Vulnerable (11 page)

When the bouncer removed the black velvet rope to let her enter, D'Becca heard a few derogatory and irate outcries by those still hoping to get in, and the protests followed her straight into the noisy club.

Moody's was packed. D'Becca was told by the doorman that she would most likely have to stand since there were no seats at the tables or at the bar. She pulled out her cellular and leaned against a wall. “Hey,” she said. “I know it's late. Are you alone?” D'Becca waved to a passing waitress. “How's South Beach?”

“Yes?” the waitress greeted D'Becca.

“An apple martini, please.”

Wordless, the waitress made note of D'Becca's request in her head, and before she could walk away was stopped by another club guest wanting to order a drink.

“I'm at Moody's Jazz Alley. Have you ever been?” D'Becca looked around the crowded room and did not see Rawn anywhere. She suspected no one in the club would recognize her. “Rawn's playing, that's why. No, he plays piano. He played ‘Moonlit Sonata' for me and I was floored. He's really pianistic, Troy. No, at the Alley he plays jazz. Well, what can I say, he loves jazz. He's crazy about Godreau. Yeah, the jazz pianist killed last month. Look, it's not what you think. I like him. He's complex but still easy to be with. And yes, I know what I'm doing. Troy, I miss you. Maybe that
is
why I started a friendship with Rawn, I can't really be sure.” D'Becca listened for a while, and ended her call with a solemn, “Sure, okay. Love you.”

Ten minutes later the cocktail waitress returned with her martini, and D'Becca gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. She squeezed through the crowd attempting to make her way to the bar to find somewhere to sit. A gentleman always gave up his seat for a lady. By the time she reached the bar, Rawn and four other musicians were walking to a corner of the room and stepping up on the elevated platform. The area closest to the platform was set up like a cozy living room with intimately arranged velvet chairs, sofas and ottomans of deep charcoal and vermilion, and lava lamps that glowed in psychedelic colors against the dim backdrop of the club. The area was roped off, and beyond the rope were conventional nightclub tables which surrounded the platform. On nights when a band did not play, the platform was made into a dance floor.

The musicians began to play a breezy number, and when it ended, they eased into another song. In this number the primary instrument was the piano, and for most of the performance Rawn played solo. D'Becca never saw him so loose, so secure within himself. It struck her how much time she had spent with him but had not noticed the lights and shadows of his persona; and she realized how intimate they had been without really getting to know each other. In her head she saw him as a mysterious yet sensitive schoolteacher, not someone who sat in a dim club, traces of alcohol mixed with body odor and perfume and cologne suspended in the air, playing jazz. But he was fully in the moment, and played like it was his life's calling—a divine purpose. When the song ended, the crowd clapped and whistled. A loud, masculine voice bellowed,
“Bravo!”
from the rear of the club, and cheery voices, slurred by alcohol, echoed praise. The energy in the room was electric.

•  •  •

While she leaned against a wall, Sicily could see clearly that Rawn was in a good place. In fact, she had never seen him so free-spirited. While he was a confident personality, there were times when she felt Rawn overanalyzed life and he could be quite deliberate. An old soul, it was his gift and his curse. Rawn once told Sicily that he felt an unexplainable connection to his Haitian grandfather. He was a solitary man, contemplative, but he was likewise engaging and quite amusing. Sicily thought Rawn was describing himself. Despite her swearing that she would never set foot in the Alley again, something in Rawn's voice persuaded Sicily to cross the floating bridge. After two years of knowing him, Sicily had not yet figured out how he managed to talk her into things.

The musicians had ended their set when a man holding a penny-colored drink in his hand stepped up to Sicily. “Howyoudoin'?” he asked ever so nonchalantly.

This man and everything outwardly about him was the very reason Sicily loathed the Alley: she had to switch up. To be polite, she replied, “Good, thank you.”

“You like da band?”

Sicily took a small sip of her burgundy wine. “Yes.”

“Can I refill that forya?”

To get a better read on the man standing in front of her, Sicily met his dark and narrow eyes. She put on her public façade and said, “No, I'm good.” She hoped that her voice came across neutral. “I have to drive back to Seattle. One's my limit. Two if I drink it an hour before I get behind the wheel.”

