Now That You're Here. Lynnette Kent
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edgier jazz bands was playing tonight, the music hard and loud. Smoke hovered in the air and he heard Emma cough as the fog caught her by the throat. The place was full, especially for a Tuesday. He threaded his way through the crowd without letting go of her hand, stopped at the bar long enough to order them both a drink, then headed for his office.
“Sorry about that.” He leaned back against the closed door. All they could hear now was the pulse of the bass and the drums. “Things get kind of loud out there.”
Smiling, Emma shook her head, and a curl of red-gold hair escaped to bounce on her neck. “It’s wonderful music.” Her English accent was as elegant as he remembered.
“You still like jazz?”
“I dropped it for a few years. Then came to my senses.”
“Nothing’s quite the same, is it?”
“Nothing.” They looked at each other for a second, while the air got tighter, harder to breathe. Jimmy thought about the beat-up truck he’d owned that summer two decades ago, about popping an Ellington tape into the player and sitting with his arm around Emma, watching the sun disappear behind the mountains. About the things they’d learned together in that truck, in the dark…
“Have a seat,” he said abruptly. Looking relieved, Emma sank into the recliner in the corner while he rounded his desk. Before he could sit down, there was a knock on the door.
“Drinks, boss.” Darren McGuire, the club’s server, set a tonic water on the table beside Emma and a whiskey at Jimmy’s right hand. “Anything else?”
Jimmy consulted Emma. “Would you like a sandwich? Nachos? The variety’s not great, but we can feed you.”
She leaned forward to pick up the tonic. “Actually, I haven’t eaten since my flight left New York at nine this morning. I’d love a bite—something simple.”
He nodded at Darren. “Ask Hank to give us the best he’s got.”
The young man raised an eyebrow. “That’s not much.” He caught sight of Jimmy’s frown. “I’m going. I’m going.”
Shaking his head, Jimmy dropped into his chair. “God save me from wisecracking waiters.” He took a drink of whiskey, just for something to do. After twenty years, after anticipating this meeting for five long days, he suddenly didn’t know how to act.
The direct approach usually worked best. “So…your e-mail was kinda mysterious. You said when you were coming here, but not why.”
After a pause, while she stared into her glass and he stared at her, Jimmy said, “Emma? Do you want some gin with the tonic? Vodka?”
She jumped a little. “Oh. No. This is fine. I’m simply trying to decide how to begin.”
“Sounds bad.”
“It is, in a way.” Her gaze came to his face. “My father had prostate cancer. He died three months ago at home in England.”
The ground dropped out from beneath Jimmy’s feet for a minute. It was always a shock when someone you knew—and liked—was gone. “That’s…I’m sorry. He was a really good man.”
“Yes.” She looked at her hands, set down the glass of tonic.
Another long silence. “Are you here because of your dad?”
“Yes. I don’t know why I’m making this so difficult.” She drew a deep breath. “Before he died, my father asked me to find you. And when I found you, he wanted me to bring you a bequest.”
“He shouldn’t have bothered.” Jimmy resisted the urge to loosen his tie, though his collar felt a little tight all at once.
“But he did.” She reached into her large leather purse and drew out a polished wooden box, four inches square, two inches deep. “The gift is inside. I don’t know what it is—there’s a seal I didn’t want to break.” She showed him the blob of gold wax over the catch on the side.
“Emma, I don’t need—”
She got to her feet and crossed to the desk, picked up his hand and placed the box on his palm. “It’s yours. He wanted you to have it.”
He felt her touch deep in his chest. “Okay, okay. We’ll see what’s inside.”
“This isn’t any of my business.” She backed toward the door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“No way.” He reached across and caught her wrist. “We’re doing this together. Sit down.”
He waited until she took the straight-backed chair on the other side of the desk, then pulled out his pocketknife and flipped open the blade. The sharp tip slipped easily underneath the seal and pried it off in one piece.
He closed the knife and set it aside, then sat staring at the box. Walnut, he thought, inlaid with two lighter woods in an angular, mazelike pattern. “Well, here goes.” He thumbed the hook free and eased the top back on its hinges.
Clean, soft sheepskin filled the shallow cavity, cushioning a silver disk as wide as the box. He picked up the medallion for a closer look. Inlaid with gold and silver and different shades of turquoise, the piece felt heavy in his hand.
“What is it?” Emma asked softly.
Jimmy shook his head. “Hell if I know.” Fine engraving combined with the inlay to create a sunrise over mountains.
Emma stirred. “There’s something in the lid.”
Laying the disk on its nest, Jimmy pulled the folded sheet of paper out of the box’s top and spread it open. Bold handwriting in fountain-pen ink covered the page.
Jimmy,
You may remember Joseph Hobson, an elder of your tribe on the reservation in South Dakota. After a chance meeting in Africa as college students, he and I corresponded for many years; my work with the Sioux language and traditions owed much to the friendship between us. When I left the United States and returned to England the last time, he knew we would not see each other again in this life. This medallion was his parting gift to me. He did not know where or by whom it was made, only that he’d received it from his father, who got it from his grandmother.
I’ve been unable, over the years, to pursue any useful research on this amazing work of art. And now I’ve run out of time. I feel strongly that the medallion has a purpose in the lives of those who hold it, and equally strongly that I must convey the purpose to you. I would be pleased to think you and Emma worked together to discover its significance. May your effort bring you what you most desire.
Until we meet again, I remain your friend,
Aubrey Garrett
Without a word, Jimmy passed the note across the desk to Emma. She read silently, then sat for a minute with her fingertips against the letters, as if she could connect with the writer. Her lips trembled slightly, and her blue eyes were bright with tears.
His own throat tightened. “I know you miss him.”
“Oh, yes.” She pressed her lips together. “That’s why I felt compelled to deliver the gift as he asked.”
“Did you know about—” he pointed to the medallion “—this?”
Emma shook her head. “Dad didn’t mention it to me. I was studying in France during his last trip to the reservation, about six years ago. And I never noticed it when I visited. His house was always such a jumble of books and papers and artifacts…” She took a deep breath. “It’s taken me this long to get the place orderly enough to sell.”
Jimmy refolded the note and put it back in the top of the box, which he closed and latched. Then he covered Emma’s hand with his own. “I’m grateful your dad thought about me. And I’m really glad for the chance to see you again. Can we spend some time together? How long will you be in Denver?”
“I…don’t