Share with Me: Seaside Chapel Book 1

by Thompson, Jan

  Brinley didn’t say anything. Up ahead the Brandenberg concerto started. The program was beginning to sound like something Zoe usually arranged. A mish-mash of random classical pieces. Much like the way her sister had practiced her clarinet back in the days when Brinley accompanied her on the piano.

  Someday Brinley hoped to play more piano, but for now it was all work and no play.

  “So. What was the final straw?” Zoe asked.

  “Inquisitive, aren’t we?” Brinley thought about whether it was too personal to share. She kept her voice down. “If you must know—don’t tell Mom and Dad—Phinn wanted us to have an open relationship.”

  “An open marriage too?”

  Brinley nodded.

  Zoe laughed so loudly several dinner guests turned their heads in her direction. “That fool. You kept the ring, of course.”

  “Why should I? If I did, he’d think we’re still engaged.” Besides, its history was morbid. An ancient Indian maharaja had killed countless tribal leaders to get the pink diamond for his bride, who then promptly died at childbirth.

  “Twenty-five million dollars say you shouldn’t have. Tell me you didn’t throw it across the room at him.”

  “Nope. FedEx goes to France.”

  “I’m glad it’s over, Brin, for your sake. I don’t know what you saw in him in the first place.” Zoe leaned her pretty copper curls against Brinley’s straight brown hair. “You deserve better than him.”

  “And you know what’s best for me?”

  “Maybe not what’s best, but I do know what’s bad.”

  “You’re right. You know how to spot a loser.”

  “Thank you. Let’s not think about exes anymore.”

  The orchestra stopped playing. All Brinley heard now were the clinks of glasses amidst a sea of voices. The plush carpet beneath her was comfortable to her tired feet. She tried not to trip on her long gown.

  Zoe chattered on. “I want you to meet Quincy’s entire family. Grandma Yun is such a dear. She likes old things too. You’ll get along with her. And she makes the best gingerbread cookies—oh, look, Brin. There’s Ivan.”

  Brinley stopped walking the moment she heard the familiar first four bass clef staccato notes on the piano. She had played that many times on the piano herself. She turned toward the orchestral platform up ahead—

  And saw him.

  He was all she saw.

  Ivan McMillan.

  He looks different from last summer.

  Perhaps it was the way his left hand brushed against the neck and fingerboard of the violin. Or the way his right hand moved the bow over the strings. Perhaps it was that fresh haircut, perfectly trimmed sideburns, clean-shaven face, Mona Lisa smile. Or the way he stared right at her as Johann Sebastian Bach’s Air on the G String rose from his violin and filled the entire ballroom.

  Brinley had heard him play the violin before.

  Why does he look different tonight?

  The rest of the Sea Islands Symphony Orchestra faded away into the trompe l’oeil wall behind the platform and the antique copper ceiling above them as the clarity of that violin reached Brinley’s ears. She couldn’t help it if her heart wafted toward the threaded consonance of violin and piano, two of her favorite instruments. She’d been to many orchestral performances elsewhere. Yet something about this espressivo delivery tugged at her.

  Air had come alive and swirled around her.

  An anodyne for her painful weeks, months, years…

  She closed her eyes to savor the notes from the second movement of Suite No. 3 in D Major. For a moment, Brinley felt that the evening was meant for her.

  How would Air sound if it were played on one of her Stradivarius violins that Grandpa Brooks had given to her from his personal collection?

  Perhaps it was time to take those old Strads out of the vault and let them make music again. They had been hidden away too long. But she hadn’t done anything with them because they were common Stradivarius specimens. The pièce de résistance was the stolen 1698 Damaris Brooks Stradivarius that still hadn’t been recovered after seventy years.

  I’d like to hear him play Air on that.

  When she opened her eyes, Ivan was gazing at her, a glint of surprise in his own eyes. Something passed between them, something she could not explain. They’d known each other for a year or thereabouts. Always in passing. And often through oblique references in those emails that Conductor Petrocelli had sent her in Zurich to keep her updated about life in SISO, emails the conductor had sent to Grandpa Brooks when he had been alive.

