Chapter 7 #2
"The Way You Look Tonight, from Swing Time, with Fred Astaire," the man at the neighboring table said.
"You are correct, sir. An oldie but a goodie by the great Jerome Kern." The piano player nodded.
"It was playing on one of the movie channels earlier," the man added.
"That's it!" Claire snapped her fingers. "I was going crazy trying to remember where I'd heard it."
Their conversation quieted and the musician played another song, one with more Jamaican flair.
Claire’s eyes fell closed, allowing the music to wash over her.
When the closing bars played out, she opened her eyes to find the man at the next table looking directly at her.
Her cheeks burst into flames of embarrassment, fueled in part by her second drink.
He didn't seem to notice though, responding only with a friendly smile. The pianist spoke, much to Claire’s relief, breaking the uncomfortable moment.
“Come on, miss, gimme a song. Surely there's something special you'd like to hear?” he asked again.
In truth, she had no special song. Not the kind he alluded to anyway.
She and Calvin never shared anything of that depth—certainly nothing that would qualify as their song.
And even if they had, she didn’t care to hear it now.
Between the alcohol and the prying eyes of the man at the next table, she couldn’t conjure a single song title. Not one.
"Maybe you'd like to make the next pick," she asked the man, finding she’d judged him too sharply. His brown eyes were anything but prying. They were honest, rimmed with thick lashes that women pay big bucks for. He couldn’t hide them behind his glasses—classic tortoise shell that hinted at academia, just like her own.
"Oh, no… he asked you first, Ms…" he said.
"It's Claire,” she said.
"Claire…" He pressed for a last name.
She smiled. "Just Claire."
He nodded and turned his attention back to the piano.
Claire took the opportunity to study him more closely.
His brown hair was combed to one side, long on the top but shorter on the sides.
His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, with just a hint of gray.
His clothes were casual but expensive, as evidenced by small but well-known designer logos.
He wore no jewelry, aside from a watch on his right wrist. He’s a lefty, like me.
On his feet, a pair of canvas and leather sneakers she knew cost at least six bills.
She tried to judge his height and guessed he was somewhere in the six-foot range.
“I didn’t get your name,” she spoke up.
He looked back at her. “Oh, sorry. I’m Jay—Plain Ol’ Jay.”
Her estimate was confirmed when he stood and leaned across his table, hand extended.
Claire shook his hand and he resumed his seat.
She couldn’t lie—the skin-to-skin contact felt electric.
Her heart raced as it had earlier that day, when she found herself inches from a jellyfish in waist-deep waves.
Was this another internal alarm of caution?
If so, she didn’t heed it, and spent the next half hour talking, laughing, and playing ‘Name That Tune’ with this Jay guy and the piano player.
The server reappeared, but Claire dared not risk another round, now approaching full-on buzz mode.
“How do you know all these old songs? You’re way too young to know so many,” the pianist asked.
Claire grinned. "Well, I don't know about that. I guess I have my father to thank. Or blame, depending on how you look at it. He made sure I had a well-rounded education. Music, classic movies, sports.”
“What are you? Golfer? Tennis player?” the piano man asked.
“Not much of a player. More of a follower. We’re rabid college basketball fans.”
“Don’t remind me.” Jay shook his head. “I lost a small fortune during March Madness.”
“You’re not the only one.” Claire laughed. “My bracket was busted after the first round.”
Claire espoused her takes on the former tournament, her face lit up with passion for her love of the sport. Two minutes later, she stopped cold with the realization she’d been talking ninety-to-nothing and a touch too loud. She lowered her tone and spoke more slowly.
She palmed her face. “I’m so sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes. Like I said, we’re rabid fans and enjoy most sports.”
Jay stared at her with a look that said something. Dumbfounded, maybe? Halfway between shocked and delighted? She wasn’t sure but decided a break was needed.
“Speaking of my father, I, uh, promised to give him a call. Would you excuse me for a few minutes?” She pulled her cell phone from her purse and slipped off the barstool.
"Of course." Jay tried to stand, losing his balance slightly. He steadied himself against the edge of the table.
"What on earth happened to you?" she asked, noticing for the first time the presence of his knee brace.
Jay laughed. "A small accident. Let's call it a misjudgment. I went toe-to-toe with a Gucci garment bag and lost."
