The Other Woman's Son. Darlene Gardner
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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.