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under a white sheer blouse and a charcoal blazer, topped with a hail of thin gold chains, a gold cuff
and black suede ankle boots with wedges. I looked bold. And, I had to admit, sexy.
“But see how that hint of lavender camisole gives the whole look a soft feminine appeal too,”
Elizabeth said, thoughtfully examining me in the mirror like I was her creation.
“Why have I never let you do this before?”
“No clue. You look like a rock goddess,” she said.
I looked like me, just a more current, modern version. I felt potent, punchy and free.
“How does this look instead of the cuff,” I said, fetching my charm bracelet.
“Oh yeah. God that thing’s gorgeous. You have such a good eye, Dauphine. Such a good eye.”
“And you are getting a raise,” I said, grabbing Elizabeth by the cheeks and kissing her square on
her Clara Bow lips.
The limo fetched me at home, at ten sharp, the cool night air hitting my face, signaling that fall was
just around the corner. The last time I was at Tipitina’s, I had been with a very reluctant Luke during
Jazz Fest, on one of our last outings as a couple. Music never was his “thing.” So far the ladies had
me pegged. If this fantasy was just me listening to great music with a great guy who was into it too,
that would be good enough for me.
“We’re here, Miss Mason,” said the driver, noting the line snaking around the building and up the
block.
My heart skipped at the sight of THE CARELESS ONES, lit up on the marquee. Yes! Their music could
not be a more perfect soundtrack for whatever this fantasy was going to be. So far, so right! Just
breathe, I told myself.
The kind driver, sensing my nervousness, ushered me through the throng of fans, acting like we
owned the place, like I was a VIP. Nearing the front of the stage, where the opening act was
performing, I spotted two familiar-looking women holding out a chair for me.
“Dauphine! You’re here! You remember us? I’m Kit and this is Pauline,” Kit yelled over music.
“We’re your dates until your date gets here. Have I mentioned just how much I love my job?”
“You look amazing!” Pauline enthused, sexy in her clear-skinned, short-haired way. She had on a
black mini-dress downplayed with a denim jacket and banged-up black ankle boots. Kit was in
cutoffs and a baggy white dress shirt, a dramatic grey streak highlighting her now-ebony hair.
“Thanks for being here,” I said. “It means a lot to me.” And it did. I wasn’t used to going out like
this on my own, or going out at all, for that matter. “So … is he here?” I asked, sneaking a glance
around the crowded room.
“He’s on his way,” Pauline said, exchanging looks with Kit.
“You’ll tell me when he gets here?” I asked, nervously patting down my straight hair. It felt like
silk.
“You’ll know when he gets here,” Kit said. “Don’t worry.”
A glass of chilled Chablis appeared in front of me, my favorite, and after the opening band left the
stage, the packed room went completely dark. Minutes later, when the Careless Ones fired up their
instruments with a familiar riff, the hair stood up on my arms. It was him, Mark Drury, lit from behind
at center stage. As Mark reached for the microphone and pulled it to his mouth, the floodlights hit his
amazing face full force. For a few seconds the only sound in the cavernous room was his breath on the
mesh of the mike. He had the body of a musician, all lank and sinew, bones seemingly hollowed out
for music to move through them. Clothes hung on him perfectly, but they were incidental to his voice.