For the Love of Jazz Page 5

  “Another Briarwood success story,” Jazz muttered, shaking his head. “So, there’s a new sheriff in town, huh? Your mama’s real proud of you.” With a sly smile, Jazz asked, “Does that mean you’ll fix my speeding tickets?”

  With a quick wink, Tate said, “Well, that just depends on who writes the ticket.” Pushing the swing back lazily, he stared off into the distance. “Larry is going to hassle you, you know that, don’t you?”

  Jazz responded with a grunt, reaching up to scratch his head.

  “He blames you for your mama killing Beau. He muttered and cursed about it left and right at that time. And then when you up and left, he preened for weeks.”

  “How do you know that? You were still in high school.”

  “I hear things. When you’re a quiet kid, a lot of people don’t notice you’re standing right there and can hear everything that’s being said. And Larry likes to say quite a bit. I’ll do what I can, but unless he really crosses the line, my hands are tied.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” Jazz said, shrugging his shoulders. He had dealt with worse than Larry Muldoon, more times than he could count.

  “You need to worry some. That man has a lot of hate built up inside of him.” Tapping his finger against the side of his head, he added, “There’s something wrong up here.”

  “Their daddy must’ve worn real tight shorts, that’s all I can say,” Jazz replied, leaning against the post. “I’ve got bigger things on my mind than some little twerp like Larry Muldoon.” Shaking his head, he muttered, “How in hell did he get to be a cop, anyhow?”

  “Good question. I inherited him, so to speak, when I signed on. Much as I’d like to fire his pitiful ass, I can’t do it until he gives me a reason.”

  Silence broken only by the squeaking porch swing, they sat staring off into the distance. After some time went by, Tate asked, “Where’s the pretty little girl of yours? Mama said she’s a sweetie.”

  “Sleeping. It’s exhausting, her watching me work,” he said with a smile.

  “Is she getting in the way?”

  Shaking his head, Jazz answered, “Not the way you’d think. She just sits there and watches, with those big eyes of hers. When I’m done, she asks questions, but it makes me feel like she’s grading me. A little woman in that baby’s body, I’m telling you.”

  “Mind if I ask about her mother?”

  “Not much to tell. She was a friend of my editor…” Voice trailing off, he stared hard at Tate. Why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut?

  “Your what?” Tate asked, a mile-wide grin on his face.

  “My editor, damn it.”

  “What, exactly, does she edit?”

  “What do editors usually edit?”

  “Damn it all, Jazz. You expecting me to believe you’ve been writing? What for? You work for a newspaper?” Tate asked.

  “Hell, no,” he responded, affronted. “I ain’t no damn reporter.”

  “Then what in the hell are you writing?”

  “Action adventure crap.”

  Tate’s grin only got wider. “What kind of action adventure crap? Anything I might have read?”

  Jazz sneered. “I dunno. You learn how to read?”

  “Come on now, Jazz. Is that any way to treat your favorite cousin?”

  Rolling his eyes, Jazz said, “You’re my only cousin.”

  “As your only cousin, don’t you think I deserve to know if my cousin might be a little bit famous? What do you write?”

  “You’re not going to shut up until I tell you, are you?”

  Tate, looking satisfied, said, “Nope.”

  “It’s a series about a private detective. Vance Marrone.” He spat it out like a challenge, wishing he had never even mentioned his editor. Why couldn’t he have just said a friend of a friend?

  “Vance Marrone? You write those?” Tate’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You’re joking.”

  Jazz glared at him and turned away.

  “No. I don’t guess you are joking,” Tate muttered as he took this in. “You’re D.J. McCoy?”

  Jazz ignored him, staring at the woods at the edge of his property. Taking this as an affirmative, Tate jumped up and laughed. “Hot damned, Jazz. You’re my hero! I gotta ask, how many of those women were inspired by real life?”

  “Get real, Tate. How many men you know of have sex lives like that?” Jazz asked, rolling his eyes.

  “But some of it has to be real. Nobody has an imagination that good.” With that same wide grin still on his face, he sat on the porch railing and said, “You must be pretty pleased with yourself. Got a ton of money stashed in some Swiss bank?”

