stuff, and headed for the dispatcher's office.

“Hey there, Bob. How's the cat draggin'?”

“Speakin' of cats. Look what this one just dragged in.”

“Can I hitch a ride out to the farm?”

“Long as you promise not to molest my driver. He's just a kid. Wouldn't know what to do with a wildcat like you, Jessie.”

“Funny. That's real funny, Bob. You make a living with crap like that?”

“Seein's how you're back, I might get some new material. Who knows, I might even get me a spot on that there Comedy Club show.”

“Which truck, funny man?”

“Twenty-two. Kid's name's Larry. You be nice now, Jessie.”

She walked away and discreetly brushed a tear from the corner of her left eye. Asshole. She found the truck and dropped her things into the passenger seat. No sign of Larry. In the break room she got some salted Planters and a Mr. Pibb from the vending machines. Rocking back in a chair, she dropped her boots on the edge of one of the tables, pulled her Stetson down, and tried not to think too much.

* * *

The single-axle stainless-steel tanker lumbered up to the dairy barn on the farm she grew up on, and Larry shut the engine off. Jessie said thanks, grabbed her things, and climbed out of the cab.

Rusty, her father's herding shepherd, came running up wagging his tail and whining for attention. She scratched the dog's ears and stood in the dust looking to the east. The sun was just peeking over the tree line on Shorty's hill a mile away. The air smelled like damp soil, cow manure, and home. Jessie closed her eyes and breathed deep.

“That's right, boy. You came to see me. Didn't ya? Didn't ya? You came to welcome me home.” She scuffed Rusty's neck one more time and picked her things up.

“Jess! That you, honey?” Big callused hands were on her shoulders before she could turn around. “How ya been, Jess? Sure is good to have you back home, honey.”

Jessie dropped her things and surrendered a hug to the only man in her life worth a tinker's damn. She fought back the tears and held on tight. She didn't want to let go. When she did, she saw it immediately. Her father had aged more than the year she'd been away. His hair was thinner and grayer. His face looked drawn in spite of his big smile. The man who never judged her, always encouraged her, and could sit for hours listening to her thump her guitar. Her father was her rock, and she felt guilty as hell.

“Damn straight, it's me. This cow's done come home, Daddy.”

“Let me get Larry straightened out and clear the barn. Get on in the house. Your mother'll be makin' breakfast. Big doin's goin' on. I'll be in shortly.”

For the first time in more than a year, Jessie smiled. Not one of her stage smiles. Less one of her shallow bedroom smiles. This was a full-on, no-holds-barred, cheek-hurtin' grin that glowed as bright as the sun. She picked up her things and got a swat on her behind as she turned away.

“You stayed away too long, Jessie. Ain't right. Now get in there. We'll talk later.”

She took a deep breath and sighed. She was home, and that had nothing to do with the stately stone abode that sat on a lush green lawn in a stand of tall majestic oaks surrounded by a short white picket fence. Home was about the feeling in her chest and her father's love.

She pushed open the yard gate at the back of the house and stepped off the gravelly dust of the lane onto the fresh-mowed turf. Jessie walked in the grass alongside the stepping stones and headed for the screened-in back porch, and listened to the morning birds.

“Come on, Kimmie. Breakfast is ready. Your father will be here shortly. You other girls get on in here too.”

At the sound of her mother's voice drifting out across the backyard from the kitchen, Jessie's stomach wound into knots and her step faltered. She wanted a smoke, a drink, and someplace else to hang her hat for the next week.

With a full serving of trepidation, Jessie pulled open the screen door to the back porch and let it slam shut behind her. She dropped her duffel bag in front of the washer and steeled herself for the moment she'd been dreading since she'd crawled out of Jethro's bed an eternity ago.

With more bravado than resolve, Jessie crossed the back porch, pushed open the back door to the house, and stepped onto the battleground. Her best recollection was that she'd fumbled the last round.

“I'm back, Mom! Ain'tcha glad ta see me?”

A graveyard at midnight would have given her a livelier welcome.

Chapter Two

Jessie's little sister sat in her ratty pink robe from high school, matching pink house slippers, and had a bright pink towel wrapped around her head. And she saved the day. She jumped up from the kitchen table, ran over, and clung to Jessie like a wet rag.

“It's Psycho Woman! You came! I'm so glad, Jessie!”

“How ya been, Short Stuff?” Jessie's heart pounded, and she swallowed a coppery taste lurking at the back of her throat. Given the words she'd had for her little sister the last time they'd been standing in the very same kitchen, Jessie wanted to kiss Short Stuff's feet. Instead she put her guitar down and hugged her sister back.

“Wait till you see, Jessie. I'm getting Barcoff's to come in and do the food. And Heldon's is doing the—” Her sister wrinkled her nose and pushed away. “Phew. When's the last time you had a bath?”

“I'm sure your sister's tired, Kimmie. Maybe she wants to take a bath and get some sleep.” Her mother seemed set on killing the moment. “You girls get on with your breakfast. Lots to do this morning.”

And hi to you too, Mom.

Her sister, someone she had wronged in the worst way possible, lived in a pink world with white trim and thought baby chicks and hot rides were neat. And she stepped in and saved the moment a second time by ignoring her mother completely.

“Hurry up, Jessie. Get a bath. I want you to go with us. My fitting's this morning. You have to be there. You can meet everyone later.”

Instead of taking up the gauntlet with her mother, Jessie picked up her guitar and started down the long hallway to her bedroom. As awkward moments go, Jessie felt like she'd dodged a bullet.

“You might have to throw Marci out of the bathroom. She and Debbie are bunking with you.” Her sister still sounded bubbly when she yelled at Jessie's back.

Thank God and Colbie Caillat for “Bubbly.”

Jessie stopped in her tracks in front of her bedroom door and surveyed her latest disappointment. Her collection of bumper stickers, concert stickers, and city stickers was gone. The door had been stripped and painted. Instead of following her heart and storming the kitchen, Jessie braced herself for what waited on the other side of the offending woodwork and pushed her bedroom door open.

Her purple walls had been banished, and some earth-toned brown greeted her. Then she saw the foot of her bed. Or somebody's bed. Her twin had morphed into a double that took up half of one wall. Her Led Zeppelin bedspread had been replaced by something in a lighter earth tone. It was all nice but, sadly, not her. Her memories had been banished.

Jessie found her guitar amplifier beneath a long narrow table that matched the bed. The table was where her old cluttered desk used to be, beneath the wide double window that looked out on the side yard. The room smelled new. New paint, new furniture. New bedding.

New daughter?

She didn't recall leaving a naked woman standing in her bedroom, but her departure was a little hazy. No, she corrected. Not a woman. A Greek goddess.

This is going to be a great fuckin' week. Jessie rolled her eyes.

“I should have knocked—” She started to back out of the bedroom she didn't know anymore.

“That's okay. You must be Jessie.”

Jessie heard her father stomp into the kitchen, and she stepped into the bedroom and pushed the door shut behind her. She threw her Stetson on the bed, dropped her guitar in front of the closet, and avoided the naked woman's eyes.

“And you must be a friend of Kimmie's.”

“Marci.” The naked woman smiled and took a step in Jessie's direction. Jessie teetered. She thought the woman was actually going to hug or kiss her. Instead she walked past in a light summertime breeze and started going through a drawer in the dresser.

“Nice to meetcha, Marci.” Jessie's nose filled with the smell of spring flowers and baby oil. The olfactory experience only highlighted her own rank state.

Just what I need. A bunch of college cheerleaders hanging around while Mom and I duke it out. Sheesh.

Then she noticed the walls and exploded.

“What the hell happened to my pictures?”

Jessie stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

* * *

“You're gonna turn into a prune if you don't get out of that water soon.”

“No. Really. That was nice of you, Short Stuff.” Jessie took a drag on her cigarette and blew a series of smoke rings toward the ceiling.

“You didn't deserve it. And do you have to smoke in the bathroom? You know Mom—”

“Don't say it.”

Kimberly—Kimmie to family and friends, Short Stuff to Jessie—flipped on the ventilator fan and leaned into the bathroom mirror to inspect her eyes. Jessie reached over the edge of the bathtub and snubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the floor.

“I saved everything for you, you know.”

“Thanks again for at least saying hi when I got in. What's everything?” Jessie toed the lever for the bathtub drain and pushed up from the water. Her body ached, but her headache had taken a hike.

“All your precious pictures and posters. Mom had them on the back porch. I boxed them up and put them in the tack room up at the stable. She redid your room because I was bringing friends to stay. She didn't do it to…” Kimmie's words trailed off, and Jessie didn't pursue the thought.

The door into their shared bathroom opened, and a redhead walked in from Kimmie's bedroom wearing a sleek white robe. Jessie grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body.

This place is more crowded than a New York City subway station.

“Sorry. You two are hoggin' the bathroom. Charlotte's in your parents' bathroom, and Linda is in the half bath doing her makeup. I don't know where Debbie and Marci are.”

Jessie lined up with her sister and the redhead at the bathroom counter between the double sinks. She stared into the mirror and cringed. She smelled better, but the shadows under her eyes hadn't washed away.

Right. Fat chance.

Then she glanced at the redhead's perfect reflection in the mirror.

Another cheerleader.

“You're the troublemaker, right? Psycho Woman? I'm Becky. I met your sister in Cucamonga.”

Jessie glanced back at her own image in the mirror and wondered if they were all that much younger or if she just looked that much older. Last she knew Short Stuff was born two years after she was.

“So you're all nurses?” Jessie blew off the Psycho Woman comment, grabbed a brush, and started pulling tangles out of her hair.

“None of us are nurses.” Short Stuff deadpanned.

“Then what the hell did Dad pay all that money to send you to Chaffey—”

“We're gold diggers!” Both girls waved their hands in the air and swung their hips in some perverse cheer parody. Becky offered a sultry pout, and Kimmie started giggling.

“You see,” Becky explained, “no woman really wants to be a nurse. There're all those bedpans—”

“And doctors,” Kimmie explained.

“Lousy hours.”

“And more doctors.” Kimmie had finished her makeup and was brushing her hair.

“Needles and blood…” Becky made a face in the mirror.

“And lots more doctors.”

“Poor pay…” Becky ticked off a litany of reasons no one in their right mind would want to be a nurse. Kimmie sandwiched each response with doctors.

“So this Richard guy. He's a…”

“Doctor!” the girls answered in unison and cackled like crazy.

They were interrupted by a pounding on the door from Kimmie's bedroom and her mother yelling. “You girls hurry up in there. The appointment's at ten thirty.”

“Yeah, Dr. Dick.” Kimmie pulled some dreamy-eyed bimbo look, and Becky leaned close.

“The guy's a proctologist. Can you imagine where his finger's been all day when he walks through the door with his honey, I'm home routine?”

The door from Jessie's bedroom opened, and the Greek goddess walked in wearing her panties and bra.

Jessie was starting to feel claustrophobic with all the bubbly college coeds in attendance.

“Don't listen to these two. We're not all gold diggers.”

“Yeah, Marci digs other things.”

“I just like to keep my options open, that's all. I'm a musician. I play the cello and—”

“She's a Mouseketeer.” Becky grabbed her makeup bag and left to get dressed.

“Yeah, she gets off on Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” Kimmie picked up her things to leave as well.

“Kimmie.” Jessie saw no way around it. She stopped her sister at the bathroom door and held Kimmie's arm so her sister couldn't escape. She glanced over her shoulder at Marci but went on anyway. “Listen, about…well, we never got to talk—”

“And you feel bad?” Her little sister looked genuinely pissed when she stared back. After a few seconds her little sister brought her open palm up and slapped Jessie hard enough it hurt. “You feel better now?”

“Kimmie…”

Her sister leaned in and gave Jessie a peck on the lips followed by a smile.

“I still love ya, Sis. You're my big sis. Can't nothin' come 'tween me and my favorite psycho woman.”

Jessie stared at the door after her sister left. She felt small and petty. Most of all she felt alone. She sniffed and wiped the corner of her eye as she turned back to the bathroom counter. She discovered Marci in the mirror, eyeliner poised, staring back. Jessie looked around for her smokes and lighter, glanced at Marci once more, sat on the edge of the tub, and lit up. Her stomach growled, and she thought she needed food. But that wasn't it. That wasn't what she wanted or needed.

She didn't know how long it had been since she'd cried. Not tears of joy or wet-eyed disappointment. No, she was thinking about a full-on, no-holds-barred crying jag. She tried to recall the last time something like that had happened in her life, and she drew a blank. The realization just made her want to cry more.

“You play the blues. Sing too, don't you?”

Jessie watched the ashes fall off her cigarette onto the white tile floor.

Another reason for Mom to yell.

“Kimmie gave me a few recordings of you performing. Things your father made.”

Jessie took a deep draw on her cigarette, pulled her badass mask firmly back in place, and twisted her cigarette out in the ashtray on the floor. She pushed off the edge of the tub, adjusted the towel wrapped around her body, and stepped up to the bathroom counter.

“Yeah, Dad must have a thousand recordings of me.” She grabbed a brush and started pulling the tangles out of her hair again.

“I used to play for the Disney Symphony. Back when I was fifteen. That's why the Gold Diggers all call me a Mouseketeer.”

The silence dragged out. Jessie decided bubbly college girls weren't her kind of company.

Marci finally packed up her makeup bag and left. Jessie finished brushing her hair out, borrowed her sister's blow-dryer, and headed out to dress and see what her sister was up to.

She was relieved to find she still had clothes in the dresser. Even if it wasn't her dresser. More relieved when she found her Martin and her Fender Strat in their cases in the closet.

At least I haven't been evicted completely.

She stuffed her small wallet in her front jeans pocket and headed out.

Not yet, anyway.

* * *

Jessie poured herself a cup of coffee and took a chair at the empty kitchen table. Nothing had changed. As neat and impeccable as ever. Violets grew in small pots in the kitchen window. Notes and pictures were stuck to the refrigerator door with magnets that looked like daisies. A big Pooh Bear cookie jar sat at the end of the kitchen counter. The morning dishes and, Jessie lamented, food had been cleared, and the stainless-steel sink glistened.

The house was quiet. She'd been home less than three hours, and her mother had found a way to exclude her. Again. The coffee tasted bitter, and she dumped it in the sink.

Marci came in the back door from the yard. The naked woman was now turned out in something short and summery. A white cotton smock with a small flower print that stopped midthigh and screamed Look at me, ain't I cute? A pair of white sandals trapped red-painted toenails, and wavy mahogany locks framed the woman's face. Jessie pulled her own mousy hair off her back self-consciously and twisted it in her hands.

“They just left. Your sister said we should catch up. Someplace called Millards?”

“Willards. Yeah, I know where it is.” Jessie added, speaking to no one in particular, “Why couldn't they just wait?”

“The car was full. I think your mother said it would be easier this way or something.”

“Right. I bet she did.”

Jessie headed for the stable with Marci in tow. Rusty walked along stealing rubs and pets from both of them.

When she didn't find her father, she checked the barn. The stainless-steel milking equipment was cleaned and put away. The concrete floors were wet, the lights were off, and the place smelled antiseptic.

“Shit.”

Marci didn't comment, and she and Rusty followed Jessie out to the machinery shed where they discovered the battery was down on the old farm truck. She looked around for her father's pickup and couldn't find that either.

“Damn. Did Kimmie bring her car, or did everyone fly in?”

“We flew. Your dad picked us up.”

“Why does she do this?” She decided her mother had lobbed the first volley.

Rusty rolled onto his back, his big ears flopping, waiting to be rubbed. When Jessie looked up, she caught Marci's judgmental stare. Jessie kicked a rock through the tall grass and walked off.

“My mother knew there wasn't any way for me to catch up. She just didn't want me along.”

“The car was full, Jessie. I saw it. Becky was sitting on your sister's lap. They wanted me to squeeze in, but I said I'd come with you.” Marci caught up and was pulling on her elbow.

“Yeah. Well, then how does she expect me to get there? Take the John Deere?”

“Us. She's not excluding you, Jessie. Or me. There isn't anything else we can drive into town?”

Jessie stood and fumed. Marci let go of Jessie's elbow and crossed her arms under her breasts.

Who the hell are you? This is a family fight. Bug off.

She kicked another rock and stared at the toes of her scruffy old boots.

There is one other possibility.

* * *

Jessie looked at the plate. It was current. She dug out the papers and checked the insurance slip. Also current. She looked in the gas tank and found it topped off and smelling fresh. She'd been surprised when she'd seen how clean it was after a year of neglect, but she credited her father for that.

She pulled the key off a nail beside the garage door and kicked the beast to life. She looked at Marci and her long bare legs and short cotton dress, and reached up and turned her Harley off. The woman looked a little green around the gills.

“I can't take you like that. If this thing goes down, you'll tear the hell out of your legs.”

Marci hiked her leg over the seat, and Jessie attributed the act to false bravado. She waited while the woman found the foot pegs and squeezed in between Jessie and the sissy bar. She kicked the beast back to life and rolled out of the garage and down the lane to the county road that would take them into town. Just before they made the turn, Marci snaked her arms around Jessie and yelled over the sound of the engine.

“You won't really let this thing go down, will you?” False bravado had been replaced by a full-on panic.

Jessie just laughed and punched the throttle as she pulled out onto the blacktop.

* * *

The fitting was special only because it was her kid sister's. The dress was beautiful and left Jessie wet-eyed. She ignored her mother, even when the woman came over and offered a peck on the cheek and a welcome home while Kimmie was changing.

Her father arrived for lunch at Leroy's, a local eatery along the river. He smiled extra big for Jessie and said she must have seen his note on the refrigerator.

“I thought you might enjoy a spin on your bike.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Jessie didn't miss the told-you-so look from Miss Cello Player.

They lingered over coffee and dessert and listened to Kimmie gush on about Richard and how they met. Jessie tried not to listen too close. She didn't see any Richards or fittings in her own immediate future.

Marci was talkative, and Jessie learned a little about each of the Gold Diggers from Marci while everyone was distracted with Kimmie's love story.

Becky—Rebecca—was corn-fed country from over Nashville way. A carrottop with an attitude. Charlotte, black and stunning, was quiet and reserved. Quite a contrast to the New York backdrop she'd grown up against.

“Well, till you get a drink into her,” Marci leaned close and whispered. Jessie leaned away but caught the words.

Linda Cheng's father was Chinese, her mother European stock. Jessie didn't know which side of the family was noisy and obnoxious, but Linda got all of it.

“Debbie's a bad girl. She crossed over for a month. But then she saw the light.”

“Crossed over?”

Marci leaned close and whispered again. “She was dating a woman.” Marci took a sip of something sweet and alcoholic that came with the meal and added, “Now she's part of the pack again. That was a while back. She's from Chicago.”

Jessie looked across her soda water and lime and formed a mental picture of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Debbie rolling around naked between the sheets with another woman. She guessed Marci knew what she was thinking from the sideways stare she got. There was a pregnant pause, but Jessie really wasn't into plumbing the depths of other people's secrets. She had enough of her own. When Jessie didn't say anything, Marci went back to her dessert.

“And you?”

Marci lit up. Joy or conceit? Jessie was having trouble reading Kimmie's friend.

“My father's Greek Orthodox, and my mother was Jewish. That's where I get the ravishing good looks.” Marci turned profile and pointed at her nose before going on. “I was a problem child. I wouldn't eat my peas. I like quiet Sunday afternoons in bed and walking in the rain. Well, as long as there isn't any lightning. I can't sleep if there's a thunderstorm. I can curl my tongue, and I have an apple-shaped birthmark about the size of a quarter very high up on the inside of my right thigh. Oh, and I'm twenty-seven.”

Was that a singles ad? Sheesh.

“What about the music?”

“Oh. That stuff. I grew up in California and studied music back east at Juilliard after high school. I'm proficient with five instruments. You'll have to guess which ones. But I'm considered world-class with the cello and viola.”

“So, I don't get it. You're not a nurse or a doctor. How did you meet my sister?” Jessie felt a little intimidated.

Marci smiled coyly over her drink. “A woman shouldn't tell all her secrets. Not right away, anyway.”

“What about your mother. You said she was Jewish. She convert?”

“She died last year. Breast cancer.”

Jessie had nothing to keep the conversation going and let it go.

By the time the check arrived, it was after five. Her mother wanted to go home and go through the guest list again, and her father had an early day every day. The Gold Diggers wanted to paint the town before the men showed up on Thursday. Jessie tried to beg off, but her father handed her the keys to his pickup and promised to tuck her Harley in.

* * *

Jessie kicked back and balanced her chair on its two back legs. She stuck her feet under the table and dropped her scruffy boots in the middle of a collection of red, white, and beige open-toed pumps and sandals on the ends of smooth bare legs with nice California tans.

Every man's wet dream. She looked at the scruffy legs of her jeans. Right. It wasn't that Jessie didn't enjoy looking beautiful, maybe even beguiling. She simply felt she had no one to look beguiling for. Another holdover from the early years of the war with her mother.

Red Lawton, the owner of the bar, brought over another round of tequila and more lime slices. The sorority girls, as Jessie had started calling them, thought Red was “jest the cutest thang.” The man weighed in somewhere north of three hundred pounds; nobody called Red cute. But he blushed and grinned like a possum when Becky came up with that little jewel.

“To Cucamonga!” Debbie jumped up from her chair and raised her hornito high. Jessie figured Debbie was already soused, and that was only her second tequila.

The college glee club raised their glasses and chimed in.

“To Cucamonga!”

Welcome to the sorority. Get me the hell outta here!

Jessie tuned them out. Coming home always brought her Aunt Trudy's memory to life. Her favorite aunt and childhood confidant. Also the first person to notice Jessie's affinity for music. Her Aunt Trudy had given her an electric guitar for her tenth birthday to the chagrin of Jessie's mother. Jessie sometimes wondered if her life would have turned out different if her aunt hadn't died unexpectedly the night of Jessie's thirteenth birthday.

A death that to this day held as much mystery as despair for Jessie.

Randy Riddle and his group were up on the stage cranking out country music. The guy was a fair musician and had a great voice, but Red's wasn't about country. Or didn't used to be. She figured things had gone to hell since the last time she'd stopped in.

Jessie glanced at Marci tipping her shot glass back, and her gaze lingered on the woman's long slender fingers. The fingers of a world-class musician. She decided she hated Marci most.

“Jessie. Do you want this thing? You want me to bring you something else?” Red was leaning close so no one would hear.

Jessie looked at the first tequila that still hadn't touched her lips. “You know, Red? Bring me a bottle of water and some ice. I'm driving and babysitting the cheer squad here. I think I'll lay low tonight.”

“Sure thing, Jessie.” Red chuckled and moved her still-full tequila in front of Becky. Then he tried to cut a deal. Jessie figured he would. “Hey, Jessie, how 'bout a number or two for the crowd? Make it three and I'll buy the drinks.”

The last thing Jessie felt like doing was getting onstage at Red's. She was bone tired, and there were too many ghosts lurking in her head and the audience. Too many bad roads taken.

“Tell ya what, Red. You buy the drinks anyway, and maybe I'll get back later in the week. I'll be here till next Monday.”

Red frowned and lumbered off.

She looked at her sister sitting at her elbow laughing at something Charlotte had said about country boys and milking the bull. Short Stuff was all grown up. Another reason for Jessie to feel old and worn out.

The last time she'd seen her sister, she was in college, home for the summer, and in love. Jessie had looked at Kimmie's Romeo and known exactly what the guy was looking for. But this time things were different. Jessie could see it in her sister's eyes. The kid had gotten it all. The ring, the man, the career, and Jessie was sure the house with the white picket fence wasn't far behind.

“Jessie, I wanted to tell you before you find out tomorrow.”

“What's that, Short Stuff?”

“I've asked Becky to be my maid of honor.”

Jessie started to say something but stopped. When she'd finally found the invitation in the envelope and the short note from Kimmie begging her to come and stand beside her on her big day, she'd been touched and scared. There were no additional words. No explanations or forgiveness. None had been expected. Not even any anger. Jessie had put the invitation away but hadn't forgotten about it. She'd tried a thousand times to imagine the scene. She didn't know who would attack first. The mother who hated her or the sister whose summer love Jessie had fucked in a very public way.

Jessie shrugged her shoulders and mumbled, “Whatever.”

“Don't be like that. Did you look at the postmark on that letter? I sent that to you in June.”

“No skin off my teeth.”

“Don't be the psycho bitch, Jessie. You got that letter and didn't even call. You didn't send a card, a letter…I had no way of knowing if you were going to show up or not.”

Which was all true. She hadn't. Not a card, not a letter, and much less a phone call. She'd been afraid to. Afraid of what would have to be said…

“I couldn't leave everything just hanging. It was getting close… I didn't even know for sure where to find you. That Chicago place was just a wild guess…”

Afraid of mumbled apologies. Most of all she was afraid of take-backs. She picked up her glass and hid behind the rim while she took a long drink. Her sister had her dead to rights.

“It's one thing not to call Mom. But Dad? That man lives and breathes for you.”

Jessie put down her drink and stared at Randy onstage crooning some ballad. Kimmie pushed up from the table in exasperation and headed for the ladies' room with a sour expression on her face. Jessie flipped her hair and tried to stop her knee shaking.

No take-backs.

* * *

“Jessie!”

Jessie jerked her head up. She'd nearly dozed off. Kimmie was yelling over the noise of the bar from the other end of the table, and from the looks of things, that hadn't been the first time she'd yelled. Her sister was smiling as if nothing had happened.

“What's up, Short Stuff?”

“Do a song for us, Jessie.”

“That's okay, Short Stuff. I'm really tired. Next time—”

“Come on, Jessie. For me. Pleeeeeeeease?”

Jessie was about to beg off when the entire table chimed in with a whiny imitation. “Come on, Jessie. Pleeeeeeeease.”

It was more than being tired. When she looked around the table, all she saw was everything she wasn't. And wasn't going to be. Ever. Even Miss World-Class Cello Player was a slap in the face.

Juilliard. Well, fuck me.

But there was no getting out of it. After her little sister's performance that morning in the kitchen, Jessie figured she owed the kid one.

Jessie looked around the table at all the doe-eyed Gold Diggers, grabbed her bottle of water, and headed for the stage. Marci slapped her on the ass and yelled, “You go get 'em, girl.”

It took about ten minutes for Randy to finish his number and to get things sorted out with the band. His Peerless guitar felt heavy, but the action was nice. The cheering started as soon as she took the stage. She let them cheer and enjoyed every decibel. It was like a transfusion. Jessie shoved Randy's guitar behind her back and grabbed the microphone.

“Damn, Randy. Looks like you ain't been givin' my people what they want!”

The crowd went wild.

“So let's hear it! Whadda ya want?” Jessie spun the microphone and leaned it toward the crowd.

“Blues!”

“I can't hear you! Ya gotta beg for it!”

Some guy who looked vaguely familiar ran up to the edge of the stage and fell to his knees. The crowd yelled and hollered. Red started ringing the old fire bell at the bar. Jessie egged them on for five minutes and got a kick out of the Gold Diggers slapping hands and generally making asses out of themselves.

She finally swung her guitar around and yelled at the band over the noise, “'Turtle' in G. Slow and easy.”

The deep hungry growl of a boogie in G filled Red's right up to the rafters. Jessie waited for the crowd to get quiet then she leaned into the microphone.

“We got a lotta women here tonight, Red.”

Becky jumped up on her chair and swayed her hips. Red started ringing the old fire bell again.

“Yeah. A lotta women. And I think we got a few men out there too!”

Jessie couldn't help smiling. The love affair between performer and fan was the only love she had in her life, and she always reveled in it.

“You know what kinda man I'm talkin' about, ladies. The ones where you can hear the brass clinkin' when they walk by!”

Charlotte, the quiet black girl from New York, jumped up and yelled, “Hell yes! That's the one!”

“That's right, ladies. And what kind of woman does a man like that want?”

The crowd wouldn't stop yelling, and Jessie kicked the band in the ass with a riff on the guitar to tighten things up.

“That's right, ladies. A man like that needs just one thing. What's he need?”

Most of the women yelled back. By the third time everyone was yelling.

“That's right.”

The drummer hit a roll and tipped the cymbals. Jessie came down hard and worked her way through the first verse of Janis Joplin's “Turtle Blues.”

“I'm a…mean, mean woman…”

When the group hit the third-verse riff, everyone in the place was on their feet.

Jessie had finally come home.

* * *

Jessie got the sorority sisters back to the house in one piece. Only two fit in the cab. Everyone else climbed in the back of the pickup and clung to a couple of bales of hay her father had back there.

At Red's one song had turned into three, and three got slammed into more than an hour. The place was so packed when she'd finally left the stage it took them another twenty minutes just to get to the front door.

The Gold Diggers sang the first line of “Turtle Blues” all the way home. Jessie was really starting to feel like a mean, mean woman by then. She was physically exhausted, and the Gold Diggers had grown old. But there was no denying the crowd had been great.

Marci and Debbie were sitting in the cab with Jessie and hadn't stopped laughing since they'd left the bar. Jessie didn't share everyone's festive nature. The only thing she had to look forward to was a phone call from an ex-agent, more uncomfortable truths from her sister, and the coming battle with her mother. She slumped against the driver's door and watched the road.

By the time she got her charges home, it was after two in the morning, and she wanted to sleep. But she was too wound up. She could still feel the crowd stomping their feet and clapping. While everyone else wandered to the house, she stopped at the garage and opened an old refrigerator her dad kept out there. She grabbed a beer and leaned in the doorway of the garage to have a smoke. Another beer and she had just enough buzz to take the edge off. She wandered inside rubbing Rusty's head.

When she came out of the bathroom ready for bed, she found the girl named Debbie snoring on a mattress on the floor beside the bed. The Greek goddess was asleep on Jessie's side of the bed.

“Scoot over, Miss World-Class. This is my side of the bed.”

Marci tried to move, got tangled in the sheets, and tumbled to the other side half-asleep, drunk, and giggling.

“You're a mean, mean woman, Jessie.” Marci giggled some more.

Jessie crawled between the sheets and turned the bedside lamp off. Marci was snoring softly before Jessie could come up with a witty response.

She rolled away, hugged her pillow, and went to sleep.

Chapter Three

Jessie stretched and stared at the ceiling. No cracks. No cobwebs. No stained wallpaper. To her right she saw a drooling Marci, mouth open on the pillow in an unflattering gape, still sound asleep. No Jethro. She slid out of bed, got dressed, grabbed one of her sister's big fluffy pink towels from the bathroom, and sneaked out of the bedroom.

In the hallway she heard her mother making noise in the kitchen and ducked into the living room instead. She went out the front door and turned left on the gravel lane in front of the house.

The sun was about where it had been when she'd arrived the day before. She walked past the barn and waved at Larry as the kid drove past to leave.

Her dad came out the door at the side of the barn and waved. Jessie waved back and smiled.

“Don't stay up there long, Jessie. Your mom's making breakfast.”

“I won't, Dad.”

“And be careful.” He wore that exasperated dad look he used to wear when she and Kimmie would go up to the old quarry to swim. She decided no matter how old she got her father would still have that look in reserve somewhere.

Jessie dug in her jeans pocket and waved her cell phone in the air. “I'll call you if I drown.”

Her father didn't see the humor and went back inside the barn shaking his head.

She didn't know what it was about the farm. The country air? The smells? The colors? She'd hardly slept, but she felt great. Refreshed.

Or maybe it was the crowd at Red's?

And she'd had the most erotic dream. Something to do with warm skin and gentle hands. She recalled a supple mouth that kissed like a lover, not some faceless name in her little pink book. Wet lips and a tongue that teased her nipples. She still tingled all over.

The gravel lane turned to a rutted dirt road before it disappeared into a stand of oaks and mulberry trees. The sweet smell reminded her of summers tormenting Kimmie with tales of the one-eyed monster that lived in the woods.

She felt bad about her sister. She even felt bad about her mother. At times. She felt like the black sheep in an otherwise normal family. Sometimes she wanted to run the show back and fix the glitch. Jessie decided there was no point in feeling bad. If she made a list of everything she felt bad about, she'd have a book. And she didn't believe it would be a best seller.

The trees gave way to a sunny open spot, and Jessie stripped. She stepped to the rocky ledge and took a deep breath. Her youth rushed back, and she could hear Kimmie yelling from the water ten feet below.

“Betcha can't catch me,” followed by a giggle. There had always been giggles in Kimmie's life. Sometimes Jessie wanted in on the secret.

She toed the ledge and dived. The water in the old Butler quarry was ice cold and felt great. She came up in the middle of the watering hole and cleared her face. She hadn't felt this good in a long time. Years. She laughed and watched a raccoon wash something at the edge of the water. She rubbed the water out of her face, and when her hand came away red, she rubbed her nose and mouth a second time. She didn't find any blood. She smelled her palm and realized the red smear on her hand was lipstick. She treaded water and stared wide-eyed at her palm.

What the…

There was a loud splash at her back, and Jessie, still staring at her palm, swallowed some water. Marci came up laughing a few feet away.

“You sneaked out.” A smiling Marci gulped air and disappeared beneath the water's surface.

Jessie stared openmouthed at the top of the water where Marci disappeared. She rubbed her mouth again and pulled another red smudge from one corner.

Miss World-Class?

“This is great! Beautiful!” Marci was bobbing on the surface smiling at Jessie.

Jessie rolled onto her stomach and swam for the edge. She crawled out of the water and toed her way frantically up the bank to her towel. She ran it across her face and rubbed her mouth hard for good measure. She looked at the smudge on the towel, then looked at Marci still swimming around like some dolphin. She looked down at the towel in her hand and caught sight of her nipple. She rubbed the towel across her nipple, and it came away with another red smudge. Then a vivid snippet came back. Marci's smile in the moonlight that crept around the curtains just before their lips met.

I was drunk. On two beers I got shitfaced…

She knew better.

Marci was drunk. She did…

Another vivid moment lit up in Jessie's mind. Her own hand sliding down the front of Marci's body… A breast was caressed and another kiss stolen. She stared daggers at Marci as the woman came out of the water at the edge of the quarry. Miss World-Class arrived, huffing from the climb.

“I stopped and asked your dad where you'd…” Marci's words trailed off. She studied Jessie's face, then quickly covered herself with her hands as best she could. “You regret it. I knew you would. I should have known better than to let some straight girl—”

“What?”

Marci stepped around Jessie without answering and started picking up her clothes.

Jessie grabbed Marci's elbow and pulled her up short. “Let some straight girl what? I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

“You don't?” Marci added with a smirk, “Right. You sure did last night.”

Jessie was furious. Furious at her mother. Furious at Short Stuff for asking someone else to be her bridesmaid. Furious at Marci for being world-class and having some edgy challenge in her voice that Jessie couldn't answer. “That's what you say—”

Marci hooked her arm over Jessie's shoulder, trapping Jessie's head with her hand, and she pulled them together. She ground her mouth into Jessie's in some vaudevillian stage kiss of exaggerated bawdiness before shoving them apart.

“I bet you know what I'm talking about now, don't you, Psycho Woman?”

Jessie rubbed her forearm across her mouth and stared, flabbergasted. “What the hell was—”

“You liked it. Come on. Admit it, Jessie. You want another one just like it, don't you?”

Jessie stepped back, her towel slipped, and they stood facing each other almost as naked as the day they were born. “Are you crazy?”

“Like a psycho woman? What do you think, Jessie? Am I?”

