The Key to Midnight

pleasant and polite Japanese inspired a smile. Alex had been in their country just ten days, on vacation, but he could not recall another period of his life during which he had felt even half as relaxed and at peace with himself as he did at that moment.
        Of course, the food contributed to his excellent spirits. The Moonglow Lounge maintained a first-rate kitchen. Japanese cuisine changed with the seasons more than any style of cooking with which Alex was familiar, and late autumn provided special treats. It was also important that each item of food complement the item next to it, and that everything be served on china that - both in pattern and color - was in harmony with the food that it carried. He was enjoying a dinner perfectly suited to the cool November evening. A delicate wooden tray held a bone-white china pot that was filled with thick slices of daikon radish, reddish sections of octopus - and konnyaku, a jelly-like food made from devil's tongue. A fluted green bowl contained a fragrant hot mustard with which each delicacy could be anointed. On a large gray platter stood two black-and-red bowls: One contained akadashi soup with mushrooms, and the other was filled with rice. An oblong plate offered sea bream and three garnishes, plus a cup of finely grated daikon for seasoning. It was a hearty autumn meal, of the proper somber colors.
        When he finished the last morsel of bream, Alex admitted to himself that it was neither the hospitable Japanese nor the quality of the food that made him feel so fine. His good humor resulted primarily from the fact that Joanna Rand would soon appear on the small stage.
        Promptly at eight o'clock, the house lights dimmed, the silvery stage curtains drew back, and the Moonglow band opened with a great rendition of 'A String of Pearls.' Their playing wasn't the equal of any of the famous orchestras, not a match for Goodman or Miller or either of the Dorsey brothers, but surprisingly good for house musicians who had been born, raised, and trained many thousands of miles and a few decades from the origin of the music. At the end of the number, as the audience applauded enthusiastically, the band swung into 'Moonglow,' and Joanna Rand entered from stage right.
        Alex's heartbeat quickened.
        Joanna was slim, graceful, striking, though not beautiful in any classic sense. Her chin was feminine but too strong - and her nose neither narrow enough nor straight enough - to be seen in any ancient Grecian sculpture. Her cheekbones weren't high enough to satisfy the arbiters of beauty at Vogue, and her startlingly blue eyes were shades darker than the washed-out blue of the ennui- drenched models currently in demand for magazine covers and television commercials. She was a vibrant, golden vision, with light amber skin and cascades of platinum-blond hair. She looked thirty, not sixteen, but her beauty was inexpressibly enhanced by every mark of experience and line of character.
        She belonged on a stage, not merely to be seen but to be heard. Her voice was first-rate. She sang with a tremulous clarity that pierced the stuffy air and seemed to reverberate within Alex. Though the lounge was crowded and everyone had been drinking, there was none of the expected nightclub chatter when Joanna Rand performed. The audience was attentive, rapt.
        He knew her from another place and time, although he could not recall where or when they'd met. Her face was hauntingly familiar, especially her eyes. In fact, he felt that he hadn't just met her once before but had known her well, even intimately.
        Ridiculous. He wouldn't have forgotten a woman as striking as this one. Surely, had they met before, he would be able to remember every smallest detail of their encounter.
        He watched. He listened. He wanted to hold her.

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        When Joanna finished her last song and the applause finally faded, the band swung into a lively number. Couples crowded onto the dance floor. Conversation picked up again, and the lounge filled with sporadic laughter and the clatter of dinnerware.
        As she did every night, Joanna briefly surveyed her domain from the edge of the stage, allowing herself a moment of pride. She ran a damn good place.
        In addition to being a restaurateur, she was a practical social politician. At the end of her first of two hour-long performances, she didn't disappear behind the curtains until the ten