Her boss laughed. “You’re far from weird, my dear. I believe death is a temporary separation, and that we’ll see our loved ones again in some way. We carry those we love with us always, don’t you think?”
She led the way down the hall to a small office.
“Your brother would be very proud of you for turning his tragedy into a positive way to honor his life.” Dr. Leo placed a comforting hand on Allison’s arm and squeezed. “And…here is your office. It looks out on Twentieth Street, I’m afraid. But the advantage is that you can see clearly who’s going to make their appointments and who chickens out.”
She was right. The small room was dominated by a big window that let in the soft morning light. A desk, a chair, and a computer sat in the center, with an entire wall of filing cabinets and bookcases on the right. With a few additions, Allison could make it her own.
“Do many of them do that? Skip their therapy sessions?” she asked, picking up on Dr. Leo’s last comment.
“Unfortunately, many do. Don’t forget we’re dealing with highly functioning men, alpha males, for the most part. Men accustomed to action. Leading. Giving orders, not taking them. They internalize their pain, try to hide it, gut it out. Many feel it’s weak or cowardly to seek help. We try to overcome those attitudes gradually, using whatever means at our disposal to erase preconceived notions about our program and reinforce the benefits they receive while they’re here.”
“That’s interesting. I ran into—literally ran into—an old acquaintance in the elevator as I was coming to meet you. He was my brother’s best friend. It’s been a few years, but he didn’t even recognize me and seemed preoccupied. I wonder, is he in treatment here?” Allison asked.
“What’s his name?”
“Brodie Miller. Big man. Army—he and my brother enlisted together right out of college. I’d like to reconnect with him if I can. Brett would want me to.”
“Yes, I know Brodie very well. I’ve been trying to enroll him in our program for several months now. You say you and your brother were close to him?”
“We grew up together.” Allison smiled at the memory. “Those two were every teenage girl’s dream. My posse used to shadow them every chance we got. It embarrassed the heck out of them. Neither one was into girls…only sports, mostly football. But Brodie was the guy every girl wanted to date. It didn’t matter to us that we didn’t stand a chance. I wasn’t exactly in the most popular group, you understand. I was a geek. I practiced piano and studied my way through high school. But my friends and I still managed to follow them around like they were gods, and made their lives miserable. Brodie, bless his heart, didn’t know we were alive.”
“Typical story.” Mary Leo grinned. She stood at the window and stared at the busy figures scurrying on the crowded sidewalks below. “Had a similar one of my own. Way back in the Dark Ages, of course. But I was persistent. I wound up married to the man…thirty years, until he passed away. Wonderful years.” For a moment she seemed lost in her memories. The soft lines of her face disappeared as she smiled. “He was my soul-mate.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Leo.” Allison came to stand beside her boss.
The woman turned with a look of understanding. “So you see, I know what you mean about those we have lost becoming a part of us. But”—she raised her shoulders, and her voice changed the mood between them—“life goes on, does it not? Our Major Miller served four tours of duty in the Middle East—Iraq, Afghanistan, who knows where else. Like your brother, he was Special Forces, served during the worst of the action. Came home with physical and emotional issues after earning the Bronze Star, the Purple Heart, and multiple commendations.”
“Sounds like Brodie. He had ‘Hero’ written all over him, even way back in high school. Kind to everyone. Took real good care of his grandparents. You mentioned issues?”
“His body is stronger than ever—he worked his way through physical therapy without a problem. But the emotional issues? I’m not so sure. He says he’s coping with the nightmares and flashbacks. You know, of course, that almost all returning vets have some form of PTSD. The percentages are off the charts. The illness has been gravely underdiagnosed until now. More than half of those who have served in any theater of war come home exhibiting some degree of PTSD, and many experts feel the number is much higher. Most veterans refuse to acknowledge their symptoms. I call it the JSIU, ‘Just-Suck-It-Up’ syndrome,” the doctor said with more than a touch of sarcasm. She dipped her chin and nodded before continuing, “I wouldn’t assign him to your sessions, but there’s no reason you couldn’t reach out to him on a personal level. In fact, I’d encourage it. Brodie could benefit from your kind of healing. He could use a friend, Allison,” she hinted with a wink. “Who knows? Maybe, after all these years, the timing is right. I hear from my nurses he’s grown out of his aversion to the fairer sex, at least.”
