Sound Effects

by L. J. Greene

  I truly believed that one of them would be.

  On the flipside, this was the very first time in my entire life that anyone had singled me out for my cooking–in a good way, I mean. Quite the contrary, I had come to accept the fact that, when it came to events of a potluck nature, I was always the one asked to bring wine. Or chips. My friends and family had full confidence in my ability to employ my debit card effectively.

  So I decided to put this odd situation in the win column, and rang the doorbell with the self-assurance that any non-vegan would be glad for my contribution to the spread.

  Fortunately, the foil pans were whisked from my hands in the entryway, and carted off to find more suitable plating for the festivities.

  And true to all expectations, the party in progress was elegant.

  Shortly after my arrival, I found myself in conversation of mutual congratulations with the team of attorneys assigned to represent our semiconductor client in its patent infringement case. The beneficial resolution had been that our client was required to pay a small $15 million settlement, but in total, this was peanuts compared to what it could have been. Plus, the cross-license agreement we negotiated would allow it to enter an attractive adjacent market without fear of further legal action from its competitor.

  It’s often that way for attorneys and their clients; the things that don’t happen are usually the things that define our success–those things that we help our clients swerve to miss. That made me think of the Spire contract. And Jamie. I cursed myself for thinking of him as often as I did.

  So it was an eerie twist that I should glance outside the gracious front windows of the Baker residence for the first time that evening and notice a bicycle chained to the low wrought iron fence that outlined this magnificent home. Funny, it looked just like…it really looked like…

  Jamie.

  I whipped my head in the direction of the door to find him standing in the entry of the grand living room.

  I had to blink for a moment, mistrusting my eyes, but it was actually him. He was handsomely dressed in a crisp white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and tucked neatly into gray wool slacks, with a black belt that showcased his trim waist. His hands were in his pockets, and he was staring directly at me with an expression I could not decipher.

  Myriad of conflicting emotions crashed through my body at once. I had an urge to run to him and throw my arms around him, burying myself in his strong hold for comfort from the sadness that had become my norm these past weeks. I had an equally strong urge to march right up and slap him hard across the face for every bit of pain he had put me through. And there was another inclination, urging me to send him away, but in truth, I didn’t think I could do that.

  In actuality, I didn’t have time to execute any of these actions before he strode across the room in my direction. I couldn’t even break from his gaze, frozen as a deer in headlights and blinded from anyone or anything else in the room. He was my everything–and damn, damn, damn him for it.

  “Congratulations,” he whispered softly, coming to a halt right in front of me with an expression full of wariness and uncertainty. He was so close that I had a strong impulse to touch him, to run my hands across his chest and breathe in his manly scent.

  God, I’d missed him. So vivid was he, by comparison, to anything else in my life.

  But I felt so hurt by him that I refused to acknowledge it.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded, as if my state of mind were as simple as mere anger alone.

  “You invited me,” he said plainly.

  I think I actually laughed in disbelief, completely at a loss to understand how he could possibly just waltz back into my life–here, nonetheless, at a work event–after so much time had gone by. Without so much as One. Damned. Word.

  “But that was–!”

  “Hello. I’m Stanley Baker.”

  In an astounding illustration of poor timing, the senior partner in my firm, my boss’s boss’s boss, inserted himself into our terse conversation with an outstretched hand to Jamie and total oblivion of the chaos he had just stumbled into. Jamie, well accustomed to managing the unexpected, didn’t miss a beat.

  “Very pleased to meet you. I’m Jamie Callahan, Melody’s guest.” He was cool as a cucumber, damn him, and he completely ignored my growing outrage. “I was just admiring your lovely home.”

  “Oh, you’re Irish!” Stanley beamed. “You know, I have a relative who’s Irish!”

  God, don’t we all? I thought uncharitably.

  “Yes, sir, I am.” Jamie smiled, full of warmth and sexiness. I hated him for it. “My family moved to America from Ireland when I was nine, in fact.”

