Solo (Symphony Hall)

by Lauren E. Rico

  Chapter Eleven

  Kate

  The warmth seeps in from somewhere outside of me, through my skin and deep into my bones. I want to weep with relief as this soft, enveloping heat drives away the frigid chill. Finally, the convulsive trembling has subsided and I can breathe without shaking. I can let myself drift back into the welcoming embrace of slumber. This is where I go to find my mother. Sometimes she’s there, waiting with open arms. Other times, I can only see her from a distance. Today I find her there, but she isn’t alone.

  My father is screaming at me, fist raised, eyes crazed with rage. I can’t make out what he’s so angry about, though. And then, my mother is standing with him, her hand on his shoulder. “Tucker,” she says gently, “you mustn’t get yourself so worked up, my love.”

  Her love. Yes, he was. And no one else’s.

  “Mama?” I whisper, reaching out for her. I haven’t seen her in so very long. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful she is, long dark hair hanging in waves around her face. Her eyes are the color of cornflowers, her skin like porcelain. “Mama!”

  She smiles at me. “Katie, I’m so proud of you,” she murmurs.

  “Stop that!” my father yells at her. “There is nothing to be proud of. She’s brought shame upon this family!”

  My mother’s brows knit together in concern. “Is that true, Katie? Have you shamed us?”

  “Mama, please, stay with me,” I whisper.

  Now she’s scowling at me, shaking her head. “No, Katie. It’s your fault I’m gone.”

  “It’s your fault!” my father agrees, pointing a finger at me, as if he’s a wizard about to cast a spell.

  I’m crying as I reach out for them. “Please, forgive me!”

  And then they are gone in a flash of light, and I am standing alone on the porch of my childhood home. I bang my fists on the door, crying out for them.

  “Mama, please, let me in. Daddy!”

  I gasp, sitting bolt upright, fighting against the haze and the pain. My heart is pounding so hard that I’m sure I’d be able to see it thumping against my chest. If I could see anything, that is. But it’s so dark in here that I can’t even see my own hand in front of my face. It was a dream. Wasn’t it? I’m looking around me frantically, searching for some clue as to the answer, when I feel a hand on the back of my arm.

  “Get away!” I hiss into the darkness, afraid to turn around, afraid it will be one of them coming for me.

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” says a voice in the darkness.

  I feel the mattress shift and, suddenly, I’m bathed in light. It takes a little time for my eyes to adjust. When the blurriness clears, I realize I must still be dreaming. There’s no other reason I would find myself in bed with Drew Markham.

  “It’s me. It’s Drew,” he says calmly. “Markham,” he continues, just in case I’ve forgotten who he is.

  “Wha—w-where am I?” I ask as I take in the unfamiliar room, my voice coming out in a whisper. I’m in a bedroom, in a bed. When I look down, I realize I’m not dressed anymore. At least, not in my own clothing. I’m wearing a white, button-down shirt that must belong to him. No underwear. And then it hits me.

  I gasp when I find Markham is squatting down next to me. When did he get out of the bed? Did I dream that? Wasn’t he just next to me?

  “Miss Brenner, you’re in my bedroom,” he says quietly, moving his hand to feel my forehead. Oh, now I know I must be dreaming. Drew Markham doesn’t have a compassionate bone in his body. At least, not where I’m concerned.

  “Your fever broke, but then you got a terrible chill. You asked me to come into the bed with you. To warm you.”

  “Are you real?” I ask him softly, my entire face and body pulled tight in fear and anxiety.

  “Am I real?”

  “I mean—I…I can’t tell what’s a dream or a hallucination or…”

  I think I see a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “Yes, I’m real.”

  It occurs to me that if it is his shirt that I’m wearing, then it would follow that… Yes. He did. I remember it now. There were towels. Lots and lots of towels…

  “Y–you…you changed my clothes,” I say, with a slight tremor in my voice.

  He takes a deep breath, and sits on the edge of the bed.