Allison glanced sharply at the other woman and saw she was teasing. Dr. Mary Leo was charming, witty, and friendly. She was going to be a great boss.
“I have terrific powers of observation. Goes with the territory.” The doctor commented with candor and a saucy grin.
“I don’t think Brodie is interested in my reaching out to him. He practically ran over me in the elevator, trying to get away. Funny, even after all this time, I knew immediately who he was. And he didn’t have a clue I was an old friend.”
“Don’t hold it against him.” The smile left the doctor’s face. “He lost one of his men this morning. A heartbreaking case. The sole survivor, other than Brodie himself, of the firefight that obliterated his unit. The soldier made it stateside, but the injuries he sustained were critical. He lingered for a long time but succumbed early this morning. Brodie was by his bedside. Then he spent some time with the family. The entire floor is feeling the effect of this particular case. We tend to get attached, no matter how hard we try to stay objective. You’ll forgive his rudeness under the circumstances.”
“Absolutely. Anything I can do to help?” she asked, her heart breaking for Brodie.
“Put your theories into practice and play for him, Allison. Reintroduce yourself and find an opportunity to play something for him. The kind of music you make on a piano is a balm to the soul. It couldn’t hurt. It’s what we do, after all. Now, if you’ll follow me to my office… It’s just down the hall.”
After allowing Allison to precede her into the larger room, Mary Leo shoved aside a stack of folders from the clutter of her desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew a pen and paper. Then she pulled open a file cabinet and thumbed through the files. Finding what she sought, she extracted the folder and copied the information.
“Here’s his address.” She handed Allison the piece of paper. “I don’t know if he’ll accept your help, but perhaps you can slip through the back door, so to speak. It’ll be good practice. We have a tendency to be a sneaky bunch in this department—we have to be. Give him a call, make a date to catch up. Use your previous relationship as an entrée, be his friend and help him get better. Let him know someone cares. Right now, he’s shutting everyone out. If you believe in what you do, take a risk. Lay your cards on the table and let the music do the work.”
Allison glanced at the piece of paper Dr. Leo had pressed into her hand. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed, shocked. “He’s living at his grandparents’ home up in Bluff Park.”
Dr. Leo laughed. “Imagine that! Didn’t I see a Bluff Park address in your file?”
“You did. My house is directly across the street from the Millers’. Our grandparents were friends and neighbors until all of them passed away. Of course. He must have inherited the property from his grandmother just as I did from mine.”
After all this time, the thought of being near Brodie still made her heart go pitter-patter. No doubt they’d see each other from time to time. Coming and going. They’d be neighbors, after all.
“What a coincidence!” She was breathless with anticipation. Brodie on a daily basis: Could be wonderf
ul; could open herself up to a world of hurt. Only time would tell.
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Fate? Maybe. Destiny? Definitely. Master Plan? Who knows? Taking chances and taking risks pushes us beyond ourselves. It’s how we grow. You mentioned timing? Perhaps now the timing is right for you and Brodie, and you’re both at a place to renew an old interest in each other. Take my advice. Life is short. Make the most of it while you can.”
“Just-suck-it-up syndrome?” Allison asked.
“Precisely.” Mary Leo laughed.
Chapter Three
Brodie shifted gears, drove up the short incline of driveway, and into the carport. If Gramps had enclosed this thing, it would offer better protection for his new truck. He hated leaving such a beauty exposed to the elements. Letting the engine of the Silverado purr, he sat back, enjoying the music on the radio and the smell of new leather. It had been a bitch of a day.
