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Blue Moon 10.4

by Donna Lamb

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"Sorry, sorry," said Jo. She wiped her eyes with a tissue from her purse.

"That's okay, but now I'm confused," said Tom. "I don't think you sent the packet but I only got it earlier this week. Gil must have left it with someone else to deliver it."

Richard looked up. "Not mailed?"

Tom shook his head. "Nope. Hand-delivered right to my desk." He shrugged. "I've got no explanation and I guess I don't need one." He looked thoughtful, glancing down at another paper in his hand.

"You okay?" Richard asked Jo.

She nodded. "I'm all right. Just caught me b-by surprise."

Richard gave her a hug about the shoulders and she dropped her hand onto his knee where he covered it with his own.

"I made some notes," said Tom. "Gil says you're musically talented, do you sing, play instruments? What instruments?"

"Keyboards, m-mostly," said Jo. "And sing."

"She used to have her own band," Richard offered.

"What kind of music?" Tom asked.

"P-pop, country, rock," said Jo. "Richard is my drummer. Writes songs, too." She added, smiling at him.

"Have you ever cut a demo?"

"I think so," she answered. Tom blinked. "B-but I'd like to do a new one," Jo went on. "I don't have m-my old b-band." No idea who Melody's band was.

"How about modeling? Have you done any modeling?" Tom tapped the stack of glossies. "These are quite good. You could probably have a comfortable career as a model. Top end fashion modeling and nude modeling pay the best, but there's always work for someone who looks good on camera. Catalogs, conventions, commercials."

Jo glanced at Richard. Some small corner of her new self seemed intrigued by the mention of nude modeling, as if she were discovering an exhibitionistic streak in her makeup. Richard showed his dimples, exactly as if he could read her mind. "I think I'd p-prefer something like music. Doing, instead of b-being?" she said.

He nodded. "You're not just doing this because your dad suggested it?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. I think I've always wanted to p-perform." She and Richard exchanged looks, again; bemused and surprised.

Tom looked interested. "Real performers work hard," he said. "Just an observation, not an admonition."

"I can w-work hard. My folks," Melody's folks but Dunny made they're mine, too, "left me a house and some money, but I need to do something w-with my life. Music means a lot to m-me."

"Okay," said Tom. "If you wanted to model, I could probably get you some small jobs pretty quickly, but music is a whole 'nother thing. Let me tell you what you're going to need to have for me to get you into some small clubs to start out with."

Lunch came and disappeared, along with some delicious Italian sodas and designer waters. Tom discussed hiring band members, making demos, copyrighting music and operating a website, all as part of a music career.

"I won't be able to take your account," he warned. "I've too many high-maintenance, high-return clients to eat up my time besides being CEO of the company but I've got a hungry young agent who should be perfect for you." He used his phones to quickly set up a meeting with the young woman, named Andie Moore, for later that evening. "She's got a project you might be interested in," he added.

Jo pulled her glasses out to take notes. Grinning at her, Tom pulled his out, too. "Silly to be vain about these when I'm wearing all this iron," he slapped his leg braces. "But there you are."

"I've got contacts," Jo explained. "But I haven't worn them since the accident."

"Can't wear them myself, allergies make me rub my eyes too often," said Tom.

Near the end of the session, Tom fetched a split of champagne from a refrigerator hidden in his credenza. He poured them each a half-full flute and toasted. "To Gil and Judy," he said, simply.

Richard didn't mention that Jo was under age. Four ounces of champagne isn't going to hurt her, he thought.

Half an hour later, Richard held the door of the Mustang open for Jo in the chilly underground garage. She slipped inside, glad that he'd loaned her his coat again. Out on the street, a wind blew in from the ocean bringing damp cold air direct from the Bering Sea; at least it felt that way on Jo's bare legs. "B-b-brrr?" she said as Richard got in on the other side.

He grinned at her. "I'll have it warmed up soon, keep the coat on for now."

"I'm so c-c-cold. D-do g-girls get c-colder than b-b-b-m-m-m-g-guys?"

"Our muscles keep us warm," said Richard. He idled the engine a bit, adjusting the heating vents.

"Nyah!" said Jo, sticking her tongue out at him. "Ow! I b-bit m-my t-t-tongue!"

"Serves you right," he said, showing a dimple. "You're stuttering on practically every word and your teeth sound like Buddy Rich doing a castanet solo."

She giggled. "T-turn on the heater."

"It's on. This is a Ford, takes a while to warm up."

She looked at him sideways. "Mmm," she said. "M-m-me, too."

He laughed and she blushed pink, though she couldn't have said why. He put the Mustang in gear and wheeled out of the parking garage, making the turn onto the Avenue. "You want to go home and change into something warmer before we meet this Moore chick?" he asked.

"Nah, I'm tough," she said. "Um?" Richard made a left onto Santa Monica, catching her leaning wrong. "Hamlet's the other way?"

"We got time, I thought I'd take us down by the water. Besides, it's the one on Sepulveda."

"There's m-more than one Hamlet? Hooda thunkit?" She warmed her hands in the now toasty blast from the car's heater. She looked at Richard for a long moment.

"What?" he asked.

"You're not taking m-me to see the submarine races, are you?" she asked.

"Uh, no." He showed all of his dimples.

"Too b-bad," she sighed. "I've never seen'em."