  “Yes. You were burning up and I had to get your temperature down. Fast.” He pauses and looks down at his hands in his lap. “I, uh, I put you in a tub of cool water to break the fever,” he continues, not looking at me. “Then I put that shirt on you and moved you to the bed so you’d be more comfortable. I didn’t see anything—I didn’t see you. There was a towel on you the whole time, even in the water. I slept in that chair,” he informs me, pointing his chin in the direction of a big chair and ottoman where a pillow and blanket are still lying. “I wanted to keep an eye on you. Then you woke up after a few hours, trembling with cold and you begged me to get into bed and warm you up.”

  The heat. Oh, I was on fire. And then the water was like a wonderful dream.

  “I had to get in the tub with you because there was no way you could sit up on your own. But you were in a towel the whole time,” he repeats. “I never saw you. And I was dressed—in my boxers,” he’s quick to tell me.

  I nod my head, recalling this timeline.

  And then there was the shivering. He’s right, I was practically convulsing with the cold. That was when something warm wrapped around me.

  Oh. My God. I begged him to get into bed with me.

  I put a hand to my temple, which feels as if it’s about to explode, and am struck by a wave of fatigue. It hits me with such force that I have no choice but to let my body drop back against the pillows. I grunt at the impact.

  “Are you…are you all right?”

  I consider him carefully. Even in my haze, I see what a risk he took in helping me. He touched me. Bathed me. Dressed me. And then he got into bed with me. We both know that I could spin this into something that would be very, very bad for him. I could probably have him fired. And wouldn’t that be fine payback for every nasty thing he’s ever said or done to me.

  “Miss Brenner? Please don’t be upset, I just didn’t know what else to do,” he’s pleading.

  Markham looks totally at a loss, staring at me as if I might burst into flames or worse yet, tears, at any time.

  The sense of gratitude that I feel right now is so overwhelming that I gather what little strength I have left and sit up again. My arms wrap around his waist and my head finds his chest.

  “Thank you,” I say into his sweatshirt.

  I feel him tense up for just an instant, and then he relaxes, using one of his hands to pat my back gently. I don’t know how I would even begin to explain this to him. This overwhelming relief that’s washing over me in waves. For the first time in more years than I can count, I’m not wholly responsible for my own well-being. Someone is taking care of me and it feels so good—my gratitude is so immense—that I can’t control the sobs that rack my body as I cling to this man that I detest.

  “It’s okay,” he says softly.

  I’m shaking my head against his sweatshirt. “No, you don’t understand… I…I just…I…thank you,” I finally manage to spit out. “Thank you…”

  “Shh,” he comforts. “Nothing to thank me for.”

  After a minute, he wraps both of his arms around me and he’s leaning forward so that I am leaning back. He lowers me slowly to the bed and then sits up.

  “You’re just exhausted,” he murmurs. “You need to get more rest. Are you hungry?”

  I nod. “A little…but my stomach…” I murmur.

  “It’s okay. We’ll wait a little while and then I’ll bring you some tea and toast. We’ll see how you do with that and go from there, sound good?”

  I smile up at him through my exhaustion. “Yeah, that sounds good,” I say softly, finding it hard to keep my eyelids up now that I’m horizontal again.

  “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

&nbs
p; His words filter into my mind just as I lapse back into a deep sleep. This time my parents are nowhere to be found. And, for that, I am profoundly grateful.

  Chapter Twelve

  Drew

  I’m dumbfounded. Absolutely and completely at a loss for whatever it was that just happened in there. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The big, spikey one that’s laced with threats and blackmail. I know there was nothing else I could have done in this bizarre clusterfuck of a situation. Still, I was so sure she’d seize this opportunity to throw me under the bus. But she didn’t. I’ll be damned if Katherine Brenner wasn’t…grateful.

  Downstairs now, I stir up the dwindling embers of the fire and toss in a few more logs. They ignite immediately. When I walk to the window and pull back the curtains, I can see the snow falling fiercely as it passes through the beam of the streetlight out in the cul-de-sac. I should get the snowblower out of the garage and hit the driveway. Or at least make a path to the street. But really, what’s the point? There’s so much on the ground already, and so much more to come, that I’m better off letting the pros handle it tomorrow or whenever they get around to digging us out.