The smell of the hospital still clung to him, but he hadn’t been able to leave as John Tremayne suffered and took his last breath on planet Earth. A true hero, John didn’t deserve to die such a lingering, painful death. Hell, who did?
Bitter acid swirled in Brodie’s gut. He hated bedside duty, but he owed John that much and more. He’d done what he could to comfort the family before he got the hell out of there ASAP. All he wanted now was a nice cold brew and some peace and quiet.
He parked the truck, walked to the mailbox and back, and once in the house tossed mail and keys onto the bureau inside the door. Time to hit the shower. He let the cool spray flood over him, trying to wash away more than what was on the surface. Out and toweled, he grabbed a pair of basketball shorts, pulled them on, low on his hips, and dropped by the kitchen for a six-pack. It was too warm for a shirt, so he settled, bare-chested, on his front stoop to watch the goings on in the neighborhood.
He screwed the top off his Bud, swallowed half of it in one gulp, and sat down on the warm concrete steps. Lots of activity across the street. Somebody must have bought the old Chandler place. A construction crew had been working off and on for the past two months to bring the old postwar bungalow up to code. New roof, new siding. Lots of new stuff. Carpenters and electricians working dawn till dusk. Maybe he should ask the new owner for references. Gramps’ house could use some attention.
His long legs splayed out in front of him, he relaxed, letting the alcohol do its job. This was quickly becoming a favorite pastime of his, drinking on his front stoop and watching what went on around him.
A moving van inched down the hill and parked on the lawn across the street, temporarily obscuring his view of the house. The back doors opened, and all available hands hustled to unload the truck. A parade of furniture, a butt load of boxes. Aw, hell. What was that? A piano. A big damn piano. Shit.
He hoped the neighborhood musician wouldn’t keep him up all night playing the damn thing. Back when he was a kid, his best friend’s sister had practiced nonstop. It took three years for the noise coming out of their house to begin to sound like music. She drove him freaking crazy with scales and exercises. He supposed it could have been worse. She could have taken up the violin.
The last time he talked to Brett Chandler, his sister Allison had just graduated Juilliard and was in Europe performing on some concert tour. At least all that practicing had paid off. From what he’d heard, she’d done pretty well for herself. The Birmingham News had a big write-up on her in last week’s entertainment section, and a picture of her in some fancy concert hall in Vienna. The article didn’t interest him enough to read, but from the picture, it looked like she’d grown up with her equipment in all the right places.
Yeah, he really should look up old Brett and see what he was doing these days. They’d been separated after boot camp—he’d gone to Iraq, his friend to Spec Ops training. They’d kept in touch for a while, but it had gotten complicated. He did hear Chandler had been wounded and gotten sent stateside, while Brodie had re-upped and stayed in country.
That had been four years ago. He ought to give him a call. Maybe they could get together for a drink, exchange war stories, and toss the pigskin around. He was making a mental note to do that—maybe this weekend—just as a bright red sports car careened down the hill and pulled in the gravel drive across the street. Must be the new neighbor. Nice car. He took another swig of beer, and watched two grade-A, toned and tanned legs swing out of the convertible.
Whoa!
Whoever the mister was, he’d gotten damned lucky with the missus. He took a long drink from his nearly empty bottle, drew another from the carton, and whistled under his breath.
Damn!
Curvaceous ass, long blonde hair—nice rack, too. Come on, baby, turn around for me. Yeah, that’s it. The scenery just got better and better. Though he couldn’t see her features from here, the overall package was enough to send his blood down south.
Brodie hadn’t been interested in women lately. Just too damn tired. But this one might get his juices flowing. He felt another twitch in his nether regions. Nice to know he wasn’t permanently gone, just a temporary hiatus along the way.
Now he hoped she wasn’t married. He enjoyed being a player, but he wasn’t a poacher.
She carefully closed the car door and glanced his way. Hey, was she smiling at him? Maybe there wasn’t a mister after all. Could he be so lucky? She raised her hand in a half-wave, and he lifted his half-empty bottle in salute.
