Читать книгу The Other Woman's Son - Darlene Gardner, Darlene Gardner - Страница 6

Twenty-two years later

CLAY DILLON COVERED his sister Darcy’s much smaller hand with his, hoping the dread flowing through his veins like icy river water hadn’t chilled his skin.

She glanced at him with wide blue eyes, and he tried to convey with his expression that they’d get through this crisis no matter what the news.

Their mother Margo sat rigidly on the opposite side of Darcy, her pink lipstick standing out starkly on a face that had gone pale despite her expertly applied makeup.

If the patient consultation room hadn’t been rather richly redecorated and the slim, somber man behind the gleaming mahogany desk hadn’t lost three-quarters of his hair, time would seem as if it had rewound.

Dr. Phillip McIntyre tapped his chin, a habitual gesture Clay recognized from the last time the family had dealt with him. It meant the doctor was having difficulty putting his thoughts into exactly the right words.

“I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, but the biopsy confirmed our suspicions.” His somber voice contrasted vividly with the Memphis sun streaming through the blinds. “The kidney is indeed failing.”

Clay’s stomach plunged like a skydiver realizing that his parachute wouldn’t open. The diagnosis, though, came as no surprise. The creatinine levels in Darcy’s blood had been rising, an early indication her kidney wasn’t filtering out waste products the way it was supposed to.

The doctor’s compassionate gaze zeroed in on Darcy, who’d inherited their mother’s heart-shaped face and blond good looks. Except now Clay let himself notice that her complexion appeared sallow and her skin puffy. Clay tightened his hand on hers. Blood seemed to rush to his head, clogging his ears, making it seem like Dr. McIntrye’s voice came from a distance.

“Darcy, we need to put you back on the transplant list.”

A voice in Clay’s mind screamed at the injustice, but he schooled his features and said nothing. Neither did Darcy, whose right hand sheltered the spot where the doctor had extracted a sample of tissue from her kidney to be biopsied.

“But she was doing so well.” The anguished protest erupted from their mother. “And you said the kidney could last for decades.”

Dr. McIntyre pushed the glasses up his nose and tapped his chin some more. The sunlight shone on him through the skinny slats of the blinds, casting his face in both light and shadow. “I said that although there have been cases of cadaver kidneys lasting for decades, those instances were isolated. We hoped the kidney Darcy received would last longer than five years, but that isn’t a terrible result for a cadaver organ.”

Had it really been five years?

The ordeal actually began even longer ago than that. Darcy had been only ten or eleven when the family’s new pediatrician discovered that a previously undiagnosed strep infection had damaged Darcy’s kidneys. Still, it had come as a shock to learn that Darcy had end-stage organ failure at age sixteen.

The shock precipitated a nightmare that Clay remembered as vividly as if it had happened yesterday.

Four-hour dialysis sessions three times a week that purified his sister’s blood but drained her of energy. The dawning realization that she needed a transplant. The agonizing wait for a cadaver organ. Then the anxiety-filled predawn trip to the transplant center when a matching kidney finally became available.

The transplant had been successful, and the nightmare ended. Until today, when it started again.

“You’ll have to go back on dialysis until a donor organ becomes available. The sooner, the better,” Dr. McIntyre told Darcy. “Let’s see. Monday’s Memorial Day. So I’d suggest you start the treatments Tuesday.”

Today was Friday. A muscle in Darcy’s jaw tensed, but other than that she exhibited no outward sign of the disappointment that must be raging inside her. Her silence worried Clay more than an outburst would have done. Even at her sickest, Darcy was the most unremittingly cheerful person Clay knew.

“How long do you think it will be before my daughter can have another transplant?” Their mother’s voice shook, and Clay wished he’d sat between the two females so he could hold both of their hands.

The doctor gazed at the open file on his desk and shuffled papers before raising his eyes and peering over the top of his rimless glasses. “I can’t seem to find the information here, so refresh my memory on how long the wait was last time.”

“Nine months,” their mother answered immediately.

Nine interminable months, Clay thought.

