Jezebel's Blues Read Online Free PDF Page B

five feet of steel between me and the ground. It makes me sick to my stomach.”
    “Do you fly anyway?”
    “Only when there’s no other way.” He grinned. “And I drink a lot of Jack Daniel’s.”
    She bent her head over the trunk and pulled out a crocheted baby blanket, then a pair of tiny leather shoes. “These must have been my dad’s,” she said. A flicker of anger crossed her face, but in contrast, her fingers stroked the blanket reverently. With a tightness around her lips, she put the articles aside and dug deeper, pulling out more baby clothes and then a christening outfit. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed. “This is incredible.” She held it out to Eric. “Feel that satin.”
    Obligingly, he ran the back of his hand over it, and was surprised at the luxurious coolness of it. “Nice.”
    “Do people still get babies christened?”
    “Around here they sure do. This is the Bible Belt, sister. Folks take saving souls very seriously.” For emphasis, he began to play a mournful “Amazing Grace.” He started with the intention of amusing her, but the old spiritual seduced him, pulling him deeper into itself, and he found his attention slipping away. There was a little turn he’d never played before, and he drew it out, closing his eyes to hear it more thoroughly.
    Abruptly he remembered where he was and stopped. Celia sat before the open trunk, staring at him, her hands wrapped around the christening outfit. “That was beautiful,” she said softly. “Why did you quit?”
    He saw something in the big, silvery eyes that puzzled him, an expression of disappointment mixed with wonder. It reminded him of the anger and tenderness with which she had regarded her father’s baby blanket. Curious suddenly, he asked, “Where’s your daddy now?”
    “Heaven or hell, whichever Saint Peter decided upon when he reached the gates.” She didn’t look at Eric, but dipped again into the trunk to pull out a stack of old-fashioned school record books.
    “He’s dead?” Eric asked without thinking how tactless it sounded until after the words were out of his mouth. As usual.
    Celia took a breath. “Both of them are. My mother died about eighteen months ago, very suddenly of an embolism.” She cleared her throat. “My father had a car accident about three months later.”
    The way she said “accident” made it sound like the exact opposite. Eric didn’t say anything for a minute. What was there to say?
    When the silence stretched, Celia put the notebooks aside and continued with her treasure hunt. A frown touched her face as she withdrew a bundle wrapped in heavy plastic, taped and sealed. Without warning, she tossed it to Eric. He caught it, but just barely. The box was heavy and solid.
    “You got a mean side yourself, don’t you?”
    “If that’s what I think it is, it’s only fitting you should open it.” She dragged another one out and dropped it with a
thunk
to the floor beside him.
    Eric stroked the box, feeling the satiny dust of years on the plastic covered cardboard. Nothing else had the heft of a pile of pages. These were manuscripts.
    A sharp prick of excitement clutched his chest, and for an instant, it scared him. It had been so long since he’d felt anything. With a distinct sense of surprise, he noticed his hands were trembling slightly as he opened the plastic around the heavy white box and lifted the lid.
    When he read the neatly typed title page, his stomach leapt wildly, once. “
Song of Mourning
,” it read, “by Jacob Moon.” His first novel, published in the late fifties to both critical acclaim and popular success.
    Eric looked at the slight, silver-haired woman who stood watching him with impassive features. “Celia,” he said, and he heard the wonder in his voice. “You … this … I can’t—” Words failed and he shook his head.
    “Now you have something to do,” she said quietly. A note of something almost tender permeated her voice, and he looked up in surprise. She