"Death by luggage?" she questioned.
"Almost. I was traveling on business and trying to make a connecting flight.
I turned a corner at full speed and found myself face-to-face with a menacing-looking woman and her fleet of bags.
I couldn't stop and slowing down wasn't even an option.
So, I channeled my inner track star and tried my hand at hurdles… and my knee paid the price."
Claire laughed again. "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?"
"The one thing that possesses all men to engage in ridiculous activities born from conceit and aimed at self-promotion."
"And what exactly might that be?" she asked.
"Pride," he answered with a grin.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. When did this happen?"
"About two weeks ago."
"Yet here you are, brace and all."
"Brace and all," he repeated.
She held her phone up, giving it a gentle shake. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Claire excused herself, exited the bar, and headed straight for the ladies’ room in the lobby, texting her father with each step.
Claire: Forgot to text you earlier. Sorry! All's well. Love you xoxo
Alone in the ladies’ lounge, she checked herself in the mirrored wall opposite the sinks.
Leaning in close, she grimaced at her glassy, bloodshot eyes, their whites looking more pink, matching her sun-kissed shoulders.
I blame you, Jefton, and your heavy-handed pour on that refill.
The redness on her cheeks? Mostly likely from the easy flirtation she’d been enjoying.
Ugh! My hair is a trainwreck. She freed her locks from a scrunchy, flipped her head upside down, and shook her hair for a few seconds before securing it back in place.
With a few tendrils pulled down for good measure, she practiced a smile.
You’re not just tipsy. You’re borderline drunk.
Go back to the bar, thank him for a nice chat, and be on your way.
Better yet, you owe him nothing. Go back to your room before you do something you might regret.
"You weren't kidding. I think that was under a minute." Jay stood and balanced on one leg when she returned.
"I channeled my inner track star," she teased, resuming her place at the table.
A server appeared and Claire ordered another drink, her restroom counseling session immediately forgotten.
Another half hour slipped away as she and Jay talked about everything.
He kept her laughing, to the point her cheeks ached.
The patrons around them melted away until she and Jay were the only two people left in the bar.
Her eyes widened with shock when she checked her watch.
“My God. I had no idea it was so late,” Claire said.
“Is it? Maybe that dinosaur watch of yours is broken,” Jay said.
“Do not come for my watch, sir.” She cupped her right wrist and held it to her chest. “It happens to be a family heirloom.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Especially when we’re on the same team.” He held his right arm out to her, his expression filled with pride. “Mine’s a 2022 reissue—not true vintage like yours—but I’ve always been a Timex fan.”
No way! He wears a Timex?! He looks like he could afford any watch on planet earth.
A shiver of nervous energy buzzed inside her and she shifted position to keep this feeling in check.
Do not start up a conversation about watches.
Do not, or you’ll be here for another hour, which would be incredible, but you should leave something to talk about tomorrow, right?
You know he’ll want to meet up again because you definitely want to.
What would Molly say? Leave him wanting more. Oh, who am I kidding? Molly would already be smoking a post-coital cigarette right now.
"Think our friend here would do me the honor of one final song before I make my exit?" She threw a nod toward the piano player.
"You're not ready to call it a night, are you?" Jay asked with a look of disappointment. "I thought you might like another drink."
"Are you kidding? I've barely touched this one. I want to leave Jamaica without a knee brace.”
"You better think of something. She's ready to clock out," the piano man encouraged.
"How ‘bout some coffee? A latte? Milk and cookies?" Jay offered.
"I better call it a night. Thank you both for a lovely evening." Claire stood, gripping the back of her chair as the last of her beverages kicked in. She sent up a silent prayer to make it out of the bar without falling flat on her face.
Jay stood and tucked his hands in his pockets. “It’s been really nice talking with you, Claire.”
Again she took in his sincere eyes. Though she hadn’t detected a single red flag, Claire willed herself to do the right thing—turn and walk away.
But forces beyond that of Jefton’s cocktail kept her feet firmly planted.
The crowd had moved out, and the bar stood quiet, except for the sound of her father's words popping into her head out of nowhere, preaching a worn-out sermon.
Claire, honey, it's time to forget the past and start the next chapter.