She couldn't recall being faced with a situation she didn't know how to handle. How to control. How to manipulate to her advantage. The fact she didn't know how to handle this situation was even more confusing. Her mouth gaped, and she couldn't find a thing to say.

“Forget it, Jessie. Don't worry about it. No big deal.” Marci turned away and pulled her short white shorts on. “Yeah, I'm psycho. Psycho for thinking straight-girl love was more than just some scriptwriter's catchy turn of a phrase.”

Jessie was determined to win this pissing match.

“What? That's the best ya got? You don't even live on the same street as psycho. You don't—”

Marci was on her before she finished saying the words. She pulled Jessie into an impassioned embrace and kissed her unapologetically, full on the mouth. The vaudevillian act was gone. Marci's lips were warm and slippery, her tongue teasing and inviting. Her hands wandered Jessie's naked back until the towel fell away completely. Jessie was so shocked, so absolutely out of sorts, that she didn't react. At least that was how she would recall things later. It didn't matter that she pulled Marci against her body and trapped her with her own arms. It didn't matter that Jessie's tongue danced the same lubricious dance as Marci's. It didn't matter that all of Jessie's senses were focused on how different the experience was from the faceless names. Or how absolutely marvelous kissing Marci was.

With an unbidden sigh the kiss ended. Marci shoved away and sorted out her top to pull it on. Jessie blushed and looked away.

What the hell just happened? And who the hell is this woman that she thinks she can just…

Marci pulled her top down and stuffed her feet into her sandals. When she spoke Jessie didn't detect any challenge. The tough girl was gone. There was something more than a change of pace. There was a distinct change in tone.

“Is that psycho enough for you, Jessie?”

Defeat?

Jessie didn't let up. She couldn't. She pursued Marci the three steps she'd taken away and quipped, “Must not be. Didn't do a thing for me. Was it good for you, sweetie?”

Marci leaned closer, her voice an intimate whisper laced with renewed challenge. “Hell. You loved every second of it. I can smell it on you.”

Jessie was so mad she felt dizzy. “How the fuck—”

Marci didn't let her speak. “You can fool yourself, Jessie. But not me. Not someone who…” Marci leaned even closer, and their lips brushed. “That's right. You can't fool another lesbian. And right now there's nothing you want more than for me to kiss you again.”

Eyes defiant, Jessie stood her ground even as it crumbled beneath her feet.

“Yeah. I thought so.” Marci pulled away and sashayed off. Just as she disappeared into the stand of mulberry trees, she yelled over her shoulder, “You didn't flinch, did you, Psycho Woman? Not an inch. Just now. All I had to do was kiss you again.”

“But—”

“You could have had me. You could have known what real love is all about. Too bad. Your loss.”

Marci was gone.

Fuck! What the hell just happened?

The only thing Jessie knew for sure was that she'd done it again. Maybe not a boyfriend, but she had done…something she shouldn't have with her sister's friend.

What kind of a freak am I?

Shit! Shit! Shit!

* * *

Jessie dropped the kickstand on her Harley. She hadn't bothered going in the house. She wasn't up for the disapproving stares and whispered comments around the kitchen table. Her father had come out on the back stoop and yelled something as she'd roared off in a cloud of dust and gravel. Three miles from the house, page thirty-seven of her little pink notepad clouded her vision. Two miles later she shook it off.

After leaving in a cloud of dust she'd headed over to Little Rock. She'd spent a little time with a couple of musicians she hadn't seen in a long time, shot the shit, and had some lunch at Corky's. She'd blown the day tooling around county roads trying not to think too much and finally landed in Greenville. Then she'd headed north along the river until she came to Whitt's Roadhouse along the county line.

The old joint looked about as dilapidated as it always had. It had always looked bad. In daylight it looked even worse. The PABST BLUE RIBBON sign was lit in one of the windows, and she could see some guys walking around an old pool table that, if she remembered right, always played to the same corner pocket.

It was just that once. A lark. It was supposed to be a twofer. One guy enjoying two women. One at a time. A ménage à trois… By the time Jessie realized it had become a full-on lezfest and that some drunk guy was off in a corner of the bed jerking himself, there was no turning back.

Jessie shivered in shame at the recollection.

She pulled the door of the roadhouse open, stepped inside, and waited for her eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed. Whitt's wasn't a place she'd frequented much. No live music. And she hoped today no one would recognize her. She stepped up to the bar and ordered a longneck.

Not that I wanted it to end. Not that I really wanted it to stop.

Jessie blushed even as she pushed the thought from her mind.

I was drunk! Sure! And they're still faceless names in a little pink book.

She grabbed her beer and walked over to the pool table. She sized up the warm bodies and picked her mark. Army boots, camouflage pants with a torn pocket, a grease-stained T-shirt that was more dingy yellow than white, and a buzz cut.

Yep, you'll do just fine.

Three games and two beers later, she smiled when Roger finally dropped the eight ball in the corner pocket.

Took you long enough. Idiot.

“Ya gotta pay up, sweet thang. You said ya would.”

“Hold on there, cowboy. Sweet thang's gonna treatcha right. Let's just get us a couple of beers first.”

And she was going to. But she wanted another beer or maybe something stronger. She was entirely too sober to put a name in her little pink notepad. And she was still trying to shake page thirty-seven. Roger wasn't having any of it. He shoved her toward the door, and his eyes got wild and scary. She went all submissive and doe-eyed and let Roger pull her out to the parking lot.

The sun was gone, and she could hear crickets off in the woods behind the juke joint.

This one's for you, Miss World-Class. Just watch. I'll show you psycho.

* * *

Jessie pushed on the guy's chest and tried to slide away. She wanted to throw up. Roger clamped his big meat hook on her shoulder and didn't let her move.

“Listen, dude, I changed my mind. I don't want—”

“That was the bet. Now come on. I'm waitin'.” Roger's words came out in a slur, and she looked down at his wilted cock waiting for her to get started.

His groping hadn't started the panic. His big rough paws under her T-shirt weren't the hitch either. Jessie twisted and dodged his mouth. That was the problem. The first time he'd kissed her, she'd known. Something beyond the smell of beer and poor dental hygiene. The feel of his lips, the taste of his tongue. Just the way he kissed. All of it.

“Look.” She barked the word, trying to get Roger's attention. “I said no. You got to feel me up. Now let go of me and we'll call it even.”

Roger wrapped his big hand around her neck and tried to push her down. She slipped his hold and leaned into his ear.

“You want a little foreplay, cowboy?”

Roger grunted and tried to grab her by the neck again. Jessie balled her fist and hit the big lug as hard as she could right on the end of his wilted, unprotected cock. While he was yelling and guarding the family jewels, she slid for the passenger door and got out of the pickup. But not before the man tagged her in the left eye with the back of his hand.

“You asshole!” Jessie flipped him the bird and walked over to her Harley.

Three miles down the road, she pulled in behind an old abandoned gas station. She dropped the kickstand and dug for her smokes. Her fingers trembled, and she convinced herself that was all Roger's doing.

She tried to inspect her face in her bike's mirror, but there wasn't enough light. She finished her smoke and kicked her Harley back to life. An hour later she turned into the gravel lane at the house. The only light still on was the nightlight in the kitchen.

Jessie pushed the kitchen door open and listened. The house was quiet. She stopped at the sink and had a glass of water. Then she returned to the porch and had a smoke. Back in the kitchen she dug in the refrigerator and found some cold roast beef. She put that away and grabbed an apple out of the bowl on the kitchen counter instead. She dropped that into the bowl and returned to the back porch.

Fuck.

The screen door squeaked when she pushed it open again. In the backyard she found her spot between the oak beside the garage and the poplar behind the house and lay on her back in the grass. The sky was clear and the stars sparkled. A night sky for romance and lovers. The grass smelled cool and fresh. Inviting.

The skin around her eye throbbed, and she touched gingerly, exploring the damage. Jessie thought about what she was really doing. Looking at stars and exploring her wound had nothing to do with her mind and motive.

Nameless faces rushed back when she closed her eyes. All of them drunk, harsh, and demanding. All a blur. None were permanent. They all babbled and moaned, filling her head with an endless racket that was the white noise her life floated on. Over the cacophony of voices, one stood out in an intimate whisper.

“I'm sorry. I—”

“Shhhhh. It's okay, Jessie. I wanted you to—”

“I've never—”

“Don't talk. Here. Let me.”

Jessie's body came alive with the remembrance of their forbidden kiss. Yes. She remembered what happened last night. All too well.

All the faceless names were a blur, but not Marci.

A face she'd tried all day to put out of her mind.

She fixed a bright star in her gaze, breathed deep, and steeled her courage.

* * *

Jessie eased her bedroom door open and took a step. She backed into the hallway and toed her boots off. Her socks followed, and she tried again. She watched the lump in her bed breathe deep, and somewhere in her chest that can't be defined on an anatomy chart, a bird fluttered. At the end of the bed, she shimmied out of her jeans, slipped her T-shirt off, and dropped everything in a pile on the floor. She stared at the dark shadow on her bed and hesitated. With more uncertainty than resolve, she unhooked her bra and dropped it on the floor with the rest of her clothes. She crawled slowly onto the bed and stopped beside Marci. When she leaned close and was about to softly speak Marci's name, a voice off the side of the bed whispered.

“Are you okay?”

Jessie froze. The mouth she was about to kiss was somehow different. She pulled back with a jerk, and the sleeping form beside her sighed and rolled away. Blonde hair glimmered in the faint moonlight.

“I know you don't want to know this, but I was worried. Are you okay?”

Hell no, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay since…

She scooted away from Debbie and teetered on the edge of her bed. Marci was a dark shadow on the mattress on the floor. Jessie's plan and conjured courage were both shot to hell.

“I went to Little Rock,” she whispered back.

There was a pause, sheets rustled, and Marci mumbled, “If you say so. We need to talk in the morning, though.”

The only sound was Debbie's soft snoring.

Jessie hesitated, then slid carefully off the edge of the bed and crawled over to Marci. The bird in her chest turned into a flock that fluttered and started trying to take flight.

What the hell am I doing?

No one answered.

“Marci.” Jessie explored the top sheet until she found a warm lump. There was no response. She crawled closer. She continued to explore until her chin bumped a bare shoulder.

“Marci.”

“What do you want, Jessie?” Marci's voice was flat, indifferent.

Did I read this whole thing wrong?

Jessie followed the line to Marci's neck and stopped below her ear. She wanted to. She needed to. But she couldn't and she didn't. She didn't lean in and kiss Marci's warm jumping pulse.

“I'm sorry, Marci. Really. I don't know… I really didn't remember.”

“You may not have known but you did remember. When I kissed you. And when you did…” Flat and uninterested turned to hurt. Again.

Jessie almost backed away. This wasn't even close to how the moment had played out in her mind over and over again during her ride. In the arms of a Greek goddess…

What was I thinking?

“But it…I didn't know what to do, Marci.” Jessie nuzzled Marci's neck and inhaled the smell, the essence of Marci. She hadn't been able to get it out of her head all day.

Marci's turn was unexpected, and her shoulder caught Jessie on her bruised cheek.

“Damn.” Jessie rolled away and covered the side of her face.

“What is it, Jessie? You okay?”

“Sure. Sure. Sorry. I guess I shouldn't have—” Jessie sniffed back tears from the pain and pushed up from the floor. She teetered a second, scrounged in the dark on the floor for her T-shirt, and headed for the bathroom to see why her cheek hurt so much.

The bathroom door clicked shut. She turned on the light and stared bleary-eyed into the mirror. Roger had connected harder than she'd thought. Her eye was red and her cheek swollen. She leaned in and touched gently. A small cut and smear of dry blood were surrounded by a red welt just below her eye. Marci sneaked in, trying to keep the light trapped. Jessie pulled on her T-shirt in a rush and went back to inspecting her face.

“You shouldn't have what?” Marci's hand came to her mouth, and she whispered, “What happened? Where'd you go? Did you wreck or something?”

“No. No wreck. Well, not that kind of wreck.”

Marci stepped close and pulled Jessie's head between her palms inspecting her cheek. Not wanting to look Marci in the eye, Jessie stared at the edge of the door frame. The closeness made the flock in her chest restless, and Jessie felt uncomfortable.

No, this is not going as planned at all.

“Let me clean that.”

“That's okay. I'll wash it. It'll be fine.” Jessie pulled away, and Marci's hands followed.

“Hold still, dammit.”

Jessie's nose filled with the soft summer smell of Marci, and she tried to shy away a second time. Marci surrendered, turned away, and held a washcloth under the hot water. Then she trapped Jessie again. Jessie stood facing left, staring at the shower curtain for five minutes, while Marci cleaned her wound.

“Where did you go, Jessie?” Marci stopped washing and was rubbing antibacterial cream across her cheek.

“I took a ride.”

“Right.” Marci rolled her eyes and pressed a fold of gauze, applied some tape, and snapped the light off. Jessie waited, but Marci didn't leave. She could feel the heat off the woman's body and hear her own ragged breathing.

“What was that all about last night, Jessie? Did you just plan on making out with me and ignoring me in the morning? Do you do that to all the girls? Is that part of your game? Is that part of the psycho-woman mystique?”

Jessie grabbed Marci before she lost her courage. She trapped her against the wall beside the door, pinned one arm against the wall, and didn't let Marci move. Jessie smelled peppermint toothpaste and something else on Marci's breath.

Fear? Excitement? Desire?

“Who kissed whom?” Jessie whispered frantically.

Marci didn't answer. She didn't try to escape either.

Jessie pressed closer until their breasts crushed together, Marci's lips just a whisper away.

“Tell me. I have to know.”

“Get off, Jessie. You're hurting me.”

Jessie backed off and blushed with guilt for being so rough.

With a jerk and a thud, their roles were reversed, and Jessie was trapped against the wall. She squirmed, and Marci stopped her with a knee pressed between her thighs.

“How bad do you want to know, Psycho Woman?” Marci taunted.

“I—”

“You want to know this bad?” Marci pressed her lips against Jessie's and let them slide away in a tease.

“Wait…”

“Maybe this bad?” Marci's mouth crushed into Jessie's, and a kiss was stolen.

“Or maybe you want to know how much your body likes it?”

Jessie rocked her head back against the wall when Marci pinched her nipple through her T-shirt. Marci didn't kiss Jessie—she ravished her. When their lips parted, Jessie was gulping air. She didn't know if it was from passion inspired or fear repressed.

“Or maybe you don't want to know at all. Maybe you just want your I kissed a girl badge so—”

Jessie tried to stop what she was about to do. Most of Jessie's regrets in life were preceded by an attempt to stop. This time her effort was less than minimal.

She jerked her arm free and grabbed the front of Marci's ribbed tank top. She spun her into the bathroom counter and pressed her lips into Marci's mouth. She took what she'd craved all day. Then she took it again. And again. Each time with more fervor. Each time with more resolve.

“Jessie—”

Jessie kissed Marci again. She pressed with her tongue, and her toes tingled when Marci sucked in response. The touch of Marci's hand sliding up her back inside her T-shirt sent a shiver racing down Jessie's spine.

“Jessie.” Marci pulled away, and they both panted like caged wild animals.

“What?” Jessie kissed Marci's cheek and nodded into her forehead.

“Not here, Jessie. Not now. Someone might come—”

“I don't care. I can't help myself.”

Fingers trembling, Jessie found the edge of Marci's top and slid her hands inside. She cupped Marci's breasts, eliciting a sigh.

“You should.” Marci's warm finger touched Jessie's lips. “Look, Jessie. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I didn't understand last night. I don't want you to—”

“I won't.” Jessie tried to steal another kiss.

“You might.” Marci reached under her top and put her hands on top of Jessie's. She cupped Jessie's hands, then let go without removing them.

“I won't.” She would say anything to keep Marci in her arms. She'd never been blind with lust before. The experience was exhilarating.

Marci pulled them into an intimate embrace and whispered into Jessie's ear. “You might. You need to think about this, Jessie. I can't give my…”

Marci's words trailed off.

Their kiss was soft, and they lingered. Jessie brought her arms up and clung. She didn't want to let go. When they finally parted, Jessie pushed away and begrudgingly let Marci go back to the bedroom alone.

Jessie stared into the darkness, trying to catch her breath and calm the flock of birds in her chest.

I'm not a psycho woman. I'm a full-on sex-starved maniac… Shit!

Chapter Four

Jessie rolled over and looked off the side of the bed. Marci was gone. Relief? She could hear bathroom sounds, the shower running, Debbie talking. She looked around the room she didn't know but knew too well and pulled the sheet over her head.

What the hell have I done?

Her cheek throbbed, but not as much as her head. Her jaw hurt from grinding her teeth most of the night. Better my teeth than… A crimson flush rushed up her neck.

She jumped out of bed, pulled on her jeans, rifled her closet until she found her old beat-up straw cowboy hat, dug her steel-toed work boots out, and headed for the barn.

“Hey there, Jess.”

“Hey, Dad.”

“You just a tourist this morning or did you come to give the old man a hand?”

Jessie returned her father's smile and went off to find a rake. He hadn't said a thing about her disappearing act the day before. Not even the gauze on her cheek. She knew he wouldn't. Not yet. Forty-five minutes later she was sweaty and her mind had cleared. She even felt happy when she smiled.

“Let's go see if there's still some coffee in the office. You look like you could use some.” He took her rake and headed for the back of the barn. Her father's office was a tack room with his old wooden desk against one wall. A file cabinet, two old rickety oak chairs, and an eclectic collection of pictures comprised the corporate infrastructure of the Butler farm.

Jessie got a cup of java from the old Proctor Silex her father had rescued from the trash bin twenty years before, grabbed a chair, and kicked her feet up on a saddle stand by the door. She looked around the room, her mind dancing from memory to memory with each picture on the wall. Her father had a story to go with every picture. And a tall tale to go with every story. Her dad finally settled, smiled across the top of his coffee cup, and quipped, “I hope somebody looks worse than you do.”

She touched her cheek and scrunched down in her chair. When she didn't say anything, her father moved on, letting the topic go for the moment.

“So. How those big city guys treatin' ya, Jessie? You holdin' your own?”

“Good, Dad. Things are going good. I haven't gone a week without a gig in a long time. I hit New York and Chicago all the time. I've got a gig—”

“Those aren't the city guys I'm talking about, Jess.” Her father eyed her over his coffee.

“Oh. Well. You know. With all the show dates, rehearsals, promoting, traveling…” Jessie ran out of steam.

After he'd let her stew in the soup a minute, her father blew across his coffee and said, “Right.”

She knew what that meant. It meant he knew she was blowing smoke but wasn't going to pry. Not right that minute, anyway.

“I may do Chicago this Christmas. New Year's too.” She knew she was just filling space. So did her father.

Larry stuck his head in the door. “All loaded up, Mr. Butler. I'll catch ya tomorrow.”

“Okay, Larry.” She could almost feel his gaze when he turned back. “It ain't right, Jessie. And you know it. What I ain't been able to figure out is why?”

The small talk was over. Time for the big talk. But Jessie wasn't ready. Her father persisted.

“Look, Jess, I never have meddled. Not in your business or your sister's. You two girls have always had good heads on your shoulders… Well, mostly. And I always figured God put 'em there for a reason. But you can't just take off for a year and not even call home. That ain't right. And the way you treated your—”

“But the guy was a creep, Dad! He had no business messing with—”

“And you read him like a book, didn't you?”

“Kimmie was clueless!”

“Sure she was! But it was her business. She'd have figured it out. But did you have to fuck the guy?”

Just thinking about what she'd done was difficult enough. Her father saying it out loud in such a graphic fashion just made it worse. And Jessie was shocked. In her entire life she'd never heard her father use the F word. Much less in reference to one of his daughters.

“But that isn't what I'm talkin' about, Jessie. I'm talkin' about you storming out of here without even a by-your-leave and not calling to let us know you were okay. That's what I'm talking about. It ain't right.”

“But Mom said—”

“Your mom said a lot of things. And ever' one of 'em was true. But I bet you didn't hear the most important part, did you? You never do when it comes to your mother.”

Jessie had never seen her father so mad. Ever. Not at her and not at anyone else. His face was red, and his gaze had narrowed. He looked like he was ready to pounce. Or that if he didn't he'd explode. She wanted to cry. She wanted to be ten years old again and crawl into his arms and have him tell her it would all be okay. But she couldn't. And she couldn't believe she'd built a wall that would keep even him out.

She dropped her boots to the floor and cleared her throat. Her father finally took a deep breath and settled back in his chair. She patted her pockets looking for her cigarettes. When she didn't find them, she got up and walked over to the dirty window that looked out on the corral. She stared out at a herd of about thirty Holsteins grinding feed corn between their teeth, completely oblivious to the drama playing out a few feet away.

“I had to, Dad.” Jessie's eyes were wet, and her voice sounded like she felt. Small and insignificant. She heard the clump of her father's boots on the old wooden floor of his office. His touch on her shoulder was comforting, which only made her feel worse.

“No, you didn't. What you had to do was say you were sorry. And you couldn't do that, could you? You've never been any good at I'm sorry.” Her father let go and he started for the door.

“She called me a whore, Dad! My own mother!” She turned in time to see her father pick up his hat and set it on his head. She crossed her arms across her chest defiantly and waited.

“No she didn't, Jessie. She said you were acting like one. Your mother said, 'I love you, Jessie, but you're acting like a whore.'” Her father stood in the doorway to leave and turned back to add, “And she does and you were.”

When the door shut, Jessie kicked her father's beat-up old wastebasket against the wall and fell into his chair trembling.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

* * *

The breakfast table was full of chatter and lies. Her mother made the pancakes Jessie used to love so much. Thin, buttery, and crisp.

Marcie grabbed Jessie's elbow in the hallway and whispered, “Your father asked me if I knew where you were off to yesterday. You know, I'd just seen you at the quarry? I told him something vague about your agent. You do have an agent, don't you?”

When her sister quizzed her at the breakfast table about the gauze on her face, she conjured another lie. “Something fell off a truck, bounced off the pavement, and tagged me before I could duck.”

Her father looked up from his plate of eggs and grunted. The man who had taught her how to ride knew as well as she did that anything that tagged her at road speed would've taken her down.

There was a big discussion about a doctor. Another about Jessie being able to participate in the wedding. Or not. Going to the hospital for an X-ray. The list of ideas and possibilities seemed endless. She cursed Roger again, not willing to admit it was as much her fault as his.

She finally let her sister pry the gauze away and make a face. She even allowed her mother to lean in and have a look. None of it compared to the look of smug reprisal she got from the other side of the table where Marci was sitting.

“Just another reason to get rid of that thing. I don't know why you insist on keeping it, Jessica.” Her mother was clueless about most of her life. Why should my Harley be any different?

With her day with her agent, she'd missed out on the bridesmaids' fitting, and Marci volunteered to accompany her to Willard's and straighten everything out. Her father threw his pickup keys on the table and suggested her bike could use a rest.

“Maybe you can dodge better with four wheels under you.” He walked off before she could say anything.

Can I dodge Marci, Dad? Will the pickup stop…

“Don't forget. The party's tonight. Eight o'clock at the Madison. Don't be late, Jessie. I'll hate ya forever.” Short Stuff was bubbly and full of energy as usual. The crisis had passed.

“And maybe you should stop by Doc Brown's and get your cheek lo—”

“I'll be fine, Mom.” She pushed her mother's hand away and stormed off to take a shower.

* * *

Jessie couldn't recall being touched so much. It started in the bathroom after her shower. Marci came in smiling and ready to go while Jessie was brushing her hair out. The woman who had ravished her with kisses the night before leaned against the counter and ran her fingers through Jessie's wet hair, lifting, raking, and watching it drop. She didn't say a thing. Jessie tried to ignore her. A futile notion at best.

Then she made Jessie stop so she could inspect her cheek.

“Maybe your mom's right. Maybe we should—”

“I'm fine.”

“You don't have to get mad about it. At least let me put some cream on it.”

Jessie stood staring over Marci's shoulder and endured gentle loving touches while she was doctored by someone she hardly knew at all and felt she already knew too well.

The house was quiet, the kitchen empty when they left. From the back door she could see her mother's car was gone. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Marci's hand slipped into hers.

“Yeah. I knew you would.” Marci let go and walked ahead to the pickup.

“I would what?” Jessie ran to catch up, started the truck, and flipped the AC to high.

“That you'd regret it. Again. That's okay. I figured as much.”

“Look, Marci—”

“It's okay, Jess. Really. I guess being the girl who got you your I kissed a girl badge will have to do.” Marci smiled and flipped on the radio.

After two miles of LeAnn Rimes, Jessie asked the million-dollar question. “How do you know? How did you find out?”

“How I feel about you?”

“Me? No, not me. You don't even know me.” Jessie got a death grip on the steering wheel. “Women. I'm guessing I'm not the first woman you've…”

“Kissed?”

“Well, kissed…all of it. How do you know?”

“Kimmie says your father can croon a country tune that'll melt the moon. Why don't you sing country?”

“I…that's different. That's just—”

“Music? Sure. I bet you've got pigs that fly around here somewhere. Don't forget, Jessie. I've seen you perform. I saw exactly where your heart is at Red's two nights ago.”

“And what the hell does that have to do with, well, being a lesbian?”

“You think you're a lesbian just because you kissed a woman a few times?” Marci unsnapped her seat belt and scooted closer. “Or do you think you're a lesbian because you liked it?”

When Jessie looked right and the truck swerved, Marci said, “Keep your eyes on the road, Psycho Woman.”

Marci's hand fell on Jessie's knee, and her leg jerked. The same hand slid up the inside of Jessie's jeans until her fingers pressed against the soft folds of her crotch. Jessie looked down, the truck swerved again, an oncoming car honked, and she looked back up at the road in a panic.

Marci said in a husky whisper right into her ear, “What is a lesbian, anyway? Am I a lesbian because there's nothing I'd rather be doing right now than driving you crazy?”

Jessie pulled her legs together when Marci pushed and slid her fingers across the seam of her jeans.

“No fair. You asked.” Marci scolded and pulled on Jessie's knee until she opened her legs. “Maybe I'm a lesbian because I can feel how wet you are through the double-stitched seam of your Levi's and that pair of cotton-crotch granny knickers you put on a while ago. Or maybe I'm a lesbian because I like how wet you are.”

Jessie blushed and tried to watch the road. One part of her cursed when she scooted forward an inch or two on the seat. Someone she didn't know, another part of her, begged her to scoot forward some more.

“Maybe I'm a lesbian because if I thought you wouldn't wreck and kill us both, I'd have my hand down the front of your jeans where I could do some real damage.” Even through a pair of jeans, Marci had found her sweet spot and wasn't letting up. “That's right, Psycho Woman. I'd have my finger on your button so quick it would make your head spin.”

She's going to make me come. A woman is going to rub me off. Right here in front of God and everybody. In a fucking pickup!

Jessie could feel it happening and was in a panic. The sweet, slow rocking of her hips into Marci's fingers had started unbidden. The burning tingle at the top of her thighs wasn't far behind. A light sheen of sweat appeared on her forehead. Her toes curled up and spread when she pushed on the floorboard of the pickup to pull her thighs tight…

Through a haze of lust and desire, Jessie caught a glimpse of red and stood on the brakes. The pickup stopped less than a foot from the back bumper of a car behind a line of traffic waiting at the first stoplight into town.

Jessie was embarrassed, her body was shot full of adrenaline and lust, and her foot was shaking on the brake pedal. She stared wide-eyed at the guy in his rearview mirror. Then she stared wide-eyed at Marci. Then she realized Marci's hand was still trapped between her thighs.

“Will you get away from me? Get to your side of the seat,” she yelled. Marci jumped. Someone honked. The light had turned green, and Jessie was still standing on the brake. “You're dangerous. You know that?”

Marci looked duly chastised, but that didn't stop her from saying in the most casual way possible, “Only when I'm around you, Psycho Woman.”

“And will you stop calling me that?”

* * *

Jessie kicked her cowboy boots to the corner of the changing room and got out of her jeans. She could hear the debate in her head. Are my legs still trembling because I nearly wrecked the truck or because I let a woman touch me? And I liked it.

She heard Marci talking to a clerk on the other side of the door. She couldn't decide what was crazier—Marci putting her hand between her thighs or her letting Marci put her hand between her thighs.

When the levered door opened, she shied off to the corner.

“I'm using—”

“I know you are,” Marci whispered just before the door closed.

“Did you come to see if we could wreck the changing room too? Maybe we can burn the store down?”

“There's an idea.” Marci started pulling Jessie's T-shirt over her head.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You can't try that dress on without getting undressed, can you?”

“Be quiet!”

“I sent her to find something else. It will take her at least five minutes.” Marci kissed Jessie's neck while her hands fumbled with the hook on Jessie's bra.

Jessie could recall being chased many times before in her life. Up stairs. Into bedrooms. Across beds. Around the insides of showers. They were always chasing her. But this was different. This smelled different, acted different, looked different, but most of all, felt different. Not just the noncallous hands and plump, soft lips. This felt different in a place Jessie didn't want to think about.

She shied away from looking down when Marci sucked her nipple into her mouth. Jessie slumped with a thud against the wall of the confining cubicle and closed her eyes.

She had slept less last night than the night before. She'd lain on the edge of her bed staring down into the dark hole where Marci slept. She'd tussled with enough what-ifs to shut her mind down. Then her heart had weighed in, and she'd decided the what-ifs were easier.

Jessie chanced a glance in the dressing room mirror and cringed. Marci was on her knees, trapping Jessie in an awkward half crouch against the wall. The woman's hair was dark and wavy, beautiful against Jessie's white, freckled skin. She caught sight of her own hair, limp and listless, and pushed gently on Marci's head. When she saw the ugly bruise on her swollen cheek, she became persistent.

“Marci.” Jessie pushed with her hands and made Marci stop. “Marci!”

“What?” Marci kissed up Jessie's neck and pouted when a kiss on the lips was refused.

“I better try this dress on before someone comes in to check on us.” The words came out in a whispered mumble as Jessie pushed off the wall and tried to shoo Marci out.

“What? You didn't like the way I—”

Jessie turned away and mumbled again. “I liked it just fine. That's the problem.”

Yes, that is the problem, isn't it? You're a woman. I'm a woman. If I let you…

“That's it? You just liked it?”

Jessie shoved Marci out the door and pulled until it latched. Then she slid the lock across for good measure.

Marci is vibrant and beautiful. And a woman.

Jessie saw herself as plain and uninteresting. No man had ever told her otherwise. They just wanted to sleep with the songbird. The reflection in the mirror brought that image into sharp relief.

I'm just me. And she's still a woman.

Jessie thought the dress hung on her frame like a rag. She stared at her image and tried to see herself as others did. She blushed when she realized she wasn't trying to look through other people's eyes. She was trying to look through Marci's. She wanted to know what another woman thought. Not just for a second opinion. Jessie wanted Marci to like her.

To want me. Another woman. I want her to look at me and think, “Wow, hot.”

“Argggg!”

“You say something, Jess?”

“No. No.” Jessie opened the changing room door and gave in to subjecting herself to scrutiny from someone she wanted to think she was hot.

Right, like that's gonna happen.

She endured the seamstress pulling and pinning, every minute filled with hums of apparent disapproval. Little clicks and ticks timed with smoothing and bunching. Struggling to get it right with this crappy body of mine.

Marci sat off in a corner watching, a rather evil smirk tattooed on her face.

“That'll do you, dear. Just give the dress to me on your way out.” The woman picked up her pincushion and left them alone.

“Here. I want you to try this on.”

“Let's just get out of here.” Jessie had enough humiliation for one day. She just wanted to cut and run.

Marci looked around and pushed off her chair. She stepped into Jessie's space and put her hand on Jessie's arm. The movie of Marci's lips, flush with excitement, pulling on her nipple played in Jessie's head. She shifted uncomfortably, but Marci wouldn't let her retreat.

“I want to ask you something, Jessie. Something personal.”

More personal than fingering me until my underwear is soaking wet? That kind of personal? Jessie felt like some teenager about to be grilled by Mom. The feeling wasn't pleasant.

“I like the way you look. Well, maybe like isn't the right word. You fill out a pair of jeans like nobody I know. I get wet just watching you walk across a room.”

Jessie blushed furiously and felt a little light-headed. The abstract of disconnected acts, stolen kisses, and forbidden caresses had been defined by an outcome.

I make another woman wet.

“And you can wear jeans and cowboy boots the rest of your life if you want, and I'll still stop whatever I'm doing every time I see you just so I can watch you walk by. But I want to know if you don't like dresses or if there's some other reason your duffel bag was full of jeans and T-shirts when you got here. Well, and granny panties.” Marci smiled and chuckled and waited for an answer. Then she added, “I saw the clothes your mother left stacked on the bed after she washed them.”

Between her father and Marci, Jessie felt she didn't stand a chance. She didn't know where this game of truth or consequences was going, but Marci's soulful brown eyes weren't about to let her duck the question.

“You're beautiful, Marci—”

“I'm attractive and I know it. I know that I turn more than a few heads. Men and women. And I'm flattered that you find me attractive too because, frankly, you're the only one that matters. But I'm not the one hiding out in a pair of old Levi's all the time.”

“And you're not the one with a kazillion freckles all over her body.”

“That's it? That's the big secret?”

“Look at your hair.” Jessie laughed nervously. “Hell, look at your body. You're some kind of Greek goddess, and I'm just some stringy-haired skinny kid from the Midwest.”

Marci shoved the hanger into her hand and tried to push her toward the changing room. Jessie didn't budge. Marci stepped close and pressed her body into Jessie's. Jessie couldn't stop herself from leaning into the warm softness of Marci, teetering on the woman's next words.

“I'll be gone soon. The wedding is Saturday. I have to go back Sunday. I want you to know that if you don't want to do this, that's okay, but I would really appreciate it if you would.”

Do what? Steal another kiss? Shove you to the floor and… Jessie tried to breathe.

I can't! Can't you see that? I'm a woman. You're a woman. I'm a psycho bitch who gets chased around. Never chased after.

“Listen, Jessie. I'm a lesbian. I like women. And I like everything about women. The way they feel. The way they smell.” Marci followed the line of Jessie's face until her mouth was right over Jessie's ear and whispered, “The way their nipples swell with excitement. The way their cunts get sopping wet. The way they taste.”

Marci paused. Jessie tried to swallow.

“And knocking around in jeans is okay, but I also like my women dressed in dresses. I like to see miles of bare legs and think about what might be waiting for me.”

Jessie couldn't breathe. She thought she'd pass out.

Marci's lips brushed Jessie's ear, and her verbal seduction continued. “I like to think about touching those legs. Running my fingers up the inside—”

Jessie bolted for the dressing room.

You're going to hurt me. I know you will. Just like the rest of them.

She slammed the door shut behind her.

And I'm going to let you.

* * *

Jessie pulled on the hem of her dress for the third time since they'd been seated at the elegant table. She tried not to look down at her legs sticking out below her very short summer frock. The only things she saw when she did were white skin and freckles. She grabbed the linen napkin off her plate and draped it over her legs so she couldn't see them. She shifted on her chair, trying to get comfortable in the white thong that had replaced her sensible cotton underwear.

She almost had to sit on her hands to keep from pulling on the halter of the white cotton dress Marci had picked out. Between Marci's lips and several sly caresses in the truck as they'd driven from the beauty parlor to the restaurant, her body was in a permanent state of arousal.

