Rhythms of Love: You Sang to Me / Beats of My Heart. Beverly Jenkins

elementary school.

      “Nope. Mr. Baines and I got groceries today, so I’m set.”

      “Good. Then I’m sleeping in.”

      “Pancakes when you get up.”

      “Deal,” Reggie replied with a tired smile and got to her feet. “Oh, I met a guy today who said he wanted to put me in the studio.”

      “What kind of studio?”

      “Music. Said he was a producer.”

      “Did he give you his name?”

      “Jamal something. Started with an R…Reynolds, I think. He was in one of the rooms on my route today, or should I say, Trina’s route. Gave me his card.”

      “And you said?”

      “No, thanks.”

      Their eyes met. Reggie waited for her grandmother to reply, but when no words followed, Reggie planted a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for not fussing. I’ll see you later.”

      “Get some rest.”

      Upstairs, Reggie took her bath, came down to eat, then went back up to her room and booted up her old computer. She Googled Jamal Reynolds. The picture of him on his Web site matched the handsome man she’d met at the hotel, and his credentials were impeccable. He’d produced some of the world’s most famous R & B artists; most of whom were her favorites. He had numerous Grammys to his name and, according to his profile, was single. Not that she cared. What mattered was that he hadn’t lied to her about his identity, even though his truthfulness didn’t change her decision to turn down his studio offer. Once bitten, twice shy, she said to herself. Her curiosity about Reynolds satisfied, she shut down the computer and crawled into bed.

      She couldn’t go to sleep right away though, because one side of her kept asking why she didn’t take the man up on his offer. Especially now that she knew he was legit. At one time in her life, being a singer was all she’d wanted to be. Even after the tragic death of her mother, she’d kept her eyes on the prize. With her old boyfriend Kenny producing and writing for her, they’d hustled her basement-recorded CDs from Detroit to Chicago and Windsor and back, only to have a producer they were working with disappear into the night with a slew of Kenny’s best songs and the three thousand dollars Reggie and Gram had scraped together to invest in demos the man said she needed. Once bitten, twice shy, she echoed. Her heart had been broken, dreams shattered. Deep down inside, a small spark continued to burn for the hopes she once had, but she refused to take such an emotional and financial risk again. She told herself sharing her love of music with the kids at the school was enough. Another plus was that as soon as she finished her degree, the school’s directors promised to hire her full-time. But the voice inside that wanted her to reconsider going back into a studio wouldn’t leave her alone. Finally, she fought it to a draw and slid into sleep.

      Jamal thought about the singing maid for the rest of the day—through the breakfast he attended, through the hour-long seminar he gave at one of the local high schools and during the black-tie dinner held that evening to honor Charles Grady’s life and vision.

      When Jamal returned to the hotel, he hurried up to his room to see if maybe she’d left a number on the phone, but there was nothing. Frustrated, he looked down at his watch and saw that it was past midnight. If she were going to call she would have done so by now. He also realized that he hadn’t gotten her name. He called down to the desk and was told very politely that under no circumstances would the hotel reveal the names of its employees unless there was a complaint, and since Jamal didn’t have one, he hung up.

      He took off his tux coat and pulled the tie free. Removing the gold cuff links from the wrists of his snow-white shirt, he wondered if he’d ever see her again. It wasn’t like him to be so driven after such a short encounter, but he was. Her phenomenal voice and attitude were more than enough to make her memorable but there was something else in the mix. He’d sensed chemistry, or had it been his imagination?

      He hung his tux in the closet. Wearing a black silk undershirt and boxers, he padded barefoot over to the bed and climbed in. Picking up the remote from the nightstand, he turned on the flat screen and clicked through the channels. Nothing he saw held his interest, mainly because memories of the morning’s encounter wouldn’t leave him alone. What singer in her right mind would turn down Jamal Reynolds? he asked himself. Admittedly, he was a stranger and her skepticism was understandable, but his ego asked, how could she not know his name? Maybe she was what Marvin Gaye called a Sanctified Lady and didn’t do popular music, but she’d been singing Anita Baker, so that couldn’t be it. Whatever the reason he had to overcome it. The competitive producer inside didn’t want her to be discovered by someone else, and the man inside was curious to know more about her.

      He paused to watch Sports Center for a moment to check out the basketball scores, but her face came floating back, along with her sassy attitude. In his world, aspiring singers threw themselves at the feet of producers like himself, but not Ms. Maid.

      He turned off the flat screen and stared into the darkness. Frankly, he’d never run into a situation like this one before and he wasn’t really sure how to proceed.

       Chapter Two

      Jamal awakened the next morning with a plan. He would be flying home that evening, but was scheduled to spend the day checking out some of the local recording studios Detroit was so famous for. He got on the phone and moved the studio appointments to later that afternoon. He was going to work from his room and wait for the singing maid. All he wanted was an opportunity to have an honest conversation and prove to her that he was all business. The music industry was filled with scam artists, but he wanted to reassure her his intentions were honorable.

      But he had to see her again first, so with that in mind, he called room service and ordered breakfast.

      The meal arrived a short while later. While he was enjoying it and looking over some of the lyrics one of his singers wanted on her next CD, a knock sounded on the door, followed by a cheery female voice calling out, “Housekeeping.”

      Taking in a deep breath, Jamal strode to the door and opened it.

      “Morning,” the unfamiliar woman standing on the other side said. She had short spiky brown hair, light skin and freckles.

      For a moment he was caught off guard. “You’re not her,” Jamal heard himself say.

      She blinked. “What?”

      “Sorry. I was expecting the woman who was here yesterday.”

      “You mean Reggie?”

      “Describe her.”

      “Brown skin. About five-three, ponytail, cute little body.”

      The description fit but to make sure he asked, “Does this Reggie sing?”

      “Everybody in Detroit can sing, but girlfriend can sang, as we say here.”

      He smiled. “Do you know how I can get in touch with her?”

      “Why?”

      “I’m Jamal Reynolds, and—”

      “The producer?” she asked excitedly. “I saw you on the BET Awards.”

      Jamal was glad somebody knew who he was.

      “You want to produce Reg?”

      “Maybe, but I need to talk to her.”

      “Hold on.” She moved aside a stack of white towels piled neatly on the cleaning cart and took out a cell phone hidden beneath. “Do you mind if I come in?” she asked him while punching up a number and placing the phone against her ear. “Not supposed to be on the phone. I get caught one more time, Ms. Harold’s going to fire me for sure.”

      Jamal, wondering how anyone could be so animated this early in the morning, stepped aside to let her in.

      “She isn’t