Darcy had barely recovered from one dialysis session when it came time for another. She’d fallen hopelessly behind in her classes, eventually being forced to repeat her junior year of high school.

“Ah, yes,” Dr. McIntyre said. “I remember Darcy was extremely lucky to get that kidney. Unfortunately, we can’t count on something like that happening this time. You do recall the problems associated with the blood type. Type-O blood means she can only receive a donated organ from another individual with type-O blood. But since type-O is the universal donor, those cadaver kidneys can and do go to sicker patients of other blood types. Added to that, Darcy has an uncommon tissue type that makes it even tougher to find a match.”

“Give us a ballpark estimate of the wait time,” Clay said.

“Ballpark, I’d say two to four years if we’re lucky, but it could be even longer.”

Clay fought to keep himself from recoiling, which wouldn’t help his silent sister. Even two to four months on dialysis was too long.

“You do know, of course, that matching kidneys from living donors tend to last significantly longer and function better than cadaver kidneys,” Dr. McIntyre said. “But I recall that several members of your family have already been tested.”

Clay had volunteered first, armed with the knowledge that blood relatives presented the best chance for a match. He’d quickly learned about the importance of tissue typing, the blood tests comparing six specific antigens between the potential donor and recipient. None of Clay’s mirrored Darcy’s, and further testing determined him to be a poor match.

“Everybody was tested but nobody was a suitable donor,” their mother replied.

“Then we have no choice than to proceed with the plan of action I’ve outlined.” The doctor began to explain about the transplant team being assembled to work on Darcy’s case, but Clay no longer listened.

No choice.

In Clay’s experience, there was always a choice.

When the bar he owned in downtown Memphis had come up for sale, the first loan officer he visited had informed him no bank would lend him the money for a down payment. So he’d traded in his new Mustang for an old clunker, sold his condo to cash in what little equity he’d accrued and visited every bank in the city until one put together a loan package.

No choice.

That simply wasn’t true.

His mother misspoke when she claimed everybody in the family had been tested. Clay could think of two notable exceptions, although Clay himself was no relation to either Jenna or Jeff Wright.

He was surprised he even remembered the names of his stepfather’s children from his first wife. His mother had married Donald Wright when Clay was eight years old, making Darcy his half sister. It had always troubled him that Darcy’s two other half siblings, who were around his age, had never bothered to meet her.

Clay had strongly suggested those half siblings be tested the last time Darcy needed a transplant, but his stepfather shot down the notion after discovering a cadaver kidney was an option. Donald claimed his first wife, and her children by extension, harbored a grudge the size of the state of Tennessee.

Donald couldn’t veto the idea anymore: He’d died two years ago after a sudden heart attack.

Clay knew little about his late stepfather’s oldest two children except that they’d been so far estranged from their father they hadn’t bothered to attend his funeral. That wouldn’t stop Clay.

No choice.

Clay would see about that.

JUST SAY NO.

Great advice, if you could bring yourself to say it.

Jenna Wright hadn’t managed it, which was why on Friday night she found herself passing under the larger-than-life bird painted over the entrance to the Blue Mockingbird Saloon in downtown Little Rock.

She could have legitimately claimed she didn’t have the time. For the past nine years she’d worked for Morgan and Roe, a full-service public accounting firm specializing in assisting private corporations and high net-worth individuals.

If not for her job and the personal financial statement it had been imperative she finish for an important client, she wouldn’t be arriving with only—she glanced at her watch—two minutes to spare.

Yes, she should have said no.

Even though she hadn’t really wanted to.

She consciously slowed her pace once inside the bar, as though she hadn’t just dashed from the third floor of a nearby parking garage after fighting heavy Friday-night traffic.

Customers filled the Blue Mockingbird, the happy hour crowd having not yet headed for the door. Some of them milled about, drinks in hand, laughing and talking. Others, like the raucous group of men with two half-full pitchers of beer, jammed tables.

The crowd surrounded her, but nobody seemed to pay attention to her entrance except the petite woman who met her at the foot of the stage clutching an acoustic guitar. She was dressed in a clinging ebony pant outfit that accentuated her long, black hair.

