The Other Woman's Son

Even as she responded, Jenna feared her answer was misleading. From the moment her eyes had met Clay Dillon’s, she’d gotten the impression it was about her.

“I have a call on another line so I’ve got to go.” He sounded rushed, the same way he always did. “But do me a favor and check him out. People aren’t always what they seem.”

Excellent advice. Too bad he’d issued it too late to take him up on it. She should have thought to check out the tall, dark and mysterious Clay Dillon herself, of course, but she’d been swamped at work.

“Do we know for certain Clay Dillon is legitimate?” she asked Corrine as the elevator car descended to the lobby floor.

Corrine shifted her guitar case from one shoulder to the other and released an audible sigh. “Could you stop already?”

“Stop what?”

“Making me feel guilty for dragging you into this. My career hasn’t exactly played out like I imagined it would. And, well, chances like this don’t come around very often. I appreciate you coming on board.”

“I know that, Corrine. I agreed so you could get the exposure you deserve.” Jenna ignored the internal voice that suggested the pleasure she got from performing had something to do with it, too. “I’m simply asking how closely you checked out Clay Dillon.”

“I took a trip to Memphis to see Peyton’s Place before I sealed the deal.”

“That’s checking out the bar, not the man.”

“The man owns the bar. The bar’s on Beale Street.” Corrine had reported the bar was “cozy,” which probably meant it was tiny. “What are you so worried about? Clay put us up at the Peabody, just like he said he would.”

The Peabody was a Memphis institution, as much a tourist attraction as a hotel courtesy of the ducks that marched to and from the sculpted fountain in the Grand Lobby twice daily to a John Philip Sousa tune. On a red carpet, no less.

Corrine had talked excitedly of witnessing the duck parade after learning where they’d be staying, but hadn’t even complained they’d arrived too late for the show.

Come to think of it, Corrine had been subdued all day.

The elevator opened to the Grand Lobby, the focal point of which was an expansive bar area featuring the sculpted fountain where the mallard ducks spent their days before retiring to a rooftop cage. Stately columns, plush furniture, a stained-glass ceiling and deco-style lights added to the drama of the Lobby Bar, where patrons with drinks in hand were thanking God it was Friday.

As they walked through the richly appointed space, Jenna touched her friend’s arm. “You okay, Corrine?”

“Sure.” Her brittle smile didn’t reach her eyes, but Jenna knew Corrine well enough to realize she wouldn’t talk about what was bothering her until she was good and ready.

The Peabody was on Union Avenue in the heart of downtown Memphis, just a few blocks from the segment of Beale Street closed to traffic every evening. Summer hadn’t yet officially arrived, but the June night was balmy, the air settling heavily over the city and dampening Jenna’s brow by the time they arrived on Beale. They walked the long way, so they could take in the atmosphere.

Shops, restaurants and clubs lined the street, with neon lights proclaiming the names of establishments and live music drifting from doorways. The party crowd didn’t stick to the sidewalks, straying into the middle of the street. Some held huge plastic cups of ale they’d bought at the sidewalk counter advertising Big Ass Beer.

An Elvis impersonator in a sequined outfit and blue suede shoes belted out a song on a street corner, his tip jar in front of him. A massive man with a parrot perched on his shoulder strolled in front of them. Conversation, nearby traffic noise and music blended together, bombarding the senses.

“Wow. It’s crowded,” Jenna said.

A large, noisy group of twentysomethings passed by, nearly separating them. Corrine hooked an elbow through Jenna’s. “It’s always packed on weekends. But why don’t you know that? You grew up here.”

“Mom, Jeff and I moved to Little Rock when I was seven.” Jenna didn’t have to tell Corrine how traumatic the move had been for all of them. Her friend already knew Jenna’s heartbroken mother had left Memphis after a younger, prettier woman had broken up her marriage. “I haven’t been back to Memphis in years.”

Jenna vividly remembered her last visit eight years ago when her boss signed her up for a financial analysis seminar. The seminar had ended unexpectedly early, which Jenna took as a sign to call the father she hadn’t seen in years.

She remembered her fingers shaking when she dialed his office number and her voice trembling when she asked if he was free. He pronounced it wonderful to hear from her and arranged to meet her for a drink at a downtown bar.