“Oh, baby.” The man grinned. “Ain't chew responsible.” He eased in closer because he wanted to make sure she could hear him over the noise—the chatter and laughter and a duet by Babyface and Stevie Wonder playing. He pressed his free hand against the wall, moving even closer to Sicily to the point she felt trapped.

Sicily smelled his musk, which might have indicated he had not bathed or showered prior to dressing up in his trying-too-hard suit and coming to the club. He attempted to mask that fact by putting on strong cologne.
Or is that Aramis I smell?
Sicily was rather embarrassed for the man. Besides his less-than-impressive style, the shirt sealed the deal for Sicily. A polyester blend, it was unbuttoned to expose several gold chains tangled into a large gold medallion.
It's so Mr. T!

“Are
you
a man who's responsible?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. I takes responsibility.”

I
takes
responsibility?

She dropped her eyes in her drink. “There's a woman out there who'd be lucky to meet you.” She stood off the wall the color of Sangria, and to put the chitchat to bed, said, “I need to find my friend.”

“Hey, listen, I'm Rodney. What's yo name?”

“Sicily.”

“Sicily? Wow!” He never stopped grinning. Perhaps his most redeeming physical trait was his teeth. They were amazingly white. “That's like Cicely Tyson, right? That's one fine woman!”

Sicily extended her hand. “It was nice chatting with you, Rodney.”

Rodney held Sicily's hand momentarily before he reached down and kissed it, and flabbergasted, Sicily's eyes almost popped out their sockets. When he looked into her eyes, he said, “Whoever said eyes was windas to the soul, they musta' been talkin' 'bout you, lady. Are them your real color? I mean, you know, are they contacts? Don't matter; I feel somethin' in yo eyes.”

The Alley gained a reputation as a need-to-be-seen-there place. While its status leaned more on the musicians who played there, both renowned and local, the crowd it attracted made it
the
place to hang out. Hence, the clientele expanded, mostly because of word-of-mouth. Moody hired a bouncer from New York to weed
out the riffraff. Apparently, the bouncer's judgment was questionable. For a few quiet moments, Sicily held Rodney's shifty eyes. She retrieved her hand, and with an insincere smile, turned to leave, saying over her shoulder, “Take care, Rodney.” He tried to keep the conversation going with something about exchanging e-mails, but Sicily could not bear another minute in his presence.

•  •  •

Rawn stepped up to the bar behind D'Becca, who was having a conversation with a woman seated next to her. The bartender, Derric, leaned against the bar engaged in their exchange. Rawn walked up behind D'Becca and playfully placed his hands over her eyes. She let out a girlish snicker while removing his hands. When she looked up to him, her face softened. D'Becca took his face into her hands, and they kissed each other on the lips. The woman seated next to D'Becca said, “Bejesus! The pianist. You were absolutely fabulous. You should be opening up at Carnegie Hall, or somewhere.” Her small teeth shaped her especially jovial face.

Rawn acknowledged Derric behind the bar with a nod. “Thank you,” he said to the sociable woman.

“No, really. You're good. How long have you been playing?” The chummy woman picked up her rainbow-colored drink with an umbrella tilting to the side and sipped through the straw like she was drinking Kool-Aid.

“I started taking lessons at seven.”

“A rum and Coke, Rawn?” Derric yelled over the lively voices at the bar and Brian McKnight's “Anytime” playing.

“Sounds good. Thanks, Derric.”

“My treat,” the friendly woman said, not directing her comment to anyone in particular.

“Candace was proposed to. She and her fiancé went shopping for rings today.”

The friendly woman, Candace, held out her hand to show off her engagement ring. Rawn's left brow lifted subtly at the size of the karat. “Congratulations,” he said.

“There you are!” Sicily approached Rawn at the bar. “I was looking high and low for you. I collected two business cards and then there was
Rodney!”
Sicily eyed her good friend. Gingerly, she brushed loose curls away from her face.

“Sicily, I want you to meet D'Becca.”

Sicily and D'Becca shook hands.

