Moments In Time Page 4

  “Of course,” she said with a nod, “anyone who’s listened to a jazz station on the radio for more than ten minutes knows who Hobie Narood is. I’ve seen him play several times. He is the very best of the young sax players. Or, at least, he was. He’s in Philadelphia? I hadn’t heard. I thought he’d retired or something…”

  “ ‘Or something’ is closer to truth,” he told her. “He’s taken a few years off to get himself together. More or less.”

  “Drugs?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied slowly. “Hobie’s a product of two cultures. His mother was of Jamaican descent, raised in England—hence his name, Hobie, as in Hobart—and his father was African. From Anjjoli. His father was the minister of justice. Under Kashad, the former president. Both of them were assassinated in the coup two years back.” He looked at her blank expression and asked with just a touch of humor, “Don’t you keep up with international politics here?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I just didn’t know that about him. And I was wondering how you knew so much.”

  “Hobie and I go way back. We played in a band together for six years. Daily Times. Ever hear of it?”

  “Yeah.” She obviously had, judging by the look on her face. “Daily Times was very big when I was in college. You were in that band?”

  He nodded to indicate he had been.

  “What did you do?” she asked directly.

  “Played the piano and sang and wrote most of the songs.” He couldn’t help but lay it on, hoping to impress her.

  “Son of a gun,” she said, grinning, “and here I was thinking my Good Samaritan was some indigent backpacker from the Isles ‘doing the States’ on a lark.”

  “Well, I suppose I must have appeared that way,” he conceded with a somewhat sheepish laugh. “I’d been sleeping on the bus all day, and I guess I was a bit rumpled.” She picked up her empty glass and leaned her head back, allowing some of the ice to fall into her mouth.

  “I’d lost track of Hobie for a while. He has spent the past several years coming to terms with his roots is, I guess, the best way to describe it.” J.D. was thoughtful for a moment, wondering how much of the story to tell. “His mother refused to live with his father in Anjjoli, since they permit— encourage, really—the men of position there to have more than one wife. Saline, Hobie’s mother, was not impressed with the fact that her husband’s four subsequent wives were a mark of honor of his wealth and his significance within the government. After his father’s assassination, Hobie went to Anjjoli, made contact with his other family, and sort of immersed himself in it. He’s married an Anjjolan girl—only one, I might add—and is sort of a folk hero there, you know. The Anjjolans welcomed him with open arms, son of a slain hero and an internationally known musician, to boot.” He stopped himself suddenly and looked to her apologetically. “I can’t imagine why I rattled on like that. I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t be.” She tapped a finger gently on his arm, which was stretched along the side of the table, his hand just inches from her own. “I’ve been fascinated. Narood is one of my all-time favorite sax players. I’m just glad to know it wasn’t drugs or something that took him out, happy to hear all that talent hasn’t gone to waste.”

  “You know, I’d asked him to call me when he was ready to get back out again. Maybe he couldn’t catch up with me, maybe he thought I wasn’t serious about it, I don’t know. He never did get in touch.”

  “Let me guess—you’re going to pop in on him and surprise him tonight.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll bet he’ll be really glad to see you.” She smiled, and he was again transfixed by the color of her eyes.

  On impulse, he asked, “Would you like to go?”

  She put her glass down and looked across the table. “Truthfully, yes, I’d love to go. I’m very partial to good jazz. And I’d love to see Narood play again. But I have plans to meet a friend for dinner.”

  “Ah, yes, good old Dr. Jake, no doubt.” He rested his chin on the back of the chair, attempting to look as dejected and forlorn as possible.

  “No, no,” she laughed, “an old friend. A gal I went to college with. Actually, though, we’ll be in the city, not far from the club. Maybe we’ll stop in for a drink when we’re done, if it’s not too late and if I can talk Caroline into going.”

  “Great.” Maggie with a chaperone was better than no Maggie at all. “Well, I suppose I should let you finish your lunch, and it looks like I’ll have to get back to work. I see my band is packing up on me.”

  Rick was walking toward the table.

  “How’s the wounded jogger today?” he inquired.

  Maggie looked blankly at J.D.

  “This is Rick Daily. Maggie Callahan.” He turned to her and explained, “Rick’s our guitar player. He was on the bus yesterday, watching out the window while I tended to your injury.”

  “I’m sorry now that I didn’t get off the bus myself.” Rick leaned a hand on the back of her chair. “You look even better close up.”

  J.D. watched as Maggie leaned back in her chair to take in Rick’s six-feet five-inch form, the long black hair, the exceptionally handsome face, the laughing eyes. There was no question—Rick was a most spectacular-looking man. There wasn’t a woman alive who could resist his charm if she thought for one moment that Rick was interested. Yet Maggie seemed undaunted.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m just lucky that J.D. came to my rescue. Otherwise I might not have been able to walk at all today.”

  Rick straightened up, sensing that she’d dismissed him. “Yes, well, glad to see you’re okay. We’ve got to get moving, J.D.”

  “I’ll be right with you.”

  Rick rejoined his group, which was preparing to leave the table.

  “Well, I’ll look for you tonight.” J.D. got up and turned the chair around and pushed it under the table. “I hope you can make it.”

