The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

named after one of the most celebrated artists in jazz history. Please tell me you have his music.”

He nodded, stroking a reverent hand over the cover before setting it aside and picking up the next one, simply entitled Coltrane. “I have CDs, even some old tapes. But nothing like this. None of the originals. I would’ve loved having them, though. Especially when I was a kid.” Lifting his head, he stared out the large picture window next to the entertainment center. The serene view of the empty street, trees thick with summer green leaves and yards of green grass greeted him, but he didn’t really see any of it. Instead, hazy, sepia-toned images of the kid he’d been wavered in front of his eyes. “Moe and Dad have never treated me differently from Wolf, Leo or Sinead. Ever. Yet, they made sure I knew who my biological parents were, even if it meant taking me over to the Riveras’ and Narvaezes’ homes to learn and appreciate my Puerto Rican heritage. And I loved Moe and Dad for that. It made me feel closer to my biological parents. But about thirteen, I became obsessed with them.”

He sensed movement out of the corner of his eye, and he shifted his gaze from the window to Sydney. She still held a book in her hand, but she’d turned completely toward him, settling her shoulders against the bookcase and giving him her full attention.

And though the instinctive need for self-protection ordered him to draw back, to shush, he continued speaking. Continued sharing with this woman something he’d never told anyone else.

“Florence hadn’t come to us yet, and regardless of the unconditional love and acceptance of my family, I felt...different. And I became consumed with finding out everything I could about my birth parents. And not just about my culture, but them. Their likes, dislikes, their habits, what they were like as children, teenagers... What their dreams were together—what they were for me. That information included why they named me after John Coltrane. Turned out, my father was a huge jazz fan. From what Moe told me about him, I think he would’ve lost his mind over your collection.”

He thumbed through the stack he’d pulled out before spotting Coltrane’s music. Straight-ahead jazz, as they called it. The greats. Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, Freddie Hubbard, Ahmad Jamal. And even some Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald. Oh, most definitely Sydney and Mateo Burgos would’ve bonded.

“So anyway, one obsession led to another, and anything John Coltrane I could get my hands on, I snatched up. Records, tapes, videos. He was gone, but I so desperately wanted to bond with my birth father through the music of the man he admired so much he named me after him.”

“Cole,” Sydney whispered.

The low sound of his name snapped him from his tumble into the past.

“Anyway, I started out listening to ‘Trane’ for one reason, but ended up loving his music for his absolute genius.” He shook his head, releasing his breath on a short huff of laughter. Embarrassment trickled through him as he ran through what he’d divulged to Sydney. Jesus. Where had all that come from? “I must’ve driven Moe crazy with playing those records and tapes over and over. And then the endless questions. But she answered every one and never made me feel guilty for asking. Even though, sometimes, I could tell in her eyes, it hurt her.”

“I’m sure she understood,” Sydney said. “That’s how Moe is, who she is. You probably don’t remember because you were gone away to school, but on Carlin’s birthday and on the anniversary of her death, my parents would go to the cemetery to spend time at her grave. I’ve never gone. When I was younger, I’d pitch a fit so bad, they left me with babysitters. And when I was older, I would leave the house and not return until later that day. One of the places I would go was your house. Moe never asked me what I was doing there, or made me feel guilty for being there instead of at the grave, or tried to convince me to go like other adults did. She just let me hang out with her, Leo and your family, offered me a safe space and fed me. God, did she feed me.” Sydney laughed, but after a moment, the warmth faded from her eyes and her mouth lost its curve. “There were times I...” She paused, frowned and fidgeted with the book in her hands before turning around and sliding it on the bookshelf.

“Times you...” he gently pressed.

Her hand lingered on the book, her shoulders so stiff with...whatever was rippling through her, he knew before she even pivoted to face him again that she wouldn’t finish that sentence.

Hypocrite that he was, he almost stood up and stalked over to her, insisting she open up to him, share with him.

But then she might demand the same from him. And that wasn’t happening.

“Your mom sent lemonade over with us. Would you like a glass?” Sydney asked, swiping the back of her hand over her forehead.

Alarm sizzled through him as he narrowed his gaze on her slightly glistening skin, noticing the tautness around her lush mouth. In an instant, he shot to his feet and covered the distance between them.

“Hey,” he murmured, peering down at her and studying the signs of fatigue he couldn’t miss from this close. The haziness in her espresso eyes and the faint smudges underneath them. Earlier in the kitchen, he vowed not to touch her again, to keep his distance. But he broke that promise to cup her elbow. Hell, it was safer than putting his thumbs to those bruises that denoted lack of sleep and trying to smooth them away. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she maintained. “Just a little thirsty—”

“And tired,” he interrupted with a wry smile. “You won’t be any less of a superwoman if you admit it, you know,” he teased. “I remember—”

His swift intake of breath cut