What the hell have I let her do to me?

“I'm starved.” Marci was all smiles with a few furtive glances thrown in at odd moments.

Jessie stared over Marci's shoulder into the mirrored wall of Pierre's, the restaurant they'd chosen for a late lunch. The parlor visit was on the schedule for all the bridesmaids. The pedicure, wax, trim, and highlights weren't. The bikini wax had been a whole new experience. And not a delightful one. After being made up and made over, she didn't recognize the woman who stared back. The bruise was still there but much less noticeable. Her hair fell with a pale strawberry hue in a feathered tier that brushed past her shoulders. Shiny lip gloss made her mouth look wet.

Aroused. Kissable.

No, Jessie amended. Fuckable. Even her legs felt different. Every long stride was a salacious caress as silky soft skin brushed together.

Would I? Could I?

Their waiter arrived and smiled while he handed out menus. A wine list was left on the table, and he disappeared. Somewhere someone was playing jazz on a piano. The lunch crowd had come and gone. Jessie and Marci had a corner of the restaurant pretty much to themselves. She stole a glance at Marci.

Will I find Marci on the menu too?

They sat in silence looking at the day's selection, and Jessie caught herself giving as many furtive glances as she received.

Pussy à la mode?

Jessie perused the lines of Marci's face and looked away when she got caught. The woman's eyes were big pools of brown so dark that at odd moments they looked black. They seemed to ripple each time the woman smiled or laughed. The nose that Marci had made fun of when dishing was strong and prominent with a slight ridge, and Jessie couldn't imagine Marci's face with any other.

Mediterranean to match the dusky hue of her skin.

Jessie shifted on her chair and willed her thoughts to wander someplace else. They refused.

A birthmark shaped like an apple on the inside of her thigh… Strudel for dessert?

She thought Marci's hair was a fascination in and of itself. Thick and luxuriant. A cascade of waves that invited Jessie's hand to reach in and take a swim. Mahogany auburn that had a deep oxblood glow in the sunlight and draped around Marci's shoulders like a cape reaching to the middle of her back.

Yes. A swim. A long wet swim.

Peering over the top of her menu, trying not to get caught, Jessie followed the line of Marci's bare arm. Long delicate fingers, sculpted hands, and a buffed manicure of transparent nail polish on short sensible fingernails.

She's a musician.

In spite of knowing that, for the first time Jessie contemplated the idea.

How do you define world-class?

Jessie went back to her menu and let the lines of the rest of Marci's body dance across the selection of soups and entreés. Her glimpse of a naked Marci standing in the middle of her bedroom like some Greek statue floated above the salads. A laughing, smiling Marci coming out of the edge of the old quarry like Venus rising shimmered over dessert. Soft and voluptuous. Glistening and wet…

Edible…and not a hair on her…

Jessie shifted and cleared her throat. She squeezed her thighs together, then crossed her legs.

Marci looked over the top of her menu and smiled.

Jessie blushed for the umpteenth time.

The waiter arrived, and Marci ordered soup and a parmesan salad. Jessie felt like a pig when she ordered a filet, steamed vegetables, and a baked potato. Then Marci ordered house wine for both of them. In response to Jessie's look of disappointment, Marci leaned across the table and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “See that busboy over there? The one with the really nice ass?”

The question was so far from Jessie's mindset she choked on a swallow of ice water. “What?”

“He looks about twenty. Probably a college kid home for the summer making a few extra bucks.”

Jessie took a look and wondered what the tight ass on the busboy had to do with Greek statues and Venus rising.

“It's still early. You're looking really hot. How about we get a room at the Madison before everyone shows up and we invite him up? Just the three of us.” Marci stared across the table expressionless, daring Jessie to answer. When Jessie didn't respond, Marci added, “We could make his day.”

What? Is that it? You're just kinky? You spruced up the psycho woman and put her in a dress so you could pick up some guy neither one of us knows? And here I thought… I've got enough faceless names in my little pink book already, thank you very much.

Jessie realized she was actually disappointed, and her mind locked up. Not at the invite to get a room but that the busboy was included. She was speechless.

“We could—” Marci was smiling salaciously.

“What the hell have you been doing all day? I thought you wanted to”—Jessie leaned across the table and whispered—“get into my panties. Not get some stud—”

“There's a thought.” Marci added a husky chuckle.

“I can't believe this! And I was actually entertaining thoughts of letting you. Of letting you get in my panties.” Jessie grabbed her linen napkin, threw it on her plate, and started to push away from the table.”

Marci grabbed her hand and pulled her back to the table.

“I wanted to explain something. Please, Jessie, sit back down.”

Jessie glanced at the busboy and plopped back into her chair.

“You looked like you wanted something else to drink. Maybe something stronger.” Marci leaned closer and didn't let go of Jessie's hand. “I know what you've been thinking. I know because I've been courting you all day.”

“You call that courting?” Jessie laughed sarcastically.

“Okay. I've been pursuing you all day. Since you got here, actually. And I wanted to give you an out. I wanted to make it easy for you to say no. But I also didn't want you drinking something else…something stronger. I don't want you pumped up with false courage if we… I don't want you waking up tomorrow with more regrets than you might have if we…”

The waiter arrived and set their wine out along with a basket of hot dinner rolls. Jessie's eyes never left Marci's when she spoke. “Could you bring the check, please? We have to leave.”

“But your meals—”

“Sorry. It's an emergency.”

The waiter left.

Still holding Marci's hand on top of the table, Jessie picked up her wineglass and tilted it in Marci's direction. Marci picked up her own glass, tapped the rim of Jessie's, and waited.

“Here's to a room at the Madison.”

Marci parroted the words but didn't sound as enthusiastic as Jessie expected. She tapped Marci's glass a second time.

“And here's to letting the busboy find his own panties to get into.”

Marci smiled and sipped her wine.

Jessie drained her glass as if it contained grape juice.

* * *

Jessie stood in the dark behind a vending machine rifling the white leather purse Marci had added to her ensemble. When she found her Marlboros, she flipped the top open and tried to dig one out. Her fingers shook so badly she had to tear the front of the box away to trap one and get the cigarette free. After she got it lit, she crossed her arms across her chest and scoffed at the NO SMOKING sign glaring down at her.

They'd left her father's pickup with the valet at Pierre's and walked a block in sweltering Memphis heat to the Madison. She'd retreated to the basement parking lot while Marci went for a room. Jessie's heart was racing, and she didn't know if her hands trembled from fear or anticipation.

Another faceless name?

She blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

But this one has a face, doesn't it? Idiot.

Jessie blew another ring and watched it drift up lazily.

But tomorrow I can still get up, get dressed, grab my things…and there she'll be. Sleeping on my bedroom floor. Shit! Shit! Shit!

She puffed again.

Or in my bed.

She stepped out of the small room and ground her cigarette out on the concrete. A couple walked by, and the woman scowled at the lawbreaking smoker. Jessie watched the man's eyes sweep up her bare legs and linger at the front of her dress. She flipped the man the bird when the wife wasn't looking, and he turned away.

You don't know me that well, asshole.

Every time she heard a car, she scurried back to her corner until she got a look at who was inside. She knew Bob over at Mercer's would have a ball with something like this. Midway through her third smoke, she started looking for street exits.

How rude would it be?

She took a drag and watched the smoke billow in the confined space of the vending-machine room.

It's just Marci.

Jessie paced around the soft-drink machine and scurried back to her corner when another car drove by.

Just some friend of my kid sister.

Ice fell in the ice machine, and Jessie jumped like a scared rabbit.

Someone I hardly know.

Jessie looked in her nearly empty purse for nothing. Just to have something to do.

Just like all the rest.

She finished her smoke and snuffed it out with a vengeance on the concrete floor of the garage.

She's just some fucking Greek goddess.

She pushed the glass door open and looked around for anyone who might be watching. She suddenly felt conspicuous.

The kind of woman every other woman loves to hate for her exotic good looks and natural grace.

Purse strap snug in the crook of her arm, Jessie took a step in the direction of bright light pouring down an exit ramp from Baxter Street.

Just some perverse Venus rising from the Butler farm quarry to lure innocent young girls…

“There you are. I couldn't find you.”

Who the hell am I kidding?

“I needed a smoke.”

Eyes bright, a warm inviting smile in place, and a room key dangling from her fingers, Marci was standing a few feet away. She dropped the key in her purse and reached her hand out to Jessie.

A hot, humid Memphis breeze swept through the parking garage. A car door slammed, and somewhere a man laughed. The bell on the exit arm dinged, and Jessie raised her hand. Poised inches from Marci's fingers, she whispered, “I'm scared.”

Marci slid her hand into Jessie's and pulled her close. With no preamble she put her hand up Jessie's dress. Before Jessie could move she felt a finger slide over the soaking crotch of her white thong, press the cloth to the side, and go in.

“I'm not.”

A flock of birds somewhere fluttered restlessly, spread their wings, and reached for the sky. Jessie knew exactly where the flock of birds was. More importantly, she knew where they were going.

Chapter Five

Hand in hand they entered the elevator, and when it stopped at the ground floor and an elderly couple got in, Jessie almost let go of Marci's hand. Her fingers straightened and her arm jerked, but then she grabbed hold and pulled Marci to the back of the elevator with her. When the couple stepped off on the third floor, Marci turned and whispered.

“Jessie, it's okay if we… We can just…”

There were no more ifs. No more skittering heart or trembling knees. No Bob at Mercer's, no faceless names who whispered and taunted. Jessie pushed Marci into the wall of the elevator and kissed the woman with all the unrequited doubt and pent-up passion that had been driving her crazy all day.

Marci's lips were warm, wet, and supple. Her mouth was sensuality in motion when she kissed back.

When the elevator stopped on the seventh floor and the doors dinged open, Jessie grabbed the front of Marci's dress and dragged her to the open doors. She leaned out and looked left, then right. When she found the hallway empty, she pulled Marci out and shoved her up against the wall beside the elevator.

“Which room?” Jessie was panting. Two seconds was too long to wait for an answer. The elevator left, and she raised Marci's arms above her head against the wall and kissed her again. A thought boiled to the top of her brain.

Is it Marci or is it the taboo that makes the woman in my arms so hot?

“Seven-oh-three.” Marci managed to speak between pants before Jessie found her mouth again. When the elevator doors dinged open a second time, Jessie pulled Marci's arm down and grabbed her hand. She ran, reading numbers as she went.

“Here! Here!” Marci pulled free and stopped to fumble with the key. Jessie looked over Marci's shoulder at a man in a suit, walking toward them. She grabbed the key from Marci and dropped her purse. They tumbled through the doorway, and Jessie found another wall to pin the object of her lust to.

“The door! Get the door!” Marci was frantic.

Jessie ran, bent for her purse, and caught the suited man staring past her into the room.

“Fuck off. I got mine. Go find your own.”

The guy picked up his feet and walked away quickly.

Jessie slammed the door and turned. Marci stood at the foot of a four-poster bed, waiting. Jessie steadied herself against the wall of the short entry hall and took an unsteady step toward the fascination she hadn't been able to get out of her head since their first kiss.

“I have to tell you something, Jessie.”

Jessie kicked her sandals off and in five more steps was standing face-to-face with Marci. Her desire was so strong she could feel their bodies pull toward each other like magnets. The last thing she wanted was words. “What? What do you have to tell me?”

“I…well…”

Wide-eyed, Jessie watched Marci reach out and slip a quarter-sized white button on the white summer smock she'd put on at Marci's insistence. With the third button undone her dress gaped, her halter chafed against her nipples, and Jessie was trembling. Marci knelt at her feet, and Jessie sighed. One of Marci's hands slid up the outside of Jessie's thigh and came to rest beneath Jessie's dress, inches from the waistband of her thong.

“Later.” Marci looked up and said again, “I'll tell you later.”

Marci continued slipping buttons, and with each one Jessie's heart pounded harder. When Jessie's dress fell open obscenely, she felt lost in a dizzy soup. With slow movements, her gaze never wavering from the top of Marci's head, Jessie shrugged out of her dress and let it fall on the plush tan carpet at her heels.

She stopped breathing. Her heart pounded in her chest. She waited and watched. In her mind she urged.

Marci ran her hand across the smooth, silky skin of Jessie's thigh, sending a shiver up her spine. First one finger on one side of Jessie's thong tugged daintily. Then three fingers on the other side. Marci looked up, and Jessie saw no smiling ripples in the deep black eyes that looked back. Only burning bottomless pits that threatened to consume her. Another tug. A pull. A slide, and Jessie felt the sopping crotch of her thong peel away like the slow, seductive riff of Stevie Ray Vaughan setting up his next song.

Jessie's knee jerked when Marci's hands slid past, pulling her thong all the way to her feet.

No turning back now. The deed is done.

Marci's palm moved up the outside of Jessie's leg, then detoured to her ass. Jessie licked her dry lips and drew a ragged breath.

This was not a stolen kiss and a bed shared out of hospitality. Neither was it awkward groping and more kissing in the sanctuary of a dark bathroom or changing room. Less an alcohol-laced game of give-and-take with a faceless name.

Marci's tongue nestled between the fat swell of the lips of Jessie's pussy and pushed a squeak up Jessie's gullet. The long wet draw of Marci's tongue up her manicured pubic hair brought her legs alive with a million goose bumps.

So soft. So tender. So absolutely nasty.

When Marci's tongue returned, it lingered and explored with abandon. Jessie's nipples were so hard they hurt from the pleasure. Marci nuzzled with her nose, and Jessie brought her hand to the top of Marci's head and sidestepped, opening herself slightly.

Tongue followed nose. Murmur followed sigh. Lust ran around Jessie's head chasing doubts with a big mean club.

Jessie moaned. She raked her fingers through Marci's hair until she found scalp.

Licking turned to sucking, and then, without warning, Marci's mouth was gone. When Marci kissed Jessie's belly button, Jessie dropped her hand to Marci's neck and played beneath the luxuriant curls that cascaded down her back.

Marci stopped and suckled each of Jessie's nipples, and Jessie felt as if her insides had melted. She grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled Marci to her mouth. Marci's wet, slippery lips drove Jessie further into the dungeon of desire. She pushed and shoved until Marci sat on the footboard of the bed before tumbling away.

Jessie climbed into Marci's waiting arms, and her heart sighed with relief.

No map was needed. No instructions requested or given.

Jessie slid her hand across the silky, soft skin of Marci's inner thigh until her fingers found a touch of lace. They kissed while Jessie dared to slide her finger beneath the lacy crotch of Marci's panties and ponder the wet, soft folds.

A minute felt like an eternity to Jessie while she fumbled with Marci's dress. The tawny cotton print was banished to the floor, and Jessie passed on appreciating the black transparent bra and lacy thong that remained. Instead she pulled and tugged until a breast was free. She licked and suckled, kissed and caressed. Her hand played inside Marci's panties until the woman in her arms was panting and her back pulled into an arch as tight as a bow.

The lovers' struggle and tussle for dominance settled in a flurry of pillows, sheets, and a plush bedspread with Marci on top. She crawled down Jessie's body and knelt between her legs. Jessie closed her eyes, sucked air through her clenched teeth, and pulled on Marci's hair while she ground her hips. Marci was driving her crazy with her tongue. She would stop and suck, then move her tongue back and forth in some frenzied dance that seemed to be connected directly to the pleasure center in Jessie's brain.

She sucked air again, shoved her tongue against the roof of her mouth to trap her hard-won breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and ground against Marci's mouth. Her stomach rose, her thighs tried to close around Marci's head, and she shattered into a convulsing, drooling ninny who couldn't tie her own shoelace to save her life. She pushed on Marci's head to turn off the bolt of lightning that was burning her brain. She scooted on the sheets and yelled, “No no no!”

Marci was relentless and cruel.

Jessie fell back on the bed exhausted and did something she'd never done before in her entire life after a romp between the sheets. She sobbed. Her sobbing turned into an uncontrollable cry, and she hid behind her hands. It was impossible for Jessie to look the only person, other than herself, who had ever made her really feel like a woman inside and out, in the eye.

When Marci pulled Jessie into her arms to comfort her, Jessie only cried harder.

* * *

Jessie shoved the sheet down and stretched. This time she found blue and gold sparkles in the ceiling. When she looked to her left, there was a naked Greek goddess beside her, facedown, drooling on a pillow. She traced the indentation on one side of Marci's spine and smiled when a sleepy hand groped, trying to chase her away. She traced the other side and was treated to a swat.

“You're mean,” came out muffled and drowsy.

Jessie kissed Marci's shoulder and petted her bedmate's bare bottom. “Not as mean as some people I know.”

What the hell am I doing?

Jessie jerked her hand back. The full weight of consequence came crashing down like a poorly built shack around her head. Doubt pushed the question out of her mouth. “Why did we do this? I mean, why me? Did you look at me and say to yourself 'she's…'”

“A dyke?”

Jessie cringed. “No, I was going to say a psycho woman.”

“There's that too,” Marci teased.

That one hurt, and Jessie didn't say anything. Marci pushed up, kissed her on her bruised cheek, and whispered, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Why you? That's kind of like the music question about country and blues. Everyone makes choices. If they're lucky they get to make those choices based on likes. Maybe even their heart. You're one of those choices for me.”

“But you don't even know me. How could you—”

“I've known your music for a year. Your voice. Some would say your soul. Kimmie plays your music all the time around her apartment. I've heard every Jessie story there is to tell. You're her hero. That was enough to get me interested. And I was just as disappointed as your sister when you didn't answer her wedding invitation.”

Marci caressed Jessie's breast. Not salaciously. There was a warm, loving tenderness in the gesture that made Jessie pull Marci into her arms and cling in spite of the voice in her head. Their legs tangled and they kissed.

“Yeah. Don't remind me.”

“Why didn't you? Confirm?”

“Let's not go there right now.” Jessie withdrew a little. “So if I'm easy, are you the lesbian?”

“That's one word for it I guess. Lesbian. Dyke. None of them do justice to what…” Marci's words trailed off.

“And men? Any of those in your past?” The idea was one that had never entered Jessie's mind before when contemplating Marci. Suddenly the thought of sharing didn't seem right.

“I don't dislike them. I guess you could say I don't know them.”

Jessie considered the answer a minute.

“You mean you've never been with a man? In your entire life you've never—”

“Had you ever been with a woman before this afternoon?”

“But that's different.” Jessie avoided mentioning page thirty-seven. But that was different too. That was one of them.

“Why? Because my body's made for a man's enjoyment? Protrusion A into slot B? Is love really just a protrusion and a slot?”

“The natural order—”

“And what I did to you earlier…as a woman. That didn't work for you? You didn't enjoy that?”

“I—” Jessie couldn't say the words out loud. That would make it real.

Marci kissed Jessie's lips closed and added, “You didn't feel like you'd been loved? Because that's what I was doing. I wasn't fucking you. I wasn't having a lesbian moment. I wasn't even dyking out. I was loving you. That's what I wanted you to feel. Loved. What were you doing?”

I don't know? Trying not to melt and slide off the edge of the bed?

Jessie didn't trust herself to answer.

“Was I just another name for your little pink notepad?”

“What? What the hell are you doing going through my stuff?” Marci's disclosure incensed Jessie.

“I found it on the floor this morning beside your purse while you were in the shower. I didn't look much. But I looked enough.”

Jessie pulled away. She felt betrayed.

“I'm sorry, Jessie. Really. I didn't even know if it was yours or Debbie's. When I looked through it to see whose it was… Well, I didn't have to read too much to understand what it was.”

“Oh yeah? And what is my little pink book?”

Marci scooted across the bed and took Jessie back into her arms. When Jessie tried to shrug away, Marci wrapped her legs around Jessie and hugged into her back. She whispered in her ear, “I think that little pink book is about someone angry. Angry about a lot of things.”

Jessie swallowed her feelings and nearly choked.

“Maybe it's someone hiding from something. I don't know. And I don't care. The one thing I do know is that little pink book has nothing to do with the Jessie I know. The one with the beautiful smile. The one who rants around when she gets scared. The one who can make the moon weep with just her guitar and her voice.”

Jessie trembled. Marci pulled her back down on the bed and said, “Let it out, Jess. You're safe here.”

Curled in the soft warm embrace of Marci's arms, Jessie did just that. She let go.

* * *

Marci was staring right into Jessie's eyes when she woke up the second time. Jessie didn't close her eyes this time when Marci leaned in to kiss her.

“You've seen my little pink book. What about you? Got a pink book hidden away somewhere? One full of girl names?”

“There's a story. Not a very interesting one, I'm afraid.”

“I want to know.”

“Well, there was this girl in the ninth grade. Stephie, Stacy, I don't remember. She kissed me once at a party. One of those crazy truth-or-dare things. I always took the dares. Anyway, we kissed. The poor girl never knew I ran around with a wet crotch the rest of the school year crushing on her. C'est la vie.”

Marci didn't go on.

“Come on. There has to be more. That can't be it.”

Marci rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her fingers played across her own stomach, and she reached for Jessie. They kissed, then she pushed Jessie's head to her shoulder and told her story.

“There were a few sessions of nervous fumbling in high school. Not many. The other girls took it more as a dare. Maybe a rite of passage. They never guessed that they broke my heart every time. I didn't let them know.

“Then there was Juilliard. You know. We were all big girls then. I even had a girlfriend my first year. But I think it was more of the same. Kind of some perverse badge of honor she wore around the school to get guys to notice.”

In the few days Jessie had known Marci, the woman had always seemed so sure of herself. So poised. But when Marci paused, Jessie noticed a nervous roaming of her eyes across the ceiling. It was clear she was searching for words that were hard to find. Jessie ran her fingers across Marci's neck, enjoying the warm touch of her skin. When she realized what she was doing, she almost withdrew her hand.

“So, well, then my second year someone found me. An older woman. Well, she was thirty-six. Italian. One of my professors. When I think about it I try to figure out if it was just sex for her or if she really did love me.” Marci turned away. When she looked back at the ceiling, her eyes were glistening. Jessie lowered her hand and took Marci's. She squeezed Marci's fingers and waited.

“Anyway. I've never figured that out. That lasted for two years. She taught me more than what an adagio is or how to pull my bow.” Marci turned to look at Jessie, and when she did, a tear pooled and ran down the side of her nose. “She taught me about love. Doesn't matter what kind. Gay love. Straight love. Tough love. It all really is about love. And devotion.”

Marci turned back to the ceiling. Jessie ran her fingers across a soft sheen of sweat on Marci's skin. She wanted to do something to make the telling easier but was afraid she would get it wrong. Instead she did nothing and waited. After a minute Marci pulled an edge of sheet up, wiped her eye, and laughed nervously.

“There's not much else to tell about that one. Somehow the dean found out, and there was a faculty review… It was a mess. I did learn something, though. I learned that I do love women. That the feeling that had always been lurking was real. I learned that sex isn't love. And I learned that love is about the heart, about how you feel no matter how crazy that feeling may seem. That you can't intellectualize a sentiment.”

“So there's never been a man.”

“No.” Marci laughed anxiously. Then she added, “But my father's been trying to marry me off ever since my mother died. He wants an heir for the empire. Even if the name doesn't continue, he wants the blood to.”

Marci fell silent. The room had grown dark, and Marci had faded into a warm shadow that Jessie embraced lovingly between the sheets.

* * *

A blues riff rang out and woke Jessie. She stretched to turn a bedside lamp on. She searched the disaster site for her purse. She hung over the edge of the bed and pulled her handbag into her lap. Her phone rang again, and she looked up from her gaping purse trying to locate the sound.

With a start Jessie jumped and ran for the door. She stopped and scooted back to the bathroom to grab a towel. Still pulling the towel around her body, she jerked the door open to find a speechless Kimmie, hand poised to knock, staring back.

“Fuck,” Jessie muttered. Her phone rang again, and she grabbed it from the hallway floor in the doorway. She snapped her phone open and studied her kid sister's face while Bernie yelled in rapid-fire short phrases.

“You didn't call so I'm calling you.” Bernie sounded put out.

Kimmie's gaze wandered Jessie's half-naked body, and she heard someone yell from down the hallway, “Did you find Marci?”

“Look, I've got this all set up. We need to talk dates. They're even offering above studio rates and room and boar—”

“Hang on, Bernie.”

“What happened to your hair?” Kimmie's hand came up but dropped just as quickly. The cheer squad showed up in a small cloud of cackles.

Jessie had absolutely no words. She was not only speechless; she was dumbfounded. How the hell… She heard a tiny voice from her telephone yelling for her to come back. Her towel dropped, she ducked to grab it, and Kimmie pushed through the doorway.

“Kimmie! Wait! What the hell—” Her dumbfounded hesitation had been enough. She looked over her sister's shoulder and saw Marci trying to do a one-legged hop into black lace panties.

“You guys didn't show up at the house. When you didn't show up at the bar either, I went to check on my reception arrangements. The guy at the desk thought I was there for the room. You know. Bachelorette party and all. He'd recognized Marci from a visit we made on Sunday—”

“Look, Kimmie. I can explain.” A crush of warm bodies piled up behind Jessie, trying to get a look. Marci gave up on her panties and pulled the sheet off the bed in a show of modesty.

“This should be good. Go ahead, Psycho Woman. Explain.” Kimmie turned and faced Jessie eye to eye.

Jessie drew a blank. She had no idea how to explain a naked Marci, an unmade bed, and a trail of clothing strewn all over a hotel room.

“Right. I thought so.” Kimmie pushed her way past the cheer squad and yelled from the door. “Well, at least now I can be sure my fiancé's safe. You won't be fucking the groom. Let's go, ladies. Booze and male strippers are waiting.”

The words cut like a knife.

“Kimmie, please—”

“It's okay, Sis. Really. I don't think the male strippers would interest you too much anyway. You know what I mean.”

“Fucking the groom? What groom? Are you getting married, Jessie?”

She yelled at her phone, “Go away, Bernie. I'll call you when I can.” The man was still talking when she snapped her phone shut.

There was a shuffling of bodies as everyone paraded to the head of the line to inspect the crime scene. Jessie didn't say anything when Charlotte walked by and with a salacious grin whispered, “You are a naughty, naughty girl, Psycho Woman.”

And they were gone. Jessie slammed the door after them and locked herself in the bathroom. She could hear Marci calling her name, pleading with her to come out from the other side of the door.

She didn't answer.

Mom and Dad are right. I am a whore.

Jessie buried her face in a towel.

And a fucking psycho woman too.

* * *

“Don't do it, Jessie. You can't. This is your sister's—”

“I can do whatever the hell I want.” Jessie kept stuffing the pile of clothing that was on the bed into her duffel bag.

When they'd finally arrived at the house, Jessie hadn't found anyone in the kitchen, and the place was dark. She decided her parents were out to dinner while the girls were having their fling. She'd headed straight for her bedroom.

She'd thrown her new white dress on the floor and put on her jeans and a T-shirt in hurried jerking motions. She'd turned to Marci and spit out the words. “That's right. Get a good look. That's what you came for, isn't it?”

She knew Short Stuff and crew were drooling over a bunch of hard-bodied dancers and talking about the big lez show on the seventh floor.

Marci grabbed Jessie's arm in frustration and jerked her around. “Listen to me. This is your sister's wedding.” Marci spoke the next words slowly, emphatically, like she was talking to some three-year-old she'd caught finger painting the walls of the house. “You cannot miss your sister's wedding. I mean it, Jessie. You'll regret it.”

“Yeah. Regrets. A little late for regrets, don'tcha think?” Jessie jerked free and continued stuffing clothes. Marci stepped in and shoved Jessie away from the bed.

“Is that it? Your sister knows you went to bed with a woman?” Marci was furious. “You regret what we did? Hell, Jessie, you haven't even had time to think about it yet. Give it a while to sink in. Then you can really regret it. Then you can do what you do best. Run away.” Marci marched to the closet and pulled a big suitcase out. She dragged it across the floor and threw it on the bed beside Jessie's messy pile of clothing and started talking a mile a minute. “If that's the problem, I'll make it easy for you. I'll just go home. You can lay low for a couple of days. Then you can show up like you did this last time. I know it won't be as dramatic as being away for a year, but hell, who knows? Maybe your mom will make you some more of those fucking pancakes you love.

“They'll just think it was another one of your big scenes to make them all suffer. Maybe a warning shot across the bow or whatever it is those navy guys do to get someone's attention. One of those don't mess with me shots. Cause if you do mess with Psycho Woman she'll go away. Right?” Marci started pulling neatly folded clothing out of a dresser drawer and putting them on the bed beside Jessie's messy pile. “Hey! And if you hurry you can make it back to the party and pick up one of those stripper guys. Yeah. That works. He can whisk you away for a couple of days and fuck the stink of my pussy off of you.”

“You don't get it, do you? You and I did it! We did it all! I did a woman! And everyone knows!”

Marci stopped and shoved Jessie, “I was there too, Jessie. They saw me too. They know what I was doing. You don't see me running around—”

“That's different. They know—”

“They know I'm some sex-starved dyke? That's what you think? I'm the token gay girl in the group?” Marci leaned close. “I've got my secrets too, Jessie. I guess I thought just this once it might be worth the sacrifice. Oh, and you didn't do a woman. I did. Well, a psycho woman.”

Marci pulled away from the stare-down contest and went on. “We can't have that, can we? The stink of another woman's pussy on you. No. Besides, you were just fucking, right? I was just another name for your book. But you might want to put me in there with an initial. You can't have anyone knowing I was a girl. Your girl. Even if it was only for a day. Sorta.” Marci rifled the closet and pulled a couple of things out on hangers. “And that's a good question, Jessie. What are you going to do with that book, anyway? I mean are you going to sit around when you're old and read it when you get lonely? Maybe when you're famous you can sell—”

“Marci!” Jessie tried to trap her, but she sidestepped and went into the bathroom still talking a mile a minute.

“You know? Maybe you should put my name in there anyway. Not just an initial. The whole thing. Yeah. Draw a big circle around it. A little lesbian slant to your past. I haven't seen a celebrity yet that didn't get some extra mileage out of that one. Too bad we didn't make a tape—”

“What the hell is going on in here?” Her father's voice filled the confines of the messy room, and when Jessie turned she tripped on a piece of clothing on the floor. She sat hard on the carpet with the grace of a walrus. He was standing in the doorway in his boxers and a white T-shirt. He looked sleepy-eyed and mad. She felt like she was a kid again and her father just caught her fighting with Kimmie.

Marci stuck her head out of the bathroom. She wiped the tears away and said, “Mr. Butler. I'm sorry. I really am. I hate to impose, but my father just called. There's a family emergency, and I'm going to have to go back home. Do you think you could drive me to the airport?”

Jessie's father looked at the mess on the bed. Then he looked at Marci. Jessie's mom was in her robe, peering around her husband's arm from the hallway, her hair in a hairnet. Then his gaze fell on Jessie. The silence was deafening. When Jessie looked away and stared at the floor, her father cleared his throat.

“Sorry to hear that, Marci. Sure. More than glad to.”

“Do you think you'll be able to make it back for the wedding, dear?” Her mother was trying to push past Jessie's father to see if she could help. He wasn't having it.

“I'm not sure, Mrs. Butler. But tell Kimmie I'll call her tomorrow.”

“Well, we'll go fix some coffee.” Jessie's father turned to his wife. “Won't we, Martha? You just give a holler when you're ready to leave. Take your time.”

Jessie sat on the floor rocking, her hands trapping her knees, staring at the piece of clothing tangled in her boot for the fifteen minutes it took Marci to get her things together. When Marci's feet stepped into view, Jessie looked up.

Marci stood waiting.

When Jessie didn't move or say anything, Marci wiped another tear off her cheek and stormed out of the bedroom. She said over her shoulder as she left, “I can do whatever the hell I want to, too, Jessie.”

Then Jessie could hear her talking to her father in the kitchen.

“I think I've got everything I came with. In fact, I'm sure I'm not leaving anything behind. I'm really sorry about this, Mr. Butler—”

Jessie's mother jumped in. “Don't you worry about that at all, dear. If I find anything I'll give it to one of the girls. I'm just so sad to hear there's a problem at home. Are you sure there isn't something we can—”

“Martha. If there's anything we can do I'm sure Marci will let us know. Won't you, sweetie?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Butler.”

“And I mean that. Anything.”

“I will, Mr. Butler. Thanks again.”

“There's nothing in the laundry… Nothing else here of yours?” Jessie's mother couldn't stay out of it.

“Not a thing, Mrs. Butler. I'm absolutely positively sure of it.”

Jessie sneaked past the kitchen and out the front door. She ran for the lane and headed for the old quarry. For sanctuary. She pulled the cloth she'd unwrapped from her boot to her nose and breathed deep.

She could still smell Marci on the dress she'd worn earlier in the day.

Chapter Six

Jessie opened her eyes and stared at Debbie snoring on the floor. From the shadows on her window, she knew the sun was well on its way to high noon. She rolled between the sheets with a smile for Marci. But the other side of the bed was empty.

Fuck!

She got out of bed and hit the bathroom. By the time she'd showered and dressed, she found her mother in the kitchen setting the table for lunch.

“You know, you didn't even say good-bye to that Marci girl last night. You really should have. The poor girl seemed so upset. Your father said she cried all the way to the airport. I wonder what—”

“I said good-bye, Mom. Before she left.”

And suddenly, there they were. Jessie was alone in the kitchen with her mother just like that day she'd come home from high school.

“I know what's—” Jessie stopped and held her tongue. Somehow the game had gotten old.

“What's that, Jessie?”

“Never mind.”

Even if it wasn't a game this time. Even if she really had fucked Marci. Even if everyone had managed to barge into the room and get a gander. The thrill of the chase was gone. She heard noises from the back of the house and headed out the back door. She knocked out a Marlboro and lit up as she walked.

Halfway to the barn she met her father walking to the house. He looked up just as she came around the old smokehouse. “Dad, can I—”

“Here's what you can do, young lady. Your mother has spent at least an hour making lunch for our guests who were all out late last night having a good time. You can turn yourself around and march yourself right back into that house. Then you can sit down at the table like decent folk do and eat lunch with everyone else. You can talk and jabber with the rest of the girls, and you can help your sister enjoy some of the most important days of her life.”

Jessie pulled up short.

“And there's another thing I want from you before this week is out. I want you to say something nice to your mother. I want you to have a conversation with her that lasts more than five seconds, and I want you to tell her how good every meal she puts in front of you is. That's all I want. Then you can go off to Chicago or wherever it is you have to get to so fast that you're already half-packed. Got that?” Her father didn't wait for an answer. He just walked on past.

Jessie kicked the dirt and muttered something she didn't want her father to hear.

“I heard that, young lady. And I want you to go see your Nana. Every time I see her she asks if you're dead. Now get your ass in the house.” Her father didn't even turn around.

She hit bottom so hard she bounced. Twice.

* * *

Jessie pulled her new white handbag up, the one Marci had given her, and fished for her cigarettes. She zipped her purse shut and stopped to look at it. Another reminder of Marci.

She lit up in front of the same vending machine she'd been dancing with an eternity ago and exhaled. The nightmare was winding down, and the only thing Jessie wanted was to get the hell out of Dodge.

She'd gone to see Nana, her father's mother, that same day. She found her sitting in her wheelchair in the TV room of the nursing home watching a soap.

