Harmony Evans - Lesson in Romance

Cara waited until he went upstairs, and then drifted over to the little alcove where gold records ornamented the wall. Tucking a curl behind her ear, she gazed at the Grammy Award, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

Had she been flirting with him just now?

She almost laughed out loud. Absolutely not. When it came to devising enticing lines to attract the opposite sex, she got a big, fat F.

Passing the piano, her feet kicked something out of the way. Looking down, she saw a balled-up piece of manuscript paper that had somehow escaped burial. She glanced over her shoulder before picking it up.

Smoothing out the wrinkles with the palm of her hand, she hummed the melody. It was the tune he was playing when arrived. Smiling, she refolded the music and stuck it into her purse.

On her way to the kitchen, her smile faded when it suddenly struck her that there were no pictures of

Alex’s friends or family around, not even of his brother, Michael.

Every small room in her own apartment was filled with pictures, memories frozen in time. She cherished each one, especially the ones of her mother who died when she was nine years old.

Shouldering her purse and briefcase, Cara selected a bottle of juice from the fridge. Her mind wandered to Alex’s numerous records, the U.S. and European concert tours, the sold-out performances at jazz clubs across the country and the world. All were trophies to his artistic talent.

But where were the tributes to his personal life?

As she closed the front door, the last thing she heard was the faint sound of water spraying in the shower, reigniting her nerves. Soon the biggest challenge of her life would begin. She sank down on the stoop, leaned her head against the cold iron railing, and prayed.

Chapter 2

Alex shoved his cell phone into his duffel bag, leaned his head against the window and wished he’d never come back to New York. The gray waters of the Hudson River were dappled in the sunlight as his limo traveled north to the Catskills.

The nasal-knife voice of his publicist still rang in his ears. Word had gotten out about the tour. She was going nuts fielding calls from around the tristate area and as far away as Chicago and Los Angeles. Everyone wanted Alex Dovington to read and perform at their school. Local and national media wanted exclusive coverage and personal interviews.

What a joke.

He eased back into the leather seat and reached for the familiar green bottle. Tipping it back, he enjoyed a long swig. If they knew he couldn’t read the label of his favorite beer, or damn near anything else for that matter, they wouldn’t want him.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about what would happen if people discovered his secret. He could almost see the tabloid headline:

Playboy Dummy!

Harlem’s Hottest Saxophonist Is Illiterate

The familiar anger rose within him and he gritted his teeth against it. No matter how much he’d already accomplished in his career, in some people’s minds, he would be branded as unintelligent. But he wasn’t stupid. He just couldn’t read.

True, there were some words he recognized by sight. Ones he’d picked up over the years just by living life. Women. Sex. Money. Music. Jazz. Bar. Liquor. Nightclub. Police. Beer. ATM. A reluctant grin tugged at his lips. Those were among the most important words in the world. At least in his world.

Everything else was a cloud of letters he could never see through. A jumble of puzzle pieces he could never hope to solve.

The cold beer felt like heaven raining down his throat as he took another long pull. He snuck a glance at Cara. If his teachers had looked like her back when he was in school, he definitely wouldn’t have dropped out in the ninth grade.

She sat diagonally from him, reading a newspaper, one slim leg crossed over the other. Her hair billowed out from her head and cascaded down her back in tiny spirals of brown curls spun with gold. He wondered if it felt as silky as it looked.

She lowered the paper for a moment to turn the page and Alex got another glimpse of her face, although the caramel-colored beauty of it had captured his mind the moment he opened his door and found her standing there.

His eyes roamed down the cream blouse and over the navy skirt, all buttoned-up and properly pressed. They curved down her legs, all the way to the peek-a-boo pump dangling from her left foot as it kicked out a sporadic rhythm. No stockings, he noted with pleasure.

Bare legs, one shoe half off, and the wildness of her hair stirred a crazy kind of longing within him. Hmm, he thought. Maybe she wasn’t all business, all the time.

An image popped into his mind. He pictured her lying beneath him, those gold-brown curls moving like waves over the pillows, her fingers linked with his as he plunged into her. Again and again. Gazing into those soft, almond-shaped brown eyes until they slid shut from pleasure and then—

Her shoe dropped with a soft thud on the carpeted floor. Averting his gaze, he turned his head toward the window and jammed a fist under his chin. He closed his eyes, willed his erection to relax.

Now wasn’t the time to be hot for teacher.

He had to finish his new tune this weekend. On Tuesday morning he was due in the studio to record his ninth, and hopefully not his last, album for Sharp Five Records.

The muscles in his abdomen tightened with dread. Mo “Money Man” Lowenstein, President and COO, was breathing down his neck. Sales of his last two albums were lower than expected and Mo had threatened to release him from the label.

And now he had to worry about learning the ABC’s? His eyes snapped open and he nearly let out a cynical laugh.

Sharp Five Records, one of the largest, most well-respected labels in the music business, specialized in jazz, R&B and world music. Being cut from the artist roster would be a major blow to his career, and there were plenty of cats lined up ready to take his place at a moment’s notice.

He lifted the bottle and grimaced as the now-warm remnants of his beer hit his throat. Although Alex dreamed of starting his own label and developing his own pool of talented musicians, he knew it was an impossible goal.

How many business owners couldn’t read? He gathered the answer was zero, unless they were as good at hiding it as he was.

He sighed and looked out the window at the blur of trees going by. Life was so much simpler when he was playing for change in the 125th Street subway station. He wondered if he’d known back then that the music business was more about business, and less about music, would he be sitting here today?

He thought about the manuscript paper strewn all over his living room floor. It seemed like he’d rewritten the tune a thousand times, but there was still something missing. He’d hit a wall, and whenever he tried to fix it, it sucked even worse than before.

Could the problem be writer’s block? He hoped not. If it were, that would scare him more than losing his recording contract. He knew if he lost the ability to compose music, he just might give up playing forever, because it was the only part of his life where he had complete control.

And if he couldn’t play saxophone and compose, what would he do with his life?

He checked his watch and blew out a breath. They’d been on the road for just over an hour, but it felt like an eternity. And they still had about an hour before they reached Cottage Valley Falls, the town where his home was located.

When they’d gotten into the limo, he’d offered Cara a beer, but she’d refused and chose mineral water instead. And that was the last time they had spoken.

The reason why suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks.

Cara was the first woman, the only woman, who knew he couldn’t read, and it made him feel like he had been caught by his mother with his hands down his pants.