  Us.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been an “us.” Not that I am now, except that there are two of us in this house. Being alone has never bothered me, except for right after Casey was gone. I heard her footsteps everywhere. I imagined her figure in every shadow that flitted through my line of sight. But now, well, I prefer it, going solo. I have to say, though, if I were a young woman I might find the prospect more than a little daunting.

  Will anyone notice that Katherine Brenner didn’t come home last night? Maybe she has a roommate. Maybe she keeps in close contact with that imbecile father of hers. Who knows? Of course, none of this is my concern, either way. Or, at least, it wasn’t until she rolled up in front of my house and crashed a perfectly fine blizzard.

  What a bizarre and unexpected twist that she should end up here, on my doorstep. Sick. In a storm. I have yet to decide whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. I suppose I’ll have to wait and see how we weather the rest of the storm. Literally and figuratively.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kate

  This time when I wake up, I’m not scared. I know where I am and how I got here. The digital clock on the bedside table reads 4:05 p.m. Can that be right? Dr. Markham brought me tea and toast at around six in the morning. If this clock is accurate, then I’ve been asleep for the last ten hours. Is that even possible? I don’t think I’ve ever slept ten consecutive hours in my life. Maybe the clock’s wrong. I feel around for the bedside lamp and switch it on, then I get out of bed carefully. I’m weak and my legs are a little bit shaky, but I’m able to get to the bathroom on my own without too much trouble.

  I peer out the small window. Oh yeah, it’s definitely late afternoon. I can tell by the low angle of the sun. It’ll be dark in less than an hour. The amount of snow on the ground is staggering, and it’s still coming down in huge flakes that resemble feathers falling from the sky.

  I splash my face with some water and take a good look at my face in the mirror. “Ohhhhhhh God,” I moan under my breath.

  My eyes are deeply sunken and rimmed by dark circles. I’ve never had much color, but now I look downright chalky. Even my eyes, normally a bright blue, seem to be dull and pale. Okay, well, I may look like crap, but this is the best I’ve felt in a week. I spy a hairbrush on the counter and run it through the wild mane that comes along with sleeping on wet hair. I carefully remove my long, dark strands from the bristles, wrap them in a tissue and put them in the bottom of the trash can under a cardboard toilet paper roll and an empty shampoo bottle. Hopefully he won’t know I’ve taken the liberty. I use a little toothpaste on my finger to brush my teeth, then turn my attention to what I’m wearing.

  I’m swimming in this button-down shirt of his. I spend a little time rolling and tucking and by the time I’m done, it could pass for a fairly modest shirtdress. I’m tempted to see if he has a pair of boxers I can borrow, too, but I think that might be a little too intimate. For both of us.

  Feeling slightly more presentable, I pad down the stairs. The den is empty and silent, save for the crackling of the fire. The room is even more impressive now that I’m seeing it in the full light of day. The baby grand piano is absolutely stunning—its glossy black striking against the stark white landscape behind it through the huge picture window.

  I listen carefully, hoping to get a clue as to Dr. Markham’s whereabouts. It comes in the form of footsteps in the direction of the kitchen. When I get there, I find him standing in front of the window, surveying the snow, just as I’d been doing upstairs.

  “Hi,” I say quietly from the doorway.

  He turns around, brows arched in surprise.

  “Miss Brenner, I hadn’t expected to see you up and around at all today,” he says, stepping away from the window and moving closer to me. He’s seems to be examining my face carefully as he approaches. “May I?” he asks, extending his hand toward my forehead.

  I give him an embarrassed smile and eye roll as I nod. This time I don’t flinch, and his hand feels good on me. It’s soft and warm. He flips it over so that he’s testing my temperature with the back of his hand.

  “No fever,” he proclaims with a smile. “You look a little pale, but really not bad at all. Come, sit down at the table and I’ll serve you some soup, if you think you can eat it.”