“I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my entire life.” Only Corrine Sweetland could make over-the-top relief seem charming.

Jenna and Corrine had instantly hit it off as University of Arkansas freshmen when they’d both been members of the Jazz Club. Although Jenna dropped out of the club to concentrate on her accounting classes and Corrine left college before her sophomore year, they’d remained friends.

Corrine had waged a constant struggle to eke out a living throughout the ensuing decade, playing the guitar and singing backup vocals for a succession of rhythm-and-blues and jazz bands that never hit it big.

Jenna enjoyed attending Corinne’s gigs whenever her busy schedule permitted, but had never gone back on stage herself, keeping to her long-ago decision to give up singing.

Jenna still wasn’t exactly sure how Corrine had talked her into performing at the Blue Mockingbird. At first Jenna had listened sympathetically as a panicked Corrine relayed how she’d made arrangements for the gig before her latest band had splintered. Jenna had agreed that Corrine, as band manager, ran the risk of getting a reputation for not fulfilling commitments if she couldn’t figure out a solution this time.

Before Jenna knew it, she was the lead singer for a temporary rhythm-and-blues duo called Two Gals. Corrine was the guitarist and back-up vocalist.

“You might not be glad I’m here after I start singing,” Jenna told Corrine, glancing over her shoulder at the noisy happy-hour crowd. She felt her heart speed up, like the sticks of a drummer playing eighth notes. “The audience might not be, either.”

Corrine pinned her with the huge hazel eyes that stood out against her pale skin even when she wasn’t accentuating her lashes with coal-black mascara. “I’ve heard you sing. Trust me, they’ll love you.” She made a face. “As long as you don’t croak the first song,” Corinne teased.

“I warmed up my voice in the car on the drive over.” Jenna nodded at a nearby wall clock, which showed the time as seven o’clock. The owner of the Blue Mockingbird had insisted on an early start time to provide the happy-hour crowd a reason to stick around once the prices went up. “So we can start anytime.”

“Anytime after you lose the jacket.”

Jenna tugged the lapels of the cream-colored fitted blazer she wore with chocolate-hued slacks. “What’s wrong with my jacket?”

“You look like you’re heading to the office.”

“I just came from there,” Jenna said even as she shrugged out of the jacket and laid it on a nearby table. “How’s this?”

“Undo the top two buttons of your shirt and roll up your sleeves.” Corrine surveyed her critically. “Not bad. But before our next performance, girlfriend, we’re going shopping. You got it, so we should flaunt it.”

“I’d rather leave the flaunting to you.”

“I’ve got no problem with that. We’re performers, Jenna. We’re supposed to flaunt it.” Corrine executed a shimmy with her shoulders, then smiled encouragingly. “Let’s do this.”

The time of reckoning upon her, Jenna positioned herself behind one of two microphones on the stage. She grabbed it and gazed out into the maze of people. The sprawling bar featured dozens of tables, banks of big-screen televisions on two of the walls, a circular bar in the center of the main room and a billiards room off to her right. The stage seemed almost like an afterthought.

“Good evening and welcome to the Blue Mockingbird. I’m Jenna Wright, and this is Corrine Sweetland. Together, we’re Two Gals.”

Nothing. None of the patrons indicated they’d heard her. Panic seized Jenna, causing her lungs to feel like something was sitting on them. How could she have let Corrine talk her into this? She hadn’t sung in public since college. A spot under her eye twitched, the way it did when she was nervous.

Her gaze darted to Corrine. Her friend nodded, her expression encouraging. You can do this, she mouthed. Jenna inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly and faced the disinterested crowd. She’d intended to explain their repertoire included blues, jazz and soul and that most of the songs were new renditions of old favorites. But nobody was listening.

“Our first song,” she spoke into the microphone, “is ‘Today I Sing the Blues.’”

Corrine strummed her guitar, and the bluesy beat seemed to penetrate Jenna’s skin and sink into her. Singing had come easily to Jenna from the time she was a small child and the church choir director noticed her big voice.

