Dialing Dreams by Jessica Eissfeldt

Author:Jessica Eissfeldt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, 1940s, Jazz
ISBN: 9780993689802
Publisher: J&J publishing
Published: 2021-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Three

Back in the wings, Nick groaned and put fingers to his temple. “Hell.” Belinda had gone. He winced—he’d seen to that.

His eyes slid to Dean, who shot him a warning glance. “Pull yourself together. All your fans paid good money and they’re gonna be plenty angry if things don’t keep rolling.”

Dean was right. Nick moved a hand up to straighten his tie, but a crinkling sound made him pause. He reached inside his suit jacket and encountered that folded page. What he’d written—before. Well, too late for that now. He sighed and tried to ignore the heaviness in his chest.

He didn’t have time for anything but his performance and his audience. Thought he’d done the right thing. Because as that old adage went, only illness or death—his own—would stop the show. Nick checked his watch, about to step onstage again.

But Dean’s hand on Nick’s shoulder stopped him from moving forward. “Damn you and Miss Thompson.” Dean hissed, his grip tightening. “For bringing out my sentimental side.” His voice was sharp, accusing. “But I had a sweetheart once too, you know.”

Nick looked over at Dean, and caught regret flitting across his face before brusqueness replaced it. “And for the record, this goes against everything I believe in so don’t expect any favors in the future. But,” Dean growled, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll call her for you. See if she’ll come back.”

* * *

Belinda slipped her key into the well-worn lock, the sound of her father’s wracking cough meeting her at the door.

She rushed to his bedroom and placed a cool hand on his forehead. “I came back, Father. I knew you needed me here and I-I came back.”

But the ringing of the telephone interrupted any response he might have given. She tensed. Mr. Hart. It had to be. Offering her one more last chance?

But she turned her back to the phone. It was better this way, though she felt a catch in her throat even as another round of coughing came from her father. She started to pour a spoonful of medicine. But the phone shrilled again, startling her, and caused the thick liquid to drip onto the rag rug covering the scuffed linoleum.

She snatched a cotton cloth off the bedside table and stooped down to mop up the spill. The phone rang a third time. She scrubbed harder. It rang for the fourth time. Nothing was going to dissuade her. Nothing. She had made her sacrifice. Five rings now. Despite herself, she glanced over at the table where the phone sat and saw the corner of an album sticking out from a pile of newspapers. One of his albums. She bit her lip. The phone rang a sixth time. Her throat constricted and her eyes filled. It rang once more. But she let the last ring of the telephone die away. And with it, her dreams.

She stood, repoured the medicine, and hoped her father wouldn’t see her anguish. But he did.

“Belinda, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer, just gave him the medicine.

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