Unforgettable (12 page)

“Agent? Are you singing professionally? Really?”

“Really.” So much for the absurd idea that Cinny might have heard her name recently. “I’ve been doing it all along.”

“I just knew you could do it. We’ll have several celebrities at the reunion.”

Rett realized belatedly that the light ahead was yellow and probably had been for several seconds. She slammed on the brakes and lost hold of the cell phone.

“— won the National Science Award, can you imagine that?” Cinny laughed. “Just goes to show that girls who wear glasses get the last laugh. She spent an entire year at Cambridge — the one in England — and I’ve never been out of the country. And remember Bobby Johnson? The class ahead of us? He’s an astronaut! We always knew he was an airhead. He’s not coming, though — his excuse is being in outer space.” Cinny laughed again and the sound of it flowed over Rett like warm sunshine on a cool day.

“I can’t honestly say I remember Bobby.” Rett tried — no one was clear in her memory but Cinny. Cinny saying yes, Cinny saying no. Cinny’s shoulders, her breasts, her legs, her mouth —

“He was a ROTC geek —he and Natalie what’s-her-name. Listen to me! All the slang came back to me … like you know?”

“Oh, yah,” Rett intoned with a long-forgotten Minnesota inflection. She was bobbing her head as she said it. God, high school. She was nuts to go back.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing you again,” Cinny was saying. Her voice was a little lower and her high spirits faded. “There have been times in the last twenty-three years that I’ve thought about you and thought, what if.”

Rett did not know what to say. Her heart was racing again. “I haven’t forgotten about you, either,” she finally managed.

“That’s flattering,” Cinny said. “I hope you’ll be here the whole week. So we have time to catch up.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Rett hedged. The lure of Cinny’s voice flowing through the phone was a powerful inducement, but it was occurring to her that it would be hard not to revert to a Rett Jamison she didn’t want to be.

“I’ll send you the entire package, just in case. Lots of people are staying at the same resort and bringing their families. You’ll remember it — Honey Lake Cabins.”

“The place with the blue and yellow cabins next to the big lake?”

“That’s the one. I know for a fact that they’re sold out, though, so I’ll put in the number for the motel up by Litchfield. It’s a Best Western, so you know it’s pretty good. It might fill up, so don’t wait too long to book a room.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you come I think the rest of the Wiffenpoofs might be willing to work up a number or two.”

Christ, the Woton Wiffenpoofs, or as they had often referred to themselves, the Wippenfoops. Their rehearsals and performances contained almost all of Rett’s pleasant high school memories. “I guess that would be fun.”

There was another long silence, then Cinny said hesitantly, “I have to ask you something, but I don’t know how. I mean, I think it’s, um, well, rude, but I have to know.” Her voice sounded tight now and Rett remembered all the times Cinny had sounded that way when she was upset or excited.

“Ask. I won’t answer if I think it’s inappropriate.”

“Are you still… you know.”

Rett knew. She resented the question — from Cinny of all people. “I don’t know.”

“Gay.”

“I’m still a lesbian, Cinny. Never found a cure, never looked for one.”

“I knew it was rude. You’re angry.”

“Only a little.”

“We’ll have to hug and make up when you get here.”

Rett pulled into a parking lot. She couldn’t drive and have this conversation. Cinny was invoking potent memories. “Well, that does beg the question, doesn’t it? Are you still… whatever it was you were?”

“I guess I deserve that. I’m not proud of the way I led you on.” She laughed nervously. “You know, I think you’re right. I’m still the way I was. But I think it’s high time I made up my mind.”

Shit. Rett was reeling with conflicting emotions.

Her first thought was that Cinny had yet to mention her husband, but it was quickly pushed aside by the possibility of finally being with Cinny, to finish what they’d begun so many times. It was so tempting. Still, she knew she was opening herself up for yet another rejection. The Rett Jamison with the voice the Vancouver Sun had termed “the stuff legends are made of” would not be destroyed by another of Cinny’s rejections. But when she walked into Woton again it would be like stepping back in time. She could turn into the Rett Jamison who could be shattered by an unkind word or hostile glance. The more she talked to Cinny the more she remembered not just Cinny, but the excruciating awkwardness of not fitting in.