  “I ain’t John Grisham, Tate. Used up most of that money paying Sheri’s medical bills after she died. Cancer is pretty damned expensive.” It was a sad fact that if Sheri hadn’t had that life insurance policy, Jazz would probably be stuck writing the Vance Marrone mysteries for the next ten years just to keep a roof over Mariah’s head and food in her belly.

  His face sobering, Tate replied, “Yeah. I reckon so.”

  Moments passed as the tension eased from the air. Tate said, “I’m real impressed though. Vance is one mean sonovabitch.”

  Face burning, disgust crawling in his belly, Jazz turned and faced his cousin. “I hate them. I hate writing that trash. I wish I had never started it. But, damn it, we gotta eat.”

  Frowning, Tate asked, “If you hate it, why did you start?”

  “I was young and stupid. Always been good at telling a story. At first, I enjoyed it, writing out every guy’s fantasy. But every one I wrote, it had to be worse than the previous one.”

  “If you hate it that much, then quit. Find something else to write.”

  “I have.” Eyes gleaming, Jazz explained, “I’ll fulfill my contract with this last book. I’m not renewing it. I’ve got a book another publisher wants. Vance is almost history.”

  “Don’t be mad if I don’t congratulate you,” Tate muttered. Shaking his head, he said, “I’ll be damned. My own cousin, writing that stuff.”

  “You forget now that you heard it. Otherwise, I’ll stomp that skinny ass of yours,” Jazz threatened. Then he paused, cocking his head. “Mariah’s awake.”

  Before Jazz had even pushed off the post at his back, his little cherub had appeared in the screen doorway. Face flushed, eyes puffy and sleepy, she was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. “Hey, pretty girl. How are ya?” he asked, pulling open the screen door and lifting her for a hug. She smelled of sleep and sweetness and innocence and his heart clenched with love.

  Mariah squeezed his neck back, then turned her head and looked at Tate. “He looks like you, Daddy. Are you brothers?”

  “No, but our daddies were. This is your cousin, Tate.”

  Tate held out his hand solemnly, his eyes laughing as the little girl accepted his handshake. “My, my, you sure are a pretty thing, Miss Mariah,” he told her, tapping her nose.

  She gave him a sweet smile and said, “Thank you.” Studying his badge, she asked, “Are you a policeman?”

  “Town sheriff. Got any bad guys you need me to arrest?” he asked soberly.

  “No, thank you. Why are you here?”

  “I came out here to invite you and your daddy to church and Sunday dinner with us tomorrow,” Tate said, glancing at Jazz. “My mama sold ya’ll this house. Remember her?”

  “Miss Ella is your mama?” At his nod, she smiled, curling her arm around her father’s neck, leaning into him. “Miss Ella is real nice.” With sad eyes, she sighed and whispered, “I don’t remember my mom. She died.”

  “I heard ’bout that. Real sorry to hear it, too.”

  “My dad’s dad died, too. Did yours die?”

  Tate stood there, looking a little lost. Jazz almost jumped in to save him, but Tate managed to find his footing well enough. Tate reached out and tapped Mariah’s nose and said, “You sure are pretty, Miss Mariah. Will you see if you can talk your daddy into coming tomorrow?”


  Smiling, she laid her head on Jazz’s chest. “We’ll be there, won’t we, Daddy?”

  With a wry smile, Jazz replied, “Of course. You still go to St. John’s?”

  “Where else? Ten thirty, sharp.” He tipped his hat to Mariah, causing her to giggle. As he strode away, Mariah looked at her father. “I like him,” she said simply.

  He had forgotten that the Kincaids also attended St. John’s Parish. Jazz hesitated at the back of the church, frozen as memories slammed into him. Desmond rousing them all from their beds, every Sunday, come rain or shine, ordering them into their finest while the cook prepared a hardy breakfast.

  Then they’d get to church and go their separate ways, Jazz and Alex in the back with the rest of the high school crowd, Anne-Marie toward the middle with her best friend, Jackie. Desmond would sit in the front, as was befitting a man so well respected. So well liked.

