just never noticed what had gone on under his nose.
Now there were shadows in Emma’s sweet blue eyes, pain in the set of her mouth. She’d just lost her dad, that was part of it. But there was something else, and he wanted to know what. He wanted to know about where she’d been these twenty years, and who’d been with her. There had been other women in his life, off and on. Had Emma loved other men? Had she been…was she married?
Jimmy swore and put the walnut box back in the drawer. It was a little late to be jealous. Or whatever the hell this gnawing in his gut was called.
The fact remained that he couldn’t see her tonight for dinner. He tracked down the number for the hotel and dialed, then asked for her room and waited to be connected, wishing that Hank had quit just a week later. Or a week ago.
“Hullo?” She sounded barely awake.
“Hey, Emma. Still in bed?” Bad question, raising possibilities he shouldn’t consider.
“Um…yes, actually.” Jimmy could hear her waking up. “Jet lag, I suppose. How are you?”
“Okay. But I’m going to have to break our dinner date.”
There was a pause. “Well, that’s all right.” Her tone had cooled down considerably.
“No, it’s not. But my cook quit. I can’t get hold of a temporary replacement this quick, and so I’m going to end up in the kitchen tonight.”
“That’s really too bad.” Emma thought she heard exasperation in his voice, along with regret, which lightened her plummeting spirits considerably. “I was looking forward to a chance to talk.”
“Me, too. I can’t even promise tomorrow night, since I don’t know when I’ll be able to get somebody in the kitchen.”
In the silence, she thought she heard drums. “Is that the band? Are they rehearsing?”
The sound stopped as he chuckled. “No, it’s just me. I have a bad habit of beating on any flat surface nearby. Listen, how about lunch tomorrow, before I go to work?”
“That sounds good.” A long time to wait, though. “I’ll see you then.”
“You bet.”
After they’d hung up, Emma gazed around the hotel room, wondering what she would do for the rest of the day. She did not want to play tourist—at least, not without Jimmy as the tour guide. For the first time in twenty years, she had no reading to do, no paper to write or examinations to grade. Just…time. Empty time.
Finally she connected her laptop computer to the Internet port provided by the hotel and signed on to check her e-mail—a couple of notes from friends, commiserating with her on the loss of her teaching fellowship, then the usual and irritating advertisements for sound equipment, airplane-fare discounts and instant riches. She replied to the notes and started to sign off, then reconsidered.
Her first search for Native American artifacts turned up thousands of sites. She went through them slowly, gathering scraps of information here and there. When she narrowed the search to metalwork, the Southwestern focus of that particular art became apparent. So Jimmy’s medallion wouldn’t have been made near the Sioux reservation. That argued for trade between tribes or, possibly, commerce between Southwestern tribes and whites, who then traded again with the groups on the Plains.
By dark she had quite a stack of note cards, her preferred method of keeping important information, and a few hints as to the meaning of the sun-over-mountains design. She also had a list of galleries and museums in Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona specializing in Native American metalwork. With a car, she could reach most of them in a day’s drive.
Stretching out her stiff neck muscles, Emma acknowledged that she would much prefer a day’s drive with Jimmy to one without him. If she didn’t ask him to go back to South Dakota, but only to Santa Fe, or even across Denver, would he cooperate? Was it just the reservation, or was Jimmy avoiding a more fundamental issue?
And what right did she have to ask? Or to push him into an enterprise he had already refused? After twenty years, she had no claim on Jimmy Falcon other than the fact that he had been her first lover and she, his. Not much of an obligation, especially since Jimmy had probably made love to any number of beautiful women since. His charm and magnetism guaranteed female attention.
But then again, her dad had asked them to trace the medallion. He felt “strongly,” the note said, that Jimmy should have this particular piece. Aubrey Garrett had gotten a bit, well, mystic, as he grew older. He’d studied the Native American legends and myths with great intensity.
There would be a reason her dad wanted Jimmy to know the history of the disk. And a reason he’d insisted that she deliver the box herself. Don’t mail it or ship it, he’d instructed. Take it to him yourself.
Perhaps he suspected Jimmy would resist the true message behind the medallion. And perhaps he counted on her to overcome that resistance. Her parents had enjoyed a long-standing joke comparing Emma’s tendency to take charge of a situation with the heroine of Jane Austen’s novel Emma, a young woman who considered herself an expert in the conduct of other people’s business.
Thinking about the twinkle in her father’s eye as he teased her, Emma smiled. Yes, Aubrey might well have been counting on her to see that Jimmy pursued this particular piece of business. She would hate to let him down.
An hour later, she once again stepped out of a cab across the street from The Indigo. She wouldn’t press too hard tonight, when Jimmy was overworked and understaffed. But the music called to her. And if they happened to talk, and she happened to mention the medallion, what could it hurt?
BY 10:00 P.M., Jimmy wished he could close the club for the night. He was sick of lettuce, pickles, tomatoes and nacho cheese. Or maybe he should just close the kitchen down. People who really liked jazz didn’t care about the food.
Darren came in with a tray full of paper plates and crumpled napkins. “She’s back.” He dumped the tray in the garbage can beside the back door.
Jimmy leaned back against the counter. His hip was on fire. “Who?”
“The lovely lady from last night. Tall, red hair…” A certain appreciative light in Darren’s eyes said he was ready to elaborate on the description.
“Yeah, that’s Emma. Did she ask to see me?” The server shook his head. “She asked for a table and a drink—a Pimm’s Cup, if you can believe it. She had to tell Tiffany how to make it—tall gin and lemonade, in case you’re interested. Now she’s just listening to the band.”
“Great.”
Knowing she was out front destroyed what was left of Jimmy’s patience with food. He cleaned up fast, before Darren could bring in another order. Then he straightened his tie, pulled down his cuffs, locked the back door and went out to see Emma.
She looked up in surprise as he dropped into the chair at her table. “Jimmy! I didn’t want to bother you while you were working.”
“I just hung a Closed sign on the kitchen. You gave me the excuse I needed.” Darren set a whiskey at his elbow and he nodded his thanks. “What brings you down tonight?”
“I was in the mood for jazz. Maybe not acid fusion,” she