After a single martini and some awkward silences, he apologized for having dinner plans and left. Her father had lived six more years, but that was the last time Jenna talked to him. She hadn’t been back to Memphis until today.

“I’m glad you’re here with me.” Corrine nudged her elbow, a quintessential Corrine gesture. The closer they got to Peyton’s Place, the more whatever had been bothering her friend took a backseat to her excitement.

They continued walking along the four-block section of street, the crowd thinning exponentially until Clay Dillon’s bar came into view. The building had a brick facade with bay windows flanking the doorway, over which green neon letters spelled out Peyton’s Place.

The interior of the establishment was long and narrow, with a bar featuring green rails and corrugated steel running half the length of one mirrored wall. Photos of jazz and blues legends hung on the opposite wall above a series of green vinyl booths. A smattering of tables filled the space between bar and booths. Fans and lights on chains hung from a ceiling that had been painted the same shade of green found in the green-and-black checkered linoleum floor.

At first it seemed as though the raised stage was at the very rear of the place, but Jenna spotted a corridor lined with more booths that probably led to the kitchen and restrooms. She couldn’t decide whether Peyton’s Place really was bigger than it looked or only seemed that way because it couldn’t have been more than one-quarter full.

“Let me guess. You two are Two Gals.” A petite woman with long, curly red hair and the tattoo of a butterfly on her upper arm approached them, gesturing at Corrine’s guitar case. “I’m Vicky. Clay asked me to tell you to get started whenever you’re ready.”

“Where is Clay anyway?” Corrine asked.

“He went to pick up a friend of his he just hired to tend the bar.” Vicky shook her head and muttered, “As though giving the guy a job when he knows nothing about mixing drinks wasn’t doing enough.”

“Why’d he hire him then?” Jenna asked.

“The guy needs the paycheck. But, geez Louise. We need a bartender who knows what he’s doing.” She made a face, perhaps realizing she’d said too much. “Anyway, Clay’ll be here soon.”

Jenna followed Corrine onto the stage, then excused herself to find a restroom while Corrine tuned her guitar. Only two stalls occupied the small space, both of which were empty, so she began her vocal warm-ups. She used the same ones she’d learned as a child, hissing like a snake and buzzing like a bee. She was midhiss when she emerged from the restroom.

“I hope you’re not directing that hiss at me.” Clay Dillon suddenly appeared in front of her, heading the opposite way down the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms.

She’d been sitting when they met so hadn’t realized how tall he was, probably a good six inches taller than her five-eight. Too tall, she thought. He was dressed similarly to the other night, in jeans and a collarless shirt, this one in black. The shirt wasn’t so tight that it showed off the definition in his chest, but she noticed how powerfully built he was all the same. Too muscular.

“No, of course not,” she said. “I was just warming up my voice.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Once word gets around about how good you are, we’ll start filling up this place.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and she felt silly for suspecting him of God only knew what. He was a bar owner trying to increase business, and she was a means to that end. “How’s the Peabody? The room okay?”

“The room’s beautiful.” She itched to get back to the stage, but guilt over her previous mistrust of him caused her to prolong the conversation. “I hear you have a new bartender.”

“Oh, yeah. Nick. He’s a friend from high school who just got married. He and his wife had a baby a month ago.”

The new wife and baby vividly explained why his friend needed a job. She couldn’t help admiring Clay for providing one, even if his friend did lack experience.

“I should be getting back to the stage,” she said. “It’s almost time for us to start.”

“Of course.”

She moved to pass him but the hallway was so narrow that her body brushed his. Their eyes met, and awareness washed over her, as surprising as it was acute. She took a breath and caught his scent, a pleasant blend of soap, shampoo and warm male skin.

“Sorry,” he said, continuing past her as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

She moved to the stage without looking back, telling herself she’d imagined the moment. She drew her share of male interest, but she was hardly a femme fatale who knocked men dead with her stunning looks. And he certainly hadn’t done anything to indicate he’d hired her for anything more than professional reasons.

Clay Dillon, by all indications, was a stand-up guy who gave jobs to friends in need and thought Two Gals could improve his bar’s bottom line.

