Hadn’t he learned a long time ago that hope was a dangerous thing? Good things don’t happen unless a man’s willing to shave off part of himself, unless he’s ready to bend and give way to evil. Trevon Jackson wasn’t meant for music. He wasn’t meant for luck. He was meant for facing shit flung at him, scraping it off and moving forward.
’Cause standing still wasn’t an option. He had to keep moving forward so the life he didn’t want didn’t catch up to him.
* * *
DEZ SHUT THE FRONT DOOR to his Uptown apartment and tossed car keys onto the black granite bar.
Hell of a night.
And he was so close to having Eleanor beneath him, loving her, taking a small piece of pleasure to knit into his soul.
In the darkness of his roomy place, his piano occupied the middle of the room, beckoning him to give it some well-deserved attention.
He strode across the carpet and plinked one finger on the ivory keys. This piano wasn’t as pure as the Fazioli, but rather well loved and well played, a gift from his grandmother, who had received it from a wealthy paramour back in her wilder days, before she fell in love with a tuba player at a gig in the Quarter and gave up her life of crooning ballads and running with Mafia boys. A full-out grand piano with mellow strings, and smoothness gained from seasoning.
Dez sank onto the bench, his fingers striking keys, creating a haunting melody he’d never put together before.
Huh.
He tugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the leather sofa, wiggling his fingers, allowing the passion to wash over him, take him to a place where he could create. It was like waiting for a wave, paddling slowly, searching for just the right crest, just the right color of water.
His fingers returned to the keys and he allowed the melody to return, playing the same progression. A tweak here and there, and then, yes, it worked. He played the same chords over and over, letting the fire pour from his fingertips, building crescendo, pulling back to play softly when necessary. Over and over he played, the magic weaving around him, absorbing into his pores and spilling onto the keys, becoming one with his instrument.
And all the while he thought of Eleanor.
Of her smooth skin, so soft, smelling as a woman should. Of her green eyes, the fear within, of her giving herself to him. Yielding while at the same time wrapping him in her essence, demanding he give forth to her.
Eleanor.
His fingers flew across the keys too fast. He slowed, reached out and grabbed the blank sheets awaiting the music that hadn’t come for years. A black charcoal pencil sat beside it, freshly sharpened, awaiting use.
Minutes later, he had three stanzas of soft, plaintive notes.
Notes that begged for surrender.
During the next three hours, those notes grew and wandered a bit along the melody before gathering at the chorus, and by the time day crawled over the windowsill, Dez Batiste had written his first song since Katrina.
And it was beautiful, powerful and so full of angst that tears had streamed down his face.
The words to accompany the piece had floated nearby, and he knew he’d write them down, but not now. His body felt depleted, and his fingers shook with exhaustion. He needed food and sleep, and then when his body had recovered, God willing, he’d find the words to go with the chords he’d created. They were there, hovering in his soul like small birds with rapidly beating wings.
Dez dropped his head onto the piano and allowed the heaviness of life, of sheer exhaustion, to soak into him. One yawn. Two.
He slid from the bench and fell onto the sofa, shoving his jacket to the floor. He’d close his eyes for a few moments and dream of Eleanor.
And of the future that didn’t seem as empty as it once had.
* * *
ELEANOR PLACED THE TRAY of sandwiches on the low coffee table, which was surrounded by a group of Blakely’s sorority sisters. “There’s the last of them.”
“Thanks, Mrs. T,” one of the girls said, choosing a small cucumber sandwich and popping it into her mouth before picking up a pair of tweezers and turning toward Eleanor’s daughter. “As soon as I shape up Blakely’s eyebrows, I’ll do yours if you want. I’m really good at it. I worked at the MAC counter last summer.”