8.47!
Maybe he was waiting in the wrong place? I should have got his cell phone number. But by the time I’d said goodbye I’d been emotionally exhausted, barely capable of thought.
8.48. I started to pace. What if he’d been in an accident? He could be hurt. Dying. And it would be my fault for getting him here hours before he’d normally waltz in. I couldn’t stop, officer. I guess the poor schmuck just wasn’t used to the intersection being so busy.
At 8.55, I ran to the stairwell to see if he was climbing up. Nothing.
Where are you, Connor?
8.59. What if he’d forgotten?!
9.00. What if he’s changed his mind?!
Footsteps, and I offered up a prayer to whoever would listen to please, please make them be Connor’s battered black boots.
The feet rounded the corner, and they were brown loafers. I looked up.
“Karen,” Professor Harman said, slightly wearily. “I see you, but not Mr. Locke. Can I take it you were unsuccessful?”
“No! He’s going to do it! It’s all agreed, he’s just—He’s running late! Just give him a few more minutes.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If this is indicative of how you two will work together, I really think it shows that this isn’t a good idea.”
“Professor Harman, please!”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Karen. I gave you a simple deadline and your partner has shown he’s incapable of meeting even that. I was wrong to even entertain the idea.”
God, no! Not like this! Not just for the sake of a few minutes! “Professor!”
He opened the door to his office. “Sorry, Karen.”
We both stopped.
Connor, his feet up on Professor Harman’s desk, woke up and yawned. He checked his watch.
“You’re late,” he told us.
***
Luckily, Professor Harman was too shocked to erupt into full anger and, once Connor had been turfed out of his chair, he settled for irritation. He took out a fountain pen and wrote our names in a book (that’s the music department for you—in another twenty years, they’ll move to typewriters) and that was it. We were scheduled for the recital.
There was only one problem.
“What are you going to play?” Harman asked.
I’d been giving this some thought. There was absolutely nothing written for cello and electric guitar—I’d looked—so it would have to be….
“Original composition,” I told him.
I could feel Connor’s eyes on me. I hadn’t shared that little gem with him.
“So, in addition to all the rehearsals, you’re going to compose the music as well?” Harman asked.
“Correct,” I told him, with no idea how we were going to do it.
He sighed, but wrote it in the book. I could feel the tension in my stomach unwind a single notch. We were in.
Now all we had to do was pull it off.
***
Later that morning, we had our first rehearsal. I knew that, since we hadn’t even started composing yet, we couldn’t really rehearse. I just figured we should get together and play, and exchange ideas. Mostly, I just wanted to get a feel for what it was going to be like to work together.
He let me go into the practice room first, which was surprisingly polite and gentlemanly of him. But it meant that when he squeezed in, I didn’t have anywhere to go. And then, when he had to come even further into the room so he could get the door closed behind him, he was pushed right up against me, just like when he’d caught me on the steps what seemed like weeks ago.
We stared at each other, my head level with his chest, my face upturned to him. I was close enough to feel his body heat, and it seemed to radiate from him like a furnace. “Sorry,” I said, even though it wasn’t my fault.
He closed the door and finally stepped back. Then I had to get my cello out of its case. Backing up with it in my arms, I felt my ass brush against his groin, my hair stroke his stubbled chin. “Sorry,” I said again.
And then the strangest sensation, like my hair had lifted just fractionally, and then fallen again. Like something had sucked a few strands of it upwards. Did he just smell my hair?
No, don’t be stupid. Or if he did, he meant it as a joke. He’s playing with you. Just ignore it. I turned and promptly tripped over the cable he’d stretched across the room to power his amp. I caught myself, but his hands were already on my waist, so big they felt like they could almost encircle it.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, and I said it so quickly it sounded like I was snapping at him. “I mean: thank you. Sorry.” I was blushing and trembling like an idiot. What was wrong with me? I’m just nervous.
We finally sat down, no more than three feet separating us. He cranked his amp down to almost its lowest setting, so as not to drown me out.
“So,” he asked. “How are we going to do this?”
I took a deep breath. “We’ll divide the recital into five sections—two minutes per section, so ten minutes total. For each section, one of us will do the melody, the other will do the harmony. I’ll lead three, you lead two.”
He was grinning. “How about I lead three and you lead two?”
We’d have to compose the parts we led and then give them to the other person so that they could learn the harmonies. The more I let him lead, the more he had to compose and the more reliant I was on him. “Just trying to save you work,” I told him. “I hate to remind you, but we have to get your grades up, too. Let me take more of the composition.”
His smile tightened. “I want to do more of the composition.”
Because you think you’re better? He really was arrogant…but I couldn’t afford to make him angry. “You know what? How about we just make it six sections. Three each. How’s that?” Does that satisfy your ego?
He smiled sweetly. “Perfect.”
“I’m serious about the grades, though. We’re going to need to look at how we can—”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s play.”
And he was off and strumming and I fell silent. Partially it was the shock of how little importance he seemed to attach to his grades; mostly, it was what was coming out of the amp.
