a famous photographer. For one thing, she died when she was only twenty-eight . . . whoa . . . wait a minute . . . what are you doing?” Annie paid for two tickets, and was pulling him determinedly past the exhibits into another room.
“See,” she said, pointing to one wall where there were a series of photos of Elvis Presley…an older Elvis. In fact, going by the dates under the frames, they must have been taken a few years before his mother had died in 1979; after all, Elvis had left the world in 1977. They were casual shots . . . leaning against a car, strumming a guitar, standing in front of The Blue Suede Suites. A framed document explained that Clare Gannett, despite her youth, had been one of Memphis’s premier photographers, documenting on film many of the city’s early music performers during the mid to late seventies . . . not just Elvis, but many rock and blues personalities who later went on to fame.
Oh, great! My mother knew Elvis. First, I find out my father owned a hokey hotel named after one of Elvis’s songs. Now, I find out my mother must have known the king. What next?
“Legend says that Elvis loved Clare Gannett—”
Clay put his face in his hands. He didn’t want to hear this.
“—but she fell in love with some Yankee who came to Memphis on a business trip one day. They say the Yankee bought the hotel and next-door property where her studio was located as a wedding present for her. The studio later burned down, and Clare Gannett died in the fire. The hotel owner, your father, refused to erect anything else on that site. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Annie, that is nothing but bullshit propaganda, a silly yarn spun for gullible tourists.”
“Maybe. But legend says Elvis was heartbroken over losing Clare Gannett. He died the same year she got married. I know, I know, there are a lot of legends and rumors in there, but still…”
Clay turned angrily and stomped as fast as he could on one crutch out of the building. He was breathing heavily, in and out, trying to control his rage.
“Clay, what’s wrong?” Annie asked softly. She came up close to him and put a hand on his suit sleeve.
He waited several seconds before speaking, not wanting to take out his ill-feelings on Annie. “Annie, my mother abandoned me and my father when I was only one year old. So, your telling me she had a relationship with that hip-swiveling jerk doesn’t sit too well with me, even if it was before her marriage to my father.”
“I’m sorry, Clay. But maybe you’re wrong about her. The legend never said that she loved Elvis. In fact, she supposedly broke Elvis’s heart when she married your father. Maybe—”
He leaned down to kiss her softly, the best way he could think of to halt her words. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
She gazed at him with tears in her eyes. Tears, for God’s sake! Not for a moment did she buy his unconcern.
“Hey, let’s go in this place,” Clay suggested cheerily, coming to a standstill in front of Forever Blue , a small jazz club. He desperately sought a change of mood. “It doesn’t seem as crowded as some of the other joints.”
He guided her in front of him into the club and an empty table where they ordered drinks and a mushroom and sundried tomato pizza. A short time later, with the backdrop of a piano player filling the room with classic jazz tunes, Clay moved his chair close to Annie and fiddled with the edges of her hair . . . nervous as a teenager on his first date.
“Annie-love,” he whispered, kissing the curve of her neck. She smelled of some light floral fragrance . . . lilies of the valley, maybe. As always, there was this delicious heat ricocheting between them.
“Hmmm?” she purred, arching her neck to give him greater access.
“I don’t want to go back to the farm . . . yet.”
“Me neither,” she
“See,” she said, pointing to one wall where there were a series of photos of Elvis Presley…an older Elvis. In fact, going by the dates under the frames, they must have been taken a few years before his mother had died in 1979; after all, Elvis had left the world in 1977. They were casual shots . . . leaning against a car, strumming a guitar, standing in front of The Blue Suede Suites. A framed document explained that Clare Gannett, despite her youth, had been one of Memphis’s premier photographers, documenting on film many of the city’s early music performers during the mid to late seventies . . . not just Elvis, but many rock and blues personalities who later went on to fame.
Oh, great! My mother knew Elvis. First, I find out my father owned a hokey hotel named after one of Elvis’s songs. Now, I find out my mother must have known the king. What next?
“Legend says that Elvis loved Clare Gannett—”
Clay put his face in his hands. He didn’t want to hear this.
“—but she fell in love with some Yankee who came to Memphis on a business trip one day. They say the Yankee bought the hotel and next-door property where her studio was located as a wedding present for her. The studio later burned down, and Clare Gannett died in the fire. The hotel owner, your father, refused to erect anything else on that site. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Annie, that is nothing but bullshit propaganda, a silly yarn spun for gullible tourists.”
“Maybe. But legend says Elvis was heartbroken over losing Clare Gannett. He died the same year she got married. I know, I know, there are a lot of legends and rumors in there, but still…”
Clay turned angrily and stomped as fast as he could on one crutch out of the building. He was breathing heavily, in and out, trying to control his rage.
“Clay, what’s wrong?” Annie asked softly. She came up close to him and put a hand on his suit sleeve.
He waited several seconds before speaking, not wanting to take out his ill-feelings on Annie. “Annie, my mother abandoned me and my father when I was only one year old. So, your telling me she had a relationship with that hip-swiveling jerk doesn’t sit too well with me, even if it was before her marriage to my father.”
“I’m sorry, Clay. But maybe you’re wrong about her. The legend never said that she loved Elvis. In fact, she supposedly broke Elvis’s heart when she married your father. Maybe—”
He leaned down to kiss her softly, the best way he could think of to halt her words. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
She gazed at him with tears in her eyes. Tears, for God’s sake! Not for a moment did she buy his unconcern.
“Hey, let’s go in this place,” Clay suggested cheerily, coming to a standstill in front of Forever Blue , a small jazz club. He desperately sought a change of mood. “It doesn’t seem as crowded as some of the other joints.”
He guided her in front of him into the club and an empty table where they ordered drinks and a mushroom and sundried tomato pizza. A short time later, with the backdrop of a piano player filling the room with classic jazz tunes, Clay moved his chair close to Annie and fiddled with the edges of her hair . . . nervous as a teenager on his first date.
“Annie-love,” he whispered, kissing the curve of her neck. She smelled of some light floral fragrance . . . lilies of the valley, maybe. As always, there was this delicious heat ricocheting between them.
“Hmmm?” she purred, arching her neck to give him greater access.
“I don’t want to go back to the farm . . . yet.”
“Me neither,” she
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