LENA

“I’m sorry, Henry; I know I should just shut up and agree.” Yet I can’t seem to force myself to do just that. Instead, with a sense of urgency I lean in, reaching out to touch his arm. For a good fifteen minutes now, the two of us have been arguing about the single line change I want to make in a song I had quickly sung for him last night.

Heaven knows, the band leader has probably forgotten more about music than I will likely ever know. Still, I desperately want him to say yes to my version. “I hate fighting with you, because I so admire your work. But I just can’t seem to accept no for an answer. Please. Listen one more time.” I sing the contested phrasing again, making it drop low for the last few bars where the original song ended on a higher note.

I didn’t even know those things had specific names until Henry told me what I was talking about were a major fall and minor lift. Accordingly, when he sits now with his eyes closed, I don’t interrupt. The band leader deserves my respect. He is always willing to answer my questions and has been teaching me the names of techniques I have picked up over the years spent listening to others.

Finally, when I can’t stand the suspense a moment longer, I cross my fingers hopefully, even though I have sung the same section the same way several times already. I try not to sound wheedling when I ask, “Can’t you see it’s more dramatic?”

He cracks an eyelid. “I do see it, Lena, and personally I love the change. So maybe we should take this to Booker. It’s a cover of a popular song—and one thing I know about popular songs is changing one in any way can blow up in our faces. Folks tend to get testy when their favorite tunes are sung differently from what they expect to hear.”

“I know. I honestly do understand the risk we take.” And God knows the last thing I wanna do is involve Booker. If I have to, however, I will. Because... “I also believe with all my heart this is the part our audience will find themselves humming instead of the popular version.” I sure as the dickens can’t seem to get it out of my head.

“She’s right,” a deep voice says behind me, and a bolt of lightning zings through me, searing my nerve endings. I whip around in my seat.

Booker is standing on the edge of stage left, not far from where Henry and I have been sitting on a couple of chairs we’d dragged behind the backstage scenery so we could hash out the details of this song with at least an illusion of privacy.

“I am?” I blurt, caught by surprise. Booker is agreeing with me?

His eyebrows raise. “Have you changed your mind about the drop?”

“No! Of course not. It’s definitely the direction we should go in. I guess I just never thought you would agree with me over Henry.” Heat crawls up my face. “That is—Henry has a lot more experience than I do in the business, and he knows all the right terminology and reads music and whatnot.”

“While you,” Henry responds, “have a passion and natural affinity for music that transcends mere music education.”

Electrified, I beam at him. “I do? It does? Transcend means… to rise above?”

“Yes, or go beyond.” Henry grins and reaches into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

“He’s right, you do,” Booker agrees. “The change you fought for is a perfect example. It’s unexpected, and that’s exactly the type of thing the audience you’ve been drawing in with increasing numbers every night has come to expect from you.”

I beam at him as well, thrilled right down to my toes with the compliment.

For a moment, however, I’m not sure he even notices. He has a funny, faraway expression that makes me think he might be looking inward. Slowly, he murmurs, “Expect the unexpected.” His eyes sharpen and he grins back at me. “I think that would look damn eye catching on a reinforced poster on an easel board outside the club. Something crisp and clean—maybe just Lola Baker in big letters and a photo of you with the tagline under it.”

“Oh, my. Really?” A big poster featuring me? The mere thought tickles my heart. It sounds so glamorous. Like I’m some kind of celebrity or something.

“Yes. We’ll need to get a new photo done of you, though. The one you gave Leo doesn’t have enough clarity, so let’s see if Elsie can capture a live shot of you singing,” Booker says, naming the woman he pays to roam the Twilight Room taking photos of and selling to the speakeasy clients.

“Could we wait for one of the new gowns to be completed?” I ask hesitantly. Booker’s already offering so much, I know shouldn’t ask for anything extra. But...the dresses!

“Yeah, sure, not a problem. We’ll start with the candid shots. If those don’t work out, we’ll have you sit for Elsie.” He turns to Henry. “So, how much work is this change going to cost you?”

Henry lights his cigarette and shrugs. “Not that much. I have to change the sheet music in one spot, but that’s a matter of minutes. If I had to hand print a copy for each of the fellas it would be more labor intensive. Lucky for us, I only need one for myself.” He favors me and Booker with an engagingly lopsided smile. “My band is a lot like Lena, here. They’re short on education in music theory, history and composition, but long on talent and intuition. Most times I only need to play changes for them once and they’re on the trolley.”

He turns to me. “I’ll leave you in Booker’s hands and go talk to the boys. You two don’t need my input to hammer out details for his promotional idea.” He rises to his feet, then pauses mid step to look down at me.

“You did good today, kid, fighting like a demon for your vision. Don’t ever be afraid to do it again exactly the way you did with me. You refused to give ground, regardless what you believed about your music education versus mine. Your willingness to stand your ground for something you believe in that strongly is part of what makes you such a good musician.”