Jenna disregarded her lingering suspicion about the gig being too good to be true. In a very short time her temporary singing career would come to a screeching halt. She intended to enjoy her good fortune before it did.

CLAY STOOD BEHIND THE BAR, his arms crossed over his chest. The rich texture of Jenna’s voice washed over him as she sang an Aretha Franklin song. Her dark slacks and button-down shirt were only slightly less casual than the clothes she’d worn in Little Rock. She again seemed like a different woman on stage than off: more spontaneous, less guarded and lit by an inner passion he couldn’t detect while talking to her.

He felt the unwelcome pull of attraction, but pushed it aside. It could only lead to complications in a situation already complex enough. She finished the song, acknowledged the applause from the light crowd, then sipped a glass of water while Corrine took center stage with an instrumental version of a Ray Charles song.

“Clay, did you hear a word I said?”

Vicky Smith, the best waitress in Memphis, stared up at him from across the bar, her elbows perched on the wooden surface. She stood about five feet nothing, but what she lacked in height she made up for in personality.

“You need a couple drafts?” he guessed.

“Not right now, I don’t. All my customers have what they need.” Her gaze challenged him to try again.

“You were complaining about Seth?”

“That doesn’t prove you were listening,” she rejoined. “I always complain about Seth.”

“I was listening. You said he accused you of having an affair.”

“He always does that, too, the big jerk. He’s gentle as can be with me but swears he’ll tear apart the guy I’m sleeping with. As though I’d fool around with one guy while dating another. You know I’m not that kind of woman, right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Then why doesn’t he?”

“He’s got a jealousy problem.”

“You think?”

“I know.” With difficulty he tore his attention from the stage and focused his full attention on Vicky. “Guys like Seth, they don’t change, Vick. If he’s this jealous now, it’ll only get worse if you marry him.”

“If? You’re saying I should rethink the engagement?”

Hell, yeah, except he would have used the word “break” instead of “rethink.” This was a conclusion Vicky needed to reach on her own. “I’m saying I want you to be happy. Since you started dating this guy, I haven’t seen a whole lot of smiles from you.”

She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, he saw resignation. “I knew there was a reason I go to you with my problems. Sometimes you’re pretty smart.”

“Sometimes? Mensa would be lucky to have me,” he teased.

“I said sometimes, and I meant sometimes. You hired Nick, didn’t you?” She nodded toward the new bartender, who consulted a book while mixing what looked to be a gin and tonic. “By the way, you should go for it.”

He brought his gaze back to Vicky. “Go for what?”

“The singer. You can’t take your eyes off her.”

Had it been that obvious? “That’s because she’s talented.”

She snorted. “Yeah, right.”

Vicky left to tend to her tables. Clay wondered how the waitress would react if he confided the primary reason for his interest in Jenna, not that he was free to do so. Darcy had begged him not to tell anyone at the bar about her kidney problems.

No matter. He’d done what he needed to get Jenna to Memphis. His next step was bringing Darcy to Peyton’s Place so the half sisters could finally meet, which could happen tonight because he’d suggested Darcy stop by with her boyfriend to hear the duo.

“Hey, Clay.” Darcy appeared at the bar as though his thoughts had conjured her up. But, no. If he imagined his sister, her smile would be genuine. She usually appeared lit from an inner glow, but her essence seemed dimmed today.

“Hey, Darcy. Can I get you something?”

“What I’d really love is a big old glass of wine,” she said wryly, “but I suppose tonic water will have to do. Half a glass, please.”

“Coming right up,” he said.

As he filled the glass part way and topped it with a lemon, he mentally reviewed what he knew of her dialysis routine. The physically taxing treatments took her out of commission for the rest of the day, but she usually bounced back on off days. She’d settled on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays for the treatments, so today was an off day. Still, if her rate of kidney failure had increased…

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked as he handed her the tonic water.

“Shh.” She brought a finger to her rosebud lips and raised the light-colored eyebrows that marked her as a true blonde. “If your employees hear you, they’ll ask me how I’m feeling every single time they see me, the same as you do.”

He couldn’t argue her point. Most of the people who worked for him knew Darcy, either from when she’d helped out at the bar last summer or her impromptu visits.

