Unforgettable (8 page)

She speed-dialed Naomi. “I’m on the way to LAX,” Rett reported.

Naomi told her the airline and flight number and then the six songs she would be singing. “Someone will meet you at the gate, probably have your name on a card or something. There’s a big, fat bonus for your trouble. I told Jerry it was only fair, which he already knew. Not to beat a dead horse, he also told me — I didn’t ask — he was glad he only had to work with me and not Trish.”

“I’ll let you know when I want you to stop beating it — she gave me back the car keys this morning, by the way.”

“Are they somewhere that Tamla could find them? She’ll be dropping by to make sure your place is okay, pick up any mail or parcels that get left.”

“I’m glad I sent you the new front door key already. I put the car keys on my desk. They’re on a Lexus key ring along with the security remote.”

“Tamla will drop the car off at the dealer, then. Good — I’m glad that’s all wrapped up. She’s gone for good?”

“Took all her stuff and some of mine, but she’s gone. And you know what? I don’t miss her at all.” Angel came readily to mind and Rett lost some of what Naomi said to the memory of Angel’s skin.

“— look before you go leaping again, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Rett said absently. Shit, she thought. She was leaving town and hadn’t called. She doubted she’d be able to call in the next forty-eight hours. And if she could find out who Angel was on Monday what would she say? Sorry I didn’t call for two days and guess what, I’m gone for the next three weeks, but this isn’t a brush-off? Sure, Angel would believe that.

She had no choice but to push thoughts of Angel into the background. The plane ride was only an hour or so, barely enough time to mentally review the numbers she would be performing. Her mind might remember every word and her ear might remember every note, but her vocal cords were far more fallible.

She knew enough about Henry Connors’ style to know there would be a chance to rehearse each song at least once. But time wouldn’t allow for much more than that. They would all be counting on her ability to do it perfectly. Pedal hits the metal, she told herself.

Jerry Orland himself picked her up at SFO. He’d been Henry Connors’ promoter for a number of years. His short, dark hair was tipped with more gray, but his charm was just the same as the last time they’d met. “Rett, you are a darling to get here so fast.” He embraced her with a peck on the cheek. “I’ve got a car waiting.”

The airport was a mess — construction everywhere and only two lanes circling the pickup area. Jerry’s driver was idling in the parking lot just outside the elevators and Jerry ushered her into the back seat, then joined her. They both flipped open their cell phones.

“I made it, Naomi. Jerry picked me up.”

“I’m looking right at her, Henry, in the flesh. So you can relax. We’ll be there in thirty-five minutes.” Jerry glanced at her. “You don’t need to go to the hotel first, do you?”

Obviously, the only acceptable answer was no, so that was the answer Rett gave. To Naomi she said, “I think you can relax now. Keep an eye out for reviews. I can always hope.” She switched off the phone and took a deep, calming breath.

“She’s being a real sport,” Jerry reported. He clicked the phone shut and heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ve been wanting to dump Gilda since Chicago. I can handle high-strung, but she was a purebred poodle.”

Rett laughed politely. “What does that make me?”

“If you had red hair, I’d say a beautiful, talented, sensitive Irish setter. But you’ve got that sort of blondey-brownie thing going on. Beautiful, talented and sensitive will have to do.”

Rett knew when she was being flattered and she certainly didn’t mind. After the horrible past few weeks, flattery was more than welcome. “Oh, stop,” she said insincerely. “Why, it’ll go right to my beautiful, talented, sensitive head.”

Jerry grinned. “I think this is where I have to admit I was the one who threw you over in favor of Gilda. Mea culpa.” • “Then I hate you,” Rett said pleasantly.

“Anything I can do to change that?”

Rett sucked in her cheeks. “Well-l-l-l, the body part responsible for the Gilda decision on a silver platter would be nice.”

“Ha ha,” Jerry said in a flat tone. His expression grew mischievous. “You don’t have a silver platter big enough.” He let Rett’s scoffing protest go by, then added, “And you’d need fireplace tongs to handle it.”

“Oh, oh, as if tweezers wouldn’t do the job.”

“I thought you were a nice girl.”

“I am a nice girl. A not-nice girl would have brought a knife and the platter with her.”

