Beverly Jenkins - Rhythms of Love - You Sang to Me / Beats of My Heart

The impact of his words was evident on her grandmother’s face. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive my prying.”

“It’s okay. Being a foster kid taught me to be independent. I probably wouldn’t be who I am today without that experience.”

“Jamal, I’m very glad we met.”

“Same here,” he responded genuinely. “Thanks for having me in your home, and for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome. There’s apple pie in the fridge if you want some.”

His eyes lit up with such delight both women laughed.

She said to Reggie, “I’m going to leave you two alone.”

“Ms. Vaughn, you’re welcome to stay,” he assured her. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

“Nope. Heard all I need to. Reggie’s a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.”

Reggie gave her a nod of thanks. Truthfully, she would prefer her grandmother stay in order to not be alone with him, but she knew that was out. “I’ll see you later.”

Crystal got to her feet, and Jamal stood, too. His show of chivalry won him more points. “And a gentleman, too? I think I’m in heaven.”

She made her exit while an amused Reggie watched her go.

After the departure, silence settled over the kitchen. Reggie glanced his way and found his eyes waiting. Beginning to drown in what she saw there, she cleared her throat and looked elsewhere.

Jamal couldn’t believe the strength of his attraction. In order to drag his mind away from wondering if her mouth would taste as sweet as it appeared, he asked, “How about I help you wash up these cups?”

“That isn’t necessary. I can handle it.”

“You’ve been putting up with my stalking for the past couple of days, it’s the least I can do.”

To Reggie the air in the room had become as humid and sultry as a summer day in July. All she could do was acquiesce. “Okay.”

After putting on an apron, it took her only a moment to make the dishwater.

He walked over to where she stood at the sink and suggested, “You wash and I’ll dry.”

“Are you always so helpful?”

“Not usually, but if it’ll get me a hearing with you, I’ll dry dishes outside in the snow.”

His dark gaze was working her overtime, and all kinds of things she’d rather not think about were pulsing inside. “Dish towels are in the drawer over there.”

In addition to the cups, the dishes holding the food her grandmother had taken to the potluck also needed to be washed, dried and put away. As they worked, conversation was minimal, but that was okay with Jamal. As he removed the wet dishes from the dish drain and dried them, he was content to watch her—the way she moved, the way she kept shooting little glances over her shoulder at him. He kept reminding himself it was her voice he was after, not the lure of her, or the challenge she presented, or the way she might look nude in his bed and wearing nothing but those pearls now lying in the middle of the table, but it was hard to remember.

With her hands in the soapy water, Reggie washed and then rinsed the big rose-patterned bowl used at the potluck to hold her grandmother’s signature jambalaya. She placed it in the dish drain just as he reached to take it out. Their fingers bumped and the sparks flew, startling them both.

“Sorry,” they apologized in unison.

A shy smile crossed her face.

“Like your smile,” he confessed.

“Yours isn’t bad either.”

Silence rose while they both rode the opening notes of a prelude only they could hear.

He asked, “When are you going to let me talk to you?”

Reggie got the impression that he was asking about way more than a recording session. She kept her voice nonchalant. “How about now? We’re done here.” She dried her hands and gestured him back to his seat at the table. “Do you want that pie? More coffee?”

“Yes to both. I’ll get myself another cup and you get the pie.”

He poured himself some of the still-hot coffee. She cut two slices of the apple pie and placed them gently onto paper plates.

“I’m having just a little piece,” she explained. “I don’t want to be up all night.”

Jamal had been having such a good time, he’d all but forgotten about her having to work in the morning. In his world, if it took all night to consummate a deal, so be it, but this was her world, and there were parameters. He felt the need to apologize. “I’m sorry, and here I am keeping you up, too. Forget the pie, let’s have a quick conversation, and we can work out the details by phone or something later.”

“I’m good. Have your pie and coffee. As long as I’m in bed by eleven, I’ll be okay.” She passed him a plate and a fork.

“What time do you usually get up?”

“Around four-thirty, and on the road no later than five-fifteen.”

“That’s early.”

“That’s life in hotel housekeeping.”

“How long have you worked housekeeping?”

But before she could respond, he groaned pleasurably in response to his first taste of the pie. “This is so damn good.”

Pleased by his testimonial, she replied, “Gram’s from Louisiana. She can make a cardboard box taste good.”

He glanced her way. “You cook, too?”

“Yep, but not as good as she does.”

“I’d be big as a Klump if I lived here.”

She chuckled. “First time I ever heard it put that way, but to answer your question about working in housekeeping, almost two years.”

That gave him pause. He wanted her to sing, not be on her knees scrubbing tubs even if it was good honest work. “Do you like working at the hotel?”

“I do. The guests can get on your nerves sometimes and it’s hard work, but it’s a job. In this economy, I’m glad to have anything that pays the bills.”

He knew she was right of course. The sheer size of his personal wealth insulated him from having to worry about the everyday issues that impacted folks on the opposite end of the economic spectrum, and it made him wonder how the Vaughn women were doing financially. Were they up-to-date on their mortgage or in danger of foreclosure? There was food in the house and they had lights and heat, but were they robbing Peter to pay Paul in order to make their bills? He didn’t know them well enough to ask something so personal, nor would he be so disrespectful, but she couldn’t be making much money cleaning rooms. Did she have health insurance? “Being in the music business can change your life.”

“For better or worse?”

He studied her over his raised cup. “I’d say better.”

“I’d say, depends.”

“Why?”

“I just do.”

“Come on, girl. You can’t just throw that statement out there with no explanation. What’s up with all this negativity?”

For a moment she didn’t respond, but he could see from her unfocused stare that she seemed to be elsewhere. “Talk to me, please?” he asked softly.

Reggie was debating whether to tell him the truth. He’d been so polite and nice all evening she supposed he’d earned it. Maybe when he heard what she had to say, he’d understand the other reason why she was so hesitant to throw caution to the wind. “My mother had one of the best voices in the city. Sang backup for one of the Grady girl groups. A record executive turned her on to heroin and she overdosed one night in Copenhagen.”

Jamal’s heart turned over. This wasn’t even close to what he’d been expecting to hear. “How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “My condolences.”

“Thanks…”

She looked haunted by her sadness. Seeing it filled him with an urge to make it so she’d never experience such pain again. “I’m not going to rip you off or give you drugs. You have an amazing voice and you could go so far in this business. How’s your grandmother feel about my offer?”