When he’d played in the bar he’d been singing, too. His playing had been great, but it had been just an accompaniment, most of his mind on the words. Now, with nothing to distract him, he could really let loose. It was like a tapestry woven from rich, sweet notes and shot through with threads of crisp magic. I assumed he was playing from memory, because surely no one could be that confident on the fly.
I picked up my bow and tried to follow. At first, it was like trying to coax a huge battleship around a nimble, darting speedboat, and I broke off again and again, my nerves getting worse. But then I saw an opportunity and went for it, and once my harmony was there it added depth to his flighty melody, giving it a whole new feel.
This could work, I thought. This could actually sound pretty good.
And then it came apart, him shifting before I was ready and me screeching with my bow. “Sorry,” I said instinctively.
“You say that a lot,” he told me. “You’re one of those people who spend their life apologizing.”
“Sor—” I caught myself.
“You shouldn’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He was looking at me very intently, and I noticed his eyes again. It was dim in the practice room, the aging bare bulb painting the walls with shadows rather than actually lighting anything up. Those blue-gray chips of ice seemed to almost glow, they were so pale and clear. A little part of me was beginning to see what Jasmine had seen, what the girls who giggled and swooned for him saw.
I looked at his tattoo, and wondered if Ruth had been one of those girls, and what had happened that he’d had to leave her behind. “Is she in Ireland?” I wondered.
Then I realized I’d said it out loud.
He looked down at his arm. “Yes,” he said.
“It’s none of my bu
siness—”
“And yes, it’s her in the song. We broke up a few months ago. Before the song; after the tattoo.”
I nodded, and didn’t know where to look.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked.
“Of course!” Like I had any interesting stories about ex-boyfriends and names tattooed on my body.
“Why’s the New York Phil such a big deal?”
I opened my mouth, about to say a lot of things. I had plenty of responses, practiced since I was a kid, about how they were one of the most renowned in the world, about how it would take my career to places otherwise out of reach, about how—
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I told him, the words surprising me as much as him.
He was silent for a moment. “All?” he said at last.
I nodded. “All.”
“Well, we’d better get this right, then,” he said. And he grinned, and something inside me that I hadn’t realized had been tensed unwound. It was as if his smile made everything okay, reassured me in ways that words never could.
I smiled back, and then thought that I probably looked like an idiot so wiped it quickly off my face. What was going on? Where was the brash, arrogant Connor I’d known—and avoided—for three years?
To cover myself, I pulled out the calendar I’d made and unfolded it. I saw him blink in surprise.
“My lessons are pink. Yours will be blue—obviously.”
“Obviously,” he said, straight-faced.
“Ones we have together are purple, because—”
“It’s pink and blue mixed. I’m not that stupid.”
I looked across at him, unsure if he was joking. “I didn’t mean—”
“Go on.”
“Rehearsals are green. And we should mark out some study time for me to help you. Maybe in red.”
He went quiet for a second. Then: “Can we keep red for when we fuck?”
I actually jerked as if stung and then stared at him, thinking I’d misheard. “What?”
The arrogant Connor I knew was back. He sprawled back in his chair, guitar slung casually down by his side. “Well, it’s pretty much inevitable, isn’t it?”
I took out a blue pencil and thrust it at him, part of me wanting to bury it in his chest. “Mark out your lessons.”
He stared at me and then took it. “The ones I have, or the ones I actually show up for?”
I closed my eyes. “You need to show up for all of them! If they kick you out, you can’t do the recital. If you flunk, I flunk!”
He stared at me for a second longer, and then started to fill in squares. “We’re like two escaped convicts. Like in the movies, where they were chained together.”
Our fates are one, I thought with a groan. Just as I’d been warming to him—only a little, of course—he’d reverted to his true personality. And now I couldn’t simply walk away—I was trapped working with him.
I picked up my bow and started work on the rough foundations of the first of my sections. As I played and he filled in squares on the calendar, I swore I felt his eyes on me and let my hair hang down to hide the flush in my cheeks. He’s probably winding up for another joke about sleeping with me, I thought. But it never came.
***
Two hours of practice went by surprisingly quickly. By the end of it I had some rough ideas and needed to sit down with manuscript paper and a pencil. The next stage would take some time, so we agreed to meet in a week, when I’d composed my first section and he’d composed his.
I’d said I’d do lunch with Jasmine, and she was waiting outside when I came out of the practice room. I shooed her away before Connor came out behind me. The last thing I wanted was for Jasmine to get involved with him—things were complicated enough already.
I couldn’t stop her casting a glance back into the room at him, though, as he wound up the cable for his amp. “Cute,” she whispered in my ear.
I towed her off down the stairs.
When we were out of earshot, she asked, “So, how was Mr. Irish Eyes?”
I shook my head. “Arrogant. An idiot. Well, most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“All of the time. He fooled me into thinking he might be…you know, normal for a minute, but as soon as I talked about classes he went straight back to jerk.”