The friendly woman extended her hand and said, “Candace.”

D'Becca leaned toward Sicily and spoke over the music, “Rawn speaks fondly of you.”

“Well, thank you, Rawn.”

Rawn reached for his rum and Coke on the bar and took a drink.

“Can I get you something, Sicily?” Candace asked.

“I have to drive back to the city.”

“Candace is celebrating. Her boyfriend proposed to her this morning, and on bended knee,” D'Becca shared with Sicily.

“Mazel tov!”

“Why, thank you. Is this your first time at the Alley?”

“Every now and then Rawn drags me here.”

Friendly Candace retrieved a twenty from her bosom and placed it on the bar. “I'm going to the ladies,” she said. “D'Becca, can you hold my seat?” She slipped off the stool.

“I'll keep it warm.” Sicily propped onto the stool and crossed her ankles.

“Rawn tells me you were a playwright in another life. And your play made it to Broadway. I'm in awe!”

“While I might be a member of the Guild, I never really saw myself as a
playwright.”

“But you did win a Tony?”

“I won a Tony,” Sicily confirmed. She discovered by accident just how to downplay the subject of her former life with a particular tone and a few firm and choice words. She could skillfully change the subject if she shifted the attention on to the other person and away from herself. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

D'Becca reached for her second apple martini. “Not that I recall.”

“It'll come to me. You definitely look familiar.”

“Let's toast,” D'Becca said.

“To what?” said Sicily.

D'Becca was euphoric: “To new friendships!”

•  •  •

Chateau Ste. Michelle sat on over 3,500 acres in Woodinville, approximately twenty miles northeast of Seattle. The French-style château had two state-of-the-art wineries, and Rawn and Sicily, over the two years since acquiring a friendship, had attended several summer concerts; and on two separate occasions when Khalil was in town, brought him to the Chateau for a wine tasting. When Sicily called Rawn early that morning and invited him to go with her to the Chateau and he agreed, he appreciated that the invitation was no more than a ruse. Sicily was dying to know all the details related to his relationship with D'Becca. Rawn was confident it was the only reason for the ride out to Woodinville. By telephone he could control the conversation to a degree, but a thirty-minute drive with only the two of them was another matter altogether.

Rawn and Sicily browsed through the winery. He nursed a Merlot and she a smooth Sauvignon Blanc. When they arrived, a wine tasting was about to start and thus they decided to join the group. Before leaving, they decided to look for wines to buy. Sicily, more spontaneous, chose a sparkling wine for Sunday brunch occasions, while Rawn, more deliberate in his decision-making, was still undecided.
She picked up a bottle and read the label, occasionally glancing over at Rawn being so bloody fastidious.

“I seriously never thought I would see the day.”

On the drive to Chateau, Sicily had broached the subject of D'Becca. But it was dropped when the disc jockey on the radio mentioning that the station, along with a number of other jazz stations across the country, was going to have one minute of silence to pay homage to Dante Godreau, the famed jazz pianist killed some weeks ago. Afterward, they had talked about Godreau the rest of the drive and Sicily had forgotten all about addressing the D'Becca issue.

“See what day? What are you talking about, Sicily?”

“You. My best friend, my Dream Guy. Sleeping with a white woman!”

Rawn had a temperament that clashed with Sicily's and yet they got along beautifully. Because she had not yet learned how to get him worked up, it pissed Sicily off. He said to her in a composed voice, “Get over it, Sicily.”

“I'm only saying…I never took you as a black man who would dip into white chocolate.”

“Isn't that old-school thinking?”

“Old-school? No, old-school thinking is not having a cell phone. Look, Rawn, you're an educated man. You come from a family with some paprika. But would your parents be content with their son bringing a white woman home for Thanksgiving?”

“Where did Thanksgiving come from?”

“You said on the drive here that you were going home for Thanksgiving, and didn't you say something about D'Becca wanting to meet your parents? I've never…Well, I did meet your father briefly.”

Rawn looked over to Sicily, and the fact that she was jealous of D'Becca took him totally by surprise. It was not because of D'Becca's race; Sicily was green with envy.