I probably look like an imbecile, standing here with my hands clasped together atop my breasts and giving him a huge, goofy smile. I am just so awed, so delighted, I can’t help myself.

Booker laughs and gives me a nudge. “Come on. Let’s go to my office and discuss my promotional idea.”

“Okay.” But glimpsing the position of the hands on his watch, I make a sound of disappointment. “Ohhh! I can’t. I need to get ready.”

He glances at his timepiece as well. “I guess you do. How about we have a drink after your final set and discuss it then?”

My practical side says no. The less time I spend in Booker’s company the better. And yet...a poster. On an easel. Featuring me, as if I’m some big star like Blossom Seeley or Bessie Smith! In a brand new, tailored specifically for my body gown. “Okay.”

“Good. Meet me at my table after your last set.”

A few hours later, as I make my way to Booker’s table at the corner of the dance floor, I find myself half nervous, half excited. To my surprise, several people stop me as I weave through the packed tables. This is not my usual after-set experience. And it is one I’m not quite certain how to handle, since ordinarily I head straight to my dressing room to change into street clothes after my last set. I do my best, however, and eventually make it to Booker’s table slightly breathless, but a survivor of my first tiny brush with fame.

Pushing aside a folder on the tabletop in front of him, he rises to his feet and holds the chair he vacated for me to take. I murmur a thank you as we navigate the sit, but not quite until he pushes in the chair dance I always find so awkward. The seat is warm from his body heat, however, and in the oddest way comforting.

Booker, of course, is cool as a cucumber as he negligently raises a finger to summon Millie and pulls out the chair on the left side of the table for himself. He sits, then turns his attention back to me, sliding a comprehensive glance over my face and what he can see of my upper body. After taking his sweet time about it, he treats me to a downright wolfish smile.

What the heck is he up to? Whatever it is, it’s working.

Because, just like that, my vague irritation with him turns into something more heated. Something far more dangerous to my peace of mind. Good Lord. It has been years and years—nine, to be precise—since I have experienced this delicious feeling deep between my legs in the company of a man. Crossing them, I squeeze my upper thighs together in an attempt to dispel it.

Without noticeable success, unfortunately. “You didn’t have to give me your chair. I know this is your regular seat.”

He shrugs a tuxedo clad shoulder. “It will give you a better view of the stage.”

Tearing my gaze away from the one he’s pinned on mine, I look out at the floor in front of us, which is rapidly filling with dancers.

“I see you garnered some admirers on your way across the room,” he says beneath the sound of the band playing a foxtrot.

Dancers circle the floor and I pull my fascinated glance away from the grace and style of one couple in particular. It is not easy, though, because my gosh! They could give Fred and Adele Astaire a run for their money! Warning myself to stay on track, I replay Booker’s comment in my head. Admirers. Stopping me to talk.

“I did,” I finally say. “I don’t know how well I handled the attention, though, since being recognized by someone who isn’t the usual half-drunk barfly is sort of new to me. I do know I was a bit clumsy at freeing myself from some of the conversations.”

“Just thank them for the compliment and sign an autograph if one’s requested, on whatever they thrust your way.” He sits straighter. “Unless it’s my good linens. If anyone offers one of the napkins for an autograph, do me a favor and tell them you don’t feel comfortable ruining the club’s linens.”

I choke on a little laugh, but have a feeling he’s only half kidding.

“Then move on,” Booker continues. “You have no obligation to become entangled in a series of rambling conversations.”

“Easier said than done,” I mutter.

“Here’s a tip for you. Keep your objective in sight—it helps move you past people without allowing them to catch your eye.”

“Except tonight several people called me by name.” Or at least the stage name I’d chosen. I’m still a little unnerved and a lot delighted by it. I try to not to let either emotion show on my face. “It’s kinda hard to ignore.”

“It is more difficult, yes. Sometimes you don’t have the time or inclination to stop, though. If that’s the case, give them a nod and your best smile, but keep moving toward your objective.” Suddenly Booker grins. “Which in this case was me.” He stabs the folder with the tip of one long finger and drags it between us. “I worked up a rough draft of what I’d like to see on your poster.”

I sit taller in eager anticipation, but Millie arrives at the table before I can reach for the binder. “Hello, I’m Millie, your waitress,” she says, shooting me a cheeky smile. “What may I get the lady and gentleman this evening?”

Booker raises his eyebrows at me and I order a Mary Pickford as if it’s an everyday event.

“Good choice, doll.” Millie turns to Booker. “Would you like your usual, Mr. Jameson?”

“Yes. Thanks, Millie.”

She gives him a wink, then sashays off.

He turns to me. “Why am I not surprised you like your drinks sweet.” It’s not a question and if his crooked smile is anything to go by, he’s quite amused by me.

