Power Play. Beverly Long
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better than that?”
Not the real Billy Joel, but rather a piano player giving it his best with a young woman singing.
“I don’t recognize the song,” she said, reaching for a menu that was in the middle of the table.
“‘This Night’ off his An Innocent Man album. Early to mid-1980s.” He held up a finger. “Here it comes.”
She listened. “Nice,” she said.
“More than that. That right there was based off Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique. Billy Joel gave credit where credit was due in the album notes.”
His comment made her remember something that she hadn’t thought of since she was a kid. “When Anthony came home at Christmas his sophomore year, he, of course, talked a lot about college. Said it was going good but that his new roommate’s music was driving both him and Rodney crazy. Said it was CC all day long. Our mom, who to this day lives for rock and roll said, ‘I love Creedence Clearwater.’ Anthony practically rolled on the floor. When he stopped laughing, he said, ‘No, Mom. Classical crap.’”
Trey laughed and she realized that if he was handsome when he was somber, he was almost magnetic when he laughed. It reminded her of how Anthony had talked about his good friend Trey, who had women practically falling over themselves to get his attention.
She wasn’t going to be suckered in.
The waitress approached with water glasses. Trey ordered a burger and cheese sticks; she ordered a turkey and bacon croissant with a side of sweet potato fries.
“How did the rest of your night go?” he asked.
“Good. We were really busy, which always makes the time go faster.”
“I hear that you’ve got a good chef. Vegas has a bunch of those now. All the foodies are happy.”
“He’s a little volatile,” she said, smiling. “I like Armand, I really do. But he can get into a snit when customers complain. I don’t have to deal with it much since I primarily serve drinks.”
“Customers can be tough,” he said. “The other day I had a really unhappy guy. Said I made his property too secure.”
“Why would he say that?”
“Because he set off the silent alarm when he was sneaking out and didn’t realize it. His wife, who was sleeping, got the telephone call from the automated system. Since she was up, she decided to follow him. Right to his mistress’s condo.”
She laughed and he reached out a hand. “Let’s dance,” he said.
That would be a mistake. But she didn’t want to make a scene or do anything that would make him think she was suspicious. He was her brother’s best friend. The reasonable thing to do was dance with him.
She pushed her chair back, securing her backpack strap under the leg. And when she got on the dance floor, she made sure she could see their table.
“Afraid somebody is going to steal your shoes?” he teased.
She shrugged.
“They are pretty remarkable,” he added, then sighed. He pulled her into his arms.
She couldn’t answer. Her head was whirling. She was a physical scientist—a geologist. She understood many things. But for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out the energy field that seemed to pop up when she stepped into his arms.
He didn’t hold her too close but he was confident. Within a couple minutes, two other couples joined them.
“See, somebody just needs to get it going,” he said, his lips close to her ear. Her whole body hummed in response. She was five-seven but he still had at least five inches on her, making her head fit nicely under his chin. The music changed and he easily shifted tempo, slowing it down.
“I’m pretty sure they played this at my senior prom,” he said, his voice amused.
This song she recognized. Who wouldn’t? “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion. She’d been in middle school when Rose and Jack had sailed the ill-fated Titanic. “I loved that movie.”
“Of course you did,” he said easily.
Another couple edged onto the tiny dance floor. As she and Trey rocked back and forth, she told herself to breathe. Just breathe. Then realized that was a mistake when she drew his clean soap smell into her lungs.
“Who did you take to senior prom?” she asked, desperate to think and talk about something mundane. Anything so she didn’t focus on how good it felt to be dancing with Trey.
“Tracy Jones,” he said.
“Trey and Tracy. Cute. What happened to Tracy Jones?” she asked.
He smiled. “I’m not sure. We broke up that summer.”
“Haven’t seen her at any class reunions?”
“Never been to one,” he said. “Haven’t been back to Texas for many years.”
She loved going home. Loved getting to see her mom. “What’s your hometown?” she asked.
“San Antonio.”
“I love the River Walk. So much fun to take a stroll. Everywhere you look, people are having drinks or dinner or listening to music.”
“Easy place to lose yourself for a couple hours. When I enlisted, basic training was just around the corner at Lackland. So I became the unofficial tour guide to the city once other airmen found out it was my hometown.”
“I’ll bet your parents were glad to have you close again.”
“Parent. Raised by a single mom.”
“I see.” She had been, too. Because a drug-seeking addict had decided to rob a grocery store and had shot her dad when he’d responded to the call. “Did your dad...um...die?”
He shook his head. “Divorced. Still alive, at least I think he is. But my mom passed away when I was twenty-five. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She’d lost a parent. By the sounds of it, he’d lost both of his, one to death and the other to absence. “When’s the last time you saw your dad?”
“I don’t know. Couple years ago.” She felt the change in his body and when he missed a step, she knew that while his tone suggested that he couldn’t care less, Trey did indeed care.
She wondered if she should apologize for bringing up the subject, but just then, the server delivered their food to their table. They took their seats. She looped her backpack over her knee again. Trey lifted his plate in her direction. “Cheese stick?”
She started to reach for one and he pulled his plate away. “Are you crazy?” he joked.
She smiled, relieved that the awkward moment on the dance floor was over. “I’ll trade you five sweet potato fries for one cheese stick.”
He lifted his plate again. “I appreciate a woman who drives a hard bargain.”
They made the switch. She bit into her sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed. “So, tell me about the interest in classical music,” she said.
“It’s probably not all that different than people who gravitate toward jazz or the blues. I like most music. I just really happen to like classical.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
“Does the trombone in middle school count?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then, no. Well, that’s not true. I’ve taught myself how to play the keyboard. It’s pretty easy. All kinds of tutorials online.”
“Favorite composer?”
He chewed. “Impossible to answer. I have