“Just a minute, dear. I have to see what that nasty Gerald has done. He's such a terrible man.” Then she'd been all smiles. Mind as sharp as ever, Jessie's eighty-four-year-old grandmother had given her a dressing down. Then they'd gone back to Nana's room to visit. Jessie watched the gene pool that her voice had come from fiddle with her bedside radio until she found some easy listening and thanked God or whoever for giving Nana to her. Just as Jessie was leaving, her Nana had her pull a box out of the closet.

“I want you to take that, dear. I don't want anyone else to have them.”

“Nana. What are you talkin' about? There's plenty of time—”

“When you listen to them just remember that ''Round Midnight's' the one. The one I got my Jimmy with.”

Jessie slipped the dusty box under her arm and leaned down to kiss her grandmother good-bye.

“You never know, dear. It might work for you too.”

Too late for that, Nana.

When Kimmie and the collegiate squad went on for two days about the gorgeous hunks of man meat at the bachelorette party, Jessie thought she saw her mother blush more than once. Superman and the fire chief had been big hits. When everyone acted as if absolutely nothing had happened the afternoon of the big party, Jessie almost jumped in someone's face and yelled, “Hey, what about that pair of dykes at the Madison? What'd ya think of that? Eh?”

But she hadn't. Her sister was her sister. The same Short Stuff who used to follow her around the farm on a stick horse now had a million things on her mind. Not the least of which was the stunningly handsome Dr. Dick. The man even measured up for Jessie and only filled her with more regret.

Dr. Dick and crew had arrived on Thursday and set up camp at the Hyatt. Charlotte and Becky's boyfriends were part of the wedding party, and Thursday night Jessie found herself assigned entertainment director while her sister and Dr. Dick sneaked off to the Hyatt away from their mother's prying eyes.

To make love or fuck?

The answer Jessie conjured saddened her more.

At Red's the cheer squad had insisted, and Jessie had gotten up onstage and wooed her charges and the rest of the joint with a three-song set. The drinks were free, everyone was happy, and life went on.

On Friday Dr. Dick's family had arrived and the obligatory dinner out for the families had actually been fun. Her parents had rented the back room at Jack's Roadhouse, a fancy Southern-eats place that liked the scruffy image the name gave them, and they brought in a piano player who specialized in ragtime. The fact that Dr. Dick's dad was a doctor wasn't much of a surprise, but Dr. Dick's gay uncle was. The man knew every redneck joke ever written. A mean trick for a New Yorker.

Her father tried to close the night down by singing a song for the bride and groom. He'd followed that with one for Jessie's mother. There wasn't a dry eye in the house when he finished. Not even Jessie's.

She laughed when Nana was pushed to the head of the table in her wheelchair brandishing a microphone.

“Get outta my way, sonny. Let me show you how it's done.”

The piano player vamped while Nana sat with her eyes closed waiting for the right moment. Voice shaking, a tremble caressing each breathy word, pitch as true as it had been over sixty years before, Nana brought the house down with an old Julie London song.

Jessie couldn't help the tears when her Nana finished and smiled one of her million-dollar smiles.

Dr. Dick's gay uncle jumped up and yelled, “Marry me, baby.”

The wedding day had been hectic and the ceremony as advertised. The bride was beautiful and managed to blush a time or two, and the groom was gallant and always attentive. Jessie couldn't recall seeing her sister open a door since Dr. Dick's arrival.

And over the days Jessie's mother had managed to make her feel petty, small, and mean without saying or doing a thing other than loving her. Their first few words had been stilted and stiff. But once it became clear Jessie wasn't going to run off in a huff or throw a tirade, they both settled into a visit that included showing Jessie where everything went in the kitchen. She couldn't believe she'd grown up in the house and had never spent enough time with her mother in the kitchen to know where the iron skillet went.

Her mother had picked up their lives as if nothing had happened and treated Jessie like the loved and loving daughter she always could have been. Just contemplating her mother's ability to forgive was exhausting for Jessie.

When Marci didn't call, Jessie fell into a noxious routine of pin the blame on the jackass.

A jackass named Jessie.

* * *

Jessie pushed out of the vending-machine room and crushed her cigarette on the concrete apron of the parking garage beneath the Madison. The reception meal was over, and the dancing had started. Jessie wobbled to the elevator on her heels and looked around the dim basement hallway. When she was sure she was alone, she whispered, “I know you were making love to me. I know because it scared the shit out of me.”

Back at the reception she grabbed another glass of champagne and wandered the tables. The lights had dimmed, and the dance floor was full. Her father was resplendent and her mother lovely. The huge ballroom was full and hiding was easy. She'd been away so long that being anonymous was as easy as wandering the fringe of the tables lost in thought.

When a woman she didn't know from Eve jumped up and called her name, Jessie walked over.

“I bet you don't even remember me.”

The woman had short hair, a boyish cut, a trim figure, startling green eyes, and was dressed smartly in a woman's suit of black wool complete with slacks. Jessie shook her head slowly. “Sorry, can't say as I do.” Jessie grinned really big to be hospitable.

“Come here, Darcy. I want you to meet Jessie.”

Darcy looked about Kimmie's age and was wearing a peach-colored full-length dress with a waterfall of sequins down the front.

“This is Jessie? The Jessie?” Darcy sounded like she'd just met a movie star. Jessie decided they were blues fans.

“It's nice to meet you, Jessie. I'm Darcy, Cassie's partner.”

Jessie shook hands with Darcy and wondered how Bernie had managed to sneak a record producer and attaché into her sister's wedding.

I'll kill him.

“It's me! Cassandra. Cassandra Pfeifer? From that sleepover in high school? You know. You and me. High passion in a sleeping bag on your bedroom floor. I live in Nashville now. I'm an investment banker. Wow, I wondered if I'd run into you. It's been a long time…”

Jessie felt like she'd just stood up too fast. Her arms and legs tingled, and she was dizzy. She recovered from the first sway, but on the second she fell into someone's arms and woke up looking at the ceiling. This time there were bright spots of light from a disco ball dancing in circles on the ceiling that made her queasy.

Her mother was there. So was Cassie and her attaché.

“Are you okay, dear?” Her mother was fanning Jessie's face with a menu card from one of the tables. Dr. Dick's dad showed up to help. They got her to a chair, and she answered a few questions for the good doctor.

“Maybe it's that bump on her cheek. I tried to get her to go to the—” Her mother sounded genuinely concerned.

“Here, Jessie. I want you to follow my finger.”

The crowd grew enough that Cassie and friend were squeezed to the outside, out of sight.

“I'm okay, Mom. Really. Thanks a lot, Dr. Mills. I think it must be the heat.”

By the time she got away, she was having a full-blown panic attack. In the hall outside the ballroom, Jessie ran for the ladies' room. She fell to her knees in front of a commode and vomited. When she thought it was safe, she pushed up from the floor and sat on the seat lid. Her head filled with the same shame and guilt her mother had instilled all those years ago when all the memories of that night came rushing back.

That day in May had been rainy and wet. Her mother had baked a cake and put a happy-birthday banner over the kitchen table. Some of her friends from school were over, and her mother was letting her have her very first sleepover.

They'd watched some silly movie and oohed and aahed only as thirteen-year-olds could during the long kiss and impassioned embrace somewhere toward the end.

Jessie recalled her mother reminding her she had guests and to stop worrying about her Aunt Trudy.

“I'm sure she'll be by tomorrow sometime.”

The afternoon had turned to sitting around in Jessie's bedroom, the floor littered with sleeping bags, and everyone talking about something they knew nothing about. Boys.

She couldn't recall what time it happened. She only recalled that the lights were out, her room was quiet, and the jabber had died. Something woke her. Her mother's angry words made it down the hallway and into Jessie's bedroom. Her parents were arguing, something they seldom did. She couldn't hear the words, only the angry inflection. She remembered looking around the floor at the sleeping bags to make sure everyone was asleep.

Cassie had peeked out from her sleeping bag and whispered, “It's okay. My parents do that all the time.”

The next morning her world was torn apart when her mother, upset and distraught, burst into her bedroom to announce that her friends had to go home.

“We have to go to the funeral home.”

“Is it Nana?”

“No… Your Aunt Trudy died last night.”

That moment, those words, had been a part of her for the rest of her life. Her parents' angry words the night before. The embarrassment and humiliation of finding Cassie awake, listening. The shock of being told her aunt Trudy had died.

But now there was more. Something else that had been hidden by the shock of her Aunt Trudy's death. The words that came when her mother looked down and realized what she and Cassie had been doing.

“How could you, Jessica? How on earth could you? We didn't raise you to be some kind of slut, much less a… Oh, well, I can't even say the damned word. How could you do this to me? I mean, what do you think you were doing? This is just the kind of thing you can't take back… You will burn in hell for this! I just can't believe you would do this to me!”

She could still see Cassie, terrified, trying to hide her naked body. Both of them frantically reaching for clothing strewn about the sleeping bag on the floor.

The curtain pulled back, and Jessie stared openmouthed at the Wizard of Oz. He turned out to be her mother scared shitless at finding her adolescent daughter having a gay moment of bliss and experimentation the morning after a sleepover.

All those years. I never knew. The memory was gone completely.

“No take-backs.” Jessie hung her head and wanted to cry. But the entire week had been too much. There were no tears left.

* * *

Jessie stood at the edge of the dance floor feeling wilted and looking worse. She waited for her father and Kimmie to dance by. This time when she waved, Kimmie waved back and shoved their father over.

Kimmie ran and hugged Jessie for the fifth time that night. She was all smiles and bubbles. Jessie held on tight and didn't want to let go. Tears left over from the ladies' room threatened, and Jessie pushed away. Her father hugged Jessie, and she put her head on his shoulder.

“You're beautiful, Kimmie. The whole thing was. And Richard is just…” Jessie laughed nervously. “I don't know. He seems just like that knight in shining armor you always said you'd get. I'm really happy for you.”

Kimmie grabbed her back and held on. Her father hugged them both, and Kimmie whispered right into Jessie's ear, “I'm so glad you came, Jessie. My big sis here to watch me marry my man. I wanted you to be the first to know. I'm pregnant. Six weeks. We're going to tell the rest of the family when we get back from our honeymoon.”

“But—”

“Go look at the postmark on your invitation. The wedding's been planned for over three months. He proposed last December. If you called home every once in a while, you'd know these things.”

Jessie found more tears. When Richard showed up and dragged Kimmie away, Jessie still didn't want to let go.

She dabbed her eyes and wiped her cheeks. She leaned into her father and didn't want to let go of him either. Finally she stopped sniffling long enough to say, “Look, Dad. I'm not feeling too well. I wondered if you would mind if I go on home.” Her dad looked grand in his getup for the wedding. His cheeks had a rosy glow that spoke of too many glasses of champagne. He smiled and squeezed her tight.

“Are you sure you're okay, Jess?”

“I'm okay, Dad. It's just been a long week.”

“What? No dance for your old man?”

Jessie sputtered and laughed. “Sure, Dad. But no promises on how your toes will feel in the morning.”

The man who had always been there for her, for both of them, swept her into his arms and waltzed her around the dance floor. As the music wound down, he leaned close and whispered, “Thanks, sweetheart. And I don't mean just the dance. I'm talking about your mother. You don't know how much these last few days have meant to her. To both of us.”

“Sure, Dad.” With a forced smile on her face, Jessie rushed out of her father's arms and straight for the exit. She cried all the way down in the elevator.

* * *

Jessie checked her duffel bag for the third time. Her clean clothes were all neatly folded and stuffed away. She sat her guitar at the foot of her bed and picked up her Stetson. She sneaked down the hall and out the front door, avoiding her mother. At the barn she found her father sitting in his office going over bills.

“Hey, Jess. You all packed?”

Jessie plopped down in the other chair and propped her boots up on the saddle stand. “Sure am, Dad. I just wanted—”

“Did I tell you I like your hair like that?”

“Thanks, Dad. Listen. I need to—”

“Where you off to, Jess?”

“Why do you do that?”

Her father was surprised when she looked over at him.

“What's that, Jess?”

“That. You call me Jess. Not Jessie or Jessica. Sometimes you say Jessie. But most the time you call me Jess.”

“I never really thought much about it. I guess that's just a pet name I gave you. You know. Just a name 'tween you and me. Jessie was already taken. And you always hated Jessica. I never knew—”

“That's it? You just wanted to have a name that was special for me?” Jessie dropped her feet to the floor with a thud and leaned forward on the rickety old chair.

“Why sure, hon. I figured I was the only one who would use that name. Why'd you think I called you that?”

“No. No reason. I just wondered. You're not the only one who's called me that…”

Her father settled back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. “Right.”

Jessie rolled her eyes. She shoved her boots back up on the saddle stand and parroted her father's demeanor. Her father finally broke the silence.

“So where you off to?”

“That agent of mine has been calling. He might have some studio work for me. I thought I'd check that out. It's in LA. I'll be in Denver in three weeks. After that I'm going to head south. There's a club down in Clearwater that keeps calling me. Then I'm going—”

“You know what a telephone is, don'tcha?”

“Yes, Dad. I know what a telephone is. And I promise I'll use it at least once a week. I told you I would, and I will.”

“You need some money?”

“No, Dad. I'm holdin' my own. Actually, I've got a little nest egg built up. Not much to do with money when you're on the road.” Jessie rolled her eyes again. Things got quiet. Again. And for the first time in a long time, Jessie didn't want to leave. She didn't want to leave her father's office, and she didn't want to leave home. She thought there were things she'd missed out on, and selfishly, she wanted to get them back.

“You know, that Marci girl sure is nice,” her father quipped out of the blue.

Jessie jerked her head up and stared at her father before looking back at the floor. He pushed up out of his chair and grabbed his hat. He dropped it on his head and said, “Well… You headed for the airport or the bus station?”

Jessie didn't notice her father standing over her. She was busy counting scuff marks on the toe of her boot.

“Jessie?”

She jumped up and brushed off the seat of her jeans. As they headed out her father stopped by the door and pointed at a picture in an old dusty frame on the wall by the door frame.

“You remember her?”

“Sure. That's Aunt Trudy. I sure miss her.” Jessie touched the glass and ran her fingers lovingly over the smiling image of her confidante and best friend. “A lot.”

“See that woman there?” Her father pointed. “The one with the scarf on her head?”

“Yeah?” The photograph showed Jessie's mom smiling at the camera, her Aunt Trudy standing alongside smiling as well, and in the background, between the two, stood a woman. Her black hair was trapped by a scarf, and she wore big sunglasses that hid a lot of her face.

“She was your Aunt Trudy's girlfriend. Well, I think they call 'em partners now. Somethin' like that. I can't keep up with that stuff. We didn't know until she came over with your Aunt Trudy one night. I think it was your birthday, the night your Aunt Trudy died. She was just some friend of your Aunt Trudy's until then. Someone she would hang out with.”

“She had a…girlfriend? Wait. You're telling me Aunt Trudy was…” The empty feeling in Jessie's chest detonated, leaving her throat scratchy and her voice hollow.

“You don't know how many times I've wished I'd stepped in and calmed things down that night. I tried to tell your mother after they left, but she wouldn't listen. Seems that when your mother answered the door that night, the two of them were kissing. Last thing I heard your mother yell was, 'You'll go straight to hell for this.' That was the last time we saw your Aunt Trudy alive. She tore out of here like a bat out of hell. State trooper called early in the morning. Said your Aunt Trudy was goin' at least eighty when she hit the tree. Both of 'em died.”

Jessie felt nauseated. Her brow was sweating. She thought she might get sick. Again. “But… Did she, well?”

“No. Far as we know your aunt didn't do it on purpose. She hit a patch of water on the pavement, lost control, and hit the tree.”

“But Mom… She seemed so angry. It was her sister and she never cried. Not a tear.” Jessie fidgeted before adding, “And I hated her for that.”

“Ya gotta understand, Jess. That's just how your mother was raised. She let the last thing she saw, the last thing she learned about your aunt, define a lifetime. That don't make her bad. It just makes her wrong. Wrong can be changed. Bad is forever.”

Jessie touched the picture but said nothing. Her father pushed the door open and asked again, “So. Where are you goin', Jess?”

She finally looked away from the photograph and stepped past her father. She was still distracted when she answered. “The airport. I've got a ten-thirty flight.”

Her father grabbed her shoulder and looked her right in the eye. “That wasn't what I was talking about, Jess.”

* * *

Jessie said good-bye to her mother. Jessie was reserved but felt no antagonism toward the woman she'd tormented for years. Her mother was her mother. Worried about where she was going, when she'd call, and reminding her to take care of herself. The moment held little joy for Jessie, but more importantly, no hostility.

She saw her mother differently. Not good or bad, just different.

Chapter Seven

When the couple walked in off the sunny sidewalk holding hands, Jessie looked around the Internet café to see if anyone else noticed. No one looked up and pointed. No one leaned toward someone else and whispered. The couple sat at the table next to hers using one of the café's computers and ordered. A book bag sat on the floor between their chairs, and once in a while one of them would reach down and dig something out. There was nothing obvious or overt, just the occasional touch of their hands or sideways glance. But anyone who took the time to look could tell.

Jessie's coffee refill arrived, and she went back to her search. In spite of growing up during the personal-computer boom, Jessie had never found time to get up close and personal with the X generation's most adored piece of hardware. She ran a few more searches, then pushed back into her seat in frustration.

Los Angeles wasn't new to her. She'd done Hollywood's walk of fame and even toured the star's homes a lifetime ago. But studio work was throwing Jessie's schedule off, and she'd been finding it hard to sleep at night. That's what she told herself. The three-day marathon scheduled to begin with had turned into three weeks of grueling work.

She'd met with Bernie a couple of times. Word was the producer was impressed and wanted to talk when the recording session was over. With what they were paying, she didn't mind postponing Colorado. She just wanted her life back. Problem was she wasn't sure who had it.

“You need some help?”

The woman was blonde and sunny. A surfer chick. Yellow hair, short white shorts, and a sky blue top. Perfect teeth to go with her perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect hands, and perfect eyes. Somewhere north of twenty and south of Jessie. “Beats me. I'm trying to find someone, and it just ain't happ'nin'.”

“Yeah. Looked like you were having trouble. Let me see if I can help.”

Jessie didn't want to wash her dirty laundry in public, so she gave the girl her own name to search. She figured that would be a tough one to find. The girl explained name searches, inclusive, exclusive, and a list of other things Jessie didn't understand.

“See. There it is.”

Jessie was floored. Her name was all over the place. The girl clicked on a link and muttered, “Oh yeah. I've heard of her.”

Jessie was flattered. Then the girl clicked on another link, and one of her goofy promo pictures came up.

“And when you click a picture like this…” The girl looked up, then looked back at the screen. “Wait, that's you! Is this some kind of pickup line or something?”

Jessie was floored. The last thing she expected from a woman helping her learn how to use a search engine was the accusation that she was trying to pick that woman up.

“Hell no. I gave you my name because I thought it might be easier. That's all.”

The woman looked at Jessie for a beat, then went back to her explanation. Jessie half watched and took the chance to check the woman out. Attractive. Bright. Above all, perfectly normal for California.

And, given what she'd observed as the woman walked in with another woman, gay.

“Okay, what if I want to find someone, and I don't have their last name. Can I do that?”

“It can be done. Might be hard. They'd have to be famous or something. Or you'd need a state—”

“What if you wanted to find me but didn't know my last name?”

“Easy. Search Jessie blues. Or Jessie guitar. See?”

And there she was again. Jessie thanked the woman and went back to her search. It took less than five minutes to find what she wanted. She grabbed her Stetson and purse to leave and stopped to thank the woman again for her help. She regarded the full-figured black woman sitting beside Miss California while she listened.

“Sure, no problem. Hey, I was talking to Barbara, and we wondered if you'd like to have drinks tonight. You know. If you're not busy. We know this club—”

“Is that a pickup line?” Her day at the studio was through, and tomorrow was Sunday and the engineer would be mixing. She had nothing better to do.

“No! We just thought you might be in town for a show or something. That's okay. I didn't mean—”

Jessie let the girl off the hook and laughed.

“Sure. Why not? Where's the club?”

Jessie got the information on a scrap of paper and hit the sidewalk. She dug her smokes out and lit up. When a man walked by and sneered at her, it only confirmed her conclusion that California had declared war on smokers. Not just a regional battle involving tables and stools in restaurants and bars. This was an all-out you're-the-enemy war.

She shook off the disapproving stare with a big smile and headed for her hotel. She had what she was looking for. Now if she could only bring herself to use it.

* * *

Jessie stood by the front entrance fidgeting. They'd arranged to meet at nine. She pulled on her dress, the same dress Marci had picked out for her, and tried to make it fit. Without Marci around, it felt too short. Indecent. After the dress had been stepped on and cried into, she'd had to have it cleaned. She still regretted the decision. But wearing it had its own special meaning.

“We didn't know if you'd show up or not.”

They all said hello, and Jessie didn't miss the look she got from Miss California, Leslie, when she dropped her half-smoked cigarette to the pavement and ground it out.

Inside they got a table close to the dance floor, and Jessie ordered a duded-up cowboy drink. A longneck with lemon slices and a salt-rimmed glass. Barbara and Leslie ordered something with paper umbrellas. The music was DJ and the dance floor was full. They'd spent half an hour talking over the noise when Leslie disappeared.

“I heard you play once. You must not get to the coast much.”

“Oh yeah? That must have been six or seven years ago. I played a few bars here in the south.”

“No. I was in DC. A business trip. I caught you at the Wild Side. I stayed for all three sets.”

“Right. Yeah, that was about a year ago.”

“You're really good. My daddy has all the blues records. Great stuff. What happened to the boyfriend?”

Leslie came back towing a few more California sun bunnies.

“This is Pony. And she's Cowboy. This is Jessie Butler. That blues singer I was talking about.” Pony was wearing black leather kink that included a short leather skirt that looked more like a wide belt. Cowboy, another blonde California beauty, was wearing black jeans and black leather chaps with a leather vest.

Jessie had never been out in a crowd of unknown people who actually seemed to know her unless they were at a bar she was playing at. She tipped her bottle and tried to figure out what Barbara was talking about.

“You know. That blond guy. You were at his table between sets. Looked like you two were having a pretty good time.”

“Oh! No. Just a fan. Somebody I pick…” Shit. She tried to recover. “He always comes to see me when I play that place.”

Looks like what happens in DC doesn't always stay in DC. Double shit.

A basket of no-fat munchies appeared. Jessie almost laughed. Anyplace she played the munchies would be tall on grease and finger-licking good. Seemed like California had declared war on cholesterol as well. She munched a carrot stick and watched the dancers.

“Leslie said you're a blues singer. Do you sing any Billie Holiday?” Cowboy was squeezing her longneck and Pony equally.

“Chicago blues. Delta blues. B.B. King. Stuff like that.”

“Rad!”

What-the-hell-ever rad means. Jessie was a little surprised to find a table full of blues fans who were all women. Women seemed to get into her music when she was performing, but Jessie always thought that if you gave them a choice, they'd listen to something else.

That's it. I can become the first blues-singing dyke. Get a whole fan club of crew-cut dykes. Sell hundreds, maybe even thousands of records to all the dykes in the world.

She watched Cowboy pull Pony off to the dance floor and for the first time realized there wasn't a man in sight. Not a one. Not on the dance floor. Not at the bar. Not waiting tables. None. She'd figured Leslie and Barbara for a couple, and Pony and Cowboy were kind of in your face about it. But she hadn't realized…

“Barbara? Can I ask you something,” Jessie stage-whispered.

The woman looked up from her cell phone.

“I just wondered. Is this a, well—”

“Gay bar?” Barbara leaned close. “Sure, honey. We thought you knew when we found you waiting for us. Figured your taxi driver would say something. That you'd shy away if you didn't want to…well, hang out with us girls. Actually, the Closet is a bar for lesbians. No men allowed. You okay with that?”

“Sure. That's fine. I just didn't know. Nice place.” Jessie chugged the rest of her beer and grabbed the waitress as she walked by. “Another. And chase it with a tequila. Keep 'em comin', honey.” Jessie slapped the waitress on the ass, and Leslie and Barbara roared with laughter.

You sure cain't rope no horse if ya don't know how ta ride one.

She figured her daddy knew best.

* * *

Jessie didn't know what time it was. Time had become abstract after her third beer and tequila. The crowd around the table had grown, and after about an hour Jessie started to get it. Every fourth song was Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith, or some other early blues singer. Billie was clearly the favorite.

Jessie didn't perform that type of orchestrated blues, but she knew all the songs and the singers. And every fourth song was about the woes of lovin' a man or being left behind by one. When a redhead came up and asked Jessie to dance, she slammed her beer down and yelled in a drunken slur, “Why the hell not?”

An endless line of nameless faces danced Jessie around the dance floor. They were all touchy-feely and invited her to do the same. At some point she made it back to her table to declare the Closet the best bar in Los Angeles. Maybe in the whole damned United States of them there Americas.

Jessie knew she was shitfaced. She just couldn't bring herself to admit it and go back to her hotel.

And there was another reason she didn't want to leave.

Every slow dance, every warm body that pressed into hers, every soulful stare and familiar touch just made Marci that much more real. Jessie would close her eyes and cling. She'd run her hands across a bare back and lean her head on a warm shoulder. Short, tall, skinny, full-figured, it didn't matter. They all felt and smelled familiar. They all reminded her of a stolen afternoon in a seventh-floor room at the Madison hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, with a Greek goddess. She was drunk and on the prowl for something she knew she wouldn't find.

“What's up, Jessie? You're looking sad.”

Jessie lifted her head off Cowboy's shoulder and mumbled, “I was an idiot. You know? I let…”

Cowboy's mouth was a warm, wet crush of enticement and promise, and Jessie's lids fell slow and lazy like a sunset on the Caribbean. When she pulled away and opened her eyes again, she wiped frantically at her mouth.

“That's okay, Jess. He was an asshole. Come home with Pony and me tonight. We'll make you feel al—”

Jessie slapped the woman.

“What? Who the hell do you think you are? And don't you dare call me Jess.”

* * *

Jessie groaned and shrouded her face with the sheet. The ceiling was covered with speckled bumps that captured cobwebs close to the wall. She turned and stared into sun. She'd forgotten to close the drapes when Leslie and Barbara had finally dropped her off. She'd been too busy getting her hands in her panties to rub herself off. Marci had floated above her on the ceiling with her unfathomable eyes and warm, soft lips whispering sweet unintelligible things.

She rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. After a nice long pee she wandered into her room and found a T-shirt to go with the white cotton thong that made her feel sexy. She grabbed her Ray-Bans and headed for her sixth-floor balcony for a morning smoke.

Palm trees, sunshine, and art deco hotels. That was California. All that and the excitement of being near. She watched the traffic go by and wondered what Marci was doing.

Is she thinking about me? Right now? Right this minute?

Jessie flipped her cigarette over the balcony rail and watched it death-spiral to the street.

* * *

Jessie picked up some solo work at a franchise theme bar that sold watered-down drinks for the crowd to unwind and booze up with. She was filling in for a sick singer. The studio time had dropped, and she'd been going crazy sitting around her hotel room flipping channels and beating up her guitar. The alternative—getting drunk and picking up men—didn't seem as attractive as it used to. If it ever had been.

She couldn't turn around on the sidewalk without seeing Marci. Every bus and taxi in the city had big color advertisements plastered to their sides or strapped on their roofs announcing a night of magic with LA's very own Marcella Dionysius. The Los Angeles Center for the Arts was proud to present America's premier cellist. And Jessie even worked up the nerve to call and see if she could get a ticket. Sold out had never sounded so disheartening.

“Ha! You're kidding, right? Those sold out an hour after they were available. I've got a Meatloaf concert… Yeah. I've got a lot of those tickets.”

“Nope. His tits are too small.”

“I beg your pardon—”

Jessie closed her phone and kept walking. A smiling Marci hugged her cello and looked back with a twinkle in her eye from the roof of a taxi.

Thursday nights were always slow in the clubs and bars she played. People staying home to charge their batteries for the weekend. The theme bars got mostly office workers on their way home, so the place cleared out a little earlier than others. She still had the tables full at eleven, but the elbow bars and stools were empty. She was winding down her night with a John Lee Hooker set. “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” always got another round for the bar, and she liked to keep the help happy.

She was packing up her gig bag and putting her guitar away when a guy stopped by to see if he could buy her a drink. She thought about it for two seconds. Free, white, and twenty-one had always worked for her. But she said no. And thanks.

Jessie dropped by the manager's office and said goodnight on her way to the employees' entrance. She pushed out into the cool night air, dropped her things on the stoop, and dug out a smoke. She hooked the heel of her cowboy boot up on the railing and leaned back, lost in thought.

“What's up, Psycho Girl?”

Jessie coughed and sputtered. When she turned, she found a Greek goddess dressed up in white cowboy boots, jeans, some funky green button-down shirt with yellow snap buttons, a bright red cowboy hat from the kid's toy department of some department store, leaning against a utility pole by the Dumpster.

“Marci. What… I… Where… What're you doing here?”

“Oh, I heard there was some two-bit blues player hangin' out with the tourists. I thought I'd come down and throw tomatoes at her. Where's your hat?”

Jessie had played this moment out in her mind a hundred times. Then she'd decided a hundred and one times that the moment was best left to flights of fancy. A hundred and two times she'd wished so hard for this moment her fingers hurt from crossing them.

“Well. I reckon that would be me. Lost the hat, though. Doesn't go with my new 'do.”

The moment stretched, and the night air filled with the sounds of crickets, traffic, and the LAX landing pattern.

Finally Marci broke the silence. “You can't say it, can you?”

“What's that?” Jessie flipped her cigarette and turned so she could really look at Marci.

“I found you. I'm standing right here. All you have to do is say it.”

Jessie crossed her arms under her breasts, stuck her chin out, and leaned against the employee entrance. Do you have any idea how many times I've said it in my mind? How many different ways I've said it? How many times I've cried…

“I call your sister on her honeymoon. I search every two-bit dive in LA that pretends to have something to do with the blues. I put on my best cowgirl outfit. I come down here and sit through two hours of the crappiest blues singing—”

“You got a tin ear, I reckon.”

“Then I had to sit on my hands while some idiot in a suit walked up and invited you to have a drink.” The cockiness left Marci's voice. “What do I have to do, Jessie? Tell me. I'll do it.”

Jessie's leg trembled a little when she pushed off the heavy metal door. She picked up her gig bag and her guitar and walked down the three steps of the back stoop to the pavement. She didn't stop until she was standing in front of Marci. She set her things on the pavement and hooked her thumbs in the front pockets of her jeans.

“Well, to start with. You have to get rid of that hat. If that's a cowboy hat, I'm Madonna.”

Marci smiled and pulled the straw hat off with a flair and threw it in the Dumpster. “There you go. No hat.”

Jessie looked down and frowned. “And what's with the white cowboy boots? Only place I seen a pair of those before was some old Mel Brooks movie.”

She watched Marci hop around laughing pulling her boots off. When Marci's hand fell on Jessie's waist to keep from falling over, Jessie's breath caught. She could smell her. Her hair. Her skin. The perfume that was Marci.

“Done.” Marci's hand didn't come off Jessie's hip.

Jessie knew she had to say it. She wanted to say it. But something cold and hard in her gut, something she'd been carrying around with her as long as she could remember, stopped her. When Marci's smile wilted and her hand pulled away, Jessie looked down and added quickly, “And that shirt. Hell, you'd scare the damn cows dry with a thing like that on.”

Marci stared. Her eyes were damp, and Jessie saw a quiver in her lip. After a few more seconds, Marci's hands came up, and she grabbed the top snap of her shirt. She looked Jessie in the eye defiantly and said, “I told you I'd do anything for you. Will you do the same for me?”

For you. With you. To you.

Jessie pushed Marci back against the utility pole, and they kissed. Not a greeting. Not a friendly acknowledgment. Not some goofy air kiss you see in European movies. They kissed a kiss reserved only for a select few. A lover's kiss. Her hands wandered Marci's body, and she pulled the two of them into an embrace.

“I'm sorry, Marci. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I just… It was just… I was scared. What I felt, it scared the shit out of me. You know me. I'm the psycho woman. When I get scared there's no telling what I might do. I'm so sorry. You don't know—” Jessie fought not to cry.

“Hey, hey, hey. Shhhh. It's okay.” Marci kissed Jessie's forehead and ran her hands across Jessie's back. “It was my fault. I pushed too hard. I wanted you and didn't know how to get you. There wasn't time. I couldn't stand being in the same room with you at night and not being able to touch you. To hold you. Just curl up around you and listen to you breathe.”

“But—”

The employee entrance opened, and Jessie let go of Marci and jumped away. She didn't look to see who it was. She bent and picked up her things and took another step away from Marci. A busboy walked around them and dumped two garbage bags into the Dumpster.

“Hey, you're that singer. You sure were—” The kid looked at Marci's bare feet, then looked at Jessie. “Well, anyway, you were great tonight.”

“Thanks, kid.” Jessie sniffed, and the kid walked on by and went back into the bar.

“I'm sorry, Marci, but this is all—”

“That's okay, Jessie.” Marci hugged her and clung to her in spite of the sound of a car door slamming somewhere in the parking lot. “That was a little too public even for me. I've got a car. Let's get out of here.”

* * *

Jessie stepped out of the shower and trapped her wet hair on top of her head with a towel. She stopped at the mirror and wiped the sweat off the glass. She wasn't looking for courage. She wanted to look at herself. She wanted to look at the woman who would love another woman. She followed the lines of her face and stopped at her eyes.

In spite of her apparent bravado, she felt apprehension nag. Not about the decision to be a willing participant in their imminent tango of passion and sighs. The dance had been requested, and the music was already playing softly in her head. The name of the song was Marci, and Jessie had been humming the haunting refrain since their first kiss back in Memphis. Her concerns lay out of sight. On a more subtle plane.

Will I do this right? Can I make her feel physically as good as I feel spiritually? Will spirit follow body? Will devastating delights lead to more than just a pounding heart and bated breath?

Jessie reached for another towel to cover the nakedness of her body. Her fingers lingered, then slipped away empty. She turned off the bathroom light and stood in the doorway. She felt as if she floated from the cavernous darkness of the bathroom to the dim light of her hotel room like a ship launched on night tide to discover the New World.

The colors of her room, worn pastels and damaged splashes of coral green, seemed warmer, brighter. The light of a single bedside lamp glowed in muted amber, inviting her to come closer. A moth to the flame.

The New World was waiting for her.

Jessie chanced a glance. A Greek goddess lay naked on her bed, body stretched out, eyes never releasing her own. She chanced more than a glance and openly perused the deep valleys, languid plains, and soft mountains of the New World.

“Jessie…”

The world is indeed flat. And covered in a gaudy floral patterned bedspread. Jessie smiled.

“Jessie.” Marci's soft whisper finally found its way into Jessie's head. She knelt on the edge of the mattress and gave offering to the smooth deep pool of Marci's belly button.

“Yes?” She kissed the dimple a second time and moved on.

“I… You… I've never been looked at like that. I just wanted to know…”

Jessie kissed the side of Marci's breast and breathed deep the pure clean air that was Marci.

“You've never been looked at like that by me before.” A tug and the towel on her head fell into the abyss at the edge of their world. She kissed Marci's jumping pulse and licked from shoulder to ear. “Maybe I've never looked at anyone like that before.”

“I like that thought.” Marci pulled Jessie into her arms, and they explored the possibility of kissing with teasing licks and languid bites until Marci whispered, “If you kiss me I think I'll die.”

