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

      “I had my car drop me off. Let me call the driver.”

      “By the time he gets here, we could be home.”

      So once again, the ill-dressed Jamal found himself walking through the frigid Detroit night.

      Being California born and raised, snow was something Jamal rarely encountered and it was coming down like cold white rain. The wind blew stinging pellets of the stuff into his face, so he pulled his unbuttoned coat closer and hurried up the steps to the Vaughns’ porch.

      The wind was howling now. While he waited for Regina to undo all the locks, he shivered as the cold cut through his pants legs as if he was naked.

      Blessedly, the interior was warm. Once the doors were locked, he asked still shivering, “Is this weather normal for April?”

      “April’s never normal,” Reggie pointed out. “This is Michigan. Let me take your coat.”

      He handed it over but he couldn’t seem to shake the shivers.

      “Welcome to our home, Mr. Reynolds,” her grandmother said, handing Reggie her coat, too. “Reg, take him in the living room and park him by the radiator so he can thaw out. I’ll get the coffee started.”

      With a smile, she disappeared into the kitchen.

      Jamal followed Reggie into the small living room. By his L.A. standards, the place was tiny. Living room, dining room, kitchen and maybe a small bathroom somewhere in the back. Bedrooms upstairs, he guessed. The furniture was worn but proudly polished. The beautiful framed abstract art hanging on the walls immediately caught his eye. The work, filled with muted reds and blues, was outstanding and he wondered who the artist might be even as he continued to shake from the cold.

      “Radiator’s there.” She pointed at what appeared to be a bunch of pipes resembling an opened accordion.

      Puzzled, he studied it. As he moved closer, he could feel heat but wasn’t sure how it was being transmitted.

      She must have seen the confusion on his face. “You don’t know what a radiator is?”

      “In California, we don’t need things like this.”

      “Runs off steam. Hold your hands above it like this.”

      Jamal mimicked her motion. The soft heat that bathed his hands made him groan with relief. “Oh, that’s good.”

      She cracked a smile.

      He liked her smile. He also liked the way she looked this evening. The simple black dress flowed around her like a song, giving her a sophistication and a polish that seemed to ramp up her natural beauty. He forced his eyes away from the strand of pearls draped sinuously around her throat because all he could think about was her wearing them while nude in his bed. “I like the paintings. Who’s the artist?”

      “Gram. She did them as part of her rehab after her stroke. She didn’t want them framed, but I thought they were too good to be just tossed out.”

      “When was the stroke?”

      “About fifteen years ago.”

      “Do you think I could commission her to do one for me?”

      She shrugged. “You can ask.”

      He studied the woman he was developing a craving for. “Are you sure you’re okay with me being here tonight? Six is early.”

      “It is, but I’m okay.”

      He had no way of knowing if she was telling the truth, but he was glad to have any amount of time with her, even if it was just long enough to drink a cup of coffee. He searched his mind for a topic that would keep her talking to him. “I like your hair down.”

      “Thanks. Trina does it. Nothing like having your best friend be a hairdresser. What’s your best friend do to pay the bills?”

      The question caught him off guard. “Hmm. Let’s see.” He mentally went down the list of people he could call friend, but decided none qualified as best. “Don’t have one.”

      Her face showed confusion. “Everybody has a best friend.”

      He shrugged. “I don’t.”

      “Why not?”

      “Got my music. It’s the only friend I need.”

      “What about family? Brothers, sisters?”

      Again he shrugged. “Don’t have any of those either, far as I know.”

      “What?”

      “Raised in foster care.”

      “Ah. Okay. Didn’t mean to be so nosy.”

      “No problem. It’s a natural question.”

      Reggie still felt bad. She’d never known anyone who didn’t have family somewhere, even if it was jail. How had that affected him growing up? she wondered. She decided she’d been nosy enough for one night, so she kept the question to herself. She looked at him looking back at her from where he stood by the radiator, and there in the quiet of her grandmother’s living room, Jamal Reynolds became more real.

      “Coffee’s ready,” Gram called out.

      Jamal’s feet had finally thawed, so he gestured for Reggie to go first. “After you.”

      As she led the way, he watched the siren sway of her dress-covered hips, and all he could do was shake his head and say to himself, My, my, my.

      Reggie sensed he was checking her out and her inner awareness of him amped up a few more notches. His eyes had been on her all evening; sometimes teasing, sometimes serious, but always there. It wasn’t something she was accustomed to. There was also the looming question of whether he was really interested in her or if this was just a game to get her to say yes to his proposal. She didn’t like that second part and so reminded herself that she’d only met him a few days ago. She also reminded herself that even though her grandmother had given him her stamp of approval, she knew her grandmother; Crystal Vaughn had a lot more questions. Jamal may have thought this was just a polite invitation to coffee, but he was about to learn why Reggie and Trina had nicknamed her The Grand Inquisitor.

      After they took seats at the kitchen table and fixed their coffees to their likings, Reggie, sipping on a mug of decaf tea, sat back and watched.

      “Mr. Reynolds, Reggie and Trina say you’re a producer. Would I know any of the names you’ve worked with?” Crystal asked.

      He ran down some of the names Reggie had seen on his Web page, and again, it was an impressive list.

      Gram looked impressed as well. “Some good folks there.”

      “I think so.”

      “How long have you been in the business?”

      “Did my first CD when I was seventeen, so about seventeen years.”

      “You must enjoy it?”

      “Almost as much as this coffee.”

      Her eyes were kind. “Help yourself to more if you like.”

      “Thanks.”

      Although he had ceased to be a cardboard cutout to Reggie, the jury was still out. Granted, he was so charming he had her grandmother eating out of his hand, and every time his eyes met Reggie’s, she found it hard to breathe, like now, but that didn’t change the fact that being a music teacher was the sanest decision to make at this juncture in her life.

      Jamal noticed that Reggie hadn’t said much, but even as her grandmother continued to quiz him, he was unable to keep his eyes from straying over her mouth, eyes, the sweep of her cheeks and the way she was wearing her hair. That she didn’t appear cognizant of how gorgeous she actually was was yet another surprise. So many of the women he met were all about their looks.

      Crystal