Come on, Rett, what do you care any more about how that town thinks of you? It’s Cinny you want to get over. Cinny and your mother. No one else ever mattered.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Rett answered. “Sorry, I had to get off the freeway. I have a rehearsal to go to.”

“I’ll let you go, then. I have your address. You know that I found nearly half the people who moved out of town through the Internet?”

It hadn’t occurred to Rett to wonder how Cinny had found her to begin with. She’d moved around a lot in the early years. “Technology has its definite upside.”

“I’ll put everything in the mail today. If you want to call before then, feel free.”

“I’ll remember.”

” ‘Bye, then. See you in about… five weeks?”

Christ, that was soon. As Rett finished the drive to the rehearsal studio, she asked herself what she had let herself in for. All because Angel had never called and she was too chickenshit to get out of the house at night and find someone to date. Three trips a week to the gym hadn’t found her anyone interesting either, but it had helped her waistline.

With a great deal of difficulty she put Cinny out of her mind. David Benoit had slots for his CDs in most music stores, and living up to a well-known recording artist’s standards was just a teensy bit important career-wise. Her contract with Henry was not exclusive except for the dates specified throughout the course of the year. Nothing prevented her from performing with David at the Newport Jazz Festival as she had previously contracted, or from recording with him, should she impress him sufficiently. As with Henry’s dealings with Cleetus Washington and the rest of the featured musicians, what was good for them could only be good for Henry’s box office.

Having that contract with Henry was not just a financial blessing — it took all the pressure off. Pressure led to stress led to tight vocal cords. Henry’s confidence in her made her a trusted commodity who had proven her professionalism.

The rehearsal was made up of just a few principals and David himself. A full stage rehearsal would take place the day before the festival opened. It went smoothly from start to finish. Rett was amazed at the difference it made to have someone as gifted as David arranging the entire sound around the qualities of her voice. Henry hadn’t yet had a chance to do that. Yee-gods, she thought. If she sounded good without that, just think how she’d sound when Henry did arrange for her.

As she left, David said, “Now I know why Henry Connors snapped you up before I heard you.”

Rett felt herself flush slightly. It was just show biz flattery, she knew, but it was pleasant to hear all the same. “Feel free to tell me anything along those lines whenever the mood strikes you. I can take it.”

He laughed pleasantly and Rett was more than halfway home before she even thought of Cinny Keilor. When she did, however, it was with a trembling, butterflies-in-the-stomach sensation that was more unwelcome than welcome.

Cinny obviously had some expectation that they would take up where they left off. Rett considered that she had had those expectations, too. But they couldn’t — she was not the same confused, put-up-with-anything lesbian she’d been back then. She was not going to go back to being that person. There was also a husband in the picture somewhere.

On the other hand, that Cinny could move her so powerfully was a strong indication that indeed they had unfinished business. Until she had talked to Cinny she’d thought it was just sex. But there was more than that. She needed to face Cinny as the woman she was today.

She needed to do the same thing with her mother. If she was even alive. Rett guessed she had to be or someone would have notified her. Her mother had sent a Christmas card as usual, which was the sum total of their annual contact over the past twenty-odd years. The handwriting was increasingly spidery. It was hard to imagine her mother old — she’d always seemed too hard to age. But there was no doubt in Rett’s mind that otherwise her mother was unchanged — she’d be half-plastered, bitter and critical about everything from Rett’s hair to her figure to her failures in life.

If her mother treated her exactly the same way she had when she was a teenager, then Rett would know in her heart what she knew intellectually — the verbal abuse and poison hadn’t been her fault. She hadn’t deserved it then and would not tolerate it now.

She had lots of unfinished business, and she hadn’t really been aware of it until the invitation to the reunion had arrived. Of course, letting things go from not good to bad to worse with Trish proved she tended to put off dealing with unpleasant things.

So. She would face her past and confront the future differently. She would overcome the limitations of her genetic code.

Damn. She was thinking about Angel again.

“Can’t you do anything right? You walk like a horse.”

“I’m leaving, Mama. My stuffs in my car. I won’t be back.”

