Wow them. Juliana smiled: the world of J.J. Pepper wasn’t so different from her own. “Who should I come as?”
“Come as yourself, babe. That’s all you can ever be.”
She tinted her hair green and put on J.J.’s white organza tea dress, circa 1919, and her own full-length white mink coat and hat, white boots and white gloves, and she took a cab.
Len met her at the door. “Whoa,” he said, grinning.
“I wouldn’t show up at Symphony Hall in Boston looking like this, but here, it feels right. I’ve got a lot to learn about jazz and pop,” she said, “but one day soon I hope to record some of my favorite-” she grinned “-tunes.”
“You going to stick to early evenings and catch-as-catch-can between concerts?”
She nodded. “But I’m cutting back on the number of concerts I do a year. I don’t want to do so many any longer-but I can’t give this up, Len.”
He let his relief show. “That’s great, babe, because I don’t want to have to give up J.J. Pepper, either. She’s fun and spacey-and talented as all get out. I’d like to keep her around, so long as that’s what she wants.”
“It is.”
“What’s Shuji say?”
“It’s not up to him; he knows that. He doesn’t understand, and he’ll never like jazz, but he’s not going to abandon me because of it.”
“That’s okay, then. You don’t need him to understand?”
“No, I don’t,” she said. “It’s okay.”
When she’d finished her first set, she knew she’d wowed the crowd because Len told her when she came to the bar for her Saratoga water. Only then did she notice the applause and whistles and hoots of appreciation-and that she’d kicked off her shoes. She’d let go in a way she never did when playing Carnegie Hall.
Len nodded toward the other end of the bar. “You’ve got company.”
Sipping her water, Juliana looked down the bar and became very still.
Matthew Stark.
“Say the word, I’ll toss him.”
“No, I’ll take care of him.”
Len grinned. “Thought you might, babe, thought you might.”
She ambled down and leaned against the bar next to Matthew’s stool, feeling the sweat trickling between her breasts. She could almost talk herself into believing it was his fingertips.
“Hey, toots,” he said with that slight, unreadable grin, his dark eyes on her. “Nice hair-same color as your eyes, isn’t it? Better watch out nobody comes along and hangs candy canes on your ears.”
“Matthew,” she said, hearing the hope and hollowness in her voice. Did he know? Could he hear how much she wanted to be near him? Almost four days without seeing him and it seemed an eternity. Their night together in Vermont had changed everything. Knowing him had changed everything. “I thought you’d still be working on your story.”
“Feldie’s sticking to the facts, which were straightforward enough. She isn’t printing a thing about the Minstrel’s Rough.” He grinned, loving the way she couldn’t keep still, the way she blinked, the way she stood there, gorgeous and green-haired and the only woman he’d ever want again. “So you’re safe from the IRS for now. Any plans for the stone-or don’t you want to tell me?”
She shrugged. “I think it should fade back into the mist of legend.”
“Back to being a paperweight for jam recipes, is it? Tell me, J.J./Juliana, what are you doing for the holidays?”
“Going to Vermont-finally.”
It was the truth, although she had hoped not to go alone. She’d considered various ways to get Matthew back up there with her, including letting him deal with the matter of Shuji’s car. “You lost my car!” he’d raged. “Is this what happens when Jelly Roll Morton gets in your veins? Get it back!” But he’d headed to his house in California, trusting her. Abraham Stein was sending her a package to Vermont via courier. The Minstrel’s Rough was being returned to its place with her jam recipes. She’d considered various alternatives. Donating it to a museum, throwing it into the ocean, giving it to her mother or Abraham Stein or even Aunt Willie. But she’d decided to keep it. Only the Peperkamps knew for certain it existed…and Matthew.
That was the tradition, for four hundred years.
“Vermont, huh?” Matthew said. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence? I’m heading that way myself.” There was a tiny drop of perspiration on her right temple that he wanted to brush away with his thumb, but he resisted-for now. “There’s this little house I know overlooking the Batten Kill, it’s the coldest damn place you’ve ever been, but not when you’re under layers of quilts with a beautiful greeneyed blonde. She plays piano-classical, but I think she sneaks off and messes around with jazz once in a while. I don’t have any real proof. I haven’t known her all that long, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I’m in love with her.”
“Matthew, are you serious?”
“Of course.” He smiled. “There’s only one little problem: I’m not sure she likes my boots.”
“She loves your boots,” she said, suddenly breathless, “and your black leather jacket. She thinks they’re sexy. She thinks their owner’s sexy, too, and she’s in love with him.”
He laughed, looking at her. “I think some of your weirdness has rubbed off on me. Would Len throw me out if I kissed you?”
She grinned at him. “Do you care?”
“It’s worth the risk, but I’ll make it quick.”
He kissed her, but it wasn’t quick. They both saw to that.
“What about the Gazette?” Juliana asked. “Isn’t Alice Feldon expecting a story from you?”
“Not anymore.”
“Are you quitting?”
“No, my love,” he said, kissing her again, “I’m starting.”
About Carla Neggers
Carla Neggers lives in rural Vermont with her husband and their two children. Since completing her first novel at the age of twenty-four, she has written over forty books and has appeared on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists.