  But she knew one thing. This Air had become their song.

  Our song.

  How could this be? There had been nothing going on between her and Ivan.

  Why does he look different tonight?

  Before Brinley could dissect the vagaries of that moment in time, Bach wrapped up. Brinley didn’t want it to end, but end it did.

  Was it the violinist or was it the violin?

  Brinley’s eyes were still on the platform as stirrings roiled in her heart. She watched Ivan bow and return to the first violin section. He sat down in the concertmaster’s chair and nodded to her.

  That was all it took.

  Her breath caught.

  Chapter Two

  Before Brinley and her sister could reach the family table, a tall, lanky man with his hair tied up in a ponytail jumped in front of them, his arms immediately going to Zoe’s waist and his lips on hers in ways that were so intimate Brinley had to avert her eyes. She’d seen a lot of things, but not this slobbery smooching whatever that the lovebirds were trying to claim in public. Brinley backed away, trying to give her sister some privacy.

  Right. In front of hundreds of dinner guests.

  When they separated, they left a smacking sound in their wake, the same kind of sound one heard when a suction cup came off a piece of glass. Zoe’s eyes, all occluded, were on Brinley, who was still stepping back.

  “Brin, meet Quincy McMillan.”

  One arm on Zoe, Quincy reached toward Brinley with his long, spindly fingers that was surprisingly well-manicured. Brinley guessed that he must be at least six five, a whole foot and a half taller than petite Zoe in her Jimmy Choo heels. As for Brinley, the top of her head came up to his neck.

  “I know who you are. Brinley Brin, your dad calls you.”

  Brinley chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Quincy.”

  “Did you see Ivan, my brother? He plays a smashing violin, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does,” Brinley replied.

  “You’d never know he was once a crossover violinist.”

  “Really.”

  Quincy seemed to study Brinley. “That haircut frames your face well. Who is your stylist?”

  “Whoever is available.” Brinley had never been particular about grooming.

  “Lovely. Brown hair looks good on you.” Quincy waved his free hand at Brinley’s head. “Hope there isn’t too much chemical in that dye.”

  Brinley glanced at Zoe. Where did you dig up this guy?

  Zoe waved her off. “Quincy is a hairstylist. Can you tell?”

  “This is my original hair color,” Brinley explained. Yep. Straight brown hair. Dull, plain, not glamorous enough to keep Phinn happy.

  “Au naturel. I like that.” Quincy leaned toward Zoe. “Since you’re half as lovely as your sister here, I’m confident we’re going to have some pretty kids. Isn’t that right, sweetie pie?”

  Half as lovely?

  Brinley’s eyes darted toward her sister. Seriously?

  Zoe couldn’t stop laughing. “Isn’t he funny?”

  Sure. Funny.

  “You know what Quincy bought me for my birthday?” Zoe asked Brinley. “A Maserati Quattroporte GTS.”

  On his hairstylist’s salary?

  “She picked the color and chose the model all on her own.” Quincy grinned. “While she was at it, she paid for it on my behalf. She sent me a thank-you card. Isn’t that sweet?”

  Sw
eet? Brinley didn’t know how to respond.

  Zoe patted Quincy’s chest. “Let’s get to dinner before you put the other foot in your mouth.”

  “Ladies first.” Quincy stepped back but still held Zoe’s hand.

  It was endearing. Brinley couldn’t remember the last time Phinn held her hand. Every time they’d been together they’d done nothing but argue and bicker about one thing or another. That went on for two whole years.

  “I’d like to do your hair,” Quincy suddenly said to Brinley. “I think I can get some curls in there.”

  “I like it straight. Thank you, though.”

  At the table near the orchestra platform, Brinley spotted her parents conversing with a couple of people who’d stopped by the table. Brinley waited until Dad saw her.

  “Brinley Brin!” Dad leapt out of his chair.

  Brinley was glad to see that Dad continued to recover well from his stroke. His speech had improved in the last few months, and now he was looking more like himself. She wondered whether this was a good time to talk to Dad about the changes in her life, her desire to take a break from Brooks Investments, a sabbatical to find herself.