Her mother spat out a bit of tobacco that had made it past the cigarette filter. “You’ll be back. You won’t make it any farther than I did.”

Rett put a check on the counter. “That’s the last of my pay I’m giving you. I’m going to need every dime for myself.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“Work harder for tips?” Rett had shrugged and clamped down on the rage that threatened to break to the surface. “I’ll have my own bills to pay, Mama. Maybe all I’ll ever do is wait tables, but just keeping a steady job will mean I made it farther than you ever did.”

“You ungrateful little snot…”

The captain was saying, “Let’s be grateful for that smooth ride and an early gate arrival.”

Rett felt as if she had to claw her way up from sleep. The past week had been a restless one. She knew her memories of her mother’s ravaged face and smoker’s hack were overblown, but the fear was real.

She’d read the words, “Guest artists like chanteuse Rett Jamison enlivened the David Benoit performance. Jamison in particular shone in a special arrangement that highlighted a deep, melodic voice.” She’d read them and had a rare, focused insight. She could not be the person the reviewer described if she was afraid to face her mother and put the past to rest. The self-doubt that her mother had engendered in her from birth was still there. She had a chance to let it go before her mother died. Given her mother’s vices, it was amazing she was still alive. If Rhett waited too much longer she might never get the chance to look fear in the face and put it behind her.

Minneapolis was spread out below her. She was coming home for a mixed bag of reasons, none of them untroubled or easily resolved.

As the plane taxied, she reminded herself about the humidity in August. You break into a sweat the instant you step onto the jetway, she’d complained to Mrs. Bernstein only yesterday. You feel like a flower in a microwave before you even get your rental car.

The moment the airplane door opened and the first whoosh of local air swept in, Rett broke into a sweat. She already felt like a flower in a microwave on the jetway. At the car rental counter she felt a chill from the heavy-duty air-conditioning. Back into the thick air she went, dragging her suitcase behind her, clutching her contract and keys. She wished she was wearing shorts.

“Shitty weather,” she mumbled. The car was midnight blue, a color guaranteed to absorb and amplify every pulse of sunlight. The cheap vinyl seats were perfect for creating an instant perspiration slick.

She cranked the air-conditioning to maximum. She felt like a pot roast in a pressure cooker.

Minneapolis had changed. It was not the city she remembered — she doubted Mary Richards would recognize it either. She’d been prepared for the shock of more than a few tall buildings, and yet the sight left her sadly nostalgic. At one bend of Highway 52 she expected to glimpse the Mississippi River, but the view was now blocked by skyscrapers. When she finally did see the magnificent waterway, it seemed dwarfed by St. Paul’s towering financial district.

Even knowing her way around the basic street layout of the city didn’t save her from getting lost on the way to the Top Hat Club. One-way streets loomed out of nowhere and twice she thought she had found her left turn only to discover that at this hour of the day she couldn’t go that way. She missed the university district entirely and wasn’t able to turn around until she crossed the river into St. Paul.

It seemed impossible, then, that the Top Hat Club looked exactly the same. Even the fading facade was no less and no more impressive than it had been twenty-odd years ago. The marquee, however, was freshly done. “Two Nights Only — Rett Jamison!”

She liked it, including the exclamation point. Naomi’s finding her this gig helped defray some of the cost of the trip, but that was a secondary consideration. It let her arrive home as a professional singer. The reviews from the Newport Jazz Festival had been terrific and Naomi was trying to get Rett a copy of the feed that had been taped for cable broadcast. If that wasn’t enough to bolster her self-esteem, any time she wanted to she could replay in her head David Benoit’s comment that he might be able to use Rett’s unique voice in an upcoming recording project. It staved off the specter of the terrified, desperate girl she had been when she’d left Woton for the Twin Cities looking for work and a place to sing.

The club was smaller than she remembered — maybe that was just because she was older. She was certain that Woton High would seem smaller, too. She’d tried most of the time to be small, inconspicuous — it kept her out of her mother’s way. It was her first voice teacher who had helped her get over that. “You’re as big as your voice,” Mrs. Raguzzo had snapped. “Stand up straight, take up space. The bigger you feel, the bigger your voice will be.”