  Ireland. It was so pretty the way he said it. Sort of like AR-land.

  As I distantly listened to their ensuing conversation, I reached into the wastepaper basket in my head and retrieved the crumpled and wadded up list entitled My Favorite Words That Jamie Says, a list that I had convincingly discarded weeks ago. Reluctantly, I added Ireland to it.

  And then I noticed that Love You was still on there, too. It had no right to be, for all of the good it had done me.

  But the mere memory of those two little carelessly spoken words made my eyes prick with tears, and I bit the inside of my lip to keep from crying. It was a stupid list, anyway. And I’d be damned if I would get emotional at a party at least partially thrown in my honor. In my head, I angrily crumpled up the list again and threw it back in the can where it belonged.

  “Well, I can still get Kerrygold butter and pretty much any biscuits I want–whether it’s HobNobs or whatever,” Jamie was saying. “There’s a shop in Los Angeles imaginatively called The Irish Shop. And it sells Taytos and whiskey fudge and Aran jumpers and whatnot. When I’m in L.A. for a gig, sometimes, I’ll stop by there and go a little mad with nostalgia.” I had no idea what he was talking about, nor did I care. It was impossible to follow over the crisis in my head.

  I just couldn’t make myself rejoin the conversation. Instead, I studied him as he talked to Stanley, and analyzed every single line of his face and neck as if I had to decide if he was really here, or just an apparition. His lustrous auburn hair had grown a little longer–I liked it. And he was tan; had he been working a lot? The warm coloring made his amazing hazel eyes stand out even more than usual. But he also looked worn down, like he hadn’t been sleeping well. And I remembered that I hurt for him, despite the impact that his coping mechanisms had had on me.

  As I watched him talk, I wanted to move in closer, to drink in his body heat and the intoxicating scent of his masculinity. At the same time, I wanted to walk away. Far away.

  In the end, I did neither, just stood there silently in my candy apple red dress, and gave my very best impersonation of someone who was all right.

  Jamie seemed to feel the heaviness of my stare, and pulled his gaze from Stanley for just a moment to meet mine directly. There was a polite smile hanging artfully on his face–his little crooked front tooth lending character to his already expressive visage–but his eyes told a different story entirely. They were solemn, seeking mine for an answer to a question he could not bear to ask, but knew he had to, nonetheless.

  “Come with me,” Stanley said, as part of a conversation that I had missed completely. “I have something you’ll appreciate.”

  Stanley was a dear man, quite taken with Jamie, and so eager to show him…whatever it was…that we had little choice in the matter, awful as the timing may be.

  So follow Stanley, we did. Jamie ushered me in front of him, placing a firm hand on my lower back. Whether it was a gentlemanly gesture, or insurance that I wouldn’t run, I didn’t know. I just knew that as we mechanically made our way across the great room to a small parlor adjacent to it, I felt each and every point of contact where the heat from his skin touched my body to a riotous effect.

  The small parlor was cozy and sumptuously appointed. It had the same big picture windows that looked out onto the quaint San Francisco street, an
d the same soothing color palette as its larger counterpart. And as soon as we walked in, I knew exactly what it was that he wanted to show Jamie.

  Positioned right in the middle of the room was the most magnificent grand piano I had ever seen. ‘Magnificent’ didn’t really cover it, though–the piece was…

  §

  Jamie

  ‘Regal’ is how I might have described that Fazioli piano. The construction was pure artistry, made of red spruce with ebony wood keys and a high-gloss polyester ebony finish. It was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful instrument I’d ever seen. I couldn’t stop myself from running a hand reverently over its lid.

  “Did you know that Fazioli only produces a hundred pianos a year?” Stanley asked. I could believe it, given the flawless craftsmanship of the piece. “And now that my daughters are grown, this one sits quiet most of the time. It’s such a shame.”

  I nodded, quite in agreement. An instrument like this was too special to lay in neglect.