“If I don't kiss you I know I will,” Jessie whispered back.

The warm, pleasant points where Jessie's skin touched Marci's grew as she settled onto the naked body of the object of her desire. Her knee pushed into the soft skin of Marci's thighs until they yielded.

A chorus of longing sighs surrounded their kiss. Marci ran her hand through the wet tangle of Jessie's hair and trapped her. When Marci let go, Jessie abandoned lips for chin and followed that to Marci's neck. She kissed her way between the warm, soft flesh of Marci's breasts and returned to the place she'd first set foot onto her New World. She licked and lavished the deep dimple until Marci's fingers tangled in an unspoken question in Jessie's hair.

Jessie closed her eyes. For a brief moment something tried to change her course, to send her away. Desire overcame doubt and Jessie lifted her head. She lavished a long lick on the no-man's-land between Marci's navel and the puffy slit between her thighs. She stopped to kiss Marci's bare pubic mound. The smell was not unfamiliar but different, heady. Marci's thighs shifted, and Jessie felt restrained insistence on the top of her head from Marci's tangled fingers.

Her own body was blushing with desire that swelled her nipples, gave her mouth a red flush, and had turned her pussy into a pool of salacious dampness that had been weeping since she stepped from the bathroom. When Marci's legs parted, Jessie saw the small dark apple on the inside of her thigh. Just below…

Is she Eve? Am I about to taste forbidden fruit?

A quick dart and Jessie's tongue came away wet and heavy with the taste of Marci. Her nose filled with the smell that was Marci, and there was no stopping. Jessie pushed her tongue until Marci's swollen slit split, and Jessie found her prize. The dark, salty, heavy taste of forbidden fruit. All thoughts of how or even why were banished. Jessie was filled with only one consideration, one desire—to love Marci into submission with her tongue. To tame the New World and partake of the forbidden fruit.

Marci pulled Jessie's wet hair, and Jessie followed each tug, each push, her tongue licking, her lips kissing and sucking.

“Yes,” Marci whispered.

When Jessie discovered Marci's swollen clitoris, she sucked gently until she heard a moan. Then Jessie lost all track of words and sounds that came from the pillow at the head of her bed. She was lost in the smell, the taste, the feel of making love to Marci. To a woman.

She had never been so unselfish or so giving in bed. And she had never known more satisfaction from those altruistic acts.

Marci pulled hard on Jessie's hair. Her thighs opened quickly, then closed on Jessie's ears. A jerky whimpering filled the room, and Jessie licked and sucked until Marci shoved her away. She lay mesmerized while Marci's pussy tightened again and again around her finger.

When Jessie crawled up Marci's body, she stopped and pressed her nipples into Marci's breasts. She swayed and let the warm, soft flesh tease and comfort. Like the conqueror she was, she captured Marci's mouth with her own. When the kiss ended Marci pulled Jessie close and clung. They rolled and kissed again.

“I guess you got it.” Marci's voice was deep and husky.

“What's that?” Jessie pushed Marci's hair out of her face.

“Your I kissed a girl badge.”

Jessie wanted to correct. She knew she'd gotten so much more, but old habits were hard to break. She sighed and fell into Marci's embrace.

* * *

“Don't, Jessie. I need you to talk to me.”

Jessie traced Marci's belly button and let her finger wander lower. She felt lazy and sated. Smug. Their tangled tussle of legs, arms, and kisses had turned into Marci staring unblinking into Jessie's eyes while she slowly, skillfully, and mercilessly finger-fucked Jessie into oblivion, all the time kissing her frantically. Now they lay in the afterglow enjoying the moment.

“I don't get it. Why does anything have to happen now?”

“In spite of what you might think, things aren't what they may seem. My father doesn't know. Even with the scandal back at college, he didn't find out. My mother kept it from him.”

“Why does your dad have to know now?”

“Because I made a promise to my mother. We're different, Jessie. I can't be the rebel without a cause. It's not about what he'd do to me. Or even what he'd think. It's about what I would be doing to him if I kept us a secret.”

The conversation was going places Jessie didn't want to have to deal with. She explored and tried to titillate. She was lost in the feel of Marci's skin when Marci slapped her hard on the arm.

“Jessie, I mean it. This is what they say guys do. They either go to sleep or they want some more. I need you, Jess. I need you to listen to me.”

Jessie snapped her mouth shut and withdrew her fingers. She scooted up Marci's body feeling so guilty she kept her kiss to herself. “Sorry, Marci. I just don't know how to… It's hard for me to talk about.”

“I know it is. And maybe that's why it's important that we talk about these things. I don't really have the answers either. But I want you to help me. I promised my mother that when I found the right woman I'd tell my father.”

“And you think I'm that woman?” Jessie found the idea absurd. “Look, Marci. I thought we were just, well, you know…”

“Fucking?” Marci went stiff in Jessie's arms.

“No! That's not it!” Jessie was lost in the wilderness without a map. “I don't know. Why does anything have to change? We can hang out, get to know each other. We don't know where this is going. What's the big rush?”

“We don't know where this is going?” Marci pulled out of Jessie's arms and rolled for the edge of the bed. The bottomless abyss at the edge of the New World threatened to consume her. “Right. My mother told me. She always said I had to be careful where I put my heart. Not to leave it lying around where just anyone could find it.”

“Come on, Marci.” Jessie tried to pull Marci back but was shrugged off. “That's not fair. I still don't—”

“No. You don't. You wouldn't. You've got your little pink book. You're not gay. This isn't love. No. To you it's all about fucking. Getting laid.”

“How the hell can you talk about love? We're a couple of women!” Gay? I'm gay? Jessie cleared her throat and tried to breathe. She desperately wanted to slow things down. She softened her tone and asked, “So no one knows you're gay?”

“No one ever asked. I never said anything.  No one noticed. Your sister knows—”

“Sure. She caught you.”

“She caught us. But she knew before that. Becky did too. Someone else did as well. But not everyone.”

“So this is about, well, coming out.”

“No.” Marci sounded distraught. “This is about me telling my father and anyone else I want about the woman I love. If that means that people know I'm gay, then that's what it means.”

“Hey, don't sweat it.” Jessie tried to lighten the moment. To bring Marci back. “We're just a couple of girls dyking—”

“Stop it, Jessie! I mean it. Don't say that. Don't use that word. It's degrading. To women in general, to me, and to you. Especially to yourself. At least gay sounds happy.”

Is it the idea of a relationship with a woman that scares me?

Jessie chewed her lip and stared at the ceiling. She was terrified. There were no words written there. She looked down at her naked body stretched out on the bed, Marci naked beside her.

The sex? Touching her body? Her hands on my breasts? Her lips on my nipple? My tongue…

She felt liberated and trapped, equally.

Or is it the idea of any relationship at all that scares the hell out of me?

“Marci. What if I don't know what to say?”

Or is it the idea of being…gay?

Marci turned and searched Jessie's face. Jessie wanted to reach for Marci when she pushed up from the bed and started getting dressed. She wanted to pull her back into her arms. She wanted to kiss her. To hold her. Most of all she wanted to be near the one person she…

Instead Jessie watched from her side of the bed and said nothing. She did none of those things. She did exactly what she'd done in her bedroom when she and Marci had fought. Marci finally picked up her purse and walked around the bed.

“That was beautiful.” Marci's fingers cradled Jessie's chin, and she fixed Jessie with a dreamy, soulful stare. “I love you.”

Jessie, mouth agape, said nothing.

And Marci was gone.

Jessie stared into the empty space where Marci had been standing.

How do you know that? How the hell do you know you love me? Me! The gay psycho woman.

Jessie hugged her knees to her chest.

I love who I am when I'm with you.

Chapter Eight

Jessie stretched and didn't notice the ceiling. She decided a girl-love hangover was ten times worse than anything Jack Daniel's could serve up.

She was in the shower trying to ignore the big pink elephant that was living in her life these days when Bernie called. She accepted lunch only if he took her someplace where they served real meat, where she could smoke a cigarette after lunch without getting up from the table, and if he could do her a favor.

They ended up sitting on a retaining wall at Venice Beach watching a continuous rolling advertisement for California beauty as skaters whizzed by wearing biker's shorts, Speedos, and bikinis.

“You're a real piece of work. You know that, Jessie?”

“That's why you love me, Bernie.”

Two hotdogs and a beer later, Jessie had an appointment with the mysterious Mr. Blake, the record producer who had been footing her bills. She balked at signing a new contract with Bernie. She wanted to look Mr. Record Producer over first and see what he was offering.

“You're gonna screw me, aren't you, Jessie?”

“Look, Bernie. You got your cut of this studio work. I signed a limited contract for that. And I never go back on my word. I just want to make sure we're all talking the same language. If I'm ready to sign with him, you'll be the first person who knows.”

“I don't want to know about it, Jessie. I want my—”

“I'll call you as soon as we meet. If I'm interested, we can sign tomorrow tonight.”

Bernie told her there were no more retakes for her studio work. Her part was finally finished. She was a little excited about the idea of her name getting out there, even if it was only liner credits as a guitarist and backup vocalist.

But ya gotta start somewhere. Just like being in love.

* * *

Jessie stood outside the old church and pulled on the side of her short black dress. Even with the setting sun on her bare back, the breeze that teased the big rubber tree in front of the old building was chilly. Buying a wrap hadn't occurred to her. Not in August in California.

Her only instructions to the clerk had been black and sexy. She was dying to reach up under the hem of her dress and run her finger around the tops of her thigh highs. The rubberized elastic was driving her nuts. The white thong was banished. So was any other undergarment that might get in the way.

She played the words over again in her mind. I want to love you, Marci. I feel more in love with you than I have with anyone else in my entire life. I love who I am when you're near me. I love how I feel when you touch me. I can't stop my hands from touching you. I just can't… And that's as far as she could get. She looked at the red rose she hoped would conjure the words she couldn't find.

She watched limousine after limousine pull up and eject stately dressed patrons of the arts. She finished her cigarette, clutched her invitation, small purse, and red rose, and followed an elderly couple inside. She presented her invitation—the one Bernie had managed to get for her as a favor—to the usher, and walked in to find a seat.

She'd read a little about the church in the program. Built in the mid-nineteenth century, it had fallen into disrepair in the 1980s when the congregation had abandoned it for a bigger, newer nave. The historical society had rescued the building, and the Los Angeles Center for the Arts used it on a regular basis for small string-ensemble and piano recitals. The pews were gone, and the seating was in the round with a raised stage in the center. The interior of the nave was wrapped in discreetly carved wood paneling that gave it a warm, inviting feel. The acoustics were great.

Black studio microphones dropped inconspicuously from wires at four points around the stage. Jessie scanned the open hall and found a soundman lording over some expensive-looking recording equipment.

A record?

She surmised that everything about Marci's world was completely different from her own. The audience sat in a quiet cloud of murmuring. No one was yelling at a waitress or stomping their feet. She saw a sea of black with pearls and diamonds pasted around the edges. Not a pair of jeans in the house. In spite of the murmuring, the group seemed attentive, wrapped in anticipation. Not ignorant of the performer's imminent appearance.

A long black grand piano sat to the back of the stage. A single chair, alone and on display, sat closer to the front of the stage. The air smelled of polished wood and something else. Something spicy. There were big candles on heavy floor stands strategically placed around the chairs. She walked past one, and her nose filled with the smell of frankincense. A disembodied voice announced that everyone should be seated, and Jessie dropped into the only empty seat nearby just as the lights dimmed. The cloud of murmuring drifted away, and a woman took the stage. She sat at the piano, shuffled music, and waited.

Someone coughed. Someone nearby whispered. A chair slid and made a popping noise. And the flock of birds that had been roosting in Jessie's chest since Marci left the night before stirred.

Applause started and Marci appeared. A peasant skirt of many colors swished around black boots with drooping cuffs. A simple white blouse with billowy sleeves completed the ensemble. Her hair was pulled back and puffed out in a wavy ponytail.

You're not the only one who can find people.

Jessie smiled and coughed into her hand, trying to clear the lump in her throat. Marci sat in the lone chair, and the applause died while she placed her cello, embracing it with her thighs. The lofty nave became still, and Marci raised her bow, her hand poised over the strings stretched tightly down the neck of her elegant instrument.

Cello and piano started together. The melody was familiar, and Jessie glanced at her program. “Liebesträume,” by Franz Liszt.

Jessie found herself swaying gently with the music. As Marci's bow pulled across the strings with the closing note, Jessie smiled. The nave was silent; then polite applause swelled. Jessie sat straighter in her chair, grinning like the love-struck fool she was.

The audience quieted, Marci poised over her cello again, and the most beautiful, most sublime sounds Jessie had ever heard before in her life poured forth. The piano danced a delicate duet as Marci led the hearts and minds of those lucky few who had chanced upon the old church that night across open plains, to the tops of high peaks, and tittering down into sonorous valleys filled equally with peril and delight.

Jessie was sure she was not witnessing the work of mere mortals. But instead the very spirit, the very soul, of God. She stopped glancing at her program and watched the finger of God flow from Marci's bow and touch each and every patron of the arts until eyes glazed over and lips parted in silent O's of delight.

When the music ended an hour later, the lights came up, and the polite applause was put aside for raucous adoration. Jessie jumped to her feet with everyone else and beat her palms until they burned. “Bravo, bravo,” rang out. Cries for an encore. Jessie couldn't stop grinning.

Marci stood, smiled, and bowed. She waved her arm expansively at her dance partner sitting at the piano. The woman also stood and took a bow. Marci bowed again and left the stage. Jessie's heart suddenly felt empty. She wanted to rush the stage and bring her back. To feel the touch of Marci's music again. And again. And forever.

The audience continued applauding, and Jessie could contain herself no longer. Forefinger and pinkie to lips, she let loose with a whistle that turned a few heads. People's polite smiles broke into laughs, and someone somewhere joined in.

After a full two minutes of thunderous applause, Marci reappeared escorting her cello, and the cacophony swelled. She stepped to the edge of the stage, and someone ran up with a bouquet of roses. Several others followed, and floral offerings were left on the edge of the wooden stage. Marci was gone before Jessie could carry her own meager gift forward.

Jessie contemplated what to do. The haunting of words said and many others that hadn't been said circled inside her head, making her dizzy. And still the applause continued.

This time when Marci returned, the audience quieted quickly and everyone took their seats. Marci stepped to the edge of the stage, smiled, and spoke. “Thank you. Thank you so much. As a few of you may know, this is my last performance here in LA for a while. I'll be starting my first world tour in a few days in London.” She was interrupted by more applause. Jessie's fingers came to her lips, and she stared dumbstruck. “Thank you again. I will miss you all. And I would like to leave you with something to remember me by for the five months I'll be away. This piece is one of my favorites. Something I play best when I'm in love.” Marci cocked her brow and regarded the audience. Finally she asked, “So, am I?”

The crowd tittered and laughed.

Marci returned to her seat, raised her bow, and said before she began, “A little Bach. And I'll let you be the judge.”

Marci smiled mischievously while everyone laughed.

Mouth agape, Jessie sat mesmerized and confused while Marci played more than just the strings on her cello. Each pull. Each slide. Every soulful glide of Marci's bow tugged at Jessie's heart and tormented her soul.

Jessie didn't know that Bach had written a love song just for her. Much less that it was prelude to an entire suite of love songs. She only knew that, as tears traversed her cheeks and fell freely to the bodice of her dress, love could, in fact, be roped in and defined. She lived every note, every nuance, every soft murmur of that definition while Marci played.

Too soon it ended. Too soon the audience was on their feet filling the lofty nave with more praise. And too late Jessie fell out of her heartsick stupor and jumped to her feet. Marci was gone. The stage lights were dimming. Jessie wiped her cheek, and a man standing next to her offered a crisply pressed handkerchief.

“Yes. Isn't she wonderful?”

Jessie dabbed her eyes, laughed, and said, “Yes. Yes, she is. World-class.”

The man accepted the return of his handkerchief and added, “Yes. And I'm very sure she's in love. Aren't you?”

Jessie didn't hear. She was lost in thought. Or just lost. She didn't know which.

* * *

Jessie fidgeted at the entrance to the grand recital hall, smoking, and endured the glares of people leaving. Her mind ran in a million different directions, none of them taking her where she wanted to go. She wanted to run to Marci and beg her forgiveness for being so selfish. For not seeing. She wanted to fall into Marci's arms and return her declaration of love.

But how can I? I didn't say it. I couldn't. And she's leaving. To run away or get away?

An usher appeared and asked if she would like to come inside while she waited. Jessie stared into the candlelit, wood-wrapped warmth of the empty nave, shivered, and declined. The doors closed, and she wandered to the sidewalk.

I'm the psycho woman. She came to her senses.

Jessie walked along the front of the old building until she could see down the side all the way to the alley. She spied a long black limousine sitting in the dark, parking lights on, waiting. She thought of rushing back and pounding on the doors of the church until the usher opened up and let her back in. Back into Marci's heart. But some habits are too ingrained. Too hard to break.

But she's in love! She said it! Why would she leave?

Instead she dropped the red rose on the sidewalk and put her engraved invitation in the small purse she carried. With resolution she turned to the traffic to watch for a cab.

No take-backs.

* * *

A block away from the church, bright headlights heading her way swerved to the curb, and a long black car glided to a stop. A window came down and there was Marci.

“Are we going your way?”

Jessie was surprised. Marci wasn't.

The door popped open while traffic honked and whizzed by. Jessie tumbled in and reached for Marci.

“I'd like you to meet my father, Alexander Dionysius. Father, this is Jessica Butler, the woman I told you about.”

The man was sitting on a bench seat that ran along the side of the length of the back interior of the long car. He was balancing Marci's cello case in the middle of the floor. Stocky build, salt-and-pepper hair, dark brooding eyes, and elegantly dressed in a tuxedo, he reached out a hand.

“You're the guitar picker.”

Was that disdain? Or is he just pissed about something?

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Jessie shook the man's hand and turned back to Marci. “I—”

“And tell me, Miss Butler—”

“Father. Don't bore Jessie with a bunch of silly questions.”

“I think I have a right—”

Something was wrong. The back of the car was a web of dynamics Jessie couldn't read, but she could tell something wasn't right. Marci sounded warm and polite. Even hospitable. But nothing more.

“We're going for a late dinner.” Marci interrupted and settled in her corner of the backseat. “You should come with us. A kind of christening before my maiden voyage. My agent's been trying to organize a world tour for me for more than a year. I turned her down again last week. I thought I might be busy. But things didn't work out. So I called her late last night and told her to go ahead. That there was nothing pressing to keep me from going.”

The back of the car grew as quiet as a morgue. Jessie blanched and tried to keep the tears at bay.

Nothing pressing to keep me from going. Marci's words played over and over in Jessie's head.

They arrived in silence and piled out of the car. Given Marci's father's presence, Jessie didn't reach for Marci's hand or try to pull her into her arms. But she wanted to. Every second of every minute Jessie caught herself holding her breath and holding back. The three of them walked into the restaurant together like any other normal people would. The maître d' addressed Marci's father by name and showed them to a secluded table away from most of the noise of the restaurant.

Marci was talking about her concert that evening. “I don't believe I've ever performed that well before. Ever. Do you, Father?”

“You were superb, dear.” The man waved for a waiter and stared openly at Jessie.

Jessie tried to lean close and whisper, but Marci busied herself with her linen napkin and kept talking. “A recital. Not really a concert. My farewell to LA. You see, I'm going on tour. I'll be traveling for five months. Oh, but I told you that, didn't I?”

Jessie wanted to scream. To grab Marci and kiss her mouth shut.

“Did I miss anything?” A woman's voice, heavy with an accent Jessie didn't recognize, stopped Marci talking. She looked across Jessie's shoulder and smiled brightly.

“I'm sorry I missed your recital, dear. But with organizing everything with such short notice, I just couldn't get off the phone.”

“Isabella.” Mr. Dionysius was on his feet shaking the hand of a tall, elegantly dressed woman. Her jet-black hair was coifed like that of some Jackie Onassis wannabe. After Marci's father released the woman's hand, her startling black eyes fell on Jessie. Marci's father went on. “Not a thing. We were just ordering drinks. Maybe a bottle of wine? Some champagne to celebrate?”

“Marci. Dear.” The woman walked around the end of the table, bent, and applied a chaste peck to Marci's cheek. “And you have a guest. How rude of me.”

A finely manicured hand poked the air a foot from Jessie's face.

“This is Isabella di Rossetti.” Marci's hand fell on Jessie's. “I believe I mentioned her. From my years at Juilliard? One of my professors. Isabella, this is Jessie.”

Jessie was suffocating. Their corner of the restaurant was uncomfortably quiet. She was sure she would die and be swept away with the remains of the day to the Dumpster out back. She finally managed to shove up from the table and take a step back.

“Oh! You are the—how do they say it?—guitar picker?”

“Me? Right! Yep!” Jessie's smile felt goofy even to her. “That's me. The guitar picker. If y'all 'll just give me a minute, I think I need to powder my nose. Nice to meetcha, Isabella.”

Jessie grabbed her small purse from the top of the table, turned, and walked quickly across the main floor of the restaurant. She felt light-headed. The room looped sideways. Her feet didn't want to cooperate. She held her hand out in case she fell.

She staggered past the maître d', past the bar, and through the foyer toward the front door of the restaurant. Just as she shoved past the doorman, a hand fell on her shoulder and pulled her back, spinning her around.

“Jessie.”

She stared wild-eyed at Marci, turned back around, and pushed through the door again into the crowd of parking guys and customers who were standing around. She yelled at no one in particular to get her a cab. On the sidewalk she strode to the corner of the restaurant, almost falling twice, doubled over, and swallowed to keep from throwing up. Sure she's in love. She's so in love she ran back to…

Marci touched Jessie's shoulder and whispered, “Jessie.”

“You fucking bitch. All you wanted to do was fuck some straight girl into loving—”

“Don't, Jessie. I can explain.” Marci was calm and composed.

“Not much to explain. Looks pretty simple to me. You went out and found—” Jessie was frantic.

“No. That's not it at all.” Marci's composure hurt more than any words.

“Then what the fuck is it?”

Marci looked over Jessie's shoulder at the valet crew milling around and shoved her down the side of the restaurant into a shadow.

Jessie pushed past Marci and started to walk away. “Maybe you're still trying to figure out if it was love or just sex. Is that it, Marci?”

“Don't, Jessie. Don't do this to us.” Marci reached out and pulled Jessie back.

“Us!” Jessie could feel her blood boiling. “You mean the three of us? You, me, and Isabella? Is she going to teach me about love too? Is that it, Marci? I couldn't say it, so you've found me a teacher?”

“Stop it, Jessie! How the hell do you think I found you walking along the road looking for a taxi?” Marci was indignant. “I saw you! The minute I took the stage, I saw you! It was all for you, Jessie. The best performance of my life? The question before the encore? All for you.”

Jessie hesitated.

Marci's countenance softened. “Yeah, I'm in love. I'm in love with you. You, Jessie. I waited in back for you after the recital hoping you'd come. Hoping you'd find me. And then you didn't. After we left I told our driver I'd forgotten something and had to go back so we'd have to drive in front of the church. I did that for you. For us. Don't you see?”

The only thing Jessie saw was that Marci was leaving and the only other woman Marci had ever professed her love to was being paraded in front of her like some stupid playground taunt. She stared at Marci and ground her teeth.

“Don't do this, Jessie. I'll be gone for almost five months.” Marci met Jessie's challenging gaze without hesitation. “Come back inside with me. Let's tell my father about us. You know I love you. He'll listen. I guarantee it. All you have to do is say it.”

Jessie felt a tear break loose and slide down her cheek. Someone yelled down the side of the building, “Your taxi's here, lady.”

She stared and said nothing.

“Okay. Then say it to me, Jessie.” Marci stepped closer, touched Jessie's hand, and implored. “Right now. Just say it.”

Jessie felt another tear break loose.

“If you're that ashamed of what we are, what you are, how can you ever expect to find love? You certainly won't find it in your little pink book.” The words were meant to hurt, and Marci hit the mark.

“At least I didn't call and have them all show up for dinner. Jesus, Marci! You're a real piece of work.”

“You think that's what this is? That I planned this? I had no idea you were going to show up tonight.” Marci reached for Jessie again. Her composure, real or feigned, hurt more than her words. “Hell, Jess, I didn't know if I'd ever see you again. Ever. Isabella is going on the tour with me. She speaks four languages. She knows my music. She's connected everywhere. She's taking a sabbatical to go with me.”

“And what else does Isabella do that I don't do?” Jessie shoved past and tried to escape.

Marci grabbed Jessie's arm and held her in place. Her words came out firm and unyielding.

“Jessie, I'm sorry this is all so fast. I really am. I know I'm pushing too hard, and that's not fair. But sometimes life isn't fair. One hot, muggy day in Memphis, you and I decided to sneak off and enjoy each other. I think we did. I know I did. But we got caught.”

Jessie tried to run, but Marci's fingers dug in.

“A year ago your sister thought she was in love. You proved her wrong and destroyed her life. But you were right. And now she's married to a wonderful man, a worthy man.”

Rage blossomed in Jessie's chest. Marci went on.

“My mother came home one day with the news that she had cancer. Six months later she was gone. Even with all the money and doctors my father threw at the problem, he couldn't save her. Life isn't fair, Jessie. It's messy and noisy and full of things we'd rather not see. But that's how life is.”

When Jessie pulled again Marci let go and whispered her final words.

“Sometimes there isn't time for neat and tidy. Sometimes you have to take a chance and hope things work out for the best. Don't go, Jessie. I need you. I love you. And I don't believe you'd be here if you didn't feel something for me that went beyond a bed and a lot of sweaty grunts and moans.”

Jessie's mind betrayed her heart, and her body obeyed. She turned away from the only person she'd ever met who could fill her eyes with tears of regret, and her first few steps turned into a mad dash as she searched frantically for her taxi. She curled into the backseat and cried. Her body shook with each mournful sob. Her driver dodged traffic like a madman trying to get the crazy woman to her destination before she really freaked out.

* * *

Jessie stripped her clothes off, grabbed her duffel bag, and pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt. Then she stuffed all her clothes in her bag, got the rest of her things, and checked out of her hotel. She waved a taxi down and headed for the Greyhound bus station.

She scrabbled around in her purse, trying not to cry, until she found what she was looking for. Jessie didn't know how it had happened. She'd found it tangled in her fingers when she was crying in the back of her taxi. It was shiny and looked brand new. Not a cheap trinket. Something nice. She ran her finger across the smooth gold finish of the nameplate and felt the ridge of the inscription.

Must have been when I pushed by. It got caught in my fingers.

Jessie didn't need to read either one of the inscriptions. She'd already read them a hundred times. She swallowed a choked sob when she kissed the outside of the bracelet's nameplate and whispered, “Marci.”

She turned the plate over, chains dangling from each end, and ran her shaking finger along the curved inside of the nameplate. She didn't know why it was inscribed. She only knew that knowing the inscription existed at all made her feel better.

She pressed her thumbs into the plate and pushed hard until Marci was on the inside. She inspected the clasp, then put the bracelet on. She looked one last time at the inscription that was now on the outside.

Jessie.

She sighed.

I knew you'd break my heart.

Jessie did what she did best.

She ran.

Chapter Nine

After sunny California in August, Denver in late September seemed glacial to Jessie. But she knew that all the cold she felt wasn't about the weather. Denver suffered the slow death of Jessie's broken heart, and she'd been invited to leave after two nights of bad timing and sour faces. No one had told her that blues players aren't allowed to burst randomly into tears while trying to break the audience's hearts.

Bernie finally caught up with her fifty miles east of Denver floggin' the grey dog to St. Louis.

“Not now, Bernie. I'm not going to do it.”

“But Jessie, come on. He's got a record company lined up. They're talking a big advance. A chance like this only comes once in a life—” The man sounded like he was going to start bawling like a baby.

“If I even go near a recording studio right now, it will all come out wrong. I just can't do it, Bernie. My heart's not in it. But I'll call you. I promise.”

“No you won't. I'll call you and you'll do this to me.” Bernie's phone made a loud clicking noise in Jessie's ear when he snapped it shut.

She stuffed her phone in the pocket of her jeans and sulked.

In St. Louis, a city she'd never played before, she tried to fill up her days with sightseeing. Sightseeing turned to walking around in a daze on the sidewalk, staring at cigarette butts and chewing gum. She drew from the well of professionalism she'd grown into after years on the road and was finally able to have some fun with her audience. But the fun was forced. And a lot of work. She was exhausted every night, and her pillow was still wet every morning.

When the excruciating agony of St. Louis was over, she ran some more. St. Louis wasn't far enough away from the woman who had broken her heart. It didn't matter that Marci wasn't in LA. It didn't matter that every chance Jessie got she'd stop in some Internet café and surf around looking for news and notices about Marci's world tour. It also didn't matter that videos with snippets and brief appearances of Marci were a gift from God.

By the time she stopped in Nashville, she'd massaged her pain into anger. Her music took on an edge that, surprisingly, the audience loved. She didn't know if her anger was directed at Marci or herself.

She was packing them into a little dive in an alley behind the hallowed stage of the Grand Ole Opry when a new distraction stepped into Jessie's life.

“Do you have any original work?”

Jessie waved a waitress down and ordered a beer. The woman had been sitting at a table by herself the night before. She didn't have the Nashville look, and Jessie pegged her for a tourist. She was petite, somewhere north of fifty, had short blonde hair in a pixie cut, and smiled a lot. When Jessie saw her at the same table a second night, this time accompanied by a wizened old black man with gray hair, she didn't think much of it. Groupies came in all sizes, shapes, colors, and sexes. She was used to people who enjoyed her music and sat close to the stage where they could be seen.

She'd wrapped a set of Jimmy Rogers and John Lee Hooker tunes, and the woman had waved her over.

Jessie thought about the question, took a pull on her beer, and finally answered.

“A few instrumentals. Not much worth listening to. I just like to sing the blues. But I can cover just about anybody.”

“Let me introduce myself. I'm Judy Lewiston and this is a friend of mine, Cotton Mouth Lee. Maybe you've heard of him.”

Jessie stared in disbelief. She'd always thought the man was dead. As far as she knew, everyone thought Cotton Mouth Lee had passed on to that great blues stage in the sky.

“Sure! Who the hell doesn't know who Cotton Mouth Lee is?” Jessie shoved her hand across the table to shake the hand of a true blues legend. “I can't tell you how happy I am to meet you.”

The man's grip was firm but with a tremble, his eyes smoky, and his almost toothless smile ready and disarming.

“You too, little lady. I gots ta tell ya I ain't never heard no one could sing Jimmy Rogers like you do. And a woman to boot. Ol' Jimmy. He'd love that.”

The two of them talked blues for almost thirty minutes. Finally the owner of the bar stopped by and reminded Jessie she had two more sets to play. He looked at his watch; then he looked at Cotton Mouth Lee. His mouth dropped open, and he walked away pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Listen.” Judy Lewiston leaned across the table. “I caught your show last night and I wanted Mr. Lee to meet you. I don't know how you'd feel about this, but Mr. Lee has his guitar out in my car. He'd sure like to sing a few—”

“Hell yes he can!”

Judy Lewiston left to retrieve Cotton Mouth Lee's guitar, and Jessie helped one of the best Delta blues singers ever make his way to the stage. He clung to her arm and leaned close when they got under the lights.

“You mind if we ask them other guys to sit this one out?”

Hell no, I don't mind. We can have 'em stand on their head and whistle Dixie if you want.

Jessie waved off her pickup band and found a chair for Cotton Mouth. Judy brought the man's guitar up, and Jessie grabbed the microphone.

“Hey there, Nashville. Do I have a treat for you. Mr. Cotton Mouth Lee, everybody!” The noise level doubled, and someone hollered, “You shittin' me?”

They played and sang for half an hour. Jessie danced around on her electric behind Cotton Mouth's acoustic. They traded verses and vocal backup. Thirty minutes later Cotton Mouth managed to stand, his nearly toothless grin big as a jack-o'-lantern's, and thanked the crowd. Judy collected the old man and his guitar and promised Jessie she'd be back after her last set.

“I'd like to discuss something with you.”

The rest of the night was a blur. Jessie finished her last set, and, as promised, Judy was sitting at the bar waiting for her. Jessie ordered a beer and took a stool beside Judy.

“I'm a little pressed for time. I have to catch a flight to New York in two hours. But here's the deal. I'm an agent. Cotton Mouth is one of my talents. He'd like to do one more album, maybe make a few appearances before he dies. He can't do more than an hour live, but that hour is solid gold.”

Jessie took a pull on her longneck and played back in her mind Cotton Mouth Lee singing “You're The One” earlier.

“He asked me to look for someone. He wants to do his album with that person. Not as a studio musician. He thinks that Delta blues has lost its way. He wants to pass along the torch. Whoever does this would get equal billing, his praise, and his undying gratitude. He wants to know that after he's gone someone is carrying on with the true tradition of blues the way it was meant to be sung.

“The deal with the record company is that they get to re-release all his old stuff, they get one new album from him singing with whomever he picks, and that person gets a three-album deal right up front. That's Mr. Lee's way of ensuring the tradition continues.”

“Wow. That sounds great. I can't even believe I got to sing with the man. Cotton Mouth Lee. Amazing. Hell, wait till I tell my daddy. Has he decided who he's gonna pick?”

“Sure he has!” Judy's reflection showed surprise in the mirror behind the bar. “Well. If you're interested, that is.”

Jessie nearly fell off her bar stool.

“The thing is, Cotton Mouth Lee hasn't got much time left. Cancer. The doctor says nine months at the most. Six or seven he'll be fairly active. So if you're interested, we need to get started.”

“But—”

“The record company has agreed to a two-hundred-thousand-dollar advance for whoever Mr. Lee picks. That would be you. This deal has special royalties. Not the standard rates they give to new artists. They'll put you up and pay living expenses for the month it will take to work up the album with Mr. Lee. Everything will be first-class during the promotional phase, which includes a ten-city tour. More if Mr. Lee can do it. They want the public appearances to start almost immediately.”

Jessie sat at a beat-up old bar hugging her longneck and stared fame and fortune in the eye. It was all there. Not just the money and notoriety. This was a chance to be a part of history. To step into the shoes of a person who helped create the music she loved. And to carry on that tradition.

She fidgeted and tried to put her finger on what was missing.

“How soon would we need—”

“Tomorrow. I'm not going to kid you, Jessie. We're talking about a lot of work. Sure. Doing something I think you love. But this project would take over your life for at least two years.”

“What if I needed some time? A week.”

“Can't do it, Jessie. Not right now. You can get some time off around Christmas if you want. We need every minute we can get. Mr. Lee can hear the clock ticking. Hell, the man's ninety-one. He might just drop over dead any minute.”

“Four days?”

“Is it the money? You want more mon—”

“No. That's not it.”

“Then what is there to think about? This is it, Jessie. The big chance. Not just fame and fortune but a chance to work with a living legend. I've been chasing you for a month now. When I saw you in Colorado, I thought I'd been given a bum steer. St. Louis was better. But here in Nashville you really shined.”

“You've been scouting me? I thought you just dropped in and had a beer. I figured you liked the music.”

“I don't have time to leave things to chance. I asked around. Your name came up. So what's it gonna be, Jessie? I've got my contract right here. We can sign tonight and my assistant will be in Nashville tomorrow afternoon. He'll introduce you to the record company, give you a check, and you and Mr. Lee will get started the next day. Easy as that.”