  And sixteen years later, Desmond still sat there and his daughter was at his side. Jackie sat about midway, leaning against a bear of a man who had his arm wrapped around the redhead. Jazz stood frozen. Behind him, Tate laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly, “It has to come sooner or later. You know that.”

  If he’d been given a choice, Jazz would have chosen later. Holding Mariah’s small hand in his, he entered the church. As he walked, he ignored the whispers and the stares. He’d come back to face this.

  And to find out what had really happened that night.

  Twice, he glanced over to see Anne-Marie looking his way. He looked away each time, unable to meet her eyes.

  It was the longest hour and a half of his life. At least, it seemed that way. As the closing hymn was sung, Jazz stood, a headache the size of Manhattan raging behind his eyes.

  Grim, he took Mariah’s hand in his and headed to his car, with the fervent hope that he could get out without anybody saying a word to him. He was nearly there when he realized his prayers weren’t going to be answered.

  “Jasper.”

  Besides his parents, he had only let one other person call him that. Turning, he faced Desmond Kincaid, the man who had helped raise him, been the only father figure he had after his own father died in a freak accident at the mill. Wonderingly, Jazz met his eyes, unable to believe he still looked the same.

  The thick, black hair had turned the color of salt and pepper with a wide streak of solid white blazing back from his right temple. Those penetrating eyes hadn’t changed at all, they still seemed to see clear through to his soul. Few lines marred his aristocratic features.

  “Dr. Kincaid.”

  Those solemn green eyes drifted downward, landing on Mariah. “This your little girl?” he asked, kneeling down in front of her.

  “Yes, sir. This is Mariah. Mariah, this is Dr. Kincaid, Dr. Anne-Marie’s daddy.”

  Mariah smiled at him and held out her dainty hand. With grave dignity, Desmond accepted her hand and they shook. “Are you a kid doctor, too?” she asked, leaning up against her father’s leg.

  “No. No, I’m not. I’m a doctor who takes care of people with sick hearts.”

  “Like broken hearts?” Mariah asked, her eyebrows rising. She glanced up at her father, her tiny tongue darting out to lick at her lips. A gleam lit her eyes and she nibbled on her lower lip as she waited for him to answer.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  She left Jazz’s side and went to whisper in Desmond’s ear. His bushy, black brows rose as the little girl asked, “Can you help my daddy? I think he has a broken heart.”

  “Now why do you think that?” Desmond asked, looking up at Jazz.

  “Because he is always sad,” Mariah whispered, glancing up and looking back to Desmond. “Can you help him?”

  Before Desmond had a chance to figure out an answer to that, Anne-Marie joined them, with a warning look for Jazz and a concerned one for her father. Bending, she brushed back Mariah’s hair, studying the closed wound. “That looks real good, Mariah. Does it hurt?”

  “No, ma’am. You did a good job,” she replied.

  “The highest of praise,” Anne-Marie concluded, grinning. She tucked her arm through her father’s as he rose. “Are you two telling secrets already?”

  “Is he really your daddy, Dr. Anne?”

  “Yes, he is. A very good daddy.”

  “I think he’s nice,” Mariah said. Just then, Tate came up and asked if they were ready. With a quick look back, Mariah said, “I hope you will, Mr. Doctor Kincaid.” Then she walked away with her dad and Tate.

  “Will what?” Anne-Marie asked.

  “She wants me to fix his heart. She thinks it’s broken,” he mused, shaking his head. “Ironic, isn’t it? How old did you say she was?”

  “Five. Going on sixty-five, it looks like. Acts like a sweet, little grandmother, doesn’t she?”

  “She’s something,” Desmond said. “If his heart is broken, I wonder what in the hell that makes mine?”

  “Daddy.”

  He turned to look at her.

  The spring breeze blowing through her hair, she looked so much like her mama, it sometimes hurt to look her. Her eyes were big and serious, face solemn. Laying one hand on his sleeve, she whispered, “Jazz lost him, too.”

  Sunday mornings were for church. Sunday afternoons for spending with her father. But Sunday evenings were hers. This particular Sunday evening found Anne-Marie stretched out on her porch swing, a glass of iced tea in one hand and a well-read book in the other. The air was mild and sweet, the scent of blooming flowers on the wind.

