Ginny. Morgan thought he should maybe call her, but discarded the idea again. Her parents would be with her.
“So what do you do?” Jakes asked her.
“I compile bibliographies for Restoration drama criticism,” she said.
Jakes broke into barking laughter, wiped his chin where he’d dribbled some beer. “Jesus, is there any money in that?”
“Not much.” She stood, put money on the bar. “I have to get ready for my panel.” Not a lot of warmth in her voice. She left, and Morgan took her stool.
Jakes looked like a new man, hair combed, close shave. He wore an expensive checkered sports coat and creased trousers with cuffs. He ordered another beer. “Lots of tail at these conferences.” He winked, sipped his beer.
“Right.”
“I got a program for you.” Reams handed it to Jakes.
“Thanks.” Jakes threw it on the floor.
The bartender came over, indicated that the lounge was too crowded just to lounge. Reams ordered a draft beer. Morgan desperately wanted a giant, double vodka martini but ordered coffee instead.
“Big cocktail reception tonight,” Jakes said. “Good place to snag some snatch.”
“Let’s talk about which panels to see,” Reams suggested.
Jakes frowned. “Stuff that idea.”
Morgan stood, tossed money on the bar for the coffee. He couldn’t stand it, not if these two were going to start in again. “I’ll catch up with you guys later. I’m not feeling so well.”
Reams looked hurt, opened his mouth to say something, but Morgan was already making his escape. He eased his way through the bar crowd and headed for the elevators. He felt a tap on his shoulder.
If it were Reams, he’d tell the man as firmly as possible that he was not going to attend a panel on Victorian zits. He turned.
And looked into the smiling eyes of Annette Grayson.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you come to see my presentation?”
thirty-two
Morgan confessed he didn’t know Grayson was going to be there. He told her that Reams had badgered him into attending.
Annette Grayson seemed glad to see him. Her eyes glittered, and Morgan soaked her in. He’d forgotten how pleasant she was to look at. Smile big, radiating, reaching her eyes, and lifting her whole face. Her hair was golden silk, loose about her shoulders. Skin tan and glowing. Annette Grayson was the brightest thing in the lobby of the Sheraton, and the sight of her hit Morgan in the gut. Took the wind from his lungs.
“Let me get you a drink,” Morgan said.
“I can’t,” she said. “My old roommate from Bennington is giving a paper in a few minutes, and I’d promised I’d go.”
“Later then?”
She bit her thumbnail, looked at Morgan, squinting her eyes. “Well…”
Morgan smiled. “What happens on the road, stays on the road. Besides, I feel I owe you an apology drink.”
“Maybe you do,” she said. “After dinner. Call my room.” She told him the number.
“Okay.”
She turned, headed through the crowd. She glanced back once, smiled over her shoulder, and was gone.
Morgan felt light. On some level, he knew his problems hadn’t gone away. But they all seemed distant. Annette’s scent still hung in the air where he stood. It wasn’t a heavy perfume, not sickly sweet. More like a body splash. He sniffed the air. Citrus.
He chewed up the rest of the afternoon. Anticipation. Fluttering stomach. The look in Annette’s eyes had promised something. Morgan wasn’t sure what. Maybe another chance.
He ate dinner with Reams. The professor had launched into a tedious summary of the panels he’d attended. It went on all through dinner, but Morgan was in better spirits and tolerated Reams fairly well, even managed to contribute a few comments that made him seem interested. They’d gone to a steakhouse about a block from the hotel. A good porterhouse.
Once or twice Morgan’s brain tried to remind him about Ginny and the headlights that had followed him to Houston and all the stone-hard troubles that awaited him beyond the out-of-focus, fuzzy-soft unreality of the conference. He beat the bad thoughts down, kicked them into the corner. Not tonight. Tonight he was having a drink with Annette Grayson.
Morgan shook loose of Reams back at the hotel, told him he wanted to go back up to the room for a while.
“You sure?” Reams asked. “I was going to that cocktail reception. The one Jakes was talking about.”
“I might catch up later,” Morgan said.
Morgan took the elevator up, let himself in the room with the plastic swipe-card. He went to the phone, grabbed it, put it down again. Too soon. He felt nervous about calling her and liked it. He hadn’t felt nervous about a woman in a long time.
He went to the window and pushed the curtains back. It was just getting dark, and Houston was flickering to life.
He picked up the phone and dialed Annette.
One ring. “Hello?” Her voice was warm milk.
“It’s Jay.”
“Give me an hour,” she said. “Down in the lounge.”
“Okay.”
He hung up and jumped in the shower. He got out and dressed, a clean blue shirt. He ironed a pair of tan slacks. He thought about cologne and wondered if it would be too much. All he had was Old Spice. He was embarrassed but liked the smell.
He combed his hair four times. There wasn’t too much to comb. He tied his little ponytail fresh and tight.
He went down the elevator, stepped into the lobby. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes early. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled the hotel.
A little shop. He went in.
Gifts. Cigarettes, toothpaste, aspirin, postcards of glorious Texas. Morgan spotted a wood-and-glass cabinet behind the counter. He looked through the glass at cigars. He was feeling sporty and whimsical and called over the smarmy cashier.
The cashier lifted an eyebrow, the rest of his vanilla pudding face sagging with disinterest. “Sir?”
“I’m looking for a type of cigar.” He tried to remember what Fred Jones had given him the day they broke out the Wallace Stevens. “It’s Mac something.”
“Macanudo?” The cashier said the word through his nose.
“That’s it. I’ll take three.”
“They’re twelve dollars each, sir. Do you still want them?”
“Of course.” Little bastard. “I said I’ll take three.” He handed over his Visa card.
Was it Morgan’s clothes? Something about the way he carried himself that suggested he couldn’t-or wouldn’t-shell out for a good cigar?
The little man rang him up and Morgan left the shop. He took the cigars out of the bag and smelled one. Nice. It was as long as the one the old man had given him, but thinner. He looked at the band. Same kind. Same rich, earthy smell. He put one in his mouth without lighting it. He didn’t have any matches. He thought about going
