Dancing With Venus Page 17

  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 fo
r 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.