Unforgettable by Karin Kallmaker Page A

draw. Jerry knows it and he wants to sign you now before someone else figures out how good you are and offers you the moon.”
    “Maybe I’ll just walk over there and ask for a pen.” Rett’s head was swimming.
    “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Naomi commanded. “You don’t sign anything I haven’t read.” She softened her tone. “Jerry and Henry are fairly honorable for this business, though. You can give them a verbal. Pending the details being worked out between Jerry and me, you’re in.”
    “I’m in,” Rett echoed. “Naomi, I’m shaking like a leaf. It doesn’t seem real.” She was glad she was alone.
    “This is the last time I’ll say it, because we can forget all about it forever after: Trish was holding you back. She didn’t have the contacts or the moxie. What she had was major attitude.”
    “I know. The moment I got her out of my life everything turned around.” Except finding Angel again.
    “Jerry and Henry are probably talking about a reasonable signing bonus. Don’t you go talking money with them.”
    “Not me,” Rett promised. She finally remembered what she’d been meaning to ask Naomi since San Francisco. She was still alone, but lowered her voice anyway. “Jerry and Henry — is there, uh …” She heard voices outside the door so she let her voice trail away.
    “I think so,” Naomi said. “I wouldn’t know for sure. I would say that the orchestra is their lives and has been ever since the beginning — what, twenty years ago?”
    “Henry started the orchestra when he was twenty?”
    “More like thirty. I think he turned fifty last year.”
    Rett was shocked. “He doesn’t look a day over thirty-five.”
    “Neither did Robert Redford for the longest time. It’s the little boy in him. Anyway, given their careers, I’d guess that Henry and Jerry are from the Rock Hudson and Raymond Burr school of gay identity — they have each other and don’t see any reason to tell the world about it when they would much rather tell the world about the music.”
    “S’alright,” Rett said. “I just wondered if I was imagining things.”
    “I don’t think so,” Naomi said. “Let’s go over the numbers Jerry ran by me. The money is great. You should give yourself a hell of a birthday party.”
    “The concert starts in about twenty minutes,” Rett reminded her.
    “I’ll be quick.”
    Her mind still reeling from the enormity of her changed fortunes, Rett found Henry just before the curtain went up.
    “Jerry and Naomi have to work it out, but I’m in.”
    They shared a heartfelt hug that didn’t jeopardize their stage makeup.
    “I’m so glad,” Henry said. “It’s been magic working with you. I feel fresh inspiration.”
    “I’m overwhelmed,” Rett admitted. They separated and she smiled at him fondly. “I want this to work, you have my promise.”
    “I didn’t need it,” Henry said, but his eyes crinkled as if he was extremely pleased.
    The after-tour party at the hotel went on until daybreak. Rett kept the fact that it was her fortieth birthday to herself. She’d been trying not to think about it for the past year and now that it had come she didn’t hate it the way she thought she would. Maybe because she had finally achieved a measure of success. She wasn’t forty and still nobody. Earlier in the night the other musicians had received the news of her tentative return the following year with cheers. It was enough of a birthday present.
    Rett found herself in her room at six A.M., giddy from Champagne and praise. She set the clock radio to wake her at noon and poured herself into bed. Is this what it feels like to be a star? she wondered. She was the vocalist for the Henry Connors Orchestra. She wasn’t a household name, but when she signed the contract there would be a notice in the trades.
    She felt so lucky that she turned the light back on and checked her messages — just in case Angel had called. Now that would be a birthday present.
    She had one