For the Love of Jazz (7 page)

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

“Daddy had a daddy, too. He died, though. 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 Kincades 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 Kincade, 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. Kincade.”

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. Kincade, 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 Kincade.” 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 momma, 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, gotten 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.”

“Momma 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.”

“Did you ever remember any of it, Jazz?”

“No,” he answered. “I never remembered anything after we got to the lake. The time between then and waking up in the hospital is a blank, like it never happened.”

Shoving off the rail, he turned to look at her. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he told her, staring at the face, so lovely, so pretty. How could he not have recognized her in the doctor’s office? If he hadn’t been half-hysterical with worry about Mariah, half-mad with guilt, he would have. Even when he had stared through the window at her, her hair pulled neatly back, all professional in her little white coat, his heart had started pounding, his chest had felt tight. Somewhere inside, some part of him had recognized her.

God, he loved her. His whole life, he had loved so few people. Three had been the Kincades, and he had put one of them in the ground. “I shouldn’t have come,” he repeated, shaking his head and starting down the stairs.

“Jazz…”

He paused, turning to look at her. “I remember the first time I saw you. Beau had beat me something bad the night before and Alex wanted your daddy to take a look at me. I figured he would be better than the social worker. Not that it did much good. I didn’t know that he had to tell her anyhow.

“You asked if somebody had hurt me,” he reminded her, the wind ruffling his hair, the sun setting behind him. “Then you told me that when you were older, you’d fix it next time I was hurt.”

He sighed, looking past her, past the house, into the distance. Some ten miles away was a lake hidden in the woods, and a long gravel road. It was there that his entire world had shattered around him. Sixteen long years ago, and he had yet to put it all back together.

“I’m hurting now, Annie. But there’s not a damned thing you or any other doctor can do about it.”

With that, he turned on his heel, climbed into his car and left.

But he stared at her through his rearview mirror until the turns in the road blocked her from his sight.

Chapter Four

Desmond sat in his office, puffing at one of his Cuban cigars. Remembering what his daughter had said to him on Sunday, he sat muttering. Thinking. If Jazz hadn’t been driving in the condition he was in, this wouldn’t have happened. Alex would still be alive.

Jazz lost him, too.

But it still doesn’t seem right, after all this time. I can’t picture him driving that car into that tree, drunk or not.

How many times had that boy been cited by cops for speeding? More times than Desmond could count. And how many tickets? Scads. But accidents? Not a one. Accused of wanton endangerment? Zero. Reports of drunk driving? Nada.

Remembering back, he thought of the concealed glee he’d seen in Larry Muldoon’s face. Breathing in the heady scent of smoke, he pondered it a moment. He had always thought it was because Larry hated anybody who had more than he did and he saw this as a slap to Desmond.

But maybe it was something else.

Slowly reaching for the phone, he stabbed out his cigar. Hell, the least he could do was some nosing around, see what turned up.

* * *

When the call came in, Larry just happened to be sitting at his desk filing a report on some punk ass who had been hotdogging around town. Otherwise, he may not have learned anything about it. As things happened, he overheard Darla Monroe saying, “Those records being so old, it’ll take me a bit to find them. None of the records before 1990 are in the computer. What day was the accident?”

She hummed under her breath, jotting down a date. “Seven-thirteen-eighty-four. Got that, right? Alex and Jazz, right? Well, Dr. Kincade, I’ll get that information as soon as I possibly can.”