He was careful to keep his voice down. “I wouldn’t keep asking if you promised to tell me when you don’t feel well.”

“I feel fine today,” she said.

It didn’t escape his notice that she’d qualified her statement with “today” and that she hadn’t made any promises. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Am I that transparent?” She rolled her eyes, seemingly more at herself than him. “It’s Kenny.”

“Is he parking the car?”

“I don’t know where he is. We were supposed to hang out, but he cancelled on me at the last minute.”

Clay felt his back muscles tense. First Kenny let Darcy down on her first day of dialysis and now this. “Did he say why?”

“He thinks he might be coming down with something.”

Clay hadn’t forgiven the younger man for not realizing how much Darcy needed his support during her first dialysis treatment, but he couldn’t fault Kenny for canceling tonight’s date. Not when kidney disease compromised his sister’s immune system.

“You can’t afford to get a cold, Darcy,” Clay said.

“I can’t live in a bubble, either.” If another female had answered him that way, she would have sounded snappish. But Darcy managed to convey her point with wry good cheer. “I didn’t feel like staying in, so I called a couple girlfriends but they already had plans. So here I am.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” He reached across the bar and patted her on the cheek. “As long as you don’t stay out too late.”

This time she very definitely directed her eye roll at him. On stage, Corrine’s impressive guitar work on the instrumental piece concluded, Jenna grabbed for the microphone.

“How ’bout I give you something to talk about?” she asked, then launched into the Bonnie Raitt song of the same name, interjecting the lyrics with a country twang. Corrine expertly accompanied her on slide guitar, but it was Jenna’s throaty voice that filled every corner of the bar.

Darcy listened for a few moments, obviously enraptured. “She’s good.”

“She is,” Clay confirmed.

“Hey, Clay, is a Long Island Iced Tea the sweetened or unsweetened kind? And where do we keep it?” Nick, the new bartender, cupped his hands around his mouth so Clay could hear his shouted question.

Hiding a groan, Clay held up a finger to indicate he’d be with Nick momentarily.

Darcy leaned over the bar and asked, “Did your bartender really just ask that?”

“He’s new. A friend from high school.”

“You want me to help him out?”

He wanted Darcy to take it easy and get well. “I’ll handle it. You enjoy the music.”

“Not a problem,” Darcy said, her eyes on Jenna. “I’m going to find a table nearer the stage.”

She left before Clay could say anything more. He frowned, realizing he hadn’t thought past getting Jenna to Memphis. He didn’t plan to keep her connection to Darcy a secret, but neither had he considered how to break the news.

“I got a customer waiting.” Nick sidled over to him, panic in his wide, unknowing eyes. The seats at the bar had started to fill up, something Clay had failed to notice.

“A Long Island Iced Tea is a mixed drink, Nick. Equal parts vodka, rum, gin, tequila and lemon, with a splash of Coke for color. It’s listed in that bartender’s guide to mixed drinks I gave you.”

Nick’s brow furrowed. “Vodka, gin, whiskey and what else?”

“Not whiskey. Rum and tequila. But never mind. I’ll make it. You help some other customers.”

The next half hour passed in a blur even though the bar wasn’t near capacity, mostly because of Nick’s inexperience.

“I asked for a Vodka Collins and got a Vodka Martini,” a customer groused to Clay. “Took a long time to get it, too. If not for the music, I’d be out of here.”

“We’ve got a new bartender,” Clay said. “Tell you what. The martini’s on the house, and I’ll personally make your next drink. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds like I’m staying through the next set. Where’s the duo from anyway? They’re terrific, especially the singer.”

“Little Rock. First time performing in Memphis. Tell your friends,” he said into the silence that signaled the band was taking a break. Music from the jukebox kicked in.

He glanced at the wall clock, noted the time at nearly eleven and looked up to check on Darcy only to find the table where she’d been sitting empty. Unease pricked the back of his neck as he scanned the bar. Surely she’d have told him if she planned to leave.

Vicky approached, curly red hair streaming behind her, barking out a drink order to Nick as she came. “Three Bud drafts and a glass of white wine.”

Clay made sure Nick pulled out the right glasses, then met Vicky at the bar. “Hey, Vick. Do you know where Darcy is?”