Nice to know a friendly was moving in. Maybe he should take her a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. He could think of a few things he’d like to give her, all of them neighborly. Damn. Where did that thought come from? He’d obviously been without female companionship for too long and needed to get laid…soon. Meanwhile, he’d enjoy the new scenery.
Brodie lounged on his stoop, drank the rest of his six-pack, and watched the entire process. After three hours to get her stuff unloaded, the truck closed its doors and rumbled down the street. With beer number six under his belt, sufficiently wasted to be able to sleep tonight, he sat squinting through the shutters of his Barbie-doll neighbor’s house.
Dusk settled. The sun faded through the trees, cooling the air and casting shadows on the lawn while he leaned back on his elbows and waited for the crickets and toads to begin their nightly serenade. After the noise of the hell he’d been in, the quiet sounds of home were more than welcome. Between sunset and dark was his favorite time of day, and he didn’t want to head inside just yet. Nice night. He waited on the darkness and wallowed in the alcoholic buzz and the peace surrounding him.
The new neighbor opened her screen door and pushed out the shutters on her windows. A light came on.
He heard a few tentative notes from the piano. Oh, shit. Same repetitive sound, over and over. He hoped she was testing the tuning after the piano had been moved, not getting ready for a night of practice. Otherwise, he was going to be one unhappy camper. If playing was on her mind, the least she could do was keep it inside her house.
He put the last empty into the carton and picked the carton of dead soldiers up. Time to go in.
He burped the gas from his stomach and stood, scratching his chest and weaving on unsteady legs. At least he could block out some of the noise behind his own closed doors. And then…
He didn’t recognize the composer or the piece, but the person playing the music was the real deal. He liked the melody. Rich harmony, haunting and compelling. Brodie paused, mesmerized, and fell back on his butt to listen.
The pianist moved from one piece to another with complete mastery, each selection soft, slow, emotionally captivating. He found himself snared in the music, a web woven by the intricate rhythms and piercing melodies. Eyes closed, he relaxed and sank into the sounds. Damned if he couldn’t get used to this.
The outline of the instrument and the musician was visible through the opened windows. His new neighbor was the one playing, and she was incredible.
What was the name of that piece? He’d been forced to take a music appreciation course
back in college. One of those crip courses the players on the football team took to bolster their GPAs. But he remembered this one; it had become a favorite. Beethoven. The first movement of the “Moonlight Sonata.” The entire world recognized that piece of music, but no matter how often it was repeated, it was always appreciated. Even a Philistine son-of-a-bitch like him knew he was hearing a masterpiece played by a master.
He leaned forward, elbows on thighs, hands hanging loosely between his knees, entranced with the music floating through the moonlight. Head down, eyes closed, he heaved a deep sigh. The soothing tones smoothed the rough edge of the day, and as he listened he felt the hurt and anger, even some of the pain, ease from his body.
The music stopped. With the combined effects of alcohol and Ludwig von Beethoven lulling him into a state of welcome oblivion, it took a moment for the silence to hit him. The darkness throbbed with the lingering strains still echoing through the night. He wanted it to continue—to go on and on until the feelings of calm and peace came back. Brodie frowned when he saw the woman lower the cover over her keyboard and turn out the light by the piano. After she closed the blinds and locked the windows, he reluctantly called it a night. His personal concert was over.
Rising, he staggered and caught himself. He raised the empty carton and stared at it as if he hadn’t realized they were all gone. Sure were going down easy these days. He shook his head and retreated into the house.
He’d enjoyed the music. Tomorrow, he’d introduce himself and thank her. He lay on the bed and felt himself melting into the mattress. Heaving a deep sigh, he let the soft sounds of her music play in his brain, and it wasn’t until morning he realized that, for the first time in more nights than he could count, he’d slept through the night. A deep, dreamless sleep, without battle sounds or the smell of burning flesh. A restful sleep. A sleep of peace. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a piano-playing neighbor after all.
Sonata by Moonlight Page 3