  Brinley hugged both of them. It had been six months since she last saw Mom and four months since she last saw Dad. Funny how it went. In high school and college, she couldn’t wait to get out of her parents’ hair. Now that she was out in the corporate world and traveling eighty percent of her time, she missed home. Missed eating dinners with her parents. Missed chatting with Dad. And sometimes she even missed going shopping with Mom.

  “Where’s Phinn, dear?” Mom dabbed her lips gently with a gold-threaded napkin.

  “We broke up in the summer, remember?”

  “I thought he’d be back by now.”

  “It’s really over, Mom.” Finally.

  Mom knotted her eyebrows. “I can’t believe you let him go. He’s quite a catch.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Guess what, Brinley Brin?”

  “What, Dad?” It was a game they had played since she was four years old. Guess what, Brinley Brin? What, Dad?

  “Aunt Ella is here.”

  “Is she?” How did Aunt Ella get here from West Palm Beach? She hated long road trips, but she hated flying even more. It would take her at least nine or ten hours with frequent stops on the way to get from West Palm to Sea Island. “Did someone drive her up?”

  “Her caregiver. Apparently she has friends on Hilton Head. After Christmas she’ll come back here and pick up Ella and they’ll go home.”

  “Here she comes now.” Mom pointed with her chin.

  Brinley turned. There she was. Aunt Ella, coming across the plush carpet with a piece of toilet paper trailing behind the sole of her Mary Jane shoes.

  Someone ought to tell her.

  Sure enough, a server did. He squatted down to remove the stuck paper, and was rewarded with a whack-whack-whack on his shoulders.

  Aunt Ella retracted her massive purse. Brinley figured that her hard-of-hearing Aunt Ella must not have heard him tell her that he was trying to help.

  Dad moaned. “Great. Another lawsuit coming up.”

  Brinley rushed to Aunt Ella’s side. The octogenarian paused for a split second. Then she lurched forward with her arms open wide and hugged Brinley before she could say anything.

  Eccentric she might be, Aunt Ella was still Grandpa Brooks’s younger sister. Yes, she was technically Great-Aunt Ella. And her name wasn’t really Ella either. It was Ursula. Grandpa Brooks had liked to tell that she became Ella when none of her siblings—all gone now—could pronounce Ursula when they were kids.

  Any interaction with Aunt Ella only reminded Brinley of lost memories and happy days with Grandpa Brooks back when he was still alive and well and eager to show her his private collection of musical instruments. Yes, he’d bequeathed the collection all to Brinley. At a very high price and at a cost to her relationship with Phinn and all the other boyfriends before him.

  “Do you still drive?” Aunt Ella asked.

  “Pardon me?” Brinley was taken aback by the question.

  “Can you handle a vehicle?” Aunt Ella emphasized each syllable slowly.

  “Yes, ma’am. Why?”

  “I need a ride to a Christmas luncheon. Will you take me?”

  Saying “I don’t feel like it” to Aunt Ella was like saying no to Grandpa Brooks. “If I’m around, of course. When is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  “This Saturday?”

  Aunt Ella nodded.

  “I guess I’ll be here.”

  “Thank you, Brin. You know this could be the last time I see you.”

  “You said that last year, Aunt Ella.” And every year before that since Grandpa Brooks had passed away.

  A flurry of server activities around them caught Brinley’s attention. “Let’s get to our seats, Aunt Ella.”

  “Time to eat!” Aunt Ella’s eyes positively sparkled. She shuffled forward more quickly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Brinley matched her pace.

  Dear Aunt Ella. No husband. No children. No grandchildren. She lived in a big old house that Grandpa Brooks had bought for her. It came with a housekeeper, a cook, a round-the-clock caregiver, and all the money in the world she could spend.

  Alone.

  All alone.

  Brinley wondered if she might end up like that. She held her great-aunt’s wobbly, fragile elbow. “Where are you sitting, Aunt Ella?”