Jessie drained the last of her beer and looked around the empty dive. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve and turned on her stool. She wanted to take back the words before she even said them. But she didn't.

“I want to think about it. I need a day. Twenty-four hours. I'll call you tomorrow evening.”

“But Jessie—”

“You've been scouting me for a month. If you can't wait twenty-four hours, I'm not worth havin'.”

The woman looked put out. She reached in her handbag and dug out an envelope. She scribbled a phone number on the outside and handed it to Jessie.

“That's the contract. You have until nine tomorrow evening. Sign that and fax it to that number before then and we're all set. If I don't receive it, I'll be sitting in a bar down in SoHo listening to candidate number two.”

Jessie took the envelope and stuffed it in her back pocket.

“Don't let this one get away, Jessie. It's my business to know what works and what doesn't, who's got talent and who doesn't. You've got what it takes. You sign that contract and you'll never look back. Besides, Mr. Lee likes you. He told me outside you were the best. World-class, he said. That he didn't want me to look anymore. He's ready to start.”

“I'm flattered. Believe me, I am. But I need to step back for a minute. There is one thing you can do for me.”

“What's that?” Judy sounded ticked off. She was obviously a woman who didn't take losing well.

“You're going to the airport, aren't you? Can I get a ride?”

* * *

Jessie stepped out of the LAX national terminal and dug for her Ray-Bans. The California sun was as bright and unnaturally cheery as ever. She got in line for a taxi and lit up.

“You really shouldn't do that, Miss.”

Jessie eyed the man and his business suit, his laptop bag hanging off his shoulder. “And you really shouldn't butt into other people's business.”

She made a point of lighting up a second one while they continued waiting for a taxi. The faceless businessman with a laptop bag didn't say anything. In the taxi she pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and read the address to the driver. The page was tattered and dirty. She'd printed it along with a few other pages the day she'd met Leslie and Barbara.

The building was nondescript steel and glass surrounded by palm trees. It was also intimidating. Jessie hadn't bothered with her duffel bag. It was languishing in the boardinghouse room she'd rented for her two-week stay in Nashville. She'd left her guitar at the bar, and the only thing she had was her purse.

She walked through the big front entrance of the building and stepped up to the reception desk.

“May I help you?”

“Yeah. I'd like to see Mr. Alexander Dionysius.”

“Do you have an appointment?” A girl with blue hair and green fingernails peered at Jessie suspiciously. She looked like something from the latest alien thriller Hollywood was churning out.

“Nope. I sure don't. Tell him it's Jessica Butler.”

“Are you dropping something off? You can leave it here if you want. We'll have it taken up to Mr. Dionysius.” The girl was looking at Jessie's jeans and wrinkled T-shirt.

“I'm not dropping anything off, and no, I'm not the hired help. Is the man in or not?”

“Mr. Dionysius is busy right now. Maybe you can come back when you have an appointment.”

Stopped by a fucking twenty-year-old watchdog.

“Look. All I want you to do is see if he's got five minutes. That's all I need.”

“Is there a problem here?” Some surfer boy in a monkey suit appeared at Jessie's elbow.

“Yeah. The problem is Miss Alien Nation here. She doesn't want to see if Mr. Dionysius is available for a little face time.”

“Face time?” The security guard seemed genuinely perplexed.

“Jeez. What is it with you people? First I can't smoke in peace on the sidewalk, and now I can't even talk—”

“Let me just call Mr. Dionysius's assistant.”

She watched the girl and tried to ignore the hovering security guard.

“Mr. Dionysius's assistant will be right down.”

Jessie ignored the incredulousness of Miss Alien Nation's response and wandered away from the reception desk. Five minutes later a gray-haired woman in a Chanel suit arrived to escort her charge to the lion's den.

After a ride in a private elevator, they stopped in an elegant waiting room attended by no fewer than three women sitting behind a huge swirl of polished wood pretending to be a desk.

“I'll announce you.”

Jessie couldn't recall being announced before. Just something else that spoke of how different her world was from Marci's.

The man appeared, smile in place, and offered his hand.

“Have you had lunch yet, Miss Butler?”

The question was so out of tune with her thoughts that Jessie drew a blank. Mr. Dionysius turned to one of the three women.

“Could you have my chef come up? Lunch for two.” The man turned back to Jessie. “Steak or seafood, Miss Butler? Actually, you can have anything you'd like. I can't say I'm much of a host.”

“Er, ah, steak would be great.” Jessie felt like something was wrong. The man seemed much more affable than he had the first time they'd met.

There's danger here.

The back and forth of placing her order took the edge off, and Jessie started to relax. She was ushered into an office twice the size of a tennis court decorated with more curvy polished wood, thick beveled-glass tops, and a lot of leather. The office doors were pulled shut, and she was waved into a seat. Marci's father fell into a sleek chrome and leather chair on the other side of a desk the size of a small car.

“Let me apologize for what took place downstairs. I keep such a busy schedule that unscheduled interruptions can be a problem. Which is no excuse. At times my people can be fiercely loyal. Now, what can I do for you today, Miss Butler?”

Jessie was floored. She had expected distance, anger, anguish, and a fight. She'd expected anything but the red-carpet treatment she was getting.

She'd struggled with this moment since Judy Lewiston shoved a business card in her hand and left her standing in front of the American Airlines counter in Nashville.

She had looked at Lewiston's contract on the plane, and the woman was right. Cotton Mouth Lee would take two years of her life in a heartbeat. But she wanted her priorities straight. She didn't know how she and Marci would work out the complications of both their schedules, but Jessie didn't want Marci to think she would be expected to play second fiddle to Jessie's career. She had to at least try.

“Well, sir. It's about Marci. Er, your daughter.”

The double doors opened, and a linen-draped cart rolled in followed by a young woman with a white jacket buttoned smartly up to her neck. A man in a chef's hat followed. Next was another linen-draped cart with covered dishes pushed by a steward.

“Maybe we can discuss this over lunch?”

Jessie watched in dismay as a table in one corner of the huge office was set with crystal, silver, and china on more white linen. In the face of such finery she started feeling dingy and wrinkled. Marci's father seemed to sense her discomfort.

“My bathroom is through that door if you'd like to freshen up.”

The man's private bathroom was as big as her bedroom. Jessie took a cat bath, tried to decide which towel to use, brushed her hair out, and when she returned, salads that looked more like artwork in greenery were waiting while their steaks were being flambéed. She took her place, and the man she had feared would be difficult at the least turned out to be a delight.

“Yes. Marcella. My daughter. A beautiful woman, isn't she?”

“Yes she is.” Jessie blushed and tried to decide which part of her salad she should mess up first.

“She's a prodigy, you know? Someone gave her one of those little plastic pianos with butterflies and bumblebees on it for her third birthday. Two weeks later she was playing something she'd heard on the radio. Turned out it was 'Canon in D' by Pachelbel. All with thirteen keys…”

Jessie listened, laughed, and was slowly drawn in by Mr. Dionysius. By the time chocolate mousse was whipped up at their table, she was smiling as much as he was. Dessert was set out, and the chef and his entourage left pulling the double doors shut with an expensive-sounding click.

“And here I am taking up all your time with silly stories. I believe you came here for a reason.”

“I came here to…” Nothing worked. Ask for your daughter's hand? Declare my undying love and devotion to one of the most beautiful, captivating women I've ever met? Try to save my sorry soul and beg Marci's forgiveness? Jessie didn't feel comfortable with any of those. She decided nothing more and nothing less than what Marci had requested she do that night at the restaurant was the best place to start. She cleared her throat and started a second time. “I've come to tell you that I'm in love with your daughter.”

“Ah. L'amour.”

She was floored again. She'd steeled herself for outrage and instead got a whimsical admonition.

“Jessica? May I call you Jessica? I would think questions of the heart should be discussed on a first-name basis. Don't you?”

“Well…sure.”

“Good. And you may call me Alexander if you wish. Or Alex. Would you mind if I enjoy a cigar? Cognac?”

“Ah. No. Go ahead.” Jessie dug her cigarettes out of her purse.

“So. You think you're in love with my daughter. We won't pursue the how of knowing such a thing. Poets have been doing that for centuries, and I doubt they've come close yet. Would you agree?”

Jessie pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Marci's father, Alex, walked to a cabinet and pulled out a box of cigars. Two ashtrays as well. For the first time since she'd entered the man's office, she was scared. Philosophy and smokes was the last thing she'd anticipated after she dropped the bomb.

“Sure. I guess you could say love and broken hearts are my business. See, I'm a—”

“Blues singer. Yes, Marcella told me.”

Jessie watched the man snip the end of his cigar off and light the thing. She couldn't put her finger on what was happening, but she didn't feel like stepping on a landmine and waited quietly.

“Well. She is a lovely woman. I guess I'm not surprised. But let me ask you this, Jessica. Why now? Why here? Why was it necessary to come to my office and, well, declare your love for my daughter? I mean, isn't that really something between the two of you?”

Jessie fidgeted and looked at street signs in her head. She had no map. What road to take was completely up to her.

“Because Marci asked me to. I think—”

“You spoke to my daughter recently?” The man seemed surprised or concerned.

“No. No. We haven't talked since that night at the restaurant…” She let the word trail off. A picture of an upset or perturbed Marci going back into the restaurant alone flashed in her mind.

“Yes. The restaurant. Quite unfortunate that. So I must insist. Why now? Why today? I mean you didn't then. What's happened?”

Jessie was tired of fencing. She knew no other way to do things. She ground the butt of her cigarette into the bottom of the heavy crystal ashtray and sat on the edge of her chair. She thought she might be stepping into a trap, but she couldn't recall the last time she let that stop her.

“Look, Mr. Dionysius—”

“Alex. Please. I mean, we're practically family. Right?”

Jessie blanched. She could feel the teeth of the trap closing on her neck.

“Alex. I came here because Marci wanted me to tell you. She begged me to. She—” Jessie shut her mouth with an audible snap. Her world tumbled around her like a house of cards. Marci's words that night in bed in Jessie's hotel room came rushing back. My father doesn't know. She realized that Marci's father might not even know his daughter was gay. That the trap was exactly that. The man was insisting that she out his daughter. She had no idea what would happen then.

Fuck! I've fucked up big time. Shit! Damn!

Jessie wanted to jump up and run. She was scared for Marci. She slumped back in her chair and stared, wide-eyed, at Mr. Dionysius. The man got up and went to the cabinet a second time. A crystal bottle of amber liquid and two snifters appeared. He poured and set one in front of Jessie before returning to his end of the playing field with his own.

“I'm trying to figure you out, Jessica. You obviously came here with something of great importance to share with me, yet you're afraid to say it. I'm pretty good at these sorts of things. If you give me a minute, I can probably figure this conundrum out.”

Jessie pushed up from her chair and searched for her purse.

“Really. Please. Wait. I insist… Ah! I see it now. You're afraid you're telling me something you shouldn't. Something you thought I knew but now you realize I may not know. You're afraid you might hurt Marcella by telling me these things. That's it, isn't it?”

“Listen, Mr. Dio—Alex. Maybe I should go. I don't know what I was doing. I can be a little…”

“Passionate? Yes. That's what Marcella told me that night before her recital. That she was in love with a beautiful, passionate woman. A songbird I believe she called you. Someone who plays the guitar as if she'd sold her soul to the devil.” The man sounded whimsical.

Jessie was flabbergasted.

“I was going to say impetuous.” She slumped back into her seat and tried to read the man sitting across the table enjoying his cigar and cognac.

“Now I get it. You thought I didn't know she's…right. Okay. Well. She told me. Now you can have your say. There are no secrets here.”

Jessie was exhausted. Between being up all night and fencing with Marci's father, all the energy she'd brought with her was gone. She pulled the snifter over, drew a whiff, and took a heavy hit. She steeled herself.

“Marci asked me to do this. That night outside the restaurant, she begged me to go back inside and tell you. To explain that I love her. So that's what I'm doing. I came here to tell you I'm in love with your daughter.”

The man smiled and took a long draw on his cigar. Jessie pulled out her cigarettes and lit another. Her fingers shook. Finally he spoke.

“Why would she ask you to do that?”

“I…well. I'm not sure. I think it was a test of some kind.”

“A test of your love? Beautiful, isn't it? That feeling. The uncertainty. The excitement. All the emotion. At least that's what I felt for Marcella's mother. I've gotta say, it was scary as hell. But I must insist. You didn't come back in the restaurant that night. You didn't declare your love then when you say my daughter begged you to. Some might say you failed the test. Failed her.”

Touché… You win. I'm not worthy. Jessie was ready to leave again.

“So why now?”

Because I'm an idiot. You aren't getting that vibe yet?

“Maybe because I know I hurt Marci, and I want to make up for it somehow.” Jessie ground out her second smoke, sat up straight, and stared Alexander Dionysius in the eye. “No. I came here because I was a fool. Because I messed things up and I want to make it right. I came here because I love your daughter.”

“And those are all virtuous reasons, and I salute you, but there must have been a catalyst. What would that be?”

“More than loving your daughter? I don't know what you're talking about. What else is there?”

“Forgive my being insistent as well as seeming obtuse, but why today? Why not tomorrow or next week? Five months from now when Marcella returns? There must be a reason. Something sent you to my receptions desk this morning to fight with my security guards. What was it?”

“I…” Jessie tried to see where the man was headed. Finally she surrendered. “I guess it's because I have to make a decision that could affect Marci…both of us. I just wanted to get this off my chest before I call her. I need to find her. Talk to her. I also thought you could tell me how to get in touch.”

“I can have my assistant get her itinerary and phone numbers if you'd like. And may I ask? You say this decision could affect both of you. What it is? Maybe I can help.”

“I don't think so. Just something about me. Well, something I might do.”

“Look, Jessica. I feel you don't trust me. I'm not sure why. I mean it when I say I might be able to help. Give me a chance.”

Jessie glanced at her watch. It was already after two in the afternoon on the east coast. Nothing had gone as planned, but that was probably because she'd had no plan to start with. Just a burning need to fulfill Marci's wish. She pushed up, looked around until she found her purse, pulled out the envelope Judy Lewiston had given her, and placed it on the table in front of Mr. Dionysius.

“I've been offered an opportunity. Actually, a pretty important one. It would take up a lot of my time. A lot. I just wanted to talk to Marci. I don't want to… I don't want to take it if there won't be time for us.”

“Very noble. May I look?”

“Sure. Go ahead. Whatever. But there's a time limit. I need to decide fast.”

“Umm.” Reading glasses appeared.

Jessie walked around looking at photos of ships and buildings. She had no idea what Dionysius Enterprises did, but she guessed it had something to do with ships and buildings. And lots of money.

“Judy Lewiston. I know of her. If you need I can give her a call.” It came out like an afterthought. Before Jessica could respond, he went on. “Okay. So. You're under the gun and you need to make a decision.”

“I've done what I wanted. I just need to get in touch—”

“Give me enough time to go through the contract. That's all I'm asking.”

The man was an enigma wrapped in a riddle sitting in a glass tower where they served great food.

“Why not?” Jessie settled back and sipped whatever was in her snifter. Marci's father read and flipped pages. Fifteen minutes later his reading glasses came off.

“I'm impressed. Really. I'm just a businessman, and I must confess I know very little about this kind of music. You truly are a valuable talent. I'm standing in the presence of greatness and I'm not saying that lightly. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line, and fame and fortune is yours. One word of advice, though. They're low-balling your advance. I'd hold out for three hundred at least.”

Jessie had no idea what was supposed to happen now. She just wanted to talk to Marci.

“Thanks, Alex. Listen, maybe I could call Marci. I really would like to talk to her.”

“And I can see why. This really is the kind of career decision a couple should make together. Just indulge me one more question.”

“Why not? Like you said. No secrets here.”

“I'm glad you see things that way. I know you think you love my daughter. You wouldn't have gone through all this if you didn't. But tell me how much you love her.”

“What? I don't get it. You mean like more than cherry pie and less than—”

“Please. Tell me how much.”

“I didn't know how much until she was gone. She's everything to me. I don't know what you want me to say.”

“Do you love her enough to give this up?” She watched him pick up the contract and hold it between his fingers.

“I don't know if I need to or not. That's why I'd really like to find Marci and talk to her.”

“But I'm asking you. Here. Now. And let me make it a little more difficult.” Jessie watched her contract drop to the top of the desk and heard Mr. Dionysius ask someone on the telephone to come to his office. Jessie sat there and stared at the woman trying to figure out what the hell she had to do with anything.

“Did you find out what I asked you?”

“Yes, sir. I did. We have the funds available. They can be in Miss Butler's account tomorrow morning when the banks open.”

“That's all. Thanks.” The man shoved Jessie's contract across the desk. “I am prepared to deposit a million dollars in your bank account tomorrow. You can sign your contract and become an American icon. You can have more than you ever dreamed of. The only thing you can't have is my daughter. You have to agree to never see or talk to Marcella again. Ever. For the rest of your life. What do you say?”

Jessie thought she'd pass out from the instant shot of rage.

“You'd give me a million dollars to never see your daughter again?” She was furious.

“Or you tear this contract up right now. I'll give you, both of you, my blessing.”

“Are you nuts? Why the hell would I tear the contract up?”

“To prove to me how much you love my daughter. Love is about sacrifice. I want to see what you're willing to sacrifice for the woman you love. Show me, Jessica.”

“What kind of a twisted person are you? What the hell does throwing away the opportunity of a lifetime prove? That I'm an idiot?”

“And you're not. I know you're not. Think about it, Jessica. What about children? How can there ever be children? What about God? It's a sin.” The man who ruled an empire of ships and buildings and probably stared down presidents and kings over cocktails finally cracked. “It's just not right. Don't you see that? I tried to talk to Marcella. I tried to explain. She just wouldn't listen. But if you say no, if you're gone, then she will see that this was just an infatuation. Some childish experimentation she can survive.”

Jessie almost felt sorry for him when he dropped his elbows on his desk and hung his head in his hands. But almost wasn't enough.

“God? What about God? What do you know about God? Last I heard he loves everyone. Doesn't matter what color you are or whom you might love. He said we should love one another, and I plan on doing just that.”

She dug in her pocket and pulled her cigarette lighter out. She pushed up from her chair, dangled her contract from her fingers, and lit the bottom corner. When Marci's father looked up, she explained. “Doesn't matter anyway. I wouldn't have signed without talking to Marci first. That's what people in love do. They talk about things. They try to work things out. You know who taught me that, Mr. Dionysius?”

The man watched the paper turn black and rain ash on his desk. He said nothing.

“Marci did. Well, she tried to. I wouldn't let her. But I get it now.”

“Don't do this—”

“Or you'll what?” Jessie leaned across the desk and stuck her finger in the middle of the mess she'd made. “I'm a lesbian, Alex. I'm a daughter of Sappho from the Greek isle of Lesbos. You're Greek. Maybe you've heard of the place. I'm a card-carrying member of the Dykes-R-Us Club. I'm gay. And you're a man, so the size of your dick or your pocketbook doesn't impress me. It may take me a while, but I'll find Marci. And if she'll still have me, I'll take her away from you. And then we'll see who never gets to talk to her the rest of his life. Asshole.”

Jessie threw the doors open and marched past Mr. Dionysius's ladies in waiting. One of the secretaries waved a piece of paper.

“I'm supposed to give this to you, Miss Butler.”

“Shove it up the head prick's ass!”

Jessie did what she always did, but this time it felt different.

She ran.

She jogged down the long wood-wrapped hallway toward the elevator, and for the first time in her life she was scared out of her wits. She only hoped she knew where she was going.

Chapter Ten

Jessie bid good riddance to Cali-fuckin'-fornia, its surfer boys and alien girls, its palm trees and million-dollar sugar daddies, and flipped her last smoke at a passing car in front of LAX. She lucked out and made a connection through Atlanta that would get her back to Nashville in time for her second set. She called Johnnie, apologized, and promised to be there before eleven.

“Some woman's been calling here for you. Lowenstein or somethin' like that. Said it was real important.” Johnnie gave her the news as soon as she walked in the door.

“Lewiston. Don't worry about it, Johnnie.”

“She's been calling every hour. What do I tell her when she calls back?”

Jessie hesitated. It was still there. The dream was still alive.

“Tell her…” She stared into her future and saw nothing without Marci. “Tell her I hear SoHo has some really great blues joints. Maybe she should check them out.”

With that, Jessie strapped her Gibson on and took the stage. She convinced herself she didn't harbor sadness for letting the opportunity of a lifetime slip away.

The next morning Jessie went to the post office and applied for a passport. She watched the polyester-clad guy with his ruddy complexion and empty eyes dig out the form she wanted. She tussled the rest of the day with walking up to Marci in some strange country, pulling her into her arms, and telling her how much she loved her.

She consigned Isabella to some lesser role in her play.

Sure. An extra. No lines. So sorry, bitch.

She found an Internet café and started searching. The guy at the post office had said two to three weeks. She looked at Marci's concert schedule and worked out the days. She had no idea what else she needed to find Marci.

The next day she called her sister.

“Hey, Short Stuff. How's that nephew of mine doin' in the oven?”

They talked for an hour. Her sister sounded happy, and Jessie was glad. She invited Jessie up for Thanksgiving, and Jessie told her she'd think about it.

“Listen. I wanted to see if you knew any way to get in touch with Marci?”

“She's on tour. Somewhere in Europe.”

“Yeah. I know. But I wanted to try and find her. She's gotta have an agent or something.”

“What do you need to talk to her for?”

Jessie didn't miss the inflection. She had hoped her sister wouldn't ask. Or, in the worst case, would assume and still not ask.

“I just need to talk to her. That's all. Don't you know some way to get in touch with her? A cell phone?”

“She doesn't use a cell phone. Thing went off in the middle of some recital once. She threw it out. You could call her father. I've got the house number and his office number.”

“No. No. That's okay. I just thought—”

“She'll be home for Christmas. I could call her father if—”

“No! Just forget it.”

The silence drew out, and Jessie was about to say good-bye.

“I don't believe it.”

“What?” Jessie just wanted off the phone.

“You.”

“Me? What about me?”

“Somebody finally did it.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Kimmie? Listen, I've gotta go. I get onstage in a couple of hours, and I want to eat early enough it doesn't—”

“Somebody finally got through to that heart of stone of yours. The psycho woman's in love.”

The pink elephant waltzed back into Jessie's life and knocked over the crystal with a loud crash.

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about.” Jessie thought she sounded pretty convincing.

“Right. Then I guess you wouldn't be interested in her agent's number, would you?”

“I've gotta go. Catch ya—”

“Don't you hang up on me, Jessica Butler. Look. It's okay. Really. I wasn't mad at you that day in the hotel because… Well, it was obvious what you two had been up to. It wasn't about that.”

“Just forget it, Kimmie. Really. I've gotta go.”

“And what? Run away? That's what you always do. Why change now?”

“Oh yeah? Then why were you such a bitch?” Jessie had no idea where that question came from. Probably lurking behind the million-dollar sugar daddy who was holding the leash of the pink elephant.

“Listen, Psycho Woman. I was a bitch because I thought you were trying to mix Marci up in one of your crazy schemes to piss off our mother! I was a bitch because Marci's my friend. Because you'd been gone for a year, God knows where, and I figured you were gonna hurt her just like you did me! Because that's what you do! You hurt people! Especially the ones who love you!” Her sister was yelling.

“Stop it!” Jessie felt hot, angry, and mean. And she couldn't stop crying. “Stop it! You don't know anything. What would you have done? I mean, there she was, this woman. This Italian, looking all sleek and elegant! The first woman Marci ever loved! Right there in my face! Then Marci chases me out of the restaurant and tells me all I have to do is tell her father. All I have to do is say I love her! That simple! And me? What did I do? You're right, Sis! I'm a psycho woman! And I did what I always do! I ran away! Just like that! I couldn't do it…so I ran away.” Jessie curled into a ball on her boardinghouse bed and cried.

“Jessie. Hey…” Kimmie called through the phone softly.

“And then, like some idiot, I go to her dad! What an asshole! But he's right! I'm not worthy! I don't deserve Marci! I don't deserve anyone!”

“Jessie…”

“Wait! Then I didn't call this woman back. Yeah. The big break whacks me on the head, and I just burn the fucking contract up!”

“Jessie!” Her sister was yelling again.

She sniffed and pulled a corner of the sheet up and wiped her eyes. “What?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

They talked for another hour. Jessie told her story. All of it. She confessed to the next best thing there is in the world to a priest. Her kid sister. Finally Jessie had to get off the phone.

“Listen, Short Stuff. I'm sorry. About all of it. I'm glad we talked. We'll talk some more. But you have to promise me you won't say anything to Mom and Dad.”

“Sure, Jessie. But listen, do you want this phone number? Maybe she can tell you how to find Marci.”

“Sure.” Jessie cabbaged around in her messy room for a pencil and a scrap of paper.

“Okay. Her name's Judy Lewiston. The number—”

“Who?”

“Judy Lewiston. That's Marci's agent. Her number is—”

“Never mind. I've already got her number.”

Mr. Dionysius knew the woman better than he let on.

* * *

Jessie sat eating a grilled cheese after her first set. She'd had a beer and she asked Johnnie for a Jack on the rocks. The smoky Tennessee whiskey felt good going down. She couldn't remember the last time she'd really laid one on. And just like a fly to cow shit, some idiot in a cowboy hat showed up at her elbow and bought her another. The guy had killer good looks and was fast on the draw.

“Hey there, Miss Butler. I was wonderin' what you was doin' later on tonight. After you finish. Maybe we can get together or somethin'.”

Somethin' my rosy red ass.

“That's awful sweet of you, cowboy. Maybe some other time.”

He went away with a hangdog expression, and she finished her sandwich. Five minutes later she wandered to the stage carrying her second hit from Mr. Daniel.

Marci had been haunting her all day. She missed her. She missed her smile, her warmth, her whispered words. Jessie was antsy to get started. To set things straight. To make amends. But she could do nothing but wait.

The crowd was still clapping after her first number when she grabbed the microphone and pulled it close. “Hey there, Nashville. Are we havin' fun yet?”

“Hell yes!”

“Good. You back there, Johnnie? How 'bout another one? I think it's time we get this party goin'!” She grabbed the cowboy's drink, waved it in the air, and downed it in one long chug. Then she went into her next song. The crowd was getting raucous, and the party was definitely getting under way.

After her next song she noticed the cowboy had moved to a table up by the stage. When she finished she grabbed the microphone and pulled it close again.

“That's right. A mean, mean woman. That's what every man needs.” Three Jacks and a beer on a grilled cheese sandwich had done its magic. Jessie had a nice buzz going, and it reminded her of another place and another kind of buzz. The buzz of being in Marci's arms. She hugged the microphone stand and shushed the crowd. “Listen! Listen! I gotta say somethin'.”

The place got as quiet as a dive could get, and Jessie waved her empty glass in the air. Everyone laughed, and another drink magically appeared.

“Come on, people! Let's party!”

Beer bottles and glasses shot up, and Jessie downed her fourth Jack. She went into her next song and lost the words somewhere toward the end. She shushed the crowd again and danced with the microphone stand in a slow wobbly sway. The crowd was really getting into her little party.

“So. I wanna tell everyone a secret. Ya wanna know a secret, Nashville?”

“Hell yes!”

Damn! Great fucking crowd tonight.

“Okay. I'm gonna tell ya jus' as soon as ol' Johnnie gets me a refill.” Jessie blanched when she took a swig of her fifth Jack on the rocks. The glass had iced tea in it. She tried to glare at Johnnie, but the stage lights were too bright. She was about to start her next number when someone yelled, “What's your secret, Jessie?”

“Shhhhh. Shhhhh. It's a secret!”

Everyone laughed, and Jessie shushed the crowd again. “Okay. Okay. I'm gonna tell ya. But ya gotta promise not to tell anyone. Nobody! That's an orator… Oops, order.”

“We promise!” came back from the crowd, and Jessie grinned real big and goofy like drunk people sometimes do.

“Okay. This is it. This cowboy here, he wants to get together later.” She pointed down at the guy at the table before going on. “I just didn't have the heart to tell him. If he ain't got tits bigger 'n mine, I ain't interested.”

The only sound in the place was ice being dropped into a blender. Somewhere in her haze of Jack and beer, Jessie got lost when she tried to figure out why everyone was so quiet.

“Hell, Jessie. We don't care who you love. Long as you keep singin'.” Somebody whooped, a wall of noise hit her like a wave, the bass and drum player started, and Jessie sang her next tune. When she finally finished her set, she hit the women's restroom like a cannonball shot from a Confederate cannon and puked herself almost sober. She still had a slight list when she walked, but the buzz was definitely gone.

Johnnie made a face at her when she sidled up to the bar to get a bottle of water. When she went back for her last set, the crowd whooped and hollered. Jessie strapped on her guitar and stepped to the microphone. She was still trying to recall the big secret she'd told the crowd. It came rushing back when she looked down at the cowboy's table. He was gone. Replaced by a blonde and a brunette. The blonde didn't look old enough to be drinking yet, and the brunette looked somewhere north of forty. Both had on cowboy hats and jeans. And both women had bigger tits than Jessie.

* * *

Jessie stepped up to the counter and ordered something pretending to be a home-cooked biscuit with sausage and cheese in the middle. She also got the biggest orange juice they had. She was still wearing her Ray-Bans in spite of the steady early morning downpour that was drenching Nashville. She wondered how Merle Haggard ever did it.

She found a booth and sat down. Someone had left a morning paper, and she stared at the print without reading while she chewed. A picture of Cotton Mouth Lee floated in through her morning hangover, and she took her sunglasses off. There it was. Front page. Some guy who called himself Mississippi Mud would be doing a new record with the blues legend Cotton Mouth Lee. Jessie read the article instead of eating her breakfast. She'd never heard of Mississippi Mud and wondered who the hell the guy was.

“Nashville,” Jessie mumbled in disgust.

Cali-fuckin'-fornia could fall into the ocean, and the latest record deal would be front-page news in Nashville.

She looked twice when her name came up at the end of the article. Miss Butler declined the deal in spite of Cotton Mouth Lee's wishes… At the bottom of the article she found a reference to page three to learn more about Miss Butler.

She flipped the front page over, and there she was. Big goofy grin. Clinging to a microphone. A picture taken the night before during one of her sets. When she saw the headline, it wasn't difficult to figure out which set—BIGGER THAN MINE.

Jessie grabbed her sunglasses, put them back on, and looked around the fast-food joint. She nibbled on her sausage and biscuit and managed to read half the article before nervous energy got her moving. Full of great praise for her ability as an artist and singer, they seemed to think the big point was not that she was a woman singing the blues, a predominately male genre. But that she was a gay woman singing the blues. She flipped the front page over and looked at the masthead.

Shit! My dad reads this newspaper.

She grabbed the paper and ran for the door.

* * *

The rain had let up, and Jessie wandered the streets. She didn't want to go to the Internet café she always used. They knew her there. She didn't want to go back to the boardinghouse either. The lady who owned the place would be sitting in her front room watching TV, and she knew Jessie real well. She got off the backstreets, the real Nashville, and headed for the touristy part of town. She thought she had less chance of being recognized there.

She ducked into a store and paid too much money for a Stetson knock-off that wouldn't last a month. When she saw a record shop, she went in and walked up and down the aisles without flipping disc covers. On her way out, a life-size cardboard figure caught her eye. She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

WHEN I'M IN LOVE was printed across a black backdrop to one side of Marci's head. She sat in her peasant dress and white blouse holding her cello. Her smile was warm and her eyes sparkled. Jessie walked up and grabbed a CD off the stack at the foot of the promotional gimmick. She paid the cashier and wandered back out on the wet sidewalks.

She had no way to play the CD, but she knew exactly what it would sound like anyway. She leaned against the corner of a building in an alley and ripped cellophane away. A small color book inside the jewel box showed interior and exterior shots of the beautiful old church. The music was listed by composer and time period. There was a small cameo shot of the pianist and four beautiful shots of Marci onstage playing.

Jessie stuffed everything back in the plastic bag and kept walking. Her sunglasses and the occasional drizzle of rain hid most of her tears.

Just before she went into the bar to start her night, she pulled out her cell phone and did what she'd been avoiding all day. When her father answered he sounded sleepy. She could see him sitting in his big worn-out easy chair asleep in front of the television.

“Dad?”

“Jessie!” There was a silence. “You okay, hon?”

She didn't need to ask. She could tell he knew.

“Yeah. I think so, Dad.” Jessie tried not to cry. “You know how it is. Nashville's not the best place to be sometimes.”

“Well. You know you've always got a place here. Hey. Did you see what they said about your music? One of the top blues performers in the country. I'm real proud of you, Jess. And Cotton Mouth Lee… Wow! Did you really get to perform with him?”

Only my father.

Jessie laughed, and they talked for fifteen minutes. She didn't want to hang up but she had to.

“Listen, Dad. About Mom—”

“Your mom will be fine. You wanna say hi?”

“No… I don't think I'm ready. Hey, maybe I'll see you guys at Thanksgiving. Kimmie invited me up.”

“Okay, Jessie. I'm real proud of you, sweetie. Call me.”

“Okay, Dad. I will.”

“Jessie?”

“Yeah?”

“I ain't just talkin' 'bout your music.”

* * *

When Jessie showed up at the bar, the place was packed, and Johnnie was grinning from ear to ear. He got one look at her and the grin disappeared. He cornered her in the back room and asked, “You okay, Jessie? I can get someone else to cover if you can't go on.”

“No. I'm fine. Just don't send any Jack up onstage even if I beg you for it.”

They both laughed.

“Well, I gotta say. I'm not gonna complain. Did you see the place? We're packed. Maybe you can announce you're from the planet Andula tonight. The first alien blues singer.”

“Asshole. I guess you want me to wear green antennae too.”

“Hey, they're all here to see you. You can wear a bikini for all I care.”

“Sure. Every man's wet dream. A blues-singin' dyke in a bikini. I know exactly what they're thinkin' every time I open my mouth and wiggle my tongue.”

“You better look again. Most of the audience tonight is women.”

“Shit.”

“Right. Shit. Maybe I should get you a bodyguard or something.”

“Cute, Johnnie. Real cute. Well, let's get this show on the road.”

Her first set was awkward. Stilted. She could feel the audience. They were there for her, but she'd never felt so under the spotlight before in her life. And she could see nothing but women sitting around the stage two tables deep. She chanced a beer in the back room between sets and said the hell with it. Her second set was hot. She was in the sweet spot where the love affair between performer and audience lives. The place was quiet as a church during each song and loud as a barn dance after.

For her third set she asked her drummer and bass player to stand down. She put a chair on the stage, turned her amplifier down by half, and forgot about the world. She sat at the edge of the stage close to the microphone, her Ray-Bans on, and sang for someone else. By the time she'd finished, her cheeks were wet, and it wasn't because of the single spot that had been burning her forehead for the last hour.

The audience wouldn't let her leave. After the third encore she waved and called it a night.

* * *

Jessie trudged up the stairs of the boardinghouse, searching her pocket for her room key. She was beyond bushed. She was riding a wave of exhaustion that threatened to roll her under and drown her. She fiddled with her lock and pushed her door open.

She fell onto her bed without any preamble and sobbed until her dreams took her to better places.

