He knew that the instant she began to sing, poignantly and from the heart, of the man she loved. Someday that man would come along, and when he smiled at her, she would know. They would both know. He’d take her hand, and no words would be necessary. When that man came, she would do her best to make him stay.
Tears burned in Raoul’s eyes as he wondered why she hadn’t stayed. Why hadn’t he made her stay?
Charmaine wasn’t a great singer, but she was good. Her normal voice had a melodic range, but when she sang, it went all husky and smoky as a Bourbon Street nightclub. A torch singer’s vocal cords, for sure.
The last time Charmaine had performed this song for him she’d been standing in their Baton Rouge bedroom, wearing a sheer, floor-length black negligee with tiny, tiny straps. He’d been lying on the bed, wearing nothing. There’d been no doubt then that “The Man I Love” had been him. She’d enjoyed re-enacting all her pageant roles for him, including that showstopper of a song. In retrospect, he probably hadn’t been appreciative enough. He’d always remember her that night, though. Always.
Now, Charmaine was approaching the last line of the last stanza, arms extended outward. She crooned in a soul-reaching wail, “I’m waiting for the man I love.”
Mon Dieu, how I love her! he thought. And how I wish I were that man she is waiting for.
She did a cute little bow to each of them when she finished.
A stunned silence followed.
Jimmy was the first to speak. “Cooool! You’re as good as J.Lo.” They all smiled at what had to be a high compliment from the boy.
Linc put down his trumpet and went over to take both of Charmaine’s hands in his. “That was wonderful.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m surprised that you never pursued a music career.”
Charmaine’s gaze connected immediately with Raoul’s. Was she expecting him to disagree? “Yeah, you were great, darlin’. As always.”
She beamed then, as if his words really mattered, as if he complimented her so rarely that she was surprised now. His heart wrenched at that possibility.
There was a rustling then as people started to rise and gather up their stuff. When Linc bent to put his trumpet back in the case, an old sepia-toned photograph fluttered out. Raoul picked it up and glanced quickly at it before handing it back to Linc. It was two black men flanking a white one, probably a Creole, all of them in 1800s style clothing. “Who are they?” Raoul asked.
“That one there is the ancestor I told ya’ll about. Abel Lincoln,” Linc said, pointing to one of the black men, who bore a slight resemblance to him. “And that’s A. B.’s twin brother Cain.” He also resembled Linc, of course. “In the middle is Etienne Baptiste, a friend.”
“Let me see,” Charmaine said. At one glance, she exclaimed, “I’ve seen this picture before.”
“I doubt that,” Linc responded. “As far as I know, this is the only photo of A. B. Lincoln, except for a hazy one of him and Simone that hangs in the Louisiana State Museum as part of an exhibit on Storyville brothels.”
“No, really, Linc. My sister-in-law Sylvie has a copy of this photograph framed in her family room. That guy, Etienne, is one of her ancestors. His family used to own a sugar plantation on Bayou Black.”
Linc still looked skeptical.
So, Charmaine told him, “I’m going to have Sylvie bring the picture when she comes on Thursday. Maybe I’m wrong. But I don’t think so.”
Everyone went off then, saying their good nights, even Tante Lulu, who went inside to take a bubble bath, or so she said. Raoul wasn’t sure why he hung around. He had nothing to say to Charmaine that he hadn’t said before. His realization that he still loved her didn’t alter the fact that theirs was a doomed relationship. Too many obstacles. Too many unresolved problems. When Luc arrived on Thursday, he would probably be carrying divorce papers for them to sign.
He felt as if there were a vise around his heart. He could barely breathe.