I shrug and answer honestly. “I’m not wild about the taste of most booze. The pineapple and maraschino cherry juice helps disguise it. Plus, I have a sweet tooth, so I just plain like it.” Having given up any embarrassment over my lack of palate a long time ago, I reach for the folder. “I’m dying to see what you came up with,” I admit and flip it open.

“I’m far from an artist, so it’s rough,” Booker warns as he hitches his chair closer to the corner of the table nearest my seat and leans in. He moves the paper so it mostly faces me, but is slightly angled to give him a not entirely sideways view, as well. “The finished product will be twenty-four by thirty-six inches. I thought we’d do the background in a deep red and use the same bright gold lettering that spells out the name of the lounge on the awning. Maybe use the color in a border as well. Then it’s pretty much as I described it earlier. Lola Baker across the top here in large lettering, then your headshot placed at a slight angle, with the tagline beneath that.”

“Expect the unexpected,” I murmur. And smile hugely as the ramification of what Booker is doing here fills me. Will has supported me from the moment I decided this was what I wanted to do with my life. But as much as he believes in my talent, he doesn’t truly understand how the variables in this business can make or break a singer’s chance of success.

Booker knows. He also clearly cares about the bottom line. So, if he’s willing to bestow these perks on me: the dresses, the poster, I have to believe he thinks I’m going places.

Lord above, how I’ve searched for this exact vala...valad—someone to tell me he believes the same thing I do. For years, I have longed for an assurance I am dead right to follow the little voice in my head whispering this is not a pipe dream I’m chasing. That I am not wasting my time on something that is long on wishful thinking and short on reality.

And Booker just handed it to me on a silver platter. No one can take the excitement of this moment away from me.

Millie brings our drinks as the dancers vacate the floor, and I watch from the corner of my eye to see what kind of a tipper Booker is. As someone who has cocktailed while waiting to get hired as a singer, I’m pleased to note he’s a generous one. Then Henry leans into the mic to announce the Brasher Sisters and I clap in delight as they dance out onto the stage.

While I have seen them dance dozens of times by now, it has always been from the wings. Never have I watched their performance as a part of the audience. This whole sitting at a premier table with the club owner, sipping a fabulous, fancy cocktail while watching the entertainment the way a paying guest would do is even better. And so much fun.

Heck, who am I kidding? Fun is far too pale a word. Sitting here like one of the swells is utterly marvelous!

I have been mesmerized by Dot and Clara’s talent from my very first night here. I didn’t think I could possibly find it even more enthralling, yet seeing them now from almost center stage I find I do.

Their second dance is a hysterical routine where Clara acts as if she can’t master the steps Dot shows her, and I laugh uproariously. When they finish with a flourish of amazing footwork, I clap and clap until my hands bloom with heat. Smiling hugely, I turn to Booker as Henry launches the band into a soft rendition of The Original Memphis Five’s Henpecked Blues. “Aren’t they just the most talented women you have ever met?” I sigh happily. “You were so smart to hire them.”

He studies me with an expression I can’t quite make out. “They are definitely brimming with talent,” he agrees.

I feel amazingly comfortable with him for the first time since the old days in Walla Walla. Planting my elbow on the table, I prop my chin in my hand. “Whatever made you decide to open a club like this? It suits you—but it is definitely not anything I ever heard you mention back when I knew you.”

A faint shadow crosses his eyes, but perhaps it’s my imagination, for he flashes me an easy smile and says, “I worked in a couple of clubs in Paris, made my way into management, then eventually had the opportunity to buy the last club I managed. When I decided to come home I was lucky to sell it for a high enough price not to have to ask my father’s help in opening this one. The old man has made no bones about how he feels when it comes to my speakeasy.”

“Ah, well,” I say. “It’s good to earn stuff for yourself, anyway.”

His eyes light up. “Yes! It is.” He reaches across the table and picks up my hand, his thumb lightly rubbing the tips of my fingers.

I feel the effects down to my toes, for pity’s sake, and have to concentrate like crazy when he continues, “It means so much more than having it handed to you.”

Then his gaze drops to my mouth and I watch his eyelids go heavy. He leans into me.

Oh, my God! Is he going to kiss me? In front of all these people, including those I work with?

I push to my feet and nearly trip over them trying to step away from the table. “Thank you so much for the drink and showing me what you’re going to do with my poster,” I say breathlessly. “I think it’s going to be the most darb thing ever. I really have to run, though.” Without another word, I whirl on my shoe’s kitten heel, then try like the dickens to saunter away nonchalantly.

It shouldn’t be so difficult to do. All I should really want is to run away as fast as I possibly can. Instead I feel a huge, shameful, yet nearly overriding, desire to throw myself into Booker’s arms.

What the devil is the matter with me? Have I not learned a damn thing?