Unforgettable (11 page)

Four weeks ago she couldn’t even contemplate that. Four weeks ago she would have had no real proof that she was successful as a singer, something her mother had repeatedly told her she would never achieve. But now she was the vocalist for the Henry Connors Orchestra. Now she had a handful of reviews. Now she could walk into Woton a new, more sophisticated Rett Jamison, and no longer feel like a failure or an imposter.

I’ll go, she promised herself sleepily. Not because Cinny asked, and only if her schedule was clear. Then she’d go, maybe …

The first few days home were hectic. Naomi had her financial affairs back in order and a slew of papers for her to sign, including the Henry Connors Orchestra contract. She caught up on her mail and undertook to learn the financial software Naomi was using so she could look at her reports via Naomi’s secure Web site. Online banking coordinated with it so her transactions would automatically be forwarded to Naomi’s accountant.

She put the furniture back where it was when Trish had lived there and didn’t mind that it was the best arrangement. She had bought a new wall hanging in Seattle and had it shipped home. It filled the hole left by the one Trish had taken. That was that.

When the contract signing was reported in the trades she did two phone interviews for biographical sketches. Naomi sent her out to three different studio assignments, all to do vocals for commercials, which were always easy work and lucrative. One Wednesday afternoon, after a lunch with Naomi and a casting agent from Fox, she dug out the reunion invitation from the back of her sock drawer.

She stared at it for the longest time, then found her keys and got in the car.

Chet Baker crooned to her all the way to UCLA. School was out, she told herself. It was a completely wasted trip. Maybe she could take in a movie in Westwood so it wouldn’t be all a waste. But she had to try. It was the strangest thing — she felt like she couldn’t say yes to the reunion, yes to seeing Cinny Keilor again, until she’d made sure that Angel was gone beyond reach.

Just finding the science part of the campus was daunting. There were several buildings, all multi-storied, and judging from the first one she entered, the faculty offices were scattered all over. Maybe an in-person appeal to the gum-chewing department secretary would work.

It took her nearly thirty minutes to find the department office. Gum Chewer didn’t appear to remember their earlier conversation and she let Rett peruse the staff directory on the condition that Rett wouldn’t tell anyone. That she was obviously breaking the rules would have bothered Rett more if she hadn’t felt this compelling urge to find Angel and find out if… if what had happened between them was just a one-time thing.

Angelique “Sinson” turned out to be Angelique Simpson, who had earned her graduate degree in 1971, about fifteen years before the fortyish Angel had probably earned hers. While it was possible that Angel was some sort of prodigy, Rett seriously doubted that this was the same woman. If only there were pictures. There was no Angel or variation on the list other than Angelique Simpson. It was a dead end.

She thanked the secretary for her help and went out into the hot sunshine to ponder her options.

Okay, she thought. There’s hardly any students here, but researchers don’t have a school year. Walk every floor and every hallway and you’ll at least know you tried.

She was footsore by the time she finished, then discovered another science building beyond what she’d thought was the last one. White-coated figures were coming and going — scientists doing research, maybe?

Rett quickly discovered she needed a badge to go inside. There was no staff list or any such helpful information on the building door. Maybe if she sat on the bench just across the short stretch of grass she would see if Angel left at the end of the day. It was nearly five.

What are you going to do? she asked herself. How many days will you do this?

Too desperate. You tried. Get over it.

She turned on her heel and headed into the last building she’d walked through. Three white-coated figures carrying coffee mugs and armloads of paperwork were coming toward her. The one in the middle was Angel.

Angel stopped short. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The other two people, a man and a woman, stopped as well.

“I was looking for you,” Rett admitted.

“Really?” Angel’s expression was cold. “I can’t imagine why.” To her companions she said, “If you want to go on ahead, I’ll be along in just a minute.”

They shrugged and left the building, leaving Rett and Angel in the momentarily empty hallway.

“I lost your number. I mean, it got smooshed,” Rett said. “I left you a message.”