  I haven’t been interested in food for hours, but whatever he’s got simmering on the stove has awakened the hunger within me, and with a vengeance.

  “I think I could eat,” I say, taking a seat as he pulls open cabinets and sets up a fresh bowl for each of us. “That smells great. What is it?”

  “Stracciatella,” he says, ladling it out of a huge stockpot. “In case you’re not familiar, that’s an Italian chicken soup.”

  “I’m not familiar. But I’m looking forward to becoming better acquainted,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the steaming bowl as he walks it carefully across the kitchen without spilling a drop. He places it in front of me and points to a small bowl on the table with cheese in it.

  “It’s really good with some grated cheese on top.”

  I take his suggestion and spoon some on while he fetches his own bowl and sits in the chair across the table from me.

  “So, how are you feeling?” he asks.

  “So. Much. Better,” I say, pushing the soup around the bowl with my spoon so it will cool off. My eyes dart up to his and then back down again, so that I’m talking into my soup. “I can’t thank you enough, Dr. Markham.”

  “It was nothing, Miss Brenner,” he replies quietly. “I’d have done it for any of my students. I just hope you are okay. You know—with what happened…”

  I guess he’s still worried that I’m going to freak out on him. Fair enough.

  “I—uh—I…” I begin awkwardly, then stop, setting my spoon down and sitting up to face him properly. “I am okay with what happened, Dr. Markham. And not just that. I need you to know how grateful I am. It’s been a long time since anyone has taken care of me like that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can take care of myself. It’s just that I was so sick and I don’t know what I would have done if I’d been alone last night. There’s no way I could have managed.”

  He seems to consider me, his dark eyes shifting up and down, left and right as he examines my expression. He looks as if he’d like to say something about my declaration. He even goes so far as to open his mouth to speak, but then he stops himself.

  “Try the soup before it gets cold,” he says at last, gesturing with his chin.

  Okay, then, so much for sharing. I take a spoonful and bring it to my lips. It’s a salty, golden elixir as it spreads soothing warmth down my throat.

  “Oh. Oh my God…this is amazing.” I gasp, hurrying to slurp a second spoonful and a third. “I think this might be the best soup I’ve ever tasted in my life. Not that that’s a
high bar, mind you, considering how many cans of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle I eat.”

  His face fills with a proud grin and I pause, spoon midway to my mouth. I don’t recall ever having seen that kind of an expression on his face before. He’s usually all business, all the time. That is, when he’s not being a jerk.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says. “And there’s nothing wrong with Campbell’s. They kept me fed when I was an undergrad.”

  It’s strange to think of him like that—like me—an overworked, underpaid music student trying to make ends meet.

  “Where was that?” I ask, spooning soup again.

  “What? Where did I go to school?”

  I nod and examine my spoonful closely. “Is there egg in here?”

  “Yes. You beat some egg into the broth,” he informs me. “I went to the New York Conservatory.”

  “For undergrad? I knew you’d done your doctoral degree there…”

  “For all of it,” he says, stirring some cheese into his own bowl of chicken yumminess. “Undergrad, master’s, and doctorate.”

  I put my spoon down again and look at him incredulously.

  “Seriously? All three? That’s impressive. And really expensive.”

  He smiles. “I was lucky. Someone there took a liking to me. Sort of like Russ Atherton took a liking to you, I suppose.”

  “I was actually accepted there for undergrad…” I blurt and as soon as the words are out of my mouth I wish I could stuff them back into my mouth. And now, I know his question before he even asks it.

  “You got into the New York Conservatory and you chose a tiny private college in North Carolina instead?” He’s staring at me like I’ve just told him I’m a leprechaun.

  “It’s a long story,” I mutter and turn my focus back to my soup. “I wish I could cook like this.” I marvel, hoping to get him off the subject of schools. It works.

  “You don’t cook?” he asks idly.

  I shake my head. “No, not really. We had a housekeeper when I was growing up. And now, well, my current living arrangements aren’t the best for whipping up gourmet meals.”