  “If not, I’m glad we ran into each other today. I really did want to thank you again for helping me yesterday.” She looked up and smiled, and he noted the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Fairy kisses, someone had told him once. It seemed appropriate.

  He wished he had the nerve to beg her to cancel her dinner plans and go with him instead. He sighed inwardly, telling himself he had done the best he could do to see her again. The rest would be up to her.

  “By the way,” she called to him as he turned to go, “what’s the J.D. stand for?”

  “James David,” he responded over his shoulder, grinning, pleased that she’d been interested enough to ask.

  Catching up with the others as they passed through the doorway into the hall, he asked the promoter, “Where can I get a haircut?”

  4

  “AND DID YOU, IN FACT,” HILARY INQUIRED, “manage a haircut?”

  “Absolutely,” he laughed. “Immediately upon leaving the arena, I went back to the hotel and sought the barber. Not the best haircut I ever had, mind you, but it served the purpose.”

  “And I take it you were suitably impressed with his efforts, Maggie?”

  “I don’t recall,” she replied flatly, attempting to add as little as possible to the conversation.

  J.D. knew she was lying through her teeth. It was a good sign.

  “Well, I recall perfectly,” he told Hilary. “It seemed I’d waited hours that night, wondering if she’d show up. My eyes never left the door, watching for her. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to see her walk in. She was dressed in a sort of long sweater, like a sweater, but it was a dress, dark green it was, like her eyes. We had to wait a bit for the show to begin, and there was recorded music playing,” he reminisced, his voice slowing slightly as he described the scene.

  “I asked her to dance, just to have an excuse to touch her. I was the world’s worst dancer…”

  “You still are,” Maggie jabbed with neither emotion nor a glance in his direction. Her eyes remained fixed on a painting across the room.

  “No
question.” He laughed good-naturedly. “But you were as soft and warm as I’d knew you’d be. And you smelled of honeysuckle. Even today, that scent brings back that evening in vivid detail. You, Hobie, the wonderful music…”

  He watched with a sinking heart as she turned her face to the garden. The image had not been strong enough, he told himself. It had not been the memory that would open the door.

  “And Narood played that night? Wasn’t that the first leg of his big comeback?” Hobie Narood was a topic Hilary’d very much like to discuss.

  “Yes,” J.D. stammered slightly, tripping over his own memories, finding himself suddenly tangled in something he wanted desperately to avoid. He heard a voice speaking rapidly, then realized it was his own. “God, but he was great that night. He was always great…” His voice faded momentarily, and Hilary was afraid he’d refuse to go on, but go on he did in a rush of words that seemed to pour out on their own, as if they, not he, had control of his mouth.

  “Rick and I joined him onstage. We just plain jammed—the three of us—for better than an hour. Just like old times. He was very definitely the best sax player I’ve ever heard. We tried to talk him into coming with us on tour. We’d missed him terribly—Rick and I—since Daily Times had broken up. It had been more than four years since we’d played together. But he had commitments, you know. He had a new agent and had bookings for the next eighteen months. Then he was off to Europe for that big tour, and of course, after that, his career really took off. It was a while before we caught up with him again.”

  “Not until 1988…” Hilary leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. J.D. had never publicly spoken of the incident. This was definitely worth pursuing. She all but salivated at the thought of being the one to get him to make a statement, to break his mysterious silence about what had happened that night in Anjjoli.

  In spite of the loathing she felt toward her husband, Maggie glanced at him out of the corner of one eye, as habit forced her almost against her will to note his reaction. He sat immobile, sweat beading on his lip.

  Years of playing backup for one another caused her to speak without making a conscious decision to do so.

  “That’s not quite true, Hilary. We saw Hobie and his family from time to time over the years. And his wife, Aden, is still a close friend,” she heard herself say, then forced the discussion in another direction. “But that was the first time I’d heard J.D. sing and the first time I’d heard Rick play. I’d been totally unprepared for how good they were.”

  “And what rock had you been hiding under during the sixties?” Hilary asked sarcastically, annoyed that her efforts to delve into the horrific events in Anjjoli had been thwarted. “Daily Times was one of the premier bands of its day.”

  “Of course, I’d heard their records, but it wasn’t the same as being there live. And I hadn’t realized that Rick was that Rick Daily. He hadn’t made a very good impression on me. The first time I met him I figured he probably played mediocre guitar, but the band kept him on to attract the girls. He was just too good-looking and a bit of a Neanderthal in those days.” She smiled slightly at the memory.

  The sound of her voice—she’d been rambling a bit, as she had a tendency to do when she was nervous or upset—intruded through J.D.’s dark thoughts of Narood. I kissed Maggie for the first time that night, he thought, recalling the jolt that had passed through him when he’d put his arms around her, there in the parking lot. He’d leaned back against her car and kissed her. It had shaken him, all but bringing him to his knees. And so he had kissed her again, all the while hoping with all his heart that she had never kissed Jake that way.

  He looked at her, so close to him, yet so distant, sadness in every line in his face. He loved this woman so much. What will it take?