Angel looked over her shoulder as several people came around the corner. “Let’s go in here.” She opened a door marked “Study Carrels” and turned on the lights.

Her expression was no less cold once the door was closed. “I have phone company voice mail. They don’t lose messages.”

“I mean I tried to leave you a message. With the department secretary. The only Angel she could find was Angelique Simpson.”

“When did you leave this supposed message?”

Rett was feeling more than embarrassed. “That Monday morning, as soon as the science department opened.”

Angel’s tone was exasperated. “First of all, I’m in biomedical research, not science. It’s a separate department.”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Rett felt as if she’d been found mentally wanting. “I tried.”

“It takes you a month to do more than leave a message for someone you don’t even know for sure is me?”

“I had to go out of town. Touring.” She could see that Angel didn’t want to believe her.

“Well, now that you’re back, what exactly do you want?”

“I’d like to see you again.”

“You mean you want to have sex again.” Angel made up for her short stature by raising her chin.

Yes, Rett’s body screamed. Her bra suddenly felt two sizes too small, and her thighs clenched. “Not only that.”

“I can’t believe you lost my number. I put it on the note.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I know I did.”

“It’s not there. I just had the napkin and it got all wet in the gutter. It fell out of my pocket.”

“I know I wrote it on the note in the motel.”

“I still have the note. I’ll show it to you if you like.” Rett did not care at all for the way their conversation was going. “Okay, I could have come looking a couple of days ago, but that was the absolute soonest.” Rett was breathing hard now.

Angel’s invoking the motel had stirred her memories even further. “This was a bad idea.” She should have walked out, but she didn’t. She didn’t have enough Bette Davis in her to do it.

“I don’t know what to think.” Angel’s eyes conveyed her anger and frustration, and Rett remembered how lovely those eyes were up close. “I felt really terrible when you didn’t call. Like I was just a body to you.”

“I don’t have a collection,” Rett snapped.

“How am I supposed to know that?” Angel appeared to be breathing hard, too.

“I’m sorry I bothered you.” Rett realized that she had to go by Angel to get to the door. She stepped in that direction and Angel didn’t move.

Rett was entirely too close to Angel now. She fumbled in her pocket for the business card she’d brought that gave Naomi as her agent and contact. Considering Angel’s mood, she almost didn’t give it to her. “I wrote my home and cell numbers on the back,” she said. “The ball is in your court.”

Angel put the card in her lab coat pocket without even looking at it. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I’ve been trying to forget all about you.”

“Was it working?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” Rett said. “So call me if you feel like it.” She strove to appear aloof, but inside she was praying that Angel would call, and soon.

Angel only gave way a few inches when Rett reached for the door. In a choked voice that sounded desperately unwilling, she said, “Is there an incentive?”

Rett failed miserably to maintain an aloof air when she kissed Angel’s upturned mouth. A sharp crackle of desire surged through her — it was just like their first night.

Angel broke away with a gasp. She set down her mug. “I’m late for a meeting.” She dropped all the papers she was carrying and threw her arms around Rett’s neck, bending her down for a kiss that held nothing back.

Rett’s hands found their way under the lab coat. The blouse Angel wore was thin enough to let Rett revel in the heat of Angel’s body.

Angel pushed her against the door and rested her head on Rett’s breasts. “This is crazy.”

“I know.”

“What is it about you?” Angel dropped to her knees to pick up the folders and papers. “I’m late,” she repeated.

Rett helped her gather everything up. All the while she felt as if invisible streamers of electricity joined her body to Angel’s. “Call me?”

Angel clasped the papers in front of her like a shield. “I — yes. I guess so.”

They went back into the hallway and Angel turned toward the exit to the research building. Angel was almost to the door.

Say something, she told herself. Ask her again to call.

No, her pride said. Don’t beg.

As Angel opened the door, Rett found her voice. “What’s your last name, anyway?”

Angel looked a little like she wanted to laugh and Rett remembered that she’d had the feeling Angel was laughing at her when they first met. Then Angel’s expression was tinged with anger again, anger Rett suspected was directed at both of them. “What is it about you?”

