Unspoken Lyrics by Jessica Eissfeldt

Author:Jessica Eissfeldt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, 1940s, Jazz
ISBN: 9780993689864
Publisher: J&J publishing
Published: 2017-10-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Three

“The key to Room 401, please,” Molly said, before taking it from the desk clerk and heading upstairs to go to bed.

She tried to ignore the pinch of hurt in her heart as she slipped into her white flowered nightgown. For a moment, she wished for a candle stub and a rainstorm…

She shrugged a slim shoulder as she belted the matching robe around her waist and begin brushing her teeth. His life wasn’t, as Tristan made abundantly clear, any of her business.

She glanced out the hotel room window at the city lights. But she saw instead Tristan’s troubled brown eyes. Was music somehow connected to his haunted look?

Something must have hurt him badly for him to just run away like that. From the jazz club. And from her questions. But who? What? And why?

She shook her head. Why did she even care at all? He’d been nothing but rude to her leading up to those moments in the Quarter.

But she’d felt that way too sometimes… When she’d say things she didn’t really mean in order to protect herself from how she’d felt inside.

She put on cold cream and slid between the sheets. But loopy, meandering melodies and almost slapstick, happy harmonies floated in through the open window.

This music bore little resemblance to the jazz she’d listened to at The Blue Mirror, but she had to admit that this type of music did something to her. So did Tristan.

She rolled over and put the pillow over her head.

* * *

As dawn turned the sky to pink and gold, Molly sat up. Today was the day.

She grinned. At least she had one good thing to count on—her promotion. A little while in New York and Paris and then she’d forget all about Mr. Tristan Lachaynais.

Molly jumped out of bed and put on the least wrinkled of the three dresses she’d brought along. A white rayon one with navy blue polka dots, a rusched bodice, cap sleeves and a narrow belt that cinched at her waist.

She ran a comb through her rather tangled curls and put on some lipstick. Then she picked up her small case and headed down to the lobby.

“I’d like to check out. And can you please have a cab sent to this address? I need to go to the airport.”

* * *

That same morning, Tristan stood at the edge of the tarmac at Moisant Field, his shoulders sagging.

He clenched his hands into fists as he shoved them deep into his pockets. He’d completely ruined things, hadn’t he?

He huffed in irritation. He was always doing that. Why couldn’t he express himself?

He couldn’t talk to women. And he couldn’t play the piano, either. And he couldn’t remember the tone of Charlotte’s laugh anymore. Or the name of that perfume she used to wear…

He swallowed. Cocked his head. Had he been clinging to the past?

All during the time he’d spent with Molly yesterday…had he simply been lying to himself that he wasn’t through grieving Charlotte?

His eyes widened.

Yes. Because he was scared.

He’d

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