  Had she jumped into the conversation to take the focus off him, knowing he could not discuss Narood, or had she merely been protecting herself from the memory of that terrible night in Anjjoli? Was she softening just a little? He decided to keep the momentum going, just in case.

  “Maggie’s friend had spent the entire evening avoiding Rick’s advances. He’s always had an eye for the ladies, you know, and Caroline was quite lovely. They’ve become good friends over the years, but that first night, I distinctly recall Caro mumbling that she’d never met a man with a bigger ego or a smaller brain.” He chuckled. “And I’d all but fallen flat on my face over Maggie, so before rehearsal the next day, I found her office in the arena and popped in and asked her to meet me for a drink after the show that night.”

  “That must have been a pleasant surprise,” Hilary commented, trying to think of a way to steer the conversation toward something more newsworthy or controversial than their courtship.

  “Not really,” Maggie replied bluntly.

  “You must have been a very confident young lady,” Hilary observed. And hopefully more personable than you’ve been tonight.

  “He had made his intentions clear enough,” Maggie said flatly.

  “Maggie means I’d sent her flowers that morning. Roses. Three dozen white roses,” he said softly.

  “How romantic.” Hilary shuffled through her notes, looking for something she could use to change the subject. “That would certainly get my attention.”

  “It was a nice touch,” Maggie replied dryly, deftly securing a hair comb that had slid from its web of dark curls.

  “It was more than a nice touch,” he told her, playfully poking her on the arm, but she pulled away and seemed to withdraw again. He returned his attention to Hilary. “And it did get her attention. I couldn’t wait to get off stage and be alone with her…”

  * * * * *

  The welcome in her eyes as she watched him approach through the crowded bar had warmed his heart. He pulled out a chair and sat down next to her. They sat and looked at each other for a few moments. Her green silk blouse was a perfect match to her eyes.

  “Like the show?” he asked to break the silence.

  “It was,” she drew her words out slowly as if searching for just the right ones, “it was, well, pretty good.”

  “Pretty good!” J.D. exclaimed indignantly. “Pretty good! That was the best goddamned band you ever heard and you bloody well know it.”

  “You’re right, of course, it was the best,” she laughed. With simple sincerity, she said, “Even after hearing you and Rick last night, I wasn’t prepared for how good the band would be. I don’t think I’d ever heard but three or four of the songs before.”

  “Old Daily Times songs,” he offered. “For some reason, Daily Times got more airplay on your radio stations than Monkshood has had. We’ve done a lot better in Europe than we’ve done here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Heavier promotion there. Don’t ask, Maggie. The record companies make those decisions. This is our first tour here that’s attracted any kind of widespread attention. And the publicity’s been better this time around.”

  He took her hand and absentmindedly played with her fingers for a moment.

  “So you thought we were pretty good, did you?” He was enjoying looking at her. Her dark hair curled behind her ears, and her eyes shone in the faint light.

  “Actually, I was impressed,” she told him.

  “Thank you. I wanted you to be,” he quietly admitted. “Another drink, Maggie?” The waitress was passing the table.

  “Yes and a…” She looked at J.D.

  He provided his order: “Scotch and water.”

  “Actually,” she said after the waitress had departed, “I probably don’t need another drink.”

  She told him she’d had two drinks upstairs and another while she was waiting for him,

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “Lightweight that I suspect you to be, you absolutely do not need another drink. The last thing in the world I want tonight is to have you pass out on me.”

  There was no mistaking the look on his face nor the meaning behind his words.

  She tried to make light of it. “And if I passed
out, I suppose you’d take advantage of me.”

  He shook his head slowly and looked directly into her eyes.

  “No, Maggie, I want you to be wide awake.”

  They both knew there was no joke intended.

  She tried to make small talk for a few minutes to ease the tension. Finally, he said, “It’s getting late, Maggie.”

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Almost eleven. Come on, Maggie. It’s time for us to go.” J.D. was stopped several times for an autograph, and he smiled and wrote his name on whatever was offered to him, somehow managing to hide his impatience to leave, to be alone with her. Finally, they were outside, headed toward Maggie’s car, which was parked in the employee’s lot directly behind the arena. He was stopped four more times between the building and the car.

  “Let’s move it, Maggie, before someone else waves a cocktail napkin in my face.” He took her by the elbow, following her lead.

  “Well,” she said as they got to the car, “isn’t that the price of stardom, the loss of your privacy?”

  “I never wanted to be a star,” he replied quietly.

  They were in the car now, Maggie starting it up and looking across the console at him. “Then why do you do it? Why aren’t you a teacher or a pharmacist or something like that?”

  “Because music is a very big part of me. I love the whole process, writing, singing, putting all the pieces of a song together, playing around with different instruments to get a different sound, performing. I love it all. It’s what I do best, the only thing I’ve ever done. Remember that I’ve been doing this for the past ten years, since I was seventeen, eighteen years old. Why did you become an accountant?”

  “Because I like numbers,” she told him. “I like the way they always make sense and I like the logic of it all, the consistency of numerical patterns.”

  “Well, they’re not so very different, you know, numbers and music. The same key on the piano always plays the same note,” he mused, “just like adding the same two numbers will always give you the same sum.”