Angel was gone before Rett could think of an answer.

Rett’s first instinct was to follow her. Follow her and do what? Scamper about like a puppy begging for a treat? Reliving her tempestuous relationship with Cinny Keilor made Rett wary of doing anything remotely similar.

You got what you came here for, she told herself.

No, you didn’t, a little voice answered.

She’d thought that seeing Angel would help her make up her mind about the wisdom of seeing Cinny Keilor again. Now it seemed very likely that she wouldn’t see Angel and for the life of her she couldn’t see how that had anything to do with a woman she hadn’t seen in twenty-three-plus years.

Tears threatened. She clamped down on them the way she was clamping down on the still-raging desire to strip herself naked and throw herself at Angel’s feet. She walked quickly to her car, replaced Chet Baker with Melissa Etheridge, and drove home in a state of steely calm.

What is it about me, Angel wanted to know. Well, what is it about her?

She pulled into the parking garage under her building and looked at herself in the rear view mirror as she turned off the engine. She ignites you. She makes every nerve in your body dance.

Rett swallowed hard. Their first encounter had not been a fluke — that much had been clear from the way Angel had kissed her today. She understood Angel’s being mad about her not calling, but Angel seemed mad about something else. Maybe it had nothing to do with her. Angel had alluded to a breakup. Maybe she was still getting over it.

The days went by and Angel did not call. Rett’s days were busy enough that remembering Angel’s touch did not distract her unduly, but her nights were so empty that Angel invaded her dreams. Cinny Keilor troubled her sleep as well — tight pink sweaters and long, tanned legs got mixed in with the curve of Angel’s back. The scent of candy lip gloss seemed as real as the smell of Angel had been on her hands.

If she couldn’t get Angel out of her mind, then maybe getting Cinny out would help ease the empty ache she felt as she slid into bed every night.

Minnesota in August. Putting the ghost of Cinny Keilor to rest might be worth it. Maybe, after all these years, it would be worth it to give her mother one more chance to admit she’d made something of herself. Minnesota in August. Ugh.

The phone on the other end of the line rang once. Rett quickly hung up.

Her heart was pounding as if she’d just dashed up four flights of stairs.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. She dialed the number Cinny had left again.

After two rings, the phone was answered with a brisk, “Cinny Johnson.”

Rett slammed her phone down and backed across the room.

“This is stupid!”

Twenty-three years. Twenty-three years and she was a breathless mess all over again.

She approached the phone as if it were a snake, then veered off, snatched up her keys and ran down to her car. She still had fifteen minutes before she really had to leave for the rehearsal with David Benoit, but you could never tell with traffic, she told herself. Every minute might count.

She was on the Santa Monica Freeway heading for Century City when she told herself that cowardice was an ugly trait and got out her cell phone. She dialed Cinny’s number again and took a deep breath, remembering at the last second that Cinny had given an area code different from the old one. They were probably having the same endless changes in area codes that plagued Los Angeles.

“Cinny Johnson.”

“Cinny?” Oh, that was brilliant. She’d just said so.

“Yes?”

“I’m returning your call. It’s Rett.”

“Rett Jamison. My God.”

A lengthy silence stretched out and Rett felt as if memories were pouring out of the satellite, into her cell phone and piercing her body. She forgot to get off the freeway, bit back a curse and swerved for the next off-ramp.

“Well, how the hell are you?” Cinny’s voice was just the same. Firm, but edged with a touch of breathiness that had never failed to make Rett yearn to hear more.

“I’m great.” In Minnesota-speak, anything less than “great” was an admission of terrible problems and as such was sharing way too much personal information over the phone. “How about you?”

“Just terrific. I can’t believe you called me back. This whole reunion has me thinking about everybody, and remembering. I have such vivid memories of you.”

“Ditto.” Oh, what a wit you are, Rett scolded herself. What repartee.

“I hope you’re calling to say that you’re coming.”

“I think I can make it. My agent says my calendar is free.”