They sparred and talked about the performance for the rest of the drive. It had been a while since Rett had been to San Francisco. There were more tall buildings and a new ballpark between the freeway off-ramp and the water. Fog was blowing over the hills that separated the downtown area from the ocean, making Rett glad of her jacket.

The driver let them off at the stage door to the Fillmore. Rett had only heard about the legendary venue and was eager to see the inside. Jerry took charge of her bags and delivered them into the keeping of the dresser, who bemoaned the wrinkles in Rett’s gowns.

She also met the woman who did hair and makeup for the featured performers. The elderly woman studied Rett for a moment, clucked with some distress and announced that she would have to think of something to fix the shape of Rett’s eyes. Rett had never noticed that the left was slightly larger than the right. She wasn’t sure she could tell now, even though it had been pointed out in no uncertain terms. The stylist muttered about her “case of the blahs” hair as she walked away, and Rett had to smile. There was nothing like backstage people to remind you that you were imperfect.

The orchestra was in the middle of a high-energy salsa number Rett hadn’t heard before. It sounded terrific.

Jerry drew her onto the stage as the number ended. Several of the musicians hurrahed while Henry gave her a huge hug.

“Delightful, just delightful. I know we’ll pull this off.” Henry Connors had to be her age, Rett thought, but he still had a boyish quality that infused his music with vigor and charm. “Let’s do ‘Blue Moon’ first.”

“I haven’t warmed up,” Rett protested.

“Oh.” Henry looked crestfallen. “Okay, we’ll do another number. Go warm up.”

Four minutes, Rett thought, at the most. Stage right was deserted, so she ducked into a dark corner and sang scales in half and full voice. She shook her arms to release tension and felt a quiver of nerves. Pedal to the metal, she reminded herself. This is what it’s all about. This is what makes you a professional.

“It’s going to sound a little tight because I didn’t have time for breathing exercises,” she warned Henry. She glanced at the well-lit house. The ceiling soared to allow for two balconies. The concave structure had fabulous acoustics.

“Don’t waste full voice if you need to keep it for tonight.”

“I’ll take it easy,” she promised. She liked the old-fashioned, oversized standing microphone Henry preferred. It set the mood of an earlier era. Portable mikes left her wondering what she should do with her feet, and the power pack on her back always rubbed the wrong way.

The stage manager pointed out her entrance and mark. A sorrowful clarinet heralded the number and Rett let herself sway into the slow rhythm. She’d learned over the years that singing an old standard like ‘Blue Moon’ only pleased a crowd when they heard what they expected. The opening verse she presented in straightforward style, every note true and on beat.

A soulful clarinet solo bridged back to her entrance, accompanied by glittering guitar. She recognized Cleetus Washington’s golden touch immediately. She took more liberties with the phrasing, keeping an eye on Henry the whole time. At one point he emphasized a downbeat in her direction and she brought her rhythm back to the standard. He smiled, clearly relieved, at her quick adjustment, and Rett felt about half the tension in her body drain away. The rapport they’d found so smoothly at the concert last year hadn’t been a fluke.

The stage manager and Jerry Orland applauded loudly when they were done. “That was wonderful. Henry, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Very nice indeed,” Henry said. “Let’s move on to ‘I Told You I Love You, Now Get Out.’”

They ran through the song three times because Rett hadn’t performed it for quite a while. The humor of the song needed good timing. They decided to have Rett continue talking over the orchestra’s closing.

“You’ll remember the order?”

“But of course,” Rett said. ” ‘Today. I mean it. Go. Now,’ three beats, then ‘get out’ with the final two downbeats.”

“We don’t have time to do it again, but I had a feeling we’d be best served spending time there. The rest of the songs we did last year. Let’s do them in order. ‘Candy,’ everybody.”

By the time they ended rehearsal, Rett was glad she’d kept her Adidas on. She had about ninety minutes to get to her hotel, have a bite to eat, do her breathing exercises for relaxation and then return to the dresser’s ministrations. The other musicians were all quickly leaving, though many waved and said they’d catch up after the show. Time was too short for chitchat at the moment, which Rett certainly understood. She picked up her luggage, lighter for the gowns, shoes and cosmetics removed by the dresser, and headed into the misty late-afternoon sunshine.

