The farther into the park she got, the quieter it became. Marilyn stepped off the asphalt trail onto soft earth that was easier on her feet, and began crossing the grassy area toward where the concert would be held.
Ross Bossomo was going to play here soon, along with his backup musicians. Marilyn had grown up listening to Bossomo's hit records, then followed his career as he became less mainstream and more experimental. A free concert! She'd read about it in the Village Voice. Not much like this happened in Omaha. At least, not very often. But here, in New York, there seemed to be surprises every day. Serendipity, she told herself, smiling. Serendipity city.
She could see the raised platform that would be Bossomo's stage. There was already sound equipment set up, even speakers mounted on the trunks of some of the surrounding trees. Straps and ropes held the speakers so there'd be no harm to the environment. This would be something, once the sun went down. Maybe people would hold up candles or cigarette lighter flames the way they used to all the time at concerts, even though New York was practically a total no-smoking zone.
She picked up her pace. Her hair swung in rhythm with her switching hips; fringe dangled as her long legs stretched her stride, and her buttocks rode against taut denim, emphasized by the blossoming cargo pockets. She was the only one wearing such jeans now, or anything resembling her sleeveless blouse with the oversized patch pockets and large brass buttons, but soon that would change. It was part of her job to change it. Part of her job to be seen in the Rough Country line.
The speakers began to hum. So did Marilyn, an old Ross Bossomo hit, "Love Goin' to Pieces."
The Butcher turned to see what so many male heads had swiveled to look at, and she took his breath away. He'd never seen that kind of motion in a woman. It was a shame he was being so choosy these days, or she'd be one of his for sure.
He had to have her. But he was extremely disciplined and didn't always partake of what he had to have. He prided himself on that.
She'd changed direction and was striding up a gradual rise, her body leaning forward slightly to compensate for the grade, coming toward him where he stood along with several dozen people who'd arrived early for the concert. There was a faint smile on her face, lips pressed together, as if she might be humming.
He was probably the only one more interested in the concertgoers than the music. He'd barely heard of Ross Bossomo.
"Joe?"
He turned toward the slight, dark-haired woman he'd been talking with in an attempt to draw out her name.
He smiled at her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to daydream."
She glanced at the woman in the fringed boots and shook her head. "I know what kind of daydreaming you were doing." She seemed miffed.
He beamed his charm at her. "You never told me your last name."
The woman gave him a knowing smile and moved away. "I never told you my first. And I don't think I'm going to."
Screw you, he thought.
He turned his attention back to the woman in the fringed boots. If he'd already been penalized for looking, he'd have another look.
Like many beautiful women, especially ones who dressed so distinctly and obviously relished being observed, she seemed used to being stared at. It didn't offend her. It was, in fact, homage to her very being.
Some getup she's wearing.
But she made the extreme, outdoorsy outfit work. With a body like that, rags would look good on her.
The sun's glitter off the studded boots and oversize belt buckle drew his eye.
And held it.
He felt the way he had one time when, while playing high-stakes poker, he'd been dealt a straight flush. Such luck he couldn't believe!
The large buckle was definitely in the form of a fancy letter N.
A monogram. Her initial.
He calmed himself. A straight flush and then this? Nobody was that lucky. And the N might be for her first name, Nancy or Norma, or maybe it was simply the logo of the belt manufacturer.
He quickly regained his composure, his smile, his style, and approached the woman.
Four heavily tattooed men who looked like motorcycle types were standing nearby talking. One of them-a weightlifter, no doubt-had his shirt off and tied by the arms around his waist. His sculpted torso was marked with the crude, faded blue tattoos that suggested prison time. They all paused and looked at the Butcher and smiled slightly, as if they knew he had no chance with a woman like the one he was moving in on.
You don't know me, assholes.
"Nadine? Is that you?"
She regarded him with appraising brown eyes. They had an intelligence in them that made him decide on caution. He knew exactly what she was seeing: a handsome man in his thirties, average height, regular features, neatly styled dark hair, blue eyes. He was well dressed (not like the tattooed geeks), and had a reassuring smile. Always he possessed a vision of himself, as if he were another self looking on.
"Sorry," she said, "I'm not Nadine."
He put on a crestfallen expression. Then his smile was back. "Well, I'm sorry, too. I haven't seen Nadine in a long time, and you look a lot like her. Then I noticed your belt buckle, the big letter N, and I thought…"
"It's for Nelson," she said.
He laughed. "You don't look like a Nelson."
She met his laughter with her own. She laughed so easily and naturally, an innately friendly girl. A people person. They were so easy. "That's because it's my last name."
"Ah! And your first?"
"Marilyn."
"Nice name." He feigned awkwardness, but for just a few seconds, letting it register on her.
"Who's Nadine?" she asked.
"Someone I was very fond of a long time ago in another place."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you."
He took a step away, then turned back. "Maybe it was fate that I thought you were Nadine."
"Fate?"
"You know. Destiny."
"I'm not sure I believe in destiny."
"What do you believe in?"
"Well, I believe you're trying to pick me up."
He put on the awkward act again, standing with his body square to hers, hands jammed in pants pockets. "I'm trying too hard, I guess. I apologize."
"Accepted."
"The pickup or the apology?"
The easy laugh again. "Maybe both."
The speakers yeeeowled! as a sound technician adjusted them. People laughed, groaned, or cupped their hands over their ears.
The handsome man grinned at her. "That noise they heard was me expressing pleasure at your answer," he said. Don't be too smooth yet. Not with this one.
Marilyn thought it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her. And there was one thing they had in common already-they were both Ross Bossomo fans.
"I don't know your name," she said. The speakers screeched again, and she winced and repeated what she'd said.
"Joe. Joe Grant."
"Grand?" The speakers again.
"Grant," he said. "You know, like the Civil War general. Ulysses."
"I know," she said. "The one on the winning side."
He glanced down. "By the way, I like your boots."
She gave him a wide grin. "Good. What I'm wearing is clothing from Rough Country. They're a Midwestern chain, except for a small trial store in Queens, and they're going to enter the New York market in a major way. That's why I'm here. I'm an interior designer specializing in retail space. I'm going to lay out their stores for them."