  “Why don’t you give it a try?” Stanley asked me.

  It was obviously important to him, and though my heart wasn’t in it, I obliged for Melody’s sake. I sat down on the bench, a piece of furniture as sturdy as the piano itself, and arranged my fingers on the keys. It took only a fraction of a second to decide on the song, and in doing so, I reached back in time to when everything in front of me felt like a promise.

  A…G-sharp…E…D…C-sharp…D…E., played in a slow and soulful arrangement.

  ‘Just Like Heaven,’ by The Cure. Melody recognized it instantly, and her face transformed from one of careful composure to something far more clouded and conflicted.

  “Will you excuse me?” she asked Stanley suddenly, now unable to look at me directly. “I’d like to use the ladies room.”

  “Stay for this,” I said to her with an urgency that must have sounded strange to our host, and immediately switched over to George Gershwin’s ‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’

  I didn’t want her to leave–though she did, anyway–and would have done anything to erase the hurt in her eyes that I knew I had put there.

  She was the loveliest woman I had ever seen in my life–tonight all the more so in a beautiful crimson dress. I loved that she wore that dress; it was feminine, like her, but it said unmistakably that she would not live quietly. Nor should she. She was passionate and intelligent, and she should never, ever blend in with a crowd.

  But, like the piano beneath my hands, valuable so far beyond my reach, she seemed not meant for me. She belonged in this room, with these people who were more her equals in stature. After all, outside the front window was chained a bicycle that represented a substantial portion of my personal net worth. I couldn’t so much as give her a ride home, let alone provide her the life she deserved. And it didn’t seem fair to hold her to me just because I wanted her so very much.

  If only I could have convinced my heart of that.

  I had come tonight, knowing it was selfish. Maybe I needed to prove to myself that I was right to let her go; or maybe I had come in secret hope that somehow I was wrong.

  §

  I excused myself from Stanley’s company as soon as I possibly could. I needed to seek out Mel. And I fully understood that my urgency to speak with her was grossly hypocritical since I was the one who had let six weeks go by without calling. But now that I was here, near to where she was, the distance between us felt excruciating. If it was a mistake to have come tonight, I could accept that–but I could not leave without talking to her, if only to say I was sorry.

  I chose to wait for her return in a location that gave me good visibility to the collection of rooms in which most of the guests were mingling–a buffet table by the entrance to the dining room. I felt foolish and out of place. Genuinely, I could not have been less interested or capable of making small talk with anyone, so I avoided it by surveying the buffet instead.

  The table actually had an incredibly odd assortment of items. On one end were a variety of small finger foods, like caviar on toast–not to my liking–and other things like tiny lettuce leaves, sprinkled with…something. Cheese, maybe, with nuts? I didn’t know, but as I waited, I ate one, anyway.

  At other the end of the table were literally piles of chicken wings in three different flavors. I could not imagine the schizophrenic caterer who had dreamed up this menu. Still, I put one of each kind of wing on my plate and couldn’t decide which one I enjoyed more. So, I tried all three again. And again. And yet again, at which point I thought it wise to wipe my hands and ditch the small graveyard I was amassing.

  “Are you Jamie?”

  I looked up to find a man standing beside me whom I did not recognize. He was quite possibly the tidiest human being I had ever seen in my life–pleasant looking, and about my height, with brown hair clipped just a bit too short so that, even with gel, it stuck straight up like needles at his crown.

  “I am, yes,” I said, holding out a hand to shake.

  “I’m Adam Silverman,” he responded, returning the gesture.

  Adam Silverman. It clicked in my mind. Mel’s boss.

  I shook his hand firmly, and appraised him a little more carefully. He was a handsome chap, particularly in his bespoke suit, though he could have probably managed that equally well in a tracksuit. And he was much younger than I had envisioned him. For some reason, the reality felt like a bit of a shock.

  But he was also the person responsible for helping us secure Gavin’s representation, which we never could have afforded on our own.

