Bourbon Street Blues

HOLLY CARLYLE GAVE HER accompanist a grin and leaned across the gleaming black surface of the piano top. Swinging her long, auburn hair back away from her face, she tapped out an echo of the song that had just ended with the tips of her red-polished fingernails. "Tommy, that was fabulous," she said. "If we can keep it together that tightly tonight, we're so gonna rock this place." Tommy Hayes winced as his long, mocha-colored fingers slid along the piano keys, sending a chirrruupp of sound into the still air. "Jazz the place, Holly," he said, shaking his head. "We don't rock, we jazz...." She laughed, straightened and stacked the sheets of music together neatly. "Yeah, but when our jazz is smoking, we really rock." Tommy sighed and stroked the keys gently, as he would a lover's body. The overhead lights shone down on his dark hair, liberally laced with gray. He wore two silver rings on each hand and his black suit hung on his lean body. Tommy swore he'd been playing jazz piano in New Orleans since God was a boy. And nobody played it better. Holly had been working with him for nearly fourteen years and she'd never been happier. The older man had become almost a father to her--something Holly relished since she'd been on her own most of her life. Tommy's wife Shana and their children were the only family Holly had ever known. And she was more grateful for them than she could say. "Looks like you've got a fan club," Tommy muttered quietly, his deep voice hidden beneath the sweet chords his fingers continued to create. "What?" He jerked a nod in the direction of the bar. A lone man was sitting in the far corner, a bottle of beer in front of him on the table. Even in the dim light Holly could see the stamp of frustration on his features. "Who is he?" "Can't see from here," Tommy admitted. "Shana says I need new glasses." Holly chuckled. The room was full of shadows, even with the late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows overlooking the street. A gleaming, mahogany bar ran the length of the room, with bottles of every size and shape on the counter behind it, directly in front of a mirror that glittered with reflected sunshine. A second counter ran along the window wall, with plenty of seating for people who wanted to watch the world stroll by as they enjoyed a quiet drink. But mostly, the patrons at the Hotel Marchand bar preferred the small, round, glass-topped tables that crowded the dark wooden floor. "Doesn't seem like a fan to me," Holly whispered, turning from the man in the corner back to Tommy. "Looks more like Mr. Misery in need of company." The older man's mouth quirked in a half smile and he winked at her. "You didn't see him when you were singing." She leaned back against the piano, both forearms braced on its cool, sleek surface. "Liked it, did he?" "Looked at you like you was the last cool spot on a hot day." Holly gave him a brief smile. "Flatterer." "So why'nt you go say hello to the man?" "Trying to get rid of me?" she teased. "Yes," Tommy said. "Need a little time to myself, girl. Between you and all the women I've got at home..." She'd heard Tommy's "I'm the only poor male in a household full of women" speech way too many times. To listen to him, a person would never know how much he adored his wife and three daughters. "I don't know," she said, hiding a smile, "maybe I should just stay here and help you go over the arrangement for the opening song again." His mouth quirked. "I believe I can manage without your help." "Possible," she allowed, then narrowed her eyes on the man she thought of as a father. "What I'm wondering is, why all of a sudden you're so willing to see me talking to a man." Usually, Tommy was more protective than a mother hen fussing over her last chick when it came to any of his "giChild, Maureen is the author of 'Bourbon Street Blues', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373389421 and ISBN 0373389426.