“I have something that’ll cheer you up.” I realized Jasmine was even bouncier than usual.
“What?” I asked cautiously, hoping that she hadn’t set me up with someone again.
“Darrell and Natasha are throwing a party this weekend. And you can’t complain because it’s not a weed and beer party, it’s your sort of party. Champagne and canapés.”
“That’s not my sort of party, that’s Clarissa’s sort of party.” I wondered if I even had a party type.
“Don’t quibble. Saturday night. I’ll borrow a dress for you from Clarissa.” She looked down at her chest. “She’s more…your size. And we’ll all come round to your apartment in the afternoon to help you.” She gasped in sudden delight. “We can give you a makeover!”
“I don’t need a—”
“Think of it as my way of paying you back for the money.”
That meant I couldn’t say “No,” and she knew it.
“Fine,” I told her. “Anything else?”
“Ask Connor.”
I stopped dead by the main doors. “What? We’re not—”
“Not as a date! God, imagine that. No, Darrell’s inviting some of the high society types, and apparently about eighty percent of them are female. It used to be balanced out by the NuclearKillDeathSquad but he’s cut the cord with them now. Natasha’s worried we’ll be short on men.” NuclearKillDeathSquad was Jasmine’s shorthand for the defense industry executives who used to be Darrell’s whole life.
“Why does she want Connor? I thought those society women were all twigs in Prada. Are you sure they’re going to mix well with—”
“With a super-hot, stubbly, penniless Irish guitarist?” Jasmine sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re the same species. Have you never heard of a bit of rough?”
I tried to imagine Connor in a room full of women who spent more on clothes than we did on rent. I wasn’t actually sure who’d be the hunter and who the hunted. He’d no doubt enjoy it, though, and I did need to keep him sweet….
I hesitated. Something inside me didn’t want to be pushing him into a room full of other women.
Stupid. What do I care who he sleeps with?
“Fine. I’ll call him.” I opened the door and shivered as icy air blasted me. “You go ahead. I have to make a phone call.”
Jasmine danced happily off down the street towards Harper’s. I pulled out my phone and stared at my father’s name in the contacts list. I’d been putting off phoning him since the day before, when I’d almost blown everything by telling him about Dan and the recital. What would have happened, if I hadn’t heard the girl talking in Harper’s—or hadn’t heard her in time? My father would be helping me pack to go back to Boston. My future had been saved by pure chance…and it was still hanging by a thread.
I pressed “Call” and tried to control my breathing.
“Are you okay?” my father asked immediately.
“Fine. I’m sorry I didn’t call. There was a last minute hitch with my recital, but it’s all fixed now.”
“What sort of hitch?”
“Dan broke his arm. But he’s fine.”
“How did he break his arm? He wasn’t drinking, was he?”
My father had a thing about alcohol. And parties. And men.
“He was mugged a few nights ago.” I conveniently left out the cocktails at Flicker.
“Shouldn’t have been out on the streets at night. You weren’t with him, were you?”
My throat closed up. “No. Of course not.” Why did everything have to be an accusation? Why did everything always have to be someone’s fault? This was why I knew I couldn’t fail. The very first words out of his mouth
would be “What did you do wrong?”
“Good. Who are you partnering with?”
“His name’s Connor. Very talented.” That much, at least, was true.
“Another violinist?”
I caught my breath. I didn’t want to lie, but if I said, “No, actually he plays the electric guitar in bars and he’s probably going to flunk out before the recital,” my father would be in New York that afternoon.
“Mm-hmm,” I said. If I didn’t actually say the word “Yes,” it seemed less like lying. A guitar’s kind of like a violin, I thought desperately.
“Okay. Keep me posted.” His voice softened a little. “Are you okay? No…funny episodes?”
By funny episodes he meant freaking out and finding yourself on a rooftop. He’d never understood my fear of public speaking—I’d tried to explain the terror I felt and he’d just looked at me as if I was mad. In his mind, what happened in Boston had been down to me not managing my time well and not being ready for my presentation. I knew that in a moment, he’d remind me to be prepared and manage things, as if by writing the perfect paper I’d magically be able to present it. This was why I always wrote the assignments, even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand up in front of everyone and deliver them. It felt like I was disappointing him a little less if I did that.
“No,” I told him. “I’m fine.”
“Well, you know…just be prepared. Manage things.”
I felt like weeping. “I will. Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
Chapter 6
Saturday morning. I’d been putting off calling Connor, partially because I was nervous about calling and partially because I figured that if I left it late enough, he’d make other plans. It was the day of the party—he’d be busy by now, surely?
“Karen,” he said when he answered, and it threw me for a second because it sounded good, hearing him say it. He has an Irish accent, you idiot. Anything sounds good.
No need to be nervous—I wasn’t asking him out on a date. It was just a party. “You’re busy tonight, I presume?”
I heard him stretch and fabric move. Then a creak.
In Harmony Page 7
