Free Ciji Ware by A Light on the Veranda Page A

confirmation ceremony of one of her numerous younger brothers. Her normal wardrobe consisted of dark slacks and T-shirts printed with faded New Orleans Jazz Fest logos, which she also wore when she played in her family’s celebrated band at their own Cafe LaCroix on Decatur Street in the musical heart of the French Quarter.
    “Thanks,” Daphne replied, “but there’s a harp in the parlor I can play, so, for once, I don’t have to lug this thing to hell and gone.”
    Althea scrutinized her closely, her dark eyes bordering on coal black. “You all right? You look kinda woebegone, honey.”
    “Did you see Jack Ebert sitting in church?” she blurted. She and Althea had been friends so long, there was no need to beat around the bush.
    “No,” Althea exclaimed. “Sweet Jesus, was he there? I was so nervous ’bout walkin’ in these high heels down that long aisle, I never looked beyond m’ feet!”
    “He sat in a back pew and split before the ceremony was over.”
    “Then why did he bother to come?”
    “He wasn’t invited ,” Daphne retorted with frustration. “He just showed up.”
    She was about to tell her friend about the severed harp strings when Althea said apprehensively, “He’s gone now, right?” She surveyed the parking lot. “Personally, he’s always given me the creeps. ’Member how mean he was when I first got my scholarship to Newman School?” Then she shrugged, and added with a sly smile, “I just thought he held some fatal charm for you white girls. C’mon, darlin’, forget him. Let’s go in and get us a glass of that expensive champagne.”
    “You go ahead,” Daphne said. “I’m trying to find the music from Phantom … I know it’s in here someplace.”
    “Okay,” Althea agreed doubtfully. “But ’member what Corlis tol’ you: you’re a guest at this shindig.”
    Daphne smiled and threw her arms around her friend. “I am so glad to see you, Alth! I’ve missed you like mad.”
    “When ya’ll goin’ come down to Cafe LaCroix and play some jazz with us again?” Althea cajoled. “Now that you’re a full-fledged graduate of Juilliard and payin’ your own bills, your mama can’t give you grief ’bout that anymore.”
    “Don’t think I wouldn’t love it,” Daphne replied, happily recalling the two times she’d played jazz harp as a backup musician at Cafe LaCroix. Then she smiled. “Why don’t you come up to New York and I’ll show you all the hot spots? I’ve heard some great jazz there.” Should she tell Althea, now, about Rafe’s firing her?
    Her best friend gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I jus’ might take you up on that sometime, angel girl.” She pointed to the house. “Gotta get in there. See you in five,” she added, and wobbled in her high heels across the gravel drive and down the brick path to the wide, white-columned veranda and the mansion’s front door.
    Daphne rifled through a pile of music charts in search of the misplaced music. She located the cheat sheets in question and was about to file them in her briefcase when she heard someone say, “Need a hand with that?”
    Her fingers tightened on the handle of her case as she looked over her shoulder to confirm that it was, indeed, Jack Ebert’s voice. He was lounging against the Explorer’s front fender, standing not two feet away.
    Where in the world had he come from?
    She regarded his slight frame that was just this side of skinny. No doubt about it, her brief attraction to the man had never been about his looks. His facile mind, however, was something else. Clever. Witty, at times—but invariably at others’ expense. Evil genius were the words Althea had used to describe him when they were in college. At Tulane, his scathing reviews of cultural events around campus published in the student newspaper had been legendary. His cutthroat reputation had grown when he worked for Arts This Week in New Orleans and reviewed books, concerts, opera, and films on-air for WWEZ-TV, where Corlis