  She loved spring.

  Idly, she flipped a page, eyes skimming over the familiar words. She could probably recite most of the book by heart if she had to, so many times had she read it. But she never tired of it, never tired of the fairy tale it wove.

  Without even realizing it, she fell asleep, the tea resting against her chest, the book falling from limp fingers with a muffled thud to the ground.

  That was how Jazz found her, head tipped back to the sun, a tiny smile on her lovely face, eyes closed. Alex, you were right. She became one hell of a lady, he thought, wishing his friend was there to see her.

  He lowered himself into the wooden rocker and stared at her. Natural coloring gave her skin a dusky gold hue, contrasting with her black hair. Her classically beautiful features transformed into something almost ethereal, the clean oval of her face, the slim straight nose, high cheekbones and delicate rosebud mouth.

  To all the world, she looked more like a high school cheerleader than a doctor. The clean cut, wholesome girl next door.

  The girl he could never have.

  Jazz had always known how he felt about her, from the time she was ten, staring up at him as Alex stood introducing his scruffy-looking friend to his family. Jazz had been whipped the night before and limped a bit. Bad tempered and irritable, he hadn’t been in the mood for some whiny-faced little brat.

  But Anne-Marie had looked up from the book she held clutched to her chest and met his eyes. She studied the bruises on his face, lips pursed, eyes serious. Softly, she had asked, “Did somebody do that to you?”

  Humiliated, he had turned away, mumbling a goodbye to Alex. When her little hand caught on the tail of his flannel shirt, he had paused, stiff and rigid, looking down at her. She smiled at him and said, “I’m gonna be a doctor when grow up. If he ever hurts you again, I’ll fix it.”

  In that second, a fist closed around his heart and it had never released.

  After spending the better part of his life in love with only one person, he had learned how to accept the fact that he would never have her. She was never meant to be his. But he hadn’t known that seeing her after all this time would be so hard. In all honesty, he hadn’t really expected her to affect him quite like this. He’d adored the headstrong, little brat but after sixteen years, he would have expected something inside of him to change.

  Especially after nearly sixteen years of not seeing her. He wasn’t the same kid he’d been when he ran away from town. He’d grown up, g
otten married, fallen in love, even. So how could she still affect him so badly?

  Why did just the sight of her sleeping soothe him?

  As he watched, she arched her head back, stretching her neck, then tensing her shoulders and releasing them before her lids slowly lifted. She didn’t jump when she saw him there, just smiled and said, “I had a feeling you would be here sometime today.”

  “I wanted to make sure the doc was okay. I hope… I hope I didn’t upset him.”

  Anne-Marie arched a smooth black brow at him and said, “It wasn’t easy for him, no. But did you really expect it to be?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, feeling like an idiot. Rising, he jammed his hands in his pockets, staring into the distance. “He looks the same. Sounds the same. Damn it, he even smells the same, of the cigars he sneaks when ya’ll know he smokes ’Em anyway. The aftershave lotion, Old Spice.” He smiled and shook his head. “He could afford any kind he wanted and he wears the kind you buy at K-mart.”

  “Mama always liked it,” she said, her lips curving up. “He’s actually gotten better about the cigars. I haven’t caught him with one in nearly three months.”

  “You still make him give you a dollar every time you catch him with one?”

  “Of course not,” she replied. Amusement lit her eyes as she added, “Inflation, you know? It’s now five dollars.”

  He laughed. “You always were good about getting money out of him.”

  “That’s because he spoiled us rotten.”

  “No. No, he didn’t. He may have given you a lot, he may have overindulged a little. But he did right by you two.”

  “We were lucky to have him.” Rising, she went to stand beside him. Resting her hands on the railing, stained a soft mellow gold, she looked up at him. “He loved you, too, Jazz. He stills does. You were like a son to him.”

  “Yeah. The black sheep. And look how I paid him back.” Closing his eyes, he could still picture the way Desmond had looked at him while he lay in the hospital bed. Shoulders bowed and stooped with grief, eyes tired. “I took his only son away and put him in the ground.”