Vicky nodded toward the exit. “She followed that singer outside a couple minutes ago. Said she wanted to tell her how much she likes her singing.”

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER SPENDING THE PAST few hours inside Clay Dillon’s bar, Jenna expected the fresh air to invigorate her but humidity still hung heavily over the night.

“You were good in there,” a man old enough to have listened to his share of the blues told her. “Kind of reminded me of Etta James.”

“Thank you.” She couldn’t hide her delight at being compared to a blues great. Getting out into the humid air had reinvigorated her after all.

Peyton’s Place was situated at a portion of the street that had a much quieter feel than the busiest part of Beale.

Not many people milled about except for herself and a quartet of young men, drinks in hand, clustered around a young blonde who’d exited Peyton’s Place. Sensing trouble when the tallest and broadest of the four released a piercing wolf whistle, Jenna started toward them.

“Wanna party with us?” the big guy asked the blonde.

“Sorry, boys. I don’t drink,” the blonde said firmly but sweetly.

“Who said anything ’bout drinking?” The shortest of the four slurred his words and took what Jenna perceived as a threatening step toward the young woman.

“Mind your manners,” the blonde scolded, still in the same sweet tone. “What would your mama say if she heard you?”

The other three erupted into good-natured laughter, ribbing their drunk friend until he was laughing, too.

“Give Peyton’s Place a try tonight,” she told them. “My brother owns the bar and he brought in a fabulous rhythm-and-blues duo.”

The sweet little blonde who’d deftly handled the four raucous young men was Clay Dillon’s sister? Able to drum up business for her brother’s bar with the brilliance of her smile?

“We’ll do that,” the man who’d whistled at her said.

“You won’t be sorry.” She walked away from the men, straight toward Jenna, not stopping until she reached her. “I just had to come out here and tell you how much I love your singing.”

“Thank you,” Jenna said. “I’m a fan of yours, too. I saw the way you handled those guys just now.”

“Oh, that was nothing.” She waved a hand in the general direction of where the men had been. “They were harmless. Just had a little much to drink, is all.”

A slight southern accent softened her syllables, adding appeal to her voice. No more than five feet four with delicate features and golden-blond hair, she looked fabulous although dressed casually in jeans and a blue V-necked tee. Jenna couldn’t determine the color of her eyes, but she was betting on blue.

“I heard you say Clay’s your brother.” Jenna didn’t mention that she’d never guess they were related if she hadn’t.

She brightened. “My big brother. Couldn’t ask for a better one. A smarter one, either. He hired you, didn’t he?”

Jenna laughed. “We’ll see how that works out for him. Corrine and I aren’t exactly an established act.”

“But you’re so good,” she enthused, then made a face. “I’m gushing, aren’t I? My excuse is that I was bowled over by your singing. Are you saying you’re just starting out?”

“Starting over is more like it. Corrine’s the professional musician. I’m an amateur who hasn’t sung in ages.”

“Why not?” No sooner had she asked the question than the young woman put a hand to her lips. “Listen to me, prying into your private life when I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Darcy.”

“Darcy Dillon, that’s cute. I’m Jenna.”

“The name’s actually Darcy Wright. Clay and I have different fathers.”

All sound—tires swooshing over pavement on a cross street, guitar music from a street-corner musician, the voices of the other people nearby—seemed to cease.

Darcy Wright.

Although she hadn’t heard the name spoken in years, Jenna recognized it immediately. It had been branded into her brain on that day her grandmother called to report her father’s new wife Margo had given birth to a baby girl.

A baby girl named Darcy who had grown into a pretty blonde who looked uncannily like Jenna’s memory of Darcy’s mother. Jenna had only seen Margo Wright once, with Jenna’s father in front of a restaurant when Jenna’s parents were still married, but she’d never forgotten.

“Jenna. Are you alright?” Darcy cocked her head, her bow-shaped mouth pursed in concern.

Jenna hadn’t used her surname in the introduction, and her first name obviously hadn’t resonated with Darcy. The limited contact Jenna and her brother had with their father had dwindled in the years after their parents divorced until his visits had stopped. Eventually, so had his phone calls and birthday cards. Jenna didn’t imagine her father had often spoken of her to his second family, if at all.