  “I owe you a debt of gratitude. I should have reached out to you sooner,” I said, still recovering from the disconnect between the man standing in front of me and the one I had had in my imagination–a decidedly less attractive one.

  “No, not at all,” he insisted sincerely, dropping my hand and shrugging off the apology. “I’m sorry the label turned out to be such dicks.”

  I nodded. There was little to say about that. The whole experience had had the storyline of a music industry horror film. Except that it wasn’t. It was our lives.

  “Anyway,” he continued, now gesturing to the wings, “These are great, aren’t they?”

  “Fantastic.”

  “I know!” he said, smiling. “That’s what I told Mel. She felt awkward about bringing something she’d made, but everyone loves them.”

  Something she’d made? I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I continued to stare at him blankly, as the words banged around in my head. Mel was a treasure beyond all others, but I had a hard time imagining that these had come out of her kitchen.

  Adam regarded me oddly, and then answered my unspoken question with a note of uncertainty, as if maybe he was speaking out of turn.

  “Mel brought these. The recipes came from that cooking class she’s taking.”

  He looked at me like I should know this; from his perspective, I was her boyfriend, after all. Why wouldn’t I know this about her? But I didn’t, of course, because I hadn’t spoken with her in more than a month. Because, unlike Adam Silverman, I didn’t talk to her every day, or see her every day. Unlike Adam Silverman in his bespoke suit, I wasn’t there.

  If he’d punched me in the face, he couldn’t have landed a better blow. I staggered, if only metaphorically, and speaking as much to myself as to him admitted, “She didn’t tell me she was taking a class.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, and I couldn’t decipher what it was I saw in his face. It wasn’t aggression or gloat; it was worse than that. It looked very much like sympathy. Or maybe censure. Or disappointment. Maybe all three. It made me feel like absolute shite.

  Then he nodded, still eyeing me closely and apparently warring with himself about something. Finally, he answered with quiet assuredness, “Too bad you never asked.”

  That was a blow beyond all others. A blow because he was right; I’d been a bastard. And the feelings those simple words dislodged were not to my benefit.

  Of course, in hindsight, it was obvious that what I wa
s experiencing was fear and regret, coupled with inadequacy, I suppose. But, as is often the case, anger is a much safer emotion to express, and provides the path of least resistance. The anger was self-directed, but it didn’t come out that way.

  Chapter 26

  Mel

  NOT OFFERING ANY EXPLANATION WHATSOEVER, Jamie grasped my elbow and all but pulled me through the kitchen to the back door. We were outside before I knew what had happened. The night was cool and clear, not a trace of a cloud in the sky. Just so many stars that it would have been romantic had I not been burning with such confused emotion, and he not been so boorish that he was dragging me off like the house was on fire.

  “Let go of me!” I demanded, albeit to deaf ears. We marched down a fine gravel path towards a white gazebo, situated on a hill below the main house. “What are you doing?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Do we?” I said, gathering my sarcasm around my body like armor. “Oh, I don’t know… why rush it?”

  He ignored me, of course, and just continued to tow me along as though I had no say in the matter. Clearly, I did not have a say in the matter.

  “Let go!” I hissed when we finally reached our destination.

  Jamie whirled me around to face him, but he did not let go of my arm. Quite the contrary, his grip tightened and he held me close. In the soft glow of the yard’s accent lighting, his face looked like it was carved from stone. Shadows highlighted every angle of his strong jawline and broad cheekbones, and every muscle in his face appeared tense and hard. If it hadn’t fully registered before, it was easy to see now that he was every bit as upset as I was. Over what? I had no idea.

  “He seems to know an awful lot about you, this Adam Silverman.”

  “My boss, you mean?” I asked, finally wrenching my elbow free of his restraint.

  “A bit chummy for a boss, don’t you think?”

  I stared at him in shock, emitting a sound that ran somewhere between outrage and incredulity. “Are you jealous?”