Others had noticed, too, eventually leading to invitations from various bands to join them. She’d been confident enough in her voice back in high school that she’d been a natural performer, but doubts crept up on her now.

She drew in another deep breath to guard against the shaky, uncontrolled sounds nerves caused, then determinedly launched into the song, a mournful ballad about the loser in a love affair.

Despite the precaution, she felt her neck muscles contract and her blood pressure elevate. Signs that her voice was about to start trembling unless she did something quick. An old trick came back to her, and she swung her gaze wildly around the bar, searching for friendly faces.

A blonde with a spiky haircut who would have fit in at a punk-rock concert set down her glass and swayed to the music, a contented smile curving her lips. Jenna’s shoulders relaxed.

A craggy-faced man with deep lines bracketing his eyes and mouth nodded as she sang about walking the darkest avenue. Jenna’s blood pressure fell back to its normal level.

She lowered the pitch of her voice to wring out the full effect from the song, probing the crowd for somebody else to provide unwitting encouragement.

Her gaze collided with a pair of dark eyes attached to one of the most interesting faces she’d ever seen. She wouldn’t label the man handsome, exactly. But high cheekbones, heavy brows, a long nose, a sensuous mouth and eyes she could tell were coal-black even from this distance made it impossible to look away.

Not until she tripped over a lyric she’d practiced a dozen times did she muster the will to wrench her gaze to the opposite side of the room.

Who was he?

Somebody distracting her from the song, an internal voice warned. A grave error for a singer. If she didn’t feel the music, how could she expect the audience to?

Avoiding the man’s gaze, she finished the song, heartened by the applause. Now that she and Corrine had captured the audience’s attention, she recited the spiel she’d originally intended to open with.

“Now that we know each other better, what do you say we get down to earth with some…” She paused, lowering her voice a full octave. “…‘Downhearted Blues.’”

Despite her resolve not to look at him, a quarter of the way through the song her gaze swung to the dark-haired man. And found his eyes locked on her.

She couldn’t say for certain why she’d picked him out of the crowd. Even though he was sitting down, she could tell he was a tall man. She preferred men who were less physically imposing and not so…intense.

She didn’t need to look at him again to know he still regarded her with that same single-minded concentration. She drew energy from that knowledge, pouring it into her music, infusing it into her voice. By the end of the set, she’d thoroughly captured the crowd’s attention.

“This is great. Did you hear the groan when you announced the break?” Corrine asked when they stepped off the stage.

“I did,” Jenna said.

“Keep it short. I like the idea of striking when the crowd is hot for us.”

The adrenaline that had fueled Jenna through the performance dropped off, and she collapsed into a chair beside the wooden table nearest the stage. Corrine sat down next to her.

“You knocked them dead.” Corrine reached for her hand, briefly squeezing it. “But next time, take pity on my nerves and show up on time.”

“I couldn’t help it. I warned you it’s tough to get out of the office Friday nights. I have a job, remember?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, but I have to say this. Singing should be your job.”

“Singing’s a guilty pleasure,” Jenna said. “Accounting pays the bills.”

To bolster her position, Jenna could have pointed out the struggles Corrine endured to be a musician: Low pay, irregular bookings and zero job security. Before Corrine had married personal trainer Maurice Sweetland, her friend had worked on and off as a waitress to supplement her income.

“So you keep saying,” Corrine said, but her attention wasn’t on Jenna.

Following Corrine’s gaze, Jenna spotted the dark-haired man navigating the labyrinth of tables. She guessed his age at about thirty, his weight at maybe two hundred pounds, his height at six feet two. Too tall, she thought. His lean, hard body hinted that he worked out with weights. There was nothing soft about him except, perhaps, the texture of his thick hair, the ends of which nearly reached his collar. Too long. He wore jeans and a collarless, short-sleeved knit shirt in a deep shade of brown that hugged his chest. Too casual.

It quickly became clear that the man was headed for their table. Jenna’s heart took a leap worthy of Dwyane Wade, her oldest nephew’s favorite NBA player.

“Do you know that guy?” she asked Corrine.

“Never seen him before. But even us married ladies can enjoy the view. Besides, you’re the one he’s coming for.”