The hotel was just down Geary, off Union Square. She dodged street musicians and sidewalk vendors, then ducked into a deli for a ham sandwich and an uncarbonated fruit drink. Her room was tiny, but the accoutrements were a definite step up from the clean but sparse shoebox she’d slept in while in New York. Food consumed, clothes hung up, she kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the bed.

Forget about not having enough underwear, she told herself. Forget about forgetting an extra bra. Forget about the little details. Breathe in… out.

Her deep breathing exercises calmed her nerves. She floated for a few minutes in restful ease. Her mind was still — then a shivering memory of Angel intruded. Rett could almost feel the silk of her thighs as she’d straddled Rett’s stomach. Instead of peaceful relaxation, Rett found her heart racing and her palms damp.

“Annoyed with herself, she sat up. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored-closet door. “Look,” she said to her reflection. “You’re over Trish. This is not a good time to obsess about someone new. This is not a good time for someone you don’t even know if you’ll ever see again to come between you and the biggest break you’ve had in years.”

She made a face, then stood up to swing her arms and stretch her back.

“So it was fabulous sex. Certainly the best in a long time. So she seemed like someone you could talk to, someone with her own life that sounded kind of interesting. In two hours, savvy music-lovers in a packed house are going to expect you to take the place of Gilda Bransen. They’re expecting Gilda. The critics in this town were hoping to get their chance to review her. You have to be great. You can sing circles around her, but if you aren’t fabulous the reviews will crucify you for not being Gilda.”

She continued her pep talk as she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, which seemed rattier than usual. Back at the concert hall, she was glad she’d invested no time in her hair. The stylist slathered it with gel, then scraped it back and quickly wove in a well-matched plop of curls. Rett was glad she couldn’t really see them — curls had never been her thing. Cinny Keilor had had the curly hair.

 What on earth was she doing thinking about Cinny Keilor? Earth to Rett, she thought. Hello! Performance coming!

The stylist sprayed the whole arrangement with red tinting, then set about lining Rett’s eyes with more makeup than Rett would have chosen to wear in a year.

“The red is nice,” she admitted, when she finally had a chance to assess the entire look. She didn’t know about the curly hairpiece on the back. It was sophisticated, a quality she didn’t necessarily cultivate most of the time. Still, she needed to fit in with the tuxes the orchestra would be wearing.

“The spray will wash out tonight. I’ll do highlights for you tomorrow morning, if you like. It’ll save time every night and look more natural.”

Rett considered it. “Okay. Something new.” The dresser appeared with one of Rett’s formal gowns over one arm and various undergarments over the other.

Rett refused the pantyhose with built-in girdle until she saw her silhouette in the glittering blue sheath. She hadn’t had the dress on for at least nine months. She put her hand on her tummy. “My God. Stop going to the gym and look what happens.”

The dresser made an “I told you so” face and handed over the girdle contraption. It made the difference, though Rett could tell she would have to work harder to breathe in fully. Three-quarter-length white gloves completed the torture, but when she studied herself in the full-length mirror, she was pleased. She looked good. So she was turning forty — she looked good. She was not in the glamorous Gilda’s league, but her voice would make up the difference. If she sang well, it would make up the difference with plenty to spare.

“You need more bosom,” the dresser announced. “I could cut this down across here.” She traced a line across Rett’s chest that would expose considerably more skin. “You think anyone was looking at Marilyn Monroe’s stomach?”

“We’ll see,” Rett said. Sit-ups, she promised herself.

She stood in the darkened wings and waited for her entrance. Her two three-song sets came about eleven minutes into each half of the evening. She concentrated and kept to steady, normal breathing as she waited. She was abruptly aware that Jerry Orland was standing near her.

“I didn’t want to break your concentration,” he said.

“It’s okay. A little distraction is good.”

“You’re going to be terrific. The crowd knows it’s you — there were signs at the doors. They got a few returned tickets and that’s all. I had enlargements of the review from last year put around the foyer, so the audience should have pleasant expectations. You’ll knock ‘em dead. And you look like a million bucks.”

“Nothing that two women working for forty minutes couldn’t achieve.”