* * *

“Excuse me. But aren't you Jessie Butler?”

Jessie shoved her scrambled eggs around and thought about ignoring the man. The restaurant was full and noisy, and she tried to pretend she hadn't heard his question. When he insisted she couldn't find a way to ignore him.

“Yes, I am.” She forked another mouthful trying to make it clear she was busy.

“I'm with NMT, the Nashville Music Trade magazine. I wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions.” The man pulled a chair over and took out a notepad and pencil.

Jessie groaned inwardly. She picked up her napkin and wished the man away. When he didn't retreat she said, “Sure. Why not?”

“You don't look anything like that picture in the paper yesterday. You look much better in person.”

Shit! Tits bigger than mine… An invisible rope cranked tight around Jessie's chest, and she struggled not to run.

“I wanted to ask about Cotton Mouth Lee. Is it true you turned down a chance to make a record with the father of Delta blues?”

“Well, I didn't really turn it down. I just didn't decide fast enough. They needed to get the project started, and I guess you could say I wasn't available yet.”

“So you've got nothin' personal against Cotton Mouth?”

“Of course not. Hell, the man is one of my heroes. Our schedules just didn't work out. That's all.”

Jessie started to breathe again.

“I understand this will be Cotton Mouth's last record. What about this Mississippi Mud guy? Do you think he's good enough?”

“I can't really say. I don't think I've heard the guy sing before. But if Cotton Mouth Lee wants to work with him, I'd guess he's pretty good.”

“And do you think this will hurt your chances of getting a record deal in the future? Takes a real pair of…well, takes guts to turn down a legend like Cotton Mouth Lee.”

Jessie was fed up, and it had nothing to do with who had the bigger tits. The question was a career killer. You acknowledge with the obvious answer, yes, and you're pounding nails into your own coffin. You say no and you sound like some arrogant asshole.

“I've already been in touch with my agent, and another opportunity is—”

“Yeah.” The guy had dead expressionless eyes that Jessie couldn't read. “Would that be Bernard Goldman? I spoke with him yesterday. He didn't know a thing about the Cotton Mouth Lee deal or what your plans were. In fact… Let me find it here. He said—”

“That's just some kind of misunderstanding. I'll have to give ol' Bernie a call.” Jessie's hands were starting to sweat, and she looked around for the waitress.

“Looks like you're ready to leave. Maybe I can ask you just one more question?”

Jessie smiled and said nothing. The waitress was on her way with the check, and Jessie really wanted to get back out of the spotlight. Her plan was to track down Marci and try to make a phone call. Two months ago she would have loved being under the NMT spotlight, but under the circumstances the guy was just taking up her time.

She held her hand out for the check and watched the guy flip through his notepad. Pushing up from the table, she thought she was home safe until he finally found his notes.

“Right. Here it is. Is it true that you and Marcella Dionysius, one of the most renowned cello players in the world, are having an affair?”

There it was. The pink elephant had stumbled back into her life and was about to take a high dive into a kiddie pool from fifty feet up beneath the festive canopy of the main tent. Jessie could have just shoved past the man. The words no comment even popped into her head. Silence would have gotten her out of the situation, but big pink elephants can be hard to ignore.

Things would have been so much easier if Marci had been there. Or if they'd spoken since that night at the restaurant. But she wasn't and they hadn't, and Jessie could see the man's hand poised over his notepad to get the scoop.

For the first time in her life, Jessie recognized the moment for what it was. She'd missed most of the turning points in her life. This one had a big sign up at the intersection, and the words were about ten feet tall.

FIGHT OR FLIGHT.

She settled back into her chair and waved the waitress back over.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Nashville Music Trade magazine.”

“Ya got a name?”

“Ted. Ted Willows.”

“You want some coffee, Ted?”

The guy seemed genuinely surprised. Jessie ordered two cups and invited Mr. Willows to pull his chair closer.

“Tell ya what I'm gonna do, Ted.” She leaned across the table conspiratorially and went on. “You and me, we're gonna make a deal. You up for a deal, Ted?”

“Well…” The guy was trying to figure Jessie's angle.

“Come on, Teddy. Live a little. Take a chance.”

“Sure. I reckon. What's the deal?”

Fifteen minutes and a cup of coffee later, Jessie left and headed back to her room at the boardinghouse. She couldn't say how she felt. She clutched the scrap of paper from Ted's notepad between her fingers and turned to make sure the pink elephant was keeping up.

Chapter Eleven

Jessie pulled the ratty old curtain back and watched a cold gray October rain pelt the window. It was only four in the afternoon in Nashville, but if the guy had told her right, it was eleven in the evening in Stuttgart, Germany, where Marci was staying at some posh hotel.

She'd anguished all day with her decision. She thought talking to the reporter would make everything irrevocable. No take-backs. She'd expected relief, finality, but she'd found neither. She'd been counting the minutes until she thought Marci's evening concert would be over and she'd be back in her hotel room. The concert had ended two hours earlier at nine, and Jessie could no longer stand the inaction.

She let the curtain drop and flipped her cell phone open. Her fingers trembled and her palms were sweating as she dialed the long line of numbers. It took three tries and an operator's assistance to finally decipher the rules for an international call. When she heard an odd tone beep in her ear, she almost ended the call thinking she'd got it wrong again. Then there was a click and a rush of words she didn't understand.

“Ah. I'm sorry. Do you speak English?”

A minute later a young man came on the line.

“Good evening. How may I help you?”

“Hey! Great! Could you connect me with Marcella Dionysius's room, please?”

“Sorry. We have no Marcella Dionysius with us this evening. Would there be anything else I can do for you tonight?”

Jessie's heart sank. She couldn't believe the reporter had given her the wrong information just to get his story.

“Are you sure? I was told she's staying at your hotel.”

“I'm very sure, Madame. I'm looking right here at the computer.  No Marcella—”

“She's the cello player. American. She gave a concert this evening at the…” She tried to read the reporter's scribbled notes but couldn't. “She's doing a tour.”

“Yes. I know exactly who you're talking about, Madame. But we have no rooms registered in that name.” At first Jessie didn't catch the inflection, but then she got it.

“Wait! I know. Do you have a room under the name Isabella something-or-other? Italian woman. Forties. Black hair. She's handling—”

“No. I see no rooms or suites under the name Something-or-other either. Will that be—”

“You know exactly who I'm talking about. Just put the call through.” She didn't know if yelling would work, but not yelling wasn't an option.

“I'm so sorry, Madame. But if you don't have a name, how can I possibly know you aren't—”

“Forget it!” Jessie slammed her phone shut and kicked her mattress. “Asshole!”

She tried to remember. Marci had been sitting to her left and the woman had come in. First Marci's father had spoken…then Marci had introduced the woman. This is Isabella…

“What was it? What was her name?”

Di Rossetti.

Jessie pulled her phone open and dialed again. When the same man answered, she rushed ahead.

“Di Rossetti! Isabella di Rossetti! Could I speak—”

“I'll put your call right through, Madame.”

She heard the same odd beeping sound and had just enough time to panic. She was calling Marci's first love. A woman who still evoked strong emotions. A woman whose memory had brought a tear to Marci's eye.

A sleepy female voice said something that sounded vaguely like hello. Jessie didn't recognize the voice, but she hadn't really stuck around long enough to know what the woman would sound like.

“Hi. My name's Jessica Butler. We met at the restaurant in Los Angeles. I—”

“Who did you say you were?” Clearly the woman had been pulled from a sound sleep.

“Jessica Butler. Jessie. A friend of Marci's. You met me at that—”

“Oh! Right! I know you. The guitar picker.”

Jessie ignored the disdain in the woman's voice and forged ahead. “Yeah. The guitar picker. Listen. I wanted to talk to Marci, and they don't have a room in her name. I wondered if you know what room she's staying in?”

“But of course. Yes I do.” The woman sounded bemused.

Jessie waited, and nothing else was said. Finally she prodded. “Yeah. So could I get the room number? I really need to get in touch with Marci.”

“Oh. So sorry.” The woman sounded wide-awake. “You see, we're leaving very early, and Marcella hasn't been sleeping well. The excitement of the trip, I guess. Getting to see old friends. Maybe I haven't been watching our hours like I should be. We've been having a wonderful time, you know.”

Jessie couldn't believe she'd come this far and was being told no. “Look. I promise I won't keep her up. I just want to say hi.”

The line was quiet. Jessie heard only the hollow sound of an empty overseas call and thought the woman had cut her off. Finally Isabella di Rossetti, her voice full of contempt and self-importance, spoke. “You are just a little girl. Do you really think you know how to love someone as beautiful and talented as Marcella? She is an angel, and you are nothing more than a mere mortal”

“What?”

“Marcella needs a real woman. Someone who understands her. Not some silly ninny that runs out of the restaurant scared.” The woman at the other end of the phone started laughing.

“You listen to me—”

“She pined for you, you know? For weeks. She wanted to call you. She told me so. She wanted to find you and talk to you.”

The line went quiet, and the only thing Jessie could hear was her own pulse in her head. Her ears burned, and she felt light-headed. Isabella di Rossetti shoved the dagger in a little deeper and gave it a twist.

“Yes. You know how impetuous Marcella can be. But when she told me of these things, I advised her against it. I explained that if you, some guitar picker, were really in love with her, you'd find her. I explained that she shouldn't make things too easy. After all, you couldn't even say the words to her face. How on earth could she expect you to—”

“Where the hell is Marci? I want to talk to her right now.”

“Now, now. You had your chance, little girl. What Marci needs is a woman. One who knows how to love her back.”

The line went dead with a click, and Jessie rolled into a ball on her bed. Her sobs were jerky and anguished. She dropped her phone on the floor and tried to unwind enough to get up. When she finally managed to stand, the room spun, and she ran for the bathroom. After throwing up she washed her face in cold water and went looking for her purse. When she found Judy Lewiston's card, she dialed the woman's personal cell-phone number. When she got voice mail, she tried the office. When she got more voice mail, she shut her phone so hard the plastic case cracked.

“If this is love, they can have it,” Jessie yelled in frustration. She paced her room. She was angry and frantic. By one in the morning, she had worn herself out. She finally fell in a dizzying heap of unresolved questions and doubt and tried to find sleep. She didn't.

* * *

Jessie felt the dull snub the next morning that sometimes comes to those who choose to be different. When she wandered downstairs to leave for the post office, she was confronted at the foot of the stairway by Mrs. Johnston.

“I forgot I rented that room to this guy who's coming in on Tuesday. He booked before you, so you gotta find someplace else to stay startin' tomorrow.”

He booked? Jessie looked around Mrs. Johnston's drab living room. Is this the goddamned Omni in Manhattan?

Jessie spied the day-old newspaper open in Mrs. Johnston's hand. She saw a picture of herself drunk, clinging to the microphone stand, staring back. Mrs. Johnston had the look of someone who would not be deterred. Finally Jessie said, “No you didn't. You're just afraid my girlfriend might come to spend the night.”

Jessie was checked into the Days Inn downtown before noon. The room smelled like disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke. One thing it didn't smell like was bigotry. She dialed Judy Lewiston's office, and some girl on perky pills answered.

“Lewiston Entertainment. How may I help you?”

“Yeah. Could I speak to Judy Lewiston please?”

“Ms. Lewiston is out of the office today. Could I take a message?”

Jessie left her name and number. She didn't have a show until Wednesday night and wasn't sure what to do with herself. She felt like a caged animal. In spite of hardly sleeping the night before, she was full of energy and hungry. She grabbed her Stetson, a jacket, and her purse, and headed out. When her phone rang she thought it was Judy Lewiston.

“Hello.”

“Jessica. How are you, dear?”

“Who is this?”

“Alexander.” It had been almost two weeks since her visit to Los Angeles. When she didn't say anything, the man went on. “Marcella's father.”

“I know who you are.” Jessie gritted her teeth and navigated traffic to get across the street.

“Yes. I guess you do. Listen. I happen to be in Nashville. I wondered if I could invite you to dinner—”

“You can't invite me anywhere.” Jessie closed her phone and ducked into a corner pharmacy. She perused the newsstand at the entrance and found what she was looking for.

When she was back on the street, her phone rang again. She flipped it open and yelled, “I said leave me the hell alone, you asshole.”

“What? Is that you, Jessie?”

“Judy? Sorry. I thought someone else was calling.”

“That's okay. Listen. I'm glad you called. Tell me you've thought things over—”

“Look, Judy. I need a favor.”

“The last time I did you a favor, it ended with me not getting a contract. Why should I do you another one now?”

“Because I'm beggin'. That's why.”

When the woman didn't answer, Jessie was afraid she was going to be turned down. Finally she heard her say, “Have you had lunch yet? I'm in Nashville. You know that—”

“What is this? National Feed Jessie Day or something?”

“We can just get together if you don't want to eat.”

“Food's good. I need to eat something. Where?”

They made arrangements to meet, and fifteen minutes later Jessie walked into one of Nashville's best-kept secrets. Clyde's, a local eatery that specialized in ribs and barbecue, was packed. She looked around for Judy and almost left when she saw Marci's father sitting at the woman's elbow, both of them on their cell phones. She ducked into the restrooms before they saw her and tried to shake off her rage. She brushed her hair out, splashed her face with water, and put on just enough lipstick to give her some color. Finally she leaned into the mirror and whispered, “You can do this.”

Jessie didn't walk up to the table; she assaulted it. She bounced up with a spring in her step, a smile in place, and stuck her hand in Judy Lewiston's face. “Hi, Judy. Good to see ya.”

The woman ended her call and took Jessie's hand. “You too, Jessie. And look who I ran into. I think you know Mr. Dionysius.”

The man put his phone away, stood, and stuck his hand out. Jessie pumped his hand and took a seat.

“Sure. Alex and I met up a while back. A real charmer. How ya been, Alex?”

“Jessica, look—”

“No. You look, Alex. I'm not too sure why you're here. Maybe you can let us girls talk first. Or would that offend your sense of morality?”

Judy stared, and Marci's father looked duly chastised. A harried waiter ran past the table and dropped plastic-coated menus before disappearing. Jessie picked hers up and tried to keep it from shaking while she hid behind it.

“Well. Anyway.” It was clear Judy was thrown by Jessie's swagger, but the woman regrouped and went on. “I was actually glad you called, Jessie. I was going to call you. I'm not going to beat around the bush. I'm in a pinch and I need your help.”

Jessie peered over the top of her menu. When she didn't say anything, Judy went on.

“Cotton's not happy. This guy we got isn't working out. And to top it all off, we may have to drop him on a morality clause. Seems some mother called the office yesterday looking for her seventeen-year-old daughter.”

“Sorry to hear that, Judy. I really like Cotton Mouth Lee. He deserves—”

“I'm glad to hear you feel that way. Maybe we can do some business.”

Jessie glanced at Marci's father. The man was unreadable. She was sure it wasn't a coincidence that Mr. Dionysius and Judy Lewiston both just happened to be in Nashville at the same time. Even more improbable was the idea they'd both happened on the same restaurant for lunch.

Jessie dropped the menu and looked across the table at the pair of coconspirators. She was tired of shadowboxing. Fed up with the game. There was only one thing she came to do, and she planned on getting it done.

“Right. Look. I need your help with something, Judy. I need to get in touch with Marci, and my calls aren't getting through. Since you're her agent, I thought you might be able to hook me up.” She dared either one of them to deny Judy's involvement with Marci. And she also wondered what Daddy Dearest would do if he knew some manipulative dyke was lording over his daughter's affairs. She didn't miss Judy's sideways glance. When no one answered, she looked at Alex and insisted. “Well?”

Finally, stomach in knots, not feeling nearly as brave as she hoped she looked, Jessie grabbed her purse, her bag from the pharmacy, and her jacket. She pushed up from the table and said, “You two are a real pair.”

“Wait! Let's talk!”

She ignored Judy and headed for the door. When she hit the sidewalk, she turned right and picked up the pace. Her tears wouldn't stop, but she refused to actually break down and cry. She wasn't about to give them the satisfaction. Mr. Dionysius didn't catch up until she turned the corner.

“Get away!” She shrugged out from under his hand and kept walking.

“Jessica. Look.” The man was huffing, trying to keep up. “I'm sorry. Really. Come on. Let's talk.”

Jessie pulled up short in front of a used-instrument store and turned on her heel. “Why can't you just leave me alone? Why can't you just let us figure it out? We don't want to hurt anyone. We just want what everyone else seems to have. We just want to be happy.”

Marci's father started to speak.

Jessie walked away.

The man didn't follow.

* * *

Jessie looked around the drab Days Inn room and tried to find it. She started pulling her clothes off and glanced in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door to see if she could find it there. She even sang a few bars of “Ain't Gone 'N' Give up on Love” in search of it.

She didn't feel any different. Exhaustion and an empty, hollow feeling in her stomach had become a constant companion. Aside from that, she felt pretty much like she always had. Like Jessie Butler.

She already knew what it was. It was the difference of having Marci in her life.

She ran a hot bath and slid into the sudsy water with her copy of Nashville Music Trade magazine. She flipped through the pages until she found the article. The title wasn't encouraging.

BAD DECISION OR BAD TIMING.

The first half of the article was about her singing and career. Apparently the man had actually made it to the bar one night and seen her perform. He used words like brilliant, soulful, and inspired to describe her music.

She laughed when she read a quote from Bob at the Booze and Blues in Chicago. One of the best musicians I know. A real pro. Too bad I can't get her to chuck the cowboy hat.

The reporter was thorough. He included a list of the last ten clubs she'd played. All shining reviews. All but Denver. The manager did say that Miss Butler seemed distracted. I think she might have been dealing with personal issues or something.

Then the article took a new turn. Jessie sat up straight in the sudsy water when the NMT reporter wondered if Cotton Mouth Lee's management had really acted in their client's best interest. Was this really a case of bad timing or bad judgment? That was followed up by an unnamed source who claimed Mr. Lee wasn't sure he wanted to leave his legacy in the hands of some redneck fool who didn't even know who Lightning Hopkins was.

Jessie was beaming when she turned the page. The NMT critique of the New York-based Lewiston Agency didn't pull any punches. She laughed out loud with the writer's speculation that a bunch of damn Yankees might not understand the heart and soul of such a fine musical tradition as the blues. Much less Delta blues.

She didn't come across the important stuff until the very end. She had told the reporter more and appreciated his reserve and discretion.

Miss Butler also answered a few questions about her personal life for our readers. For all you ladies out there, she said size really doesn't matter. When pressed for details about what or who did matter, she said I might want to check out the latest releases in the classical section at my favorite record store.

This reporter just wants to wish the best of luck to Tennessee's premier blues musician. I'm sure the next agent who drops in to say hi won't be in such a hurry.

One more thing. My trip to the music store turned up the latest from world-famous Greek-American cello player Marcella Dionysius. The title of the CD is “When I'm In Love.”

Could it be?

She didn't dare hope that Mr. Willows was right on all counts. Just the important ones.

* * *

Things went downhill from there. Later that evening her broken cell phone self-destructed when she tried to answer a call from Bernie. She recovered her memory card and dumped the thing in the trash.

Her first performance wasn't until Wednesday night, so she spent Tuesday caged in her room, changed the strings on her guitar, stewed, and smoked. She could think of no way to get around Isabella. Turning to Mr. Dionysius wasn't an option, and given Judy Lewiston's loyalties, she couldn't turn there either.

Wednesday morning she dragged her laundry to a coin-operated Laundromat, ate more takeout, and headed for the bar an hour early. The place was packed, and Johnnie was smiling. When people, men and women, started bugging her for her autograph, she ducked in the back room until her first set. When a photographer with enough camera equipment hanging around his neck to start a studio snapped a few shots with a bright flash while she was singing, she lost the lyrics to her song and got mad.

Her Ray-Bans came out, and she forged ahead. By the end of her third set, the audience had turned into a small muddy puddle of camera flashes.

Jessie wasn't enjoying her newfound place in the public spotlight.

Johnnie offered her a ride to her hotel, and she hid in the back room again until everyone had left. Thursday morning the spotlight was turned up a few notches.

When the room phone woke her, she rolled to see what time it was and moaned. Jessie grabbed the handset and, still half asleep, answered.

“Hello.”

“I'm Becky Morse with the Times in Los Angeles. Is this Jessica Butler?”

“Sure is. Do you have any idea what time—”

“We're running a story in our celebrity section shortly about you and Miss Dionysius. We wanted to give you a chance to comment.”

“What? Comment on what?”

“Basically the story covers the day you and Miss Dionysius spent in Memphis. Let's see…a fitting, a visit to a salon, which included a bikini wax, an uneaten meal at a restaurant on Main at Pierre's. Then a late afternoon in room 708 at the Madison Hotel. Oh. And about fifteen rather noisy minutes in a changing room together. Care to comment?”

Jessie slammed the phone down. She also wondered why reporters couldn't find more important things to spend their time on, like world peace and global hunger.

The phone rang almost immediately.

“Hi. This is Jack Thompson with the Village Voice. We're doing an in-depth piece about being a gay artist. How public opinion impacts—”

Jessie dropped the handset in its cradle and stared at the phone. When it rang again she didn't answer. Instead she turned the ringer off and rolled back into her covers thinking she might be able to get some more sleep. An hour later she gave up, showered, and got dressed.

She waited until eight a.m. and called Mrs. Johnston to see if her passport had shown up.

“I ain't got nothin' for you,” was the woman's cryptic reply.

She'd been calling Mrs. Johnston every day to see if her passport had been delivered. Every day the answer had been the same. She decided to go to the post office and see if she could find anything out. The same ruddy-complexioned man searched a small file drawer of receipts and came back to tell her that her passport had been received the previous Wednesday shortly before noon. He pointed at Mrs. Johnston's scribbled signature.

An hour later after a very ugly scene on the porch of Mrs. Johnston's boardinghouse, Jessie was getting out of a cab in front of the Days Inn holding her shiny new passport in her hand when she was mobbed by more reporters.

“Miss Butler. Is it true that Cotton Mouth Lee isn't happy with his current deal with his record label?” The woman shoved a tape recorder in her face.

“How would I know?” Jessie shoved the tape recorder away and started walking away.

“Miss Butler.” The man quickstepped at her side trying to keep up. “Do you believe Mississippi Mud is a better performer than you are?”

She took some solace in the benign nature of the question. She could talk about her career all day. Just not today.

“I've never heard the guy perform. How would—”

“Miss Butler…” The woman was back. She sounded out of breath. Jessie was almost at the entrance to the hotel's office. “How long have you and Miss Dionysius been romantically involved? Have you seen the video of you and Miss Dionysius on the Internet? Any comment?”

Jessie froze two feet from the entrance to the Days Inn office. She turned on the woman just as a bright flash went off. “What video? What the hell are you—”

“A security video that purportedly shows you and Miss Dionysius kissing in an elevator in a Memphis hotel a few days before your sister's wedding. Can you—”

“Wha—”

“I see you have your passport with you. Are you going to see Miss Dionysius right now?” someone else yelled.

Shit!

“Have you always known you were gay? I spoke with a man in Chicago, Jethro Sullivan—”

Jessie knocked the woman's tape recorder away while she shoved into the reception area of the hotel. She looked around frantically. A family of four, their small children running around playing tag while Mom and Dad paid the bill, turned and stared. The manager looked up, saw the reporters, read Jessie's expression, and ran around the counter with a set of keys. With a click he set the door to open with the electronic night porter and waved the reporters away.

An hour later, her guitar and gig bag shipped to her parent's house, her new passport tucked in her purse, the rest of her week at the club cancelled, and her duffel bag thrown over her shoulder, Jessie left the Days Inn and Nashville's nosy reporters behind.

In the back of her cab to the airport, she tugged and pulled nervously on the gold bracelet that dangled below her wristwatch.

From the airport in Nashville, she chanced calling Ted Willows to thank him for the nice article he'd written. The real reason she called was to ask if he could find out what hotel Marci was staying at. Ten minutes later he faxed a page from a press packet to the airline check-in counter. It included all the cities in Marci's world tour and, when available, the hotel she'd be staying at. What he wasn't able to provide was a room number. Going down the dates she found the city.

Ticket in hand, she waited in line at security. In spite of the excitement of finally getting to see Marci, she felt that life was being a bully. Her conversation with Isabella still floated around in her head and left her unsettled. It seemed that nothing had gone right since Marci had come into her life.

No, she corrected.

The only thing that has gone right is Marci coming into my life.

Chapter Twelve

Jessie clenched her hands together and poked the space above her chest. The room was dark and smelled different, and she couldn't figure out why. When she looked for the Days Inn digital clock, it was gone. So was the ugly lamp with the lopsided lampshade.

Muted conversation in a language she didn't understand outside her room brought her back to reality.

“What the…” She sat straight up on the bed and fumbled with a sleek bedside lamp. “I'm in Paris! Holy shit.”

The only other country she'd ever visited was Mexico, and given the amount of tequila she'd consumed on that trip, her recollection was hazy. The room lit up, and she was greeted by subdued elegance. Modern minimalist with polished wood, deep rich colors, and heavy drapes across a tall window that stretched to a very high ceiling.

“The hell with you, Mrs. Johnston,” Jessie muttered in awe.

She was still wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing when she'd boarded her first flight in Nashville. Even her boots were still on her feet. After eighteen hours of airports and airplanes, she'd arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport a bundle of nervous exhaustion. When she'd finally made it to her room, her intention had been a catnap. She had no idea how long she'd been asleep, but she felt rested and full of energy.

“You're here.” Jessie whispered the words reverently and pulled on Marci's gold bracelet. She jumped off the bed and bolted for the door. A glimpse in a freestanding full-length mirror in the corner stopped her dead in her tracks. She looked like she'd been on a three-day marathon of faceless names and Jack Daniel's bottles.

She checked her watch but knew that wasn't right. Not in Paris. She finally found a sleek alarm clock parading as a CD player beside her bed. It was six in the morning, and she felt grungy and unpresentable.

She hadn't thought twice when she'd walked through the lobby of the Park Hyatt in downtown Paris and discovered the only room available cost more than nine hundred dollars a night. She was only seconds away from Marci, and she'd pay whatever it took.

And as much as she wanted to run to Marci right that instant, she didn't want to look or smell like some country hick just off the farm. She started the shower, peeled her filthy clothes off, and called the front desk.

* * *

Jessie stared at the man in disbelief as he repeated what he'd already said at least five times.

“I'm so sorry, mademoiselle. We're unable to give out that information. I can connect you through the house phone if you like.”

“But that would only be Isabella di Rossetti's room, right?”

“As I explained several times before, mademoiselle, we have no room or suite registered to mademoiselle Dionysius. Should I connect you with mademoiselle di Rossetti?”

Jessie wasn't surprised. Not a huge setback. Just a bump in the road. The last few steps of a journey that started by the old Butler quarry back in Memphis had been tormenting her all morning. She'd decided the least desirable but most probable option was to stake out the lobby. But she also realized that someone of Marci's stature might not even use the lobby. There were the hotel restaurants, but the same rule applied, and there were six of them in the Park Hyatt. She tried another approach.

“How 'bout a package? Can I leave a small package for Miss Dionysius?”

“As I've explained, mademoiselle. We have no room or suite registered to—”

Jessie was feeling as fed up as the man behind the desk sounded.

“Okay. Listen. You and I both know that's a pile. Isabella di Rossetti is in charge—”

“Pile, mademoiselle?”

Jessie leaned across the wide marble counter trying to get in the man's face. An impossible task. “Shit! A pile of shit. Bullshit. Crap. Bologna. I have no idea how you folks say that in French, but it means you're feeding me a line. Not giving it to me straight. Capisce?”

“Mademoiselle speaks Italian? Maybe we would better understand—”

Jessie stared holes into the man's head, turned away, and strode for the elevator. The bellboy carrying bags and boxes from her morning outing followed along behind. In the elevator the bellboy chanced disturbing the beautiful American woman.

“You want, I help.”

“Sorry?”

“Mademoiselle Dionysius. I help.”

Jessie led the kid down the hallway to her room. Once the bags were on her bed, she fished in her wallet for a twenty-dollar bill and held it where the kid could see it. When he made a face, she reached in her wallet and pulled out another twenty. The kid made another face, and she started putting both bills back in her wallet.

“Concert.” He blurted the word out, and Jessie didn't get it.

“Concert? No. I just need a room number. I need to talk to her.”

“No. No room. I no say room. You go concert. Tonight.”

Jessie got it. She pulled the two twenties back out of her wallet and waved them around. “How? Can you get me a ticket?”

“Oui oui. I do. I do ticket.”

She held the bills out, and when the kid pinched them between his fingers, she didn't let go. “I want front row. Center. I want the best damned seat in the house.”

“Oui oui. I do. I get. Best.”

She let go.

The kid left with her forty dollars, and Jessie went about unpacking. The early-morning salon visit she'd requested through the front desk had turned into a small shopping spree along the avenue des Champs-Élysées. She hadn't known at the time how the moment would play out, but she did know she wanted it to be elegant. She wondered exactly when her desirability scale had become important in the eyes of anyone, much less another woman. Jessie blushed when she recalled the answer.

She pulled a plastic slipcover away, revealing a white silk Balenciaga blouse with wide slashes of muted black, gray, and red forming concentric bands front to back and up each sleeve. The high neck and each cuff were closed with long rows of black silk-covered buttons. She ran her fingers down the sharp crease of the charcoal-and-gray pin-striped tailored slacks that went with the blouse before putting both in the closet.

Next she unboxed a pair of black calfskin leather boots that had absolutely nothing to do with cowboys or shit kicking. The heels were two inches high with a round, blunt end that she hoped would keep her from falling on her face. Just the feel of the leather had been reason enough to shell out the six hundred dollars they'd cost.

Then the Jimmy Choos came out. Taller heel, sharper point. Elegant evening wear covered in black satin with a delicate ankle strap. The dress that went with the shoes was full-length matching black satin. Strapless with a sweetheart neckline set off with a fan-shaped ray of gathers in front that spread elegantly to the floor.

Her last and most expensive splurge was less a fashion statement and more an element of surprise. She unzipped the cover and pulled out a floor-length black cashmere hooded cape trimmed in shiny black mink for the cold. She slid the cape off the hanger and wrapped it around her shoulders. Even in jeans and cowboy boots, she looked like a million dollars. When she flipped the front open, the emerald green satin lining picked up the blue of her eyes and showed off the red of her hair.

Jessie stared into the mirror, transfixed. A total stranger stared back. A woman she'd never met before. She pulled the hood up and peeked at herself. She kissed the air flirtatiously. Marci's words in the fitting room at Willards came to her.

I like everything about women.

She closed the cape and ran her fingers along the mink trim.

The way they feel.

She slipped out of the cape and put it away. Back in front of the mirror, she watched as that same stranger pulled her sweater over her head. Her T-shirt followed, then her bra. Slowly, with purpose, she touched her bare breasts.

The way their nipples swell with excitement.

Her gaze came up, and she tried to find the freckle-faced skinny kid hiding beneath the makeup that had been applied at the beauty salon. Her hair, teased into some crazy Bardot do from the 60s, said huntress. Dark liner imparted her eyes with a sleepy mysterious look. Red gloss on her lips said wet, excited.

The girl was gone. Banished forever.

She brought her hand up and posed a finger against her cheek. The manicured red nail matched the wet pouty look of her lips.

Jessie trailed her nail down her neck, between her breasts, and stopped at her belly button above the brass button of her old jeans. She slipped the top of her jeans open, dropped the zipper, and shoved until they bunched around her thighs. The small patch of pubic hair she'd groomed since her first bikini wax in Memphis was gone. She slid the tips of her fingers across the soft, silky bare skin of her pubic mound. She could feel the swelling. The tease of excitement as blood rushed to the most private place on her body.

The way their cunts get sopping wet.

“Yes,” she confessed. She'd never seen herself like this. Not just naked but completely naked. She let the tip of her finger slide farther and looked into the eyes of a woman. She measured the droop of her lids, the slight jut of her lower lip as she pressed just enough to get the tip of her finger damp. Her gaze didn't waver as she brought her finger up beneath her nose and inhaled the heady essence of a woman.

The way they smell.

Her tongue came out and she dared a taste. Marci's salacious promise taunted.

The way they taste.

“The woman you turned me into.” She leaned close, and the mirror clouded with each whispered word. She stood transfixed by what she hoped Marci would see. Not just some guitar picker from Memphis. She wanted to be the beautiful, sophisticated, desirable woman of Marci's words.

The phone in her room rang, and the moment was gone. Jessie hiked her jeans, fell on the bed, and answered the call.

“Hello.” Even her voice sounded sleepy and seductive. She smiled.

For a few seconds there was only the hollow, empty sound of an overseas phone call. Her first thought was her father. She'd promised to call from the hotel to let him know she'd arrived okay.

“Is that you, Jessie?”

“Judy? What are you doing calling—How did you find me?”

“Not too difficult. You wanted to find Marcella. After a picture ran in Billboard this morning of you boarding a plane for Paris, you weren't hard to find.”

“Billboard? Why Billboard?”

“The studio work you did a few months back. The CD came out—”

“Whadda ya want, Judy? If you've called for Mr. Dionysius to try and bribe me to come home, forget it.”

“Listen, Jessie. I'm sorry about all that. Yes. The lunch was contrived. But not for the reasons you thought. My interest was business. Cotton Mouth Lee still wants you, and frankly, so does the record label. The deal's still there, Jessie. If you want it.”

Jessie rolled on her back and cupped her breast. Her body trembled. Not from the salacious caress. The rush of winning, being right, was heady. She dared not cry for joy. The tears would ruin her makeup. She finally managed to clear her throat and respond.

“My reason for not saying yes right now still stands. I have to talk to Marci first.”

After another silence Judy finally said, “Jessie? Have you considered the possibility Marci won't care?”

“That'd be great. I'd say yes. You get what you want. I get what I want. Everyone's happy.”

“No. Not that the complications wouldn't matter.” The hollow hum of the line was disheartening, and Jessie flinched. She wanted to keep Judy from going on, but like an unstoppable train, the woman had her say. “But that it won't matter to Marci either way what you do.”

As soon as the words were out, Jessie's chest tightened, her heart beat faster, and her palm sweated against her breast. How could Judy Lewiston know? She's just like Marci's father. She only wants to scare me away. None of them understand. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and anger blossomed.

“Someone advised me to ask for more money. A bigger signing bonus. They said that if you'd offer two hundred thousand, you'd go three.”

“What?”

“If I accept the deal, I want three hundred to sign.”

“I don't know, Jessie. I don't think—”

“That's right. You don't know, do you? Just like Marci and me. You don't have any idea what the record company will say. Maybe they won't. But maybe they will. You won't know till you ask.”

“Part of my job as an agent is to advise. Right now I'm advising you that this is not a wise course of action. Hell, Jessie. You're an unknown. Why would—”

“You said you saw my picture in Billboard magazine this morning. What was the caption?”

“Something about you flying to Paris. What does it matter?”

“Find it. I'm sure you've got it right there on your desk.”

Jessie listened to papers being shoved around and Judy huffing in a put-out sort of way. She resisted wiping the wet well of her eyes.

“Here. Here it is. It says, 'Tennessee's premier blues performer, Jessica Butler, was seen boarding a flight for Paris—'”

“Did you get that, Judy? Tennessee's premier blues performer, Jessica Butler. Somebody sure knows me.”