He stopped shy of the table, standing there for long seconds, drinking her in with those midnight eyes that complemented brown hair so dark it verged on black. Jenna’s cheeks grew warm, a puzzling response. She never reacted this way to a man, especially to a man who was so not her type.

“At the risk of telling you something you’ve heard before, you, lady, can really wail.” He delivered the line in an understated southern accent with a charming half grin that softened the angular planes of his face.

“She has heard it,” Corrine interjected with a friendly smile. “From me. About thirty seconds ago.”

“Then you’re as smart as you are talented.” The man smiled back at Corrine. “You play a mean guitar.”

He wants something, Jenna thought. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the suspicion it might be her. She dated semiregularly, but usually she met the men through work or friends. She didn’t let herself get picked up in a bar.

“We appreciate the compliments.” Corrine included Jenna in her reply. “You know, with a tenor like yours, you can probably wail yourself.”

His half grin become full fledged. “You’d be the one wailing if you heard me sing. In pain, I’m afraid. I’m Clay Dillon.”

The name seemed vaguely familiar but Jenna would remember if she had ever encountered this man before. She was closer to him than Corrine so she was the one to whom he offered his hand.

“Jenna Wright.” She fought off her reluctance to touch him and shook. His skin was warm, his touch firm, the feeling it elicited uncomfortable. He might not be her type, but he’d managed to get her to notice him. “And this is Corrine Sweetland.”

He let go of Jenna’s hand, turning to shake Corrine’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. You ladies mind if I join you?”

“If it’s okay with Jenna, it’s fine by me,” Corrine said, obviously charmed.

When her friend stated it that way, Jenna could hardly refuse his company without seeming rude. “Sure.”

He settled into his seat with long-limbed grace, aiming his dark gaze at Jenna. “I confess I have an ulterior motive for coming over here.”

“Oh?” Jenna had already made up her mind to refuse should he proposition her, but her pulse rate still rocketed. “And what is that?”

“I’d like to hire Two Gals to play at my bar in Memphis.”

CLAY KEPT HIS EYES fastened on Jenna Wright, refusing to feel guilty for not telling her they shared a half sister.

He could see nothing of Darcy in her, except a certain gentleness in her expression he might be imagining because he wanted it to be there.

She seemed to have gone through pains to play down her appearance. She’d rolled up the sleeves of a fawn-colored blouse more suited for the office than the stage. She hadn’t bothered to play up her appealing features with makeup, which rendered them ordinary from a distance. And she wore her auburn hair in a conservative shoulder-length cut instead of long and loose.

He’d been watching the entrance so had noticed her arrival but hadn’t pegged her as the singer until she took the stage. The transformation from inconspicuous to vibrant had been amazing, as though a different woman lived inside this button-down version.

Tracking her down had been surprisingly easy. He’d pumped his stepfather’s former law partner for information, yielding no clues about Jeff Wright but discovering his sister Jenna worked as an accountant at a firm called Morgan and Roe in Little Rock.

After the friendly secretary at Jenna’s office blabbed that Jenna would be singing tonight at the Blue Mockingbird, Clay had hopped in his car for the two-hour trip from Memphis to Little Rock. He’d turned over various ways to approach her as he drove but ruled them all out when she started to sing.

He would have disagreed the end justified the means before Darcy became ill, but he no longer believed that. Since Jenna hadn’t recognized his name, fate was on his side.

“I guarantee the offer’s on the level,” he said. “My bar is called Peyton’s Place.”

Corrine’s expression brightened. “Like that TV soap opera from the sixties? My mom used to talk about that.”

Clay didn’t bother to correct her, finding it smarter not to reveal the true inspiration for the name. “I bought the bar a year ago. Recently, I decided live entertainment would help business.”

Recently, as in about an hour ago.

Jenna’s eyes seemed to narrow, but Clay could be imagining her skepticism. Despite everything, his conscience panged.

“I’ve grown up listening to rhythm and blues. I can recognize talent, and you ladies have it,” he continued. “I couldn’t walk away tonight without making you an offer.”