  Aunt Ella pointed to the empty seat two place settings away from a diminutive silver-haired lady smiling at something Quincy said to her. She was wearing a dress that Brinley thought she’d seen in World War II museums. It looked like cotton. Maybe it was from the era. A history buff, she had to know. Dad had often teased her about the misappropriation of her MBA because she was more at home as a historian and preservationist than as the top sales executive at Brooks Investments.

  “I’ll sit next to you,” Brinley offered.

  “Where’s Phinn going to sit?”

  Phinn?

  “Phinn and I are not together anymore, Aunt Ella.”

  “Good for you. Everybody, but you, knew he’s a loser.”

  Chapter Three

  Ivan McMillan wasn’t entirely certain what had transpired. He hadn’t intended to play Air for Brinley Brooks. He and Petrocelli had planned the three-and-a-half minute movement as an interstice to give the rest of the orchestra a break.

  But she had walked into his line of sight at that moment.

  Our moment.

  Was it possible for something like this to happen? If so, why now? He had met Brinley the year before. Between then and now, nothing had happened. No connection, no circumstances, no calling to bring them together. Obviously, they had lived in different worlds.

  They still lived in different worlds.

  Ivan reached for his beard but it wasn’t there.

  Oh yeah. I shaved it off this morning.

  His eyes found Brinley again. She was sitting next to Grandma Yun at the Brooks family table. She had a somewhat understated beauty about her and a face so pleasant to look at that all Ivan could think about were breezy summer days—

  Tap! Tap!

  Ivan heard a throat clearing and more taps.

  What?

  Ivan looked up. Conductor Petrocelli inhaled noisily and his eyes shot him darts of “I will fire you” as his right hand tapped his baton so hard on the music stand that Ivan thought the man’s favorite control stick was going to break in two.

  Ivan snapped to attention. Any misstep and Petrocelli would yank that concertmaster chair out from under him. He needed this job. Between his SISO first violin and concertmaster salaries and his music studio income, he was barely able to support himself and Grandma and pay off all those debts, let alone find a girlfriend to—

  Girlfriend?

  Nah.

  He couldn’t help looking at her, though. Brinley was talking to Grandma Yun, who looked a bit tired. It had been a mistake to drag the n
onagenarian to this dinner party. He had thought Grandma might enjoy some free food, spend some time with her two grandsons, and listen to him play in SISO.

  Grandma hardly ever got out of the house these days except to go to church and the doctor’s. Doing things cost money that they didn’t have, and Grandma would rather they put every penny toward paying off the three mortgages that Grandpa Otto had left them and those remaining medical bills from her hip replacement.

  Yet looking at Grandma in that straight-back chair put a strain on Ivan’s shoulders in that tight thrift shop tuxedo jacket he was wearing, as if he should take Grandma home right away so she could be more comfortable in her rocker. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t leave. The dinner party for Quincy’s girlfriend wouldn’t end for a couple more hours though Quincy had promised to take Grandma home at nine o’clock before the after-party began.

  Ivan prayed to God that Grandma would last another two hours. She’d been there with him since six o’clock when SISO gathered for a preconcert warmup. Grandma had graciously sat through the rehearsal, a smile on her face the entire time.

  She still wore that sweet smile as she chatted with Brinley.

  Brinley, who had stood there rooted to the carpet when he played Air on the G String.

  He could play it again and again for her the rest of his—

  What am I thinking?

  It can never be.

  Two different worlds, remember? Even here, the situation was clear. Across from Grandma at the table, the parents of the birthday girl held court, a steady stream of people stopping by to hug them or shake their hands. All of coastal Georgia probably knew them for their generosity to the communities but also for their historical preservation efforts, not to mention their underwriting SISO. It was all chump change to them, probably, as was this guest cottage.

  Only a guest cottage. Imagine that.

  These people have money coming out of their ears.

  He wondered what could happen to the Brooks family now that his brother, Quincy, was dating one of their daughters. Quincy wasn’t exactly the epitome of steady income-producing men. He’d gone from job to job, from being a roofer to a student and now a hairstylist.