by Zoe Ann Wood
Jade’s chest constricted. “But—”
She thought furiously, mentally going through all the art classes the school offered. Dance, theatre group, musical group, marching band, painting class, pottery class. Her jazz band.
“I’m sorry,” the principal said.
Jade didn’t want to cry, but she hadn’t slept well, and her brain was functioning at sub-optimal levels as it was. Her throat tightened, and she looked up, blinking to keep the tears away. “My jazz band?”
Mrs. Chandra blew out a breath. “Your jazz band.”
“I could…” She clenched her hands together. “I’ll keep teaching them. Without being paid.”
This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she applied for this position—job security was what had attracted her in the first place. She’d thought it would be a nice change from her days with the orchestra, where she’d often stumble home late at night after a long performance, too tired to do anything more than feed Felix. Now, she had time for reading and her practice, and if the teaching was less exciting than playing for an audience, at least she was helping kids realize their full musical potential.
The principal offered her a ghost of a smile. “I thought you might say that.”
“They’re too good,” Jade said. “It would be such a shame not to have them continue. Julie is quite talented—I think she might go on to study music.”
She thought of the sixteen-year-old saxophonist, and grim determination replaced her initial sadness. She would do this, no matter what. But losing a class would mean a cut back on her hours, and her teaching position at the school would no longer be full-time. With that came a reduced paycheck, and given the extensive renovation she needed to do on her grandparents’ house, she’d need another part-time job to cope.
The idea was unappealing, to say the least.
Mrs. Chandra watched her sadly. “I wish I could do more for you, Jade. But all I have is this.”
She handed Jade a slip of paper with a name and a phone number on it.
“Who’s Martin Horowitz?” Jade asked.
“A friend of mine from Asheville,” the principal replied. “He’s the artistic director at the City Theater. I’ve been calling around for you, and he said one of their violinists is going on maternity leave soon. It’s not a permanent position, but they’d like you to audition for them if you’re interested.”
Jade folded the paper and tucked it into her skirt pocket. Asheville, a town just forty miles from Hidden Hollows, had a thriving music scene. She’d gone to a couple of concerts there in the past year, and they’d been great. To play there would be amazing, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.
Her throat was tight again. That the principal had done this for her meant a lot. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I’m grateful. But I can find something on my own.”
Mrs. Chandra gave her a hard stare, her dark brown eyes stern and serious. “Don’t thank me. But maybe this is an opportunity for you, hmm? When you came to me two years ago, asking for a job, you said this was a temporary thing. But now it looks like you intend to stay in Hidden Hollows. What happened, Jade? Not that it’s not a great town, but I thought by now you’d be on your way to one of the big cities to play for a serious orchestra. Instead, you’re leading marching band practice.”
Jade wanted to protest that marching band practice was important work, but she knew what the principal meant. It sucked that this woman knew her well enough to know that she was hiding here. Hidden Hollows, with all its flaws, was a haven that had allowed her to pick herself up, but it was true: she never meant to stay. So what was she still doing here?
“I have a lot to think about,” she said instead of answering, cringing at the sad expression on the older woman’s face.
She would think about auditioning in Asheville. Her fingers had healed, and with constant practice, she was as good as she’d ever been. Better, maybe, because her music now flowed with an urgency that she’d lacked before. After her injury, she knew what it was to lose her ability to play, and she was grateful every day that the damage hadn’t been permanent. The months she’d spent in physical therapy, performing the same awful stretches day after day, feeling her fingers tremble and fail at the most basic of tasks, had been the darkest of her life.
But she’d recovered. She’d pushed through, and when she picked up her violin now, her fingers flew over the strings with graceful ease again. The first time she’d finished a piece without pain, without having to pause, she’d cried in relief. Now she practiced every day to keep her fingers nimble, even if she was the only one who ever heard her music.
Well, Ben heard it as well.
The thought warmed her, and for the first time in ages, she allowed herself to remember how it felt to perform in front of a full theatre. Hidden in the orchestra pit or sitting on the stage in full view of the spectators, there was nothing that could compare. The palpable energy of the eager audience, the determination of her fellow musicians to give the best performance of their lives, every single time… It was magic.
Goose bumps rose on her skin, and she rubbed her arms. She gave the principal a small smile. “I’ll call them,” she promised.
The older woman nodded, apparently satisfied for the moment. She patted Jade’s shoulder. “I’d love to hear you perform again, one day.”
She left Jade to sit in the empty classroom. Jade took out the folded piece of paper and stared at the number. Was it really a good opportunity for her? Or was the principal simply trying to make her feel better because Jade’s position had her feeling guilty?
In the end, it didn’t matter. She needed another job, and she might as well audition for the orchestra. It wouldn’t be a permanent position, either, so she wouldn’t get her hopes up. And maybe they wouldn’t want her anyway.