“Okay. I'll ask. But don't hold your breath.” Judy definitely didn't like losing.

“I'll make it easy. If they don't say yes, don't call back.”

“You can't just walk—”

“I'm the talent, Judy. I can do whatever I want.”

“And you'd pass on a sweetheart deal like this over an advance that's already bigger than most new artists get?”

“No. I'd walk because I'm sick and tired of you people messing with us. Get over it. We're in love, and that's really no one's business but ours.” Jessie was yelling.

“Okay. Okay. I get it. I'll see what I can do.”

The line was silent while they both tried to decide if they'd said enough or said too much. Jessie finally broke the silence.

“Down home we'd call you a real peach, Judy. Thanks.”

“Yeah. Well. Up here we'd call this highway robbery.”

Jessie was about to hang up.

“Listen, Jessie. One more thing. Woman to woman.”

Jessie didn't want to hear it, but she waited anyway.

“Look, I didn't know anything about you and Marcella when I found you the first time. I didn't have any idea Marcella was ga—that you two had something going on. Yes. Mr. Dionysius gave me your name, but it was in passing. In a phone call after Marcella left for her tour. He said Marcella thought you were the best, world-class. That's what he said. That was enough for me.”

“Gay. It's not a disease, Judy. We're gay. Whatever. Then—”

“Wait. Sorry. There's more.” Judy rushed ahead. “With two divorces and an asshole for a boyfriend, I think I might know a thing or two about this. I admire you for what you're doing. Or maybe I envy you. But keep your heart safe, Jessie. No matter what happens, remember that this isn't about you and Marcella. This is about the heart, and the heart can be a fickle thing.”

Jessie hung up the telephone without saying good-bye and stared at the ceiling. In that moment a frightening lesson came into sharp relief. There is no doubt more daunting than the doubt that lurks in one's own mind.

* * *

Jessie stepped from her taxi in front of the Palais Garnier, an imposing testament to Parisian opera and music, and realized once again how different Marci's world was from her own.

Where Los Angeles had been a staid and circumspect celebration of classical music at its very best, Marcella Dionysius at the Opéra Garnier in Paris rivaled any rock concert Jessie had ever seen. Street vendors selling T-shirts, plastic binoculars, and a collection of Marci's CDs filled the space between the gutter and the heavy stone of the building's foundation.

The air was full of strange enticing smells that wafted up from small hibachi-like cooking racks at a stand at the corner of the street. A pair of expressionless street performers pantomimed for tips as people made their way to one of the five entrances to Paris's grand house of culture and music.

Jessie's senses swam in the sound, color, and smell of the moment. They were all a fitting part to the end of her journey. A festive and dramatic shroud of humanity to hang her hopes on. She was sure she would never forget them.

She pulled her cape tight against the cold Parisian night air and made her way to the entrance. Marcello, the bellhop, had promised her seat was très magnifique. Given the scalper's five-hundred-dollar cost, she hoped so.

She reached into the pocket of her cape for the hundredth time to ensure the small neatly wrapped box was still there. Just touching it made her happy.

The street sounds fell away when she handed her ticket over and stepped inside the magnificent building. She was immediately engulfed in the hollow echo of footfalls and murmured conversations that filled the grand foyer. She wandered the edge of the gathered crowd, taking in the frescoed ceilings, ornate columns, many chandeliers, and overpowering artwork.

She chanced upon a bar and fished in her small black clutch for francs. The white wine added to the chill, and she clutched the top of her cape tight beneath her chin.

Grand doors finally swung open, and people started making their way into the opulent theater. She'd discovered smiling a lot helped when one had no idea what people were saying. She balked but resigned herself to her fate when an usher who didn't understand the need for such smiles pointed down a row twenty seats away from the stage.

She sat lost in a sea of humanity directly beneath a six-ton chandelier that sparkled gloriously overhead. By the time the concert, complete with a full symphony orchestra, started, the grand old opera house of Paris was packed.

Jessie sat with bated breath as the orchestra finished tuning their instruments. The chandelier dimmed and applause started. Her entire body trembled when Marci took the stage. She stared unblinking at object of her adoration. Jessie thought she would cry from joy even before the first note was played. At last she was entranced as Marci opened with a haunting dance between cello and oboe. Violin and viola joined the delicate ballet of the first movement of Sir Edward Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor.

Marci sat on a raised platform at the edge of the stage bathed in light. She didn't hold her cello; she embraced it like a lover. She didn't watch her hand as it slipped from note to note on the fingerboard; she bore witness to each movement, every note as she caressed them lovingly.

Jessie whimpered when the foreboding dive into E minor became a waltz with woodwind and strings. Marci's body swayed with her instrument as she brought love to life. The caress, the touch, the longing and hungry sigh in counterpoint to the hypnotic wave of the conductor's baton.

When the first movement ended with majesty and a final long lonely note from Marci's cello, Jessie sat trapped in the sonorous silence of the moment in anticipation of that which was yet to come.

The power of the next movement overwhelmed. The magnificence daunted. The hurried buzz defied the clarinets and ended with a smile of joy and satisfaction when Marci struck the final note, which sent a small skitter through the audience.

Jessie's skin exploded in tiny goose bumps of emotion and bliss. She closed her eyes, and she could feel Marci touch her as the third movement opened. Brief and lyrical. Soft and poetic. The calm before the storm

Then it happened. Marci and her cello became one. They were perfect. They were celestial. They commanded all those who joined them to fall in step. They led them to the summit and danced them through the clouds. Pirouettes and salacious dips in orchestrated strings.

Jessie could sense the change. It was not the conductor who commanded. It was Marci. It was not the wave of his baton that was anticipated but the slide of Marci's bow that directed the baton. Then, with fanfare and strength, Marci rushed ahead, pulling the orchestra with her into a flurry that ended with one final haunting note.

The audience and Jessie hung on that note, even after the sound died away, stupefied while their hearts recovered. Then the Palais Garnier exploded in adoration. Marci jumped up and took the conductor's proffered hand. The audience applauded and applauded some more. Her many lovers' calls of “bravo, bravo” echoed around the great hall. And too soon it was over. With a collective sigh the thunderous beating of hands turned to soft murmurs and muted words as the great chandelier came to life and people started making their way to the grand foyer for a brief intermission.

So overwhelmed, so distracted by her own thoughts and emotions was Jessie that she didn't notice the seats were half-empty until someone asked to get by. She stood and looked at the dim stage, instruments waiting, Marci's chair abandoned. With purpose she made her way to the aisle and walked solemnly to the edge of the stage.

Jessie marveled at the tiers of balconies on each side of the grand theater where people would return to bask in the glow of Marci's unfinished performance. She inspected the intricate gold-leaf adornments that crowned the stage. It was as if Marci would be crowned as she sat at the edge of the grand stage to give court.

The heavy weight of loss settled around her like a numbing stupor, and she finally reached into the pocket of her cape and pulled the small box out. She didn't hesitate as she reached up and placed the tiny offering at the edge of the small platform where Marci would continue her concert. She touched the small gold bow one last time and withdrew her hand.

She could not imagine what she had thought she would do in Paris. Isabella's words rang true as they swirled around inside Jessie's head. “You are just a little girl. Do you really think you know how to love someone as beautiful and talented as Marcella? She is an angel, and you are nothing more than a mere mortal.” Jessie was both humbled and humiliated. She could see no part, no matter how small, for herself in the purpose of Marci's life.

In a flutter of fur-edged cashmere, Jessie turned and left the great hall. In the grand foyer she clutched her purse close and her heart closer as she strode with purpose for the exit.

She had always lived her life without regret. Not because there was never reason for regret. Just because she never cared enough to regret. The last thing she wanted to do was run, but running was the only thing she had left.

That and regret.

When the elegant woman dabbing at her cheek raised her hand in front of the Palais Garnier, the taxi driver pulled across two lanes of traffic and screeched to a stop. He considered it an honor and a privilege to assist such a beautiful and sophisticated woman in distress on a chilly night in Paris.

Chapter Thirteen

Jessie stood behind the curtain wing offstage and waited. She adjusted the bodice of her sequined full-length evening gown and glanced at her gold-toed high heel. Tommy, the stage manager, walked over and whispered in her ear.

“Fifteen minutes. You should wait in your dressing room.”

“I'm okay. Thanks, Tommy.”

She enjoyed listening to the murmurs and snippets of conversation from behind the curtain as Radio City Music Hall filled. Zoe came up carrying a cell phone. Jessie looked over and smiled. She wondered when life got so complicated she needed a girl Friday.

“Mr. Goldman, Miss Butler.”

Jessie took the phone and stepped back into the dark maze of props and stage ropes.

“Hey, Jessie. How's the crowd?”

“The crowd is great, Bernie.”

“Just wanted to let you know we signed that deal with Bennett's agent tonight.”

“Really?” Jessie doled out a small portion of emotion to the manager she loved to torment. “That's great, Bernie. You're the best.”

“Yeah. Three shows in San Francisco and two at the Hollywood Bowl.”

“Damn, Bernie. Not too shabby for a schlep like you.”

“Schlep? Right. Just remember who made you what you are today.”

“I'll do that, Bernie. I gotta go, sweetie.” Jessie held the phone out and snapped it shut while the man yelled at her not to hang up. Like an old married couple, they'd fallen into a routine that was both comforting and mutually fulfilling.

The person who made her what she was today was seldom out of Jessie's mind. Even after more than a year without seeing Marci, her first thought in the morning and last before falling asleep was of the goddess she liked to think lived in the Butler family quarry.

Upon her return from Paris, Jessie had landed at the farm in a cloud of tears and uncertainty. Judy Lewiston tracked her down two days later. The woman was pissed as hell and equally ecstatic. The record label had said yes. All Jessie had to do was fly to New York and sign. The woman was pissed because Jessie had disappeared.

“Time is of the essence, Jessie. I need you here yesterday.”

“Wow. What can I say, Judy. I'm floored.”

“Say thanks and get on a plane.”

“I'd really like to,” Jessie had looked around her father's old office, taken in his framed collection of memories and hopes on the wall, and said the words Judy Lewiston didn't want to hear. “But I can't.”

There'd been much ranting and raving, and three days later Jessie had given in to a compromise. She'd promised studio work on Cotton Mouth Lee's final album that included guitar and voice. She'd explain to Judy that legends like Cotton Mouth Lee can't be contracted and made out of three record deals. Legends just happen.

The studio work had been fast. Working with Cotton Mouth Lee wasn't the same as working with some kid who didn't really know what his sound was. Christmas had come and gone, and in April Jessie had stood over Cotton Mouth's grave, glad to have been a part, no matter how small, of the legend's legacy.

Along with Cotton Mouth Lee, the rampant rumors about cello player Marcella Dionysius and Tennessee's premier blues player had also died. Out of sight, out of mind turned out to be true.

Nana's unexpected passing a month later had thrown a blanket of gloom over the entire Butler family. Kimmie and Richard had flown in, and Jessie had spent hours playing with her new nephew. Nana had been laid to rest, and Jessie and her father had sat around the living room that evening listening to the contents of the box her Nana had entrusted her with during their last visit.

A treasure trove of memories on a department-store gimmick. Old 78s that, for a short while before WWII, could be recorded in tiny rooms they offered just for that purpose. For a couple of bucks anyone could buy a two-dollar blank, and at seventy-eight revolutions per minute could talk, sing, even play the piano they had in the room. A novelty the stores used to help promote their record sales. The box was full of dusty recordings of her Nana singing all the old jazz and blues standards that, surprisingly, were still popular today. Jimmy, Grandpa Butler, played the piano and would occasionally get a comment in at the end before the recording ended. Jessie was amazed. It was a facet of her Nana's life she never knew enough about.

“Sorry, Miss Butler. A Judy Lewiston is calling. She says you know her.”

“Tell her I'm about to go on. She can call later, or I'll call her back tomorrow.”

“She just wants to know if you can get her a ticket. She's in the lobby.”

Jessie chuckled and took the phone. “Out of luck, Judy. Sold out. You can sneak in the stage entrance if you want.”

“I just wanted to congratulate you, Jessie. You done good and you did it your way. Break a leg, kid.”

“Thanks, Judy. We can talk later.”

Zoe wandered off with the phone, and Jessie recalled another call that came a few days after Nana's passing.

* * *

“Jessie?”

“Marci? Is that you? How've you been?”

“Good, Jessie. Good.” The brief silence before Marci went on was as comforting as knowing Marci had called at all. “Listen. I was really sorry to hear about your Nana.”

Jessie couldn't help it. She started crying and couldn't stop.

“Shhhh, Jessie. It's okay. Everything's going to—”

“But it's you. It's really you.” A sniff and Jessie added, “I've missed you so much.”

And with that Marci sobbed as well.

“I'm so sorry, Marci. I should have—”

“You came to Paris.” Marci whispered the words in wonder.

Jessie gave a nervous laugh. “You were great. I'd never seen anything so beautiful before in my life.”

“But you left.” Marci's words sounded more like a question than a statement. The silence drew out.

The decision to leave the opera house, to leave the city where Marci was so close, had been one of the most difficult decisions Jessie had made in her entire life. Sitting in the opulent surroundings rubbing elbows with Marci's fans had been an eye-opener. She'd decided Isabella di Rossetti had been right. Not that Jessie would never know how to love Marci. Just that what she wanted Marci to find wouldn't be found in a new dress and some fancy makeup. That she had to find herself before she could find Marci.

She'd written a note on hotel stationary and found the bellboy who had provided her with her ticket for the concert. She'd added a fifty-dollar bill and asked that he put the envelope right into mademoiselle Dionysius's hand. She'd left the rest to fate.

“I had to. I had to—”

“I know. I got your note.”

“I'm so glad.”

The awkward moment passed. There had been no further hesitations, no more holding back. They'd talked for more than an hour. Marci had returned triumphant from her tour and was much in demand.

Jessie talked about Cotton Mouth Lee, her studio work, and how messy life could be. They'd laughed and cried, teased and cajoled.

When their words finally waned, they'd been content to just listen to each other breathe. Jessie had been the first to say the words. They'd come easily and felt good as they'd filled the silence.

“I love you, Marci.”

There'd been a muffled choking sound through the phone line, and Marci had whispered back, “My Jessie. My beautiful, wonderful, crazy Jessie. I love you too.”

“Will you wait for me?” Jessie chanced the question, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer. The line stayed quiet, and the flock in her chest fluttered around.

“I've been waiting for you forever. Why would I stop now?”

They'd left their brief interlude at that. As surely as they knew each other's hearts, they knew each other's minds.

“Soon, Marci. Soon.” Jessie had whispered the words and placed the handset softly in its cradle.

* * *

“Ten minutes, Miss Butler. And your mother sent this back. She thought you might want it.”

Jessie took the neatly wrapped flat package and turned it over in her hands. She didn't have to open it to discover what was inside but she did anyway. She flipped the front cover and recalled another conversation with a woman in her life that was just as important as Marci.

* * *

“Can we talk, Mom?”

“Let me just set the timer, dear. I don't want that pie to burn. And how about some ice tea?”

“Sure, Mom.” Jessie took a place at the kitchen table and hoped her mother would do the same. Their time together since her return, for the most part, had been good. In spite of Jessie's occasional sad moments of reflection and moist-eyed recollection, her mother hadn't snooped. A glass of ice tea appeared, and they both finally settled.

“I'm so glad you've come home for a while. All that traveling and staying in hotels can't be good for you.”

“I know, Mom. You're right. Maybe that will change.” Jessie rolled her eyes. “But I want to talk about something else.” Jessie reached across the table and took her mother's hand in hers. Her mother started to say something, but Jessie rushed ahead.

“I want to say I'm sorry. Sorry for being mad at you all these years. I'm sorry for everything we didn't do together, for every time I—”

“Don't you worry about that, dear. You were just trying to find your way. That's what teenagers do. You always were a strong-willed young woman.”

Jessie squeezed her mother's hand and considered leaving things right there. It would be so easy to put the past behind them and move on. To chalk the last fifteen years of her life up to the growing pains of a rebellious teenager. But she knew her heart wouldn't rest until she'd said it all. “Maybe that was some of it, but I was mad at you, Mom. All these years I've been mad about something and I want us to be able to talk about it.”

“What on earth could you have been mad about for so long?” Her mother smiled and clucked maternal disapproval.

Jessie steeled herself for what would come.

“It's about Aunt Trudy.”

“Your Aunt Trudy. She'd be so proud of what you've done with your music.” Her mother sounded wistful. She pulled Jessie's hand up and spread her fingers. “You have her hands, you know. Such lovely hands. She played the piano. I didn't have any talent. Not like her. I was plain. But your Aunt Trudy… She was special.”

“Yes she was, Mom. Maybe that's why I didn't get it.” Jessie felt a pull at her heartstrings but forged ahead. “You didn't cry, Mom. Not a tear. You…you just seemed mad, and you've never said her name, not once, since her funeral. I guess I want to know why.”

The only sound in the big sunny country kitchen was the tick of the oven heating up and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Her mother squeezed Jessie's hand one last time, withdrew, and pushed up from the table. When she returned she was carrying a worn black ledger, the kind her father used to keep track of the Butler family business.

“You're right. I didn't.”

“But why, Mom?” Jessie's desperation surfaced. “She was your sister.”

When her mother answered it was with the force and fury of fifteen years of repressed emotion. “Because it was my fault! Because it was all my fault.” Her mother's wall of reserve crumbled. She sobbed, and her cheeks grew damp. Finally she sniffed and went on. “No. You aren't supposed to cry when it's your fault. That's what I was taught. You're supposed be strong, to say you're sorry…but I couldn't. It was too late. She was gone.”

Jessie sat, stupefied, and tried to find the logic. Her mother glanced up, produced a tissue from her cotton dress, wiped her eyes, and explained.

“You see, I said some things that night. Things I had no business sayin'. Trudy got mad, and that's why she was going too fast…”

“She had an accident, Mom. She hit a wet spot and hit a tree. That's not your—”

“She came to see you. If I'd just let her in. If we'd had some coffee. Anything… Maybe things would be different.”

The recollection conjured hurt. Jessie could still feel her aunt's hand ruffling her hair, hear her words of encouragement, and see her smile of approval. But her aunt was gone, and her mother was sitting in front of her twisting a tissue in her hands. Jessie reached across the table and covered her mother's hands.

“All I really want, Mom, is to hear you say you love her. All these years I thought you didn't. I thought you hated her, and I wanted to make you suffer.”

When her mother started crying, Jessie pushed up, circled the table, and hugged the frail shoulders of the woman who had given her life. They talked quietly while the kitchen filled with the fragrance of hot cherry pie and the pastel colors of memories recalled. Finally her mother raised the old battered ledger and offered it to Jessie.

“What's this?”

“I couldn't talk to her, so six months after she died, I started writing to her. It's not much. Just notes. Silly things. I would sit here in the kitchen while your daddy was working and you girls were at school and… I guess I would talk to her in my way. I want you to have it.”

Jessie opened the ledger and found a column of dates, each with an entry. Some single sentences, others paragraphs in length, all in her mother's meticulous script. She leafed through the pages and found the ledger was almost full. The last entry was Kimmie's wedding. That entry was full of joy and pride and something else. The entire ledger made Jessie realize that her mother, the woman whose life she'd worked so hard to make miserable, was someone's sister, just like she was Kimmie's. Not only that, but the woman sitting across from her was also a daughter, a wife, and a grandmother.

That something else was a sister's love.

Jessie gently closed the ledger and hugged it to her chest. It would be a gift she would treasure for the rest of her life. She reached across the table and took her mother's hand again. “You remember that friend of Kimmie's? Marci?”

“I wonder what ever happened to her. Poor girl. I have to ask your sister—”

Jessie blurted the words out. “I'm in love, Mom.”

“You're kidding!” Her mother was genuinely surprised and sounded happy. “How wonderful, dear. You have to tell me all—”

“With Marci.”

“Somethin' sure smells good.” Her father picked that moment to come in from his morning at the barn. “Can I get some ice tea too?”

Her mother jumped up from the table to get another glass, and Jessie tried to read her face. The woman could have been making a grocery list in her head as far as Jessie could tell. Her father pulled out a chair across from Jessie, and her mother sat a glass of tea in front of him. After a peek in the oven, she finally settled, and Jessie's heart pounded while she waited.

“What are you two up to?” Her father smiled and took a long draw on his glass of tea.

“I was telling Mom—”

“You're gay. You're telling me you're gay.”

Her father was caught off guard, and Jessie considered how best to answer. She drew from the pool of tranquility her phone call with Marci had left her with and turned to her mother. “No, Mom, I'm telling you I'm in love. It's an important time for me, and I want to share that with you.”

Her mother pulled a tea towel across the table and twisted it in her hands. Her father took another sip of tea and said nothing.

“I…I…” Her mother was at a loss.

The rebellious child in Jessie was gone. She pushed up from the table and put her arms around her mother's neck a second time. A peck on her cheek and she implored, “Just tell me you're happy for me, Mom. That's all I need.”

They'd both been crying when her mother reached up and clutched Jessie's hand in hers. “Jessie, honey… I am. I am happy for you. I just… I really like Marci, but your life… It's all going to be so hard for you. I just want you to be happy.”

“I will, Mom. We will. And thanks, Mom. You don't know how much that means to me.”

* * *

Jessie turned the old black ledger over in her hands and turned to the last page with writing. A tear broke loose and rolled down her cheek when she found a new last entry.

Our beautiful, wonderful Jessie is in love. You'd be so proud of her, Sis. I miss you. I love you. I'm sorry.

Jessie chased the tear with the tip of her finger just as the announcer began.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Radio City Music Hall is proud to present…” A muffled timpani roll started, and the announcer went on, “The first lady of the blues, Miss Jessica Butler!”

The audience exploded in applause, the twenty-three-piece orchestra began, and Jessie basked in the moment for a few seconds. The stage manager smiled, and Jessie took the stage. For her opening number she wooed the audience with her rendition of the Billie Holiday classic “My Man Don't Love Me.”

She'd nurtured the seed that was planted the day her Nana had been laid to rest. Jessie had spent a month with a local group working up a show of sorts. Her debut had been in Chicago at the Booze and Blues. Bob had even put white linen on the tables and dressed up his waiters in cummerbunds and black bowties. He'd been all smiles when he saw her dressed up for the first time in something more fitting for the type of blues she was going to perform. He cat-whistled when Jessie took the stage in a platinum taffeta evening gown with a split from floor to hip that revealed her left leg.

From Chicago she'd made the rounds along the east coast and through the south. When she'd set out there had been no agenda, no goal, no hurried rush to make it all come together. For the first time in her life, Jessie did it just because she wanted to. Most of all she did it just because it made her happy.

Her first solo CD had released in November, and there'd been no looking back.

After thirty minutes she closed her Billie Holiday set with “Don't Explain.” Then she moved on to Julie London, Bessie Smith, and Ella Fitzgerald.

After another hour Jessie took a bow, left the stage for a costume change, and the house lights came up. Zoe came running up with the telephone open.

“Your father. He's calling from the lobby.”

Jessie grabbed the phone as she made her way to her dressing room. Zoe was pulling Jessie's evening gown off even as Jessie spoke with her father.

“Dad! How's it sound?”

“Great, honey. Your grandmother would be real proud. Listen, don't forget. We've got everything set up at the hotel.”

“I won't, Dad. Gotta run.”

The second half of the show was full of old standards. Songs about love and unchartered flights to the moon. At the end of Jessie's coming-out party, her first concert appearance in a large venue that didn't generate its income from liquor and food, she was kept on the stage for two encores.

She was exhausted, and there was only one song she had left unsung in her songbook. A song she was saving for a special night, a special moment, and a special person.

With a bouquet of red roses clutched against her chest, she stepped from the wings and took one final bow. That's when she noticed the small box with the gold bow among other bouquets of flowers at the edge of the stage.

She waved, walked to the edge of the stage, and picked the small box up, waved again, and quieted the audience.

“Thanks, New York!”

The applause continued, and she searched the front rows frantically. Finally she gave up.

“You've been great tonight. I think I might have one more song in me if anyone's interested.”

The applause swelled, and Jessie walked over to Walt. She whispered before turning to the audience.

The lights came down, and Jessie stood in a single spot center stage. She closed her eyes and sang the song that Nana had wooed her Jimmy with. When she finished she gave one last wave and left the stage. The reviews the following day would make “'Round Midnight” Jessica Butler's trademark song.

* * *

Jessie strode into the hotel lobby wrapped in her black cashmere cape, soft calfskin boots snug on her feet, riding the high of an appreciative audience.

Zoe was in a rush paying the taxi and telling her who might be at the party. She was flattered to find reporters and cameras waiting in the lobby. She chatted and smiled while pictures were taken. Finally she begged off and headed for the elevator.

“Hi, Miss Butler. Great show tonight.” Ted Willows from the Nashville Music Trade magazine appeared at her elbow with a big smile.

“Ted. Long way from home, aren't you?” She smiled back and shook the man's hand.

“They let me out of my cage for the important stuff. Mind if I ride up? I promise I won't crash the party.”

“Sure. Why not?”

Zoe punched a button while Ted leafed through his notepad.

“So how does it feel?” The man's hand was poised.

“Tell you what, Ted. If you promise to put that thing away, you can come to the party. I'll give you an interview tomorrow morning before I leave.”

The notepad disappeared, and Ted seemed genuinely happy. “Well, off the record, Miss Butler, you were great tonight. Just great.”

“Jessie, Ted. Call me Jessie. And I never got to thank you.”

“For?”

Zoe was rifling her purse and didn't seem to notice when Jessie leaned close to reply. “For being a gentleman. For the way you handled our last interview. Thanks.”

They were interrupted when the doors of the elevator dinged open. Zoe led the way and swung double doors at the end of the hallway wide. Her parents' suite was full to overflowing with family, friends, and people in the business, and Jessie was greeted with applause. She gave a few words. After getting a glass of wine and making the rounds in a rush, she wandered out to a small balcony to get some air.

The New York night was cloudless and full of stars. The air was chill, and she hugged herself for a moment. Then she reached in the pocket of her cape and pulled out the small box she'd found at the edge of the stage. The gold bow was crumpled and smashed, and she tried to straighten it out. One last look and she took the top off and smiled.

Jessie pulled the gold bracelet out and held it against her wrist. The same gold bracelet that had somehow tangled in her fingers when she'd run from Marci outside the restaurant and the same gold bracelet she'd left on the stage at the Palais Garnier the night of Marci's concert in Paris. Marci's name glistened in the faint light of the balcony.

Her heart fluttered and her fingers trembled as she turned the bracelet over. She was crestfallen that Marci hadn't made a show but consoled that she'd seen the concert. Just as Jessie resolved to put an end to their hiatus, the sound of the party leaked out when someone opened the door. She thought it was probably her father and turned to hide her tear-streaked face while she fussed with the clasp of the bracelet.

She shivered but didn't shy away from the warm crush against her back. The smell of spring flowers on the air made her heart shiver as well. A soft flutter of lips fell on her neck. Jessie closed her eyes and swayed. Slender arms encircled her waist, and Marci whispered, “I heard there was this two-bit blues singer playin' some dive in New York. I thought I'd come and throw rotten tomatoes.”

“Yeah. Well…” Jessie wiped her cheek. “You always did have a tin ear. We gotta get that looked at.”

Marci's chuckle turned into a plaintive sigh.

Jessie turned in Marci's embrace, and they kissed as if it were their first.

Marci searched Jessie's face and finally asked, “Are you through finding yourself, Jess? I read your note and—”

Jessie kissed the words away and let her heart believe. “You're here. You're in my arms. You have no idea how long I've drea—”

“Yes I am, and yes I do. And look at you. You're beautiful.” Jessie blushed. Marci kissed her cheek and went on. “There's something I want you to do.”

Jessie leaned in until their foreheads met and whispered, “Anything.”

“I told you once I wasn't like you. That I couldn't be the rebel without a cause. I also told you I couldn't keep us from my father. Not because—”

Jessie's palms started to sweat in spite of the cold. She shivered and leaned away. Marci pulled her back.

“Don't, Jessie. Not yet. Not until I've finished. Then you can decide. If you want to leave, then you can. My heart and, I suspect, yours too, will be broken, but we're both big girls now. We'll get over it and move on. But hear me out.”

Just hearing the words made Jessie want to cry. She couldn't envisage getting over Marci. She leaned closer and listened.

“I love what you did. Not just with your music. I love that you went to my father and told him. And he was wrong. He was wrong about trying to buy me away from you, but that doesn't make him bad…”

Jessie's own father's words about her mother came back to her. “That don't make her bad. It just makes her wrong. Wrong can be changed. Bad is forever.”

“And I love that you came all the way to Paris to find me. I cried all night that night. But”—Marci reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek. Jessie thought she knew what was coming and would have traded her soul for a take-back—“you ran. You did what you do.”

“I'm so sorry, Marci. Really. I just…” Jessie fought to hold back her own tears.

“Wait, Jessie. The thing is, our lives together would be complicated enough, especially with you going and getting all famous and everything.” Marci's laugh had a nervous edge. Jessie wanted to hold her close and kiss the edge away. “And one thing we can't do is be at war with our families. Either one of them. They can disagree with our choice, but there can never be reason for them to point their fingers at us and accuse us of being…”

Marci couldn't go on. She gave in and started crying.

“Shhhh. It's okay, Marci. I get it. It took almost a year, but I get it.” Jessie pulled Marci close. Even in the cold November night, she could smell summer on the woman she loved. When Marci trembled Jessie's heart broke for all the wrong she had done. She whispered, “I'm so sorry, babe. I never meant to hurt you.”

They rocked gently in each other's arms until Marci finally pushed them apart.

“Come on.”

Marci took Jessie's hand, and they stepped into her parents' suite holding hands. Marci leaned close to Jessie's ear and said softly, “Don't you even think of letting go of my hand.”

“There you two are.”

Jessie stared wide-eyed at Judy. When the woman held her hand out, Jessie took it.

“What a concert. Damn. And to think I let you get away.” She glanced at Marci and winked. “But I guess I get to keep Marcella as a consolation prize.”

They spent thirty minutes working the room together. By the third time Jessie's hand left Marci's to greet someone and returned, she stopped thinking about what she was doing. Her mother's voice and her father's laugh intruded from somewhere in the room, and she held on tighter.

Jessie stilled herself when Marci's father came into view.

“Father?”

“There you are. I wondered where you—”

“You remember Jessica.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Marci interrupted.

“She's come to—”

“I've come to apologize, Mr. Dionysius.” When Jessie reached across the void, Marci's hand slid up her forearm, but she didn't let go.

“I don't—” Marci's father tried again.

“So first…I'm sorry. Then I want you to know that I love your daughter”—Marci squeezed her forearm and Jessie finished—“and I hope you can find it in your heart—”

“Yes.” Marci's father's palm was warm and dry in Jessie's. “The heart. That's what love is really all about, isn't it?”

Jessie started to say something but stopped herself.

“I'm not going to say I'm happy with this…this…the way things have worked out. And it has nothing to do with you, Jessica. I think you're a fine young woman. A real catch, you might say. And my daughter does too, but a marriage, well, a commitment is hard enough for a—pardon the word—normal couple. I honestly can't imagine what it will be like for you two…”

Jessie tried to pull her hand back, but he didn't let go.

“And children. What about children?” He looked right at Jessie and said, “You. You're taking my grandchildren away.”

“No she isn't. We are. And maybe we aren't. Just because we—” Jessie expected the worst when Marci interrupted her father.

“Well, I want both of you to think about that…but I will tell you this.” Marci's father's eyes softened and looked misty when the words finally came out. “As a matter of the heart, I have absolutely no doubt that you do love my daughter. And that she loves you. And when it's all said and done, that's the most important thing, isn't it? I just hope you take your time and make sure before you go off and do—”

“We will, Father.” Marci smiled, and Jessie's little piece of heaven lit up. Marci's father finally let go, and she chanced to breathe.

“Oh. And one other thing.”

They both waited with bated breath.

“Someone has got to call Ms. Latimore, my personal assistant, and tell her I'm no longer the head prick. She takes great joy in reminding me of that every chance she gets.”

* * *

The three of them stood in the corner talking while the party swirled around them. Words of tentative exploration turned to rambunctious outbursts that left everyone laughing. Mr. Dionysius, Alex, grabbed a waiter and toasted Jessie's concert. He told her she had a fan for life.

When a big arm fell on Jessie's shoulder, she turned to find her father grinning at her.

“Dad. You remember Marci?”

“Sure do.” Ever the gentleman, he leaned in and kissed Marci's cheek before pulling her under his other arm. “Am I ever glad to see you, little lady. Jessie's been—”

“And this is Mr. Dionysius, Marci's father.”

“Alexander. Just call me Alex.” The two men shook hands and squared off.

“Nice to meetcha, Alex.” Her father pulled them both back under his arms. Never one to beat around the bush, he asked Alex with a smidge of Southern-boy challenge, “So whadda ya think of our girls here, Alex?”

The man who stared down dictators and presidents over cocktails on a regular basis didn't back down. He looked at each of them in turn, then at her father. When he finally smiled, so did Jessie. His words brought a bigger smile to Marci's face.

“I think we might just be the luckiest dads in the world. What do you think?”

Jessie's dad kissed them both on the cheeks before trading them for Alex. The two men fell into step, and the last thing Jessie heard her father say as Alex was led away was, “Maybe we can find somethin' with a little more kick than this here grape juice…”

* * *

There had been no skulking about. They'd walked through the empty lobby holding hands and stopped in front of the elevator. They kissed passionately in the elevator and were now both naked between the sheets. Marci hugged Jessie, spooned into her back, and whispered, “What are you thinking about, Jess?”

Jessie wiped a tear away she'd managed to keep hidden. “This. Us. How wonderful is not to be planning my…”

“Escape?” Marci chuckled.

Jessie cringed. “Yeah. Sorta.”

Marci kissed Jessie's shoulder, then pulled her around and into her arms. They kissed and petted and cooed. They could have made love, but Jessie was glad when they traded passion for the comfort of each other's arms.

Marci said the words first.

“I love you, Jessie.”

Jessie looked into Marci's beautiful black eyes that shimmered even in the dark and let her heart speak. “I'll love you forever if you'll let me.”

“You thought there was a choice?” Marci ran her fingers through Jessie's hair, pulled her close for another kiss, and whispered, “Silly girl.”

Loose Id Titles by Roscoe James

Orion

Dancing with Venus

Roscoe James

Indulge yourself in a sumptuous taste of mystery with a dash of heart pounding thriller. Perhaps a sprinkling of science fiction will be what teases your palate as you feast on Roscoe James' brand of romance. And don't forget the spicy wickedness that makes his stories Hot with a capital "H". Roscoe James (RJ to his adoring fans) writes romance with a delicious twist.

Born along the dusky red banks of the Ohio River, RJ grew up in a sleepy little town in southern Indiana where the sounds of cicadas and whippoorwills marked the arrival of summer and cruising the town square on a Friday night was a rite of passage. From law enforcement to the hallowed corporate halls of two Fortune 500s he draws from a deep well of life experience. With Spanish as his second language and the day-to-day of living in one of the largest cities of culture in the world, RJ infuses his stories with a raw reality that makes the characters memorable forever.

Most days you’ll find RJ sitting at his desk overlooking one of the concrete jungle’s lush city parks trying to dream up new ways to captivate and titillate your imagination ... in the most wicked way possible, of course.