A heavy dose of truth ran through his proposal. Jenna and Corrine had a rare chemistry, made extraordinary by the raw, sensual power of Jenna’s voice. Persuading the duo to perform at Peyton’s Place could help the bottom line—even if assuring Jenna had regular contact with the half sister she might come to love was his main objective.

Corrine placed her elbows on the table, as though readying herself to get down to business. A very good sign. “So where in Memphis is this bar of yours?”

“Beale Street.” The legendary Home of the Blues, Beale Street was the second most-visited street in the south, trailing only Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Musicians made reputations there. “It’s on the very end of the section of street blocked off to traffic, but it’s still a great location.”

“Anywhere on Beale’s a great location,” Corrine declared.

“How long are you under contract to the Blue Mockingbird?” Clay asked.

“Only until the end of the long weekend,” Corrine said. “The owner might want to extend our gig, but we’re free to entertain other offers.”

“Wait, Corrine.” Jenna placed a hand on the table. Clay noticed she’d painted her fingernails bright red, an interesting quirk in such a conservatively dressed woman. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Corrine looked beseechingly at Jenna, something unspoken passing between the two women. “What’s wrong with listening to what Clay has to say? C’mon, Jenna. This is Beale Street.”

Jenna hesitated, then conceded, “I guess it can’t hurt to just listen.”

Sensing resistance, Clay named a figure higher than what good sense dictated for an establishment that had just started to turn a profit. “If that’s not more than the Blue Mockingbird is paying, I’ll top their offer. I’ll also commit to a six-week engagement. How does Wednesday through Saturday nights sound?”

“Impossible.” Jenna emphasized her response with a shake of her head. “I should have told you right away I can’t perform in Memphis. I have a job here in Little Rock.”

A job that would blow Clay’s plan apart. His heart seemed to slam to a stop.

“Jenna’s an accountant.” Corrine sighed, as though sharing that bit of information pained her.

Jenna straightened her spine, and her mouth tightened. “That’s right. I am an accountant. Singing’s a hobby.”

“You’re talented enough to sing full-time,” Clay said.

“And give up my job security? No, thanks. I wouldn’t be singing at all if Corrine hadn’t been obligated to the Blue Mockingbird. Once this job’s over, I’m through singing. I certainly can’t run off to Memphis for half the week.”

Clay deliberately misunderstood the thrust of her argument. “What if the performances are only on Friday and Saturday nights? The bands on Beale don’t get going until about nine, so you could leave Little Rock after work Fridays.”

“It’d be fun, Jenna,” Corrine interjected. “We can drive down to Memphis together. You’re the one who always says we don’t hang out enough.”

Sensing Jenna’s reluctance to disappoint her friend, Clay jumped in. “I’ll sweeten the pot by paying for your weekend hotel stay.” An expense he really couldn’t afford.

“We can’t turn that down, Jenna.” Corrine had definitely gotten into his corner. “I know you feel strongly about the singing being temporary, but it’s only six weeks. That’s no time at all.”

The jukebox stopped playing, signaling the time had come for Two Gals to begin its second set. The bar crowd generated an impressive amount of noise, but silence resonated at the table.

“What do you say, Jenna?” Clay prodded.

Jenna gazed back and forth from Clay to Corrine, who practically vibrated while she waited for her friend’s answer. The silence stretched into what seemed like an eternity. “I suppose we can give it a try.”

“Awesome.” Corrine clapped her hands.

Clay tried to hide his overwhelming relief. “I’ll have a contract drawn up, but for now a handshake will do. Corrine, you’re the deal maker, right?”

“Right.” Corrine eagerly stuck out her hand.

Clay clasped Corrine’s hand but watched Jenna. She appeared wary, as though she didn’t entirely trust him. She shouldn’t, considering his whopper of an ulterior motive.

He shook off the image of himself as a fraud, preferring to think of himself as a loving brother trying to provide Darcy with a chance at a normal life.

Jenna would surely offer to get tested once she knew and loved Darcy. If the tests determined Jenna could be Darcy’s kidney donor, Clay would console himself that the end really did justify his means.