Jade tried to stamp down her anxiety, but it bloomed inside her like an insidious, poisonous weed. The safety she’d found in this small town was about to be pulled from under her, and she had no idea whether she’d land on her feet.
Her life was changing, whether she wanted it to or not.
8
Ben
“Are these all the papers your doctor gave you?” Ben asked, spreading the sheets over the kitchen table.
His father lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I think so.”
Ben leveled him with a stare. “You think so?”
“I might have more in my coat.”
Ben inhaled and slowly let out his breath. He counted to ten, then to twenty in an effort to cool his temper. “Do you think you could grab them for me?” he squeezed out through gritted teeth.
His father stood with a groan and shuffled out of the kitchen. Ben put his head in his hands and tried not to let his blood pressure rise. The only thing keeping him sane was the fact that the house was spotless and the fridge was stocked with healthy food. Betty Smith had clearly taken over his father’s life, and it was everything Ben could do to keep himself from asking the woman to move in permanently.
She was in the laundry room now, folding towels, humming softly to herself. Ben wouldn’t have thought she was a person who’d sing while working, but that just showed he knew nothing about women.
“Here.”
A thick envelope landed on the table in front of Ben. His father stepped over to the fridge, opened it, growled in disgust, and closed it again. Then he opened a different cabinet and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a crystal glass, which Ben knew had been a wedding gift his parents had received more than three decades ago.
His father had been in his late thirties when he’d married Ben’s mom, who’d been a decade his junior. But it had been Pam Charles who’d passed first, succumbing to a malicious skin cancer that had taken her away from Ben and Robert when Ben had been sixteen years old. Now Ben feared he was about to lose his other remaining parent, and he wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready, but his father’s health had deteri
orated quickly since he’d retired and had now reached a critical point.
Ben refrained from commenting on the fact that it was four p.m. and that drinking hard liquor wasn’t smart for a person with elevated blood pressure. Instead, he pried open the envelope and scanned the first sheet of paper.
“Dad—” He choked on the word, cleared his throat, and stared at the words on the page. “This says you’ve got type 2 diabetes.”
His father’s exhale was the only answer he got. Ben turned to stare at him, his stomach dropping.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
His dad lowered himself into the chair opposite him. “It’s not a big deal.”
Ben’s temper blew, and he slammed the papers on the table. “Stop pretending! You’re killing yourself, and if you don’t do something, you will die.”
“What do you care?” his father exploded. “You left this town as soon as you could and can barely return for the holidays.”
Ben gaped at him. “Are you kidding? I dropped everything to move here as soon as I heard—”
“Yeah, it took me having one foot in the grave for you to come running, didn’t it?” His father’s face turned a deep, mottled red. “And now you take over everything like you own this place.”
Ben had no words. What could he say to this? Releasing the papers, he pushed his chair back from the table and stood.
“You know what? Fine.” He put on his jacket, though his hands shook from anger. “I’m done.”
He left the room, but instead of turning to the front door, some instinct pulled him toward the other end of the house. He pushed through the back door and stepped out into the yard, breathing in the damp afternoon air. It had rained earlier, and the scent of earth and fallen leaves was heavy, almost stifling. He let the door shut behind him and dropped onto the steps, his elbows on his knees. A minute was all he needed, a minute to calm down enough so he wouldn’t be a danger driving on the streets.
He rubbed his chest, where a now-familiar sensation gripped his heart. Fear. He was afraid his father would suffer another heart attack, leaving him all alone in the world.
When his mother died, his father accepted a janitorial position halfway across the state, moving them from hot, humid Wilson to this quaint town. It had been an attempt to start over, but Ben had to change schools in the middle of his junior year, and after just eighteen months, he went off to college again. This small house, with its plain backyard, had never been his home. The last time he’d had a home was when his mother had still been alive.
Raised voices broke through his thoughts, and he strained to hear what was going on.
“… such a man, you’d see what was right in front of you!”
That was Betty, her voice shrill and sharp. Ben stood and opened the back door again, ready to step in if the argument turned nasty. He’d protect Betty from his father’s temper.
“I don’t need his help.” That was his dad, gruff and defensive.
“Yes, you do. There’s no shame in admitting it.”
A glass slammed on the table, so hard Ben was surprised the crystal didn’t shatter.
“It’s supposed to be the other way around,” his father growled. “I’m the parent. I’m the one who should be taking care of him. But he never let me.”
Betty’s voice was low now, unintelligible from where Ben was standing. He disliked eavesdropping, but there was no way he was missing out on this conversation. Silently, he padded down the corridor, the old carpet muffling his footsteps.
“He left,” his father was saying. “The moment he got that acceptance letter, I knew he was going to leave, and he did. Without ever looking back.”
“They’re supposed to leave,” Betty replied. “I wish my Ollie had a chance to go to college. He’s doing better now, and I hope he gets a regular job and moves out. It’s natural.”
