his head. “Not even an engagement. And no good explanation, either.”
“You don’t need to make one.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, Jimmy, I wondered, have you thought any more about the medallion?”
The question hit from out of the blue, and he didn’t have a ready answer, except the truth. “It’s a beautiful piece and I’m very honored that your dad wanted me to have it.”
When she hesitated, he answered her next question before she asked. “But no, Emma, I don’t want to trace the history. I told you—it doesn’t matter.”
“I’ve done some research on the Internet—we wouldn’t necessarily need to visit the reservation. There are galleries and museums in the Southwest—”
“Which is where the metalwork probably came from. I know. I’m still not interested.”
Her folded hands dropped to the table with a thump. “Why?”
He would have liked to avoid this confrontation, but couldn’t. “Look. There was a man, an Indian, who made a big point of his heritage, his cultural pride. He knew the legends and the language of his tribe. He could trace his people back for a hundred years and more. He talked about forcing the whites to acknowledge Indian rights, to make reparations for the land they’d stolen. He wanted to bring the Indian race back to its rightful place of power, on the same level with whites.”
Emma nodded without speaking. Her gaze encouraged him to finish.
“This man lived on land his family had claimed for generations. One day, a car pulls up in front of his house—a house hung with signs and symbols of Indian power. An Oklahoma oilman gets out, nice guy, good suit, and offers the Indian an indecent amount of money for that land.”
“He took the money?”
“Of course not. It was Indian land. So the white men came back one night and caught him out at the barn, then beat him up until he agreed to sell.”
“I know these evil things happened. But that doesn’t explain—”
He held up a hand. “The man was my grandfather. My mother was his youngest daughter. They moved to the reservation after that, where he drank himself to death. My dad did the same, a little while after he told me the story. I was eight years old.”
“Jimmy—”
“I figured out right then and there that being an Indian was an accident of birth. A correctable birth defect, even. I found the cure. I walked away from that history and I don’t look back. For any reason.”
Emma stared at him from across the table with her twined fingers pressed tight against her lips. The hurt in her eyes said she’d taken the story into herself.
Shaking his head, Jimmy lurched to his feet. “Don’t be so sad, Emma. All of this was a long time ago, and doesn’t matter anymore. That’s the point.”
He would have liked to comfort her. But that would mean controlling the contempt for his grandfather’s weakness that roiled in his belly—not something he could handle in a minute or two. Without another word, he abandoned the kitchen, leaving Emma by herself.
ON HER THIRD AFTERNOON at work, Emma fortified herself with a deep breath, then left the kitchen and headed for Jimmy’s office. She peeked in. “Do you have a moment?”
He looked up from his account book with that heart-stealing grin. “For you, always. What’s up?”
They’d overcome their differences over the medallion by simply avoiding the subject entirely. Jimmy spoke with her, laughed with her—but not about anything that mattered. He didn’t get to the club until midafternoon, when she was already deep into prep work. Once the club opened, Emma was too busy to do much more than breathe, and too exhausted afterward to argue when he paid for the cab to take her home. Their situation bore little resemblance to the easy enjoyable reunion she’d anticipated.
But then, nothing about Jimmy seemed to be as easy as it had been twenty years ago. He wore armor now, invisible but quite impenetrable. By unspoken consent they’d ignored the revelation he’d made of the tragedy in his past. A tragedy, as far as Emma was concerned, still active in his present.
But she knew better than to broach the subject again so soon. This was a different mission. “Have you ever considered a more…um…adventurous menu?”
His reaction was not the encouragement she expected. The engaging grin faded, and his straight eyebrows drew together. “I think I told you, the food isn’t the draw.”
“You also told me the guests are enjoying their meals now. Why not expand a little?”
“This isn’t that kind of place.”
“It could be.” They both watched his long fingers rotate a pencil between point and eraser.
When he looked up, his gaze wasn’t angry, just wary. “Why change what works?”
“Why do something halfway?”
He gave a choked laugh. “Did I hire you to argue with me?”
Emma shrugged. “You hired me with the understanding that I would do my best. I’m telling you I can do better than ham-and-cheese sandwiches and dill pickles. The music deserves more than that.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Jazz is not polite music. It’s down and dirty, gut-wrenching. It doesn’t need polite food.”
“Jazz is also elegant and sophisticated and profound. We could provide that kind of food.”
“Your third day at work and you’re already rocking the boat?” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a second. “What do you want to do?”
She sat in the chair across the desk. “A salad or two, I thought. And a featured entrée—an actual dinner on an actual crockery plate.”
He rocked his chair back, putting more distance between them. “We don’t have plates. Or forks or spoons or knives.”
“I can solve that problem with one telephone call.”
He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “You’ll blow my profit, buying dishes. The margin’s not all that great to begin with.”
“Of course.” She lifted her own eyebrow and regarded him skeptically. “What kind of car is it you drive? Some sort of animal…Pinto..? Bronco..? Cougar?”
“Might be worth a try, boss.” Tiffany came in to stand at her shoulder. “Draw some folks in who stayed away because of the food.”
After staring at them a few moments, his face unreadable, Jimmy shook his head. “Emma, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to get into that kind of trade. Thanks for the effort, but no thanks.”
She drew a deep breath. “Jimmy—”
He held up a hand. “I never argue with a beautiful woman. And especially not with two beautiful women. Take away the distractions so I can get back to my numbers here, okay?”
With a sigh of