His dad was silent for so long Ben thought he might not continue.
“It’s just… I never knew how to get through to him. Pam was the one he confided in, and once she was gone, it was like he shut down completely. He wouldn’t let anyone in.” His father’s voice rasped as though he had trouble speaking. “He’s so successful, his company is doing great, but he’s all alone. I don’t want him to end up like me.”
Ben stared at the wall opposite him. His father’s words hit like a blow to the chest, heavy with truth. He never knew his father worried about him. Every week, they spoke on the phone, and Ben had nothing but good things to report: his projects were progressing well, his sub-contractors were professional, his testimonials were positive. He and his father never talked about his personal life—because Ben barely had one. Moving around the state, and often traveling farther out if an interesting renovation project popped up on his radar, didn’t leave a lot of room for friendships. Or romantic relationships. And he liked it like that. In college, he never tried to pledge for a fraternity, and as soon as he could, he requested a single room. He didn’t like being around people, which was why his job working with empty old houses was so perfect.
“Is that why you’re acting like a toddler about your health?” Betty asked. “So he’ll stay?”
“No,” his father replied, but his tone was defensive. “I’m just…”
Ben didn’t wait to hear more. He knew Betty had guessed the truth. His father was acting out, so Ben would remain here—that was why he was refusing to follow his doctor’s orders. He was literally killing himself to bring his son home.
His throat tight, Ben escaped through the front door, closing it quietly so as not to alert them of his presence. He drove to the Williams house in a mental fog, his mind replaying every conversation he’d had with his father over the past couple of years.
Are you coming home for Memorial Day?
Nah, I have a sweet house to work on in Raleigh. The new owners are offering me a bonus if I finish within the month.
You sure? You could take a break, and we could go fishing—
Dad, I’m just not in a place where that’s feasible. Maybe in July?
They’d had variations of this debate month after month, and Ben had been planning on blowing off Columbus Day this year as well. He would have visited for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and that would have been plenty. Then he’d received that phone call from the hospital, and his life had ground to a halt. He’d canceled the project planned for October that would have taken him to Louisiana and put a bid on the decrepit house in Hidden Hollows.
Guilt settled in his stomach, a sickening feeling that squeezed his insides. He parked next to his trailer and jumped out of his truck, heading for his power tools. He had so much to do. A thought niggled at the back of his head, telling him that he was escaping into work again, but he pushed it away. There was nothing wrong with distracting himself until he could figure out how to confront his father.
9
Ben
Four hours later, Ben was sweaty, covered in plaster dust, and still feeling like the worst son in the world. Back-breaking labor hadn’t done a thing to ease his thoughts, and he was forced to stop the work because light was fading fast. He’d been pulling off the wallpaper in all four bedrooms on the second floor, and it was even worse than he’d anticipated. The awful pink flamingo paper was just the top layer, and he’d had to scrape off four more to get to the walls underneath.
In doing this, he also uncovered a nest of mice, some old cigarette butts someone had stuffed into a crack in the wall—people were disgusting—and a place where a family had measured their children’s heights. The sight of that made him surprisingly melancholy, and he remembered that their old house in Wilson had similar markings where his dad had measured his growth. A doorjamb in the kitchen had been marked from age two until sixteen, when they’d moved out of that house.
His dad was under the impression that Ben had never connected to him. He had, primarily through sports, but the moment Ben stopped playing football after college, that common interest had dried up. It was true that th
ey’d grown apart after Ben’s mother’s death, but wasn’t that to be expected?
Like Betty had said, kids were supposed to leave.
But were they supposed to avoid their parents?
A fresh wave of guilt swamped him, and he shoved another armful of torn-down wallpaper through the window. He’d hire a larger truck to take it to the dump once it was all out of the house, but for now, the yard was fast becoming even more of a wreck. Things always looked worse before they became better, at least in the renovation business.
Did that also hold true for relationships? Was it necessary for him and his father to hit rock bottom before their relationship improved?
And was this rock bottom? Or would it get even worse?
Stomping down the stairs and out onto the overgrown lawn, Ben dusted himself off. He craved a hot shower more than he could express. Maybe he could have one at his father’s house the next day.
Perhaps he should just move in with his dad.
Ben eyed the trailer that barely had enough room for a single bed, a folding table, and a tiny kitchenette. He’d need to find somewhere permanent to stay for the winter, a short-term lease for as long as he would remain in Hidden Hollows. Maybe he could stay until January. This house would be long finished by then, but maybe he could take December off work for once and spend more time with his father.
That might lessen some of the strain between them. And if that was what it took for his father to treat himself better, Ben would do it, even if the possibility of a new project enticed him.
But moving in with the man, taking up residence in his small bedroom with the single bed and the Star Wars posters his dad had never changed? The mere thought of it had him itching to move, to escape. No, it wasn’t a good idea. He was trying to fix his relationship with his father, not break it irreparably.
