“I don’t do dragons,” he said. “Just handkerchiefs.”
When she’d regained as much composure as possible, which was far from enough for her, she tried to apologize, even if she wasn’t sure exactly what for. Sex with Garth? Harley having his nose rubbed in it? She got out, “I’m sorry,” before Harley stopped her with a finger to her lips, then a kiss, a light, soft kiss.
“Chopin,” she said.
“No, Harley.”
She laughed. “No, I mean Chopin when he’s gentle makes me think of soft kisses.”
“Well, then,” he said, and he gave her another. “Now, your parents are probably looking for you. Maybe I’ll see you at brunch.”
“Hope so.”
He squeezed her hand, then walked her to the main building where a police car sat out front. “Ah,” said Harley, “Another load of Sutherland shit. Pardon me while I escape the stink.”
“I bet they’re talking to Lorene about last night.”
Harley shook his head. “See you later.” And he was gone, leaving her in a sort of wounded bliss.
“Where are the cops?” Jennalee asked her father when she came up to the front desk. “Are they talking to Lorene? What room is she in? Arthur and Lorene Sutherland with a U.”
Gerald looked at her like she’d flown in from outer space, shook his head, then said, “Never mind. Where were you?”
“Up at the bluff with Harley while he practiced.”
“Who?”
She huffed. “Dad. Harley Laidlaw, the punk violinist I accompanied last night.”
“Oh, right. Okay, only no, it’s not. The Witherspoons have already set up for the brunch and Marian came by asking if you’d play piano during the meal, something soft. I suggested Chopin.”
“You want to rent me out?”
“No. There’s no money involved. It’s strictly voluntary and I said you would. Starts at ten. Go put on something decent, less skin.”
When she stood firm, he gave her his most endearing, sheepish look. “Please,” he said.
She caved. “Okay. It does beat waiting tables.”
It was as she stood at her open closet that Garth’s awful words struck her again. She felt shame return along with an awful heat. She stepped to the mirror and saw her face gone red. How could he? she wondered. It was the meanest thing ever, meaner than Donna Witherspoon’s name calling, meaner than her father uprooting her. And Harley heard it, the nicest guy on the planet. He should have ditched her then and there, not taken her in like some orphan. He could be replaying Garth’s words right this second, thinking about her spreading her legs for the hunky one. She felt herself sinking until a knock came on her door.
“Lee, get moving,” said her mother. “It’s ten.”
Jane didn’t wait for a reply and for this Jennalee was grateful. She decided Chopin would rescue her, so she put on a sleeveless white blouse with a navy collar and navy capris but kept on her pink sandals. She let her hair down, brushed it, and was out the door.
Sutherlands crowded the entrance to the Oak Room so she had to slip in around the edge. “Lee,” said Kendall Sutherland, whose head popped up beyond the throng.
“Hi, Kendall,” she said as she broke free of the glut and headed toward the piano.
Soon as she was on the bench, Marian Sutherland was at her side. “This is so good of you, my dear, just a delight. You played so well last night. Everyone was quite impressed and I’m sure you’ll do fine now. Nothing too bold. Your father said you do Chopin. I don’t know him, but trust he’s calming.”
“He can be. I’ll play the Nocturnes.”
“Mother!” a man cried from across the room. Jennalee turned to see Winslow Sutherland frantically waving his arms. She couldn’t imagine anything urgent at a brunch.
People were still loading plates when she began to play. Since she was in for the long haul, she started with Nocture No. 16, her favorite. There were twenty-one in all and she’d sort of grown up with them, working her way down the list, then back up, down, up. She never tired of Chopin. As she began the piece, she thought of Mr. Mendel, who would be proud of her present situation. “Here’s to you, Mr. Mendel,” she whispered.
Once Marian Sutherland had tended her frantic son, she swirled back to Jennalee to stand beaming, hands together as if in prayer. “Yes, that’s wonderful,” she said. “Oh, yes.” And then she swirled away, going from table to table like some bee. Yeah, thought Jennalee. Queen bee.
She knew Chopin so well, she could play him while scanning the room to see when Harley came in. She saw Kendall eating toast, eyes fast upon her, undoubtedly with a hard-on. She saw Sutherlands she’d met and ones she hadn’t, many never before appearing to her. Had they come just for the day? Not a bad idea, skip the drunken pool parties, down a free meal, then flee.
After about an hour, she took a break, not announcing it, just stopping to get up and move about. She got a glass of orange juice from the buffet and thought people might comment on her playing, but nobody did. Put them to sleep, she decided. Nocturnes will do that. She considered something more dramatic or no, not dramatic, just lively. Bach would stir people. Beethoven could knock them out of their seats, but she saw Marian beaming at her again and relented. Once she’d finished the juice, she settled in for more nocturnes.
Her mother came in during this set, standing so Jennalee could see her, on purpose Jennalee thought. Beaming, of course. Parental pride. The dutiful daughter smiled at her mother, which caused further beaming. Then Marian was at Jane’s side, undoubtedly praising the playing, for they turned to Jennalee and double beamed her.
It wasn’t Harley who came in to brunch. It was Garth. He didn’t look toward Jennalee, but went to the buffet where both Donna and Andrea served and he lingered with Andrea, drawing a finger up under her chin as he leaned in to speak. Jennalee’s fingers got away from her just then, continuing with the piece on their own while she reeled so badly, she thought she might fall off the bench. Only when the man in line behind Garth said something to him did he move on.
He settled at a table next to Parker and Kimmie, and Jennalee saw how friendships within the family were maintained, little pockets who huddled together for safety from the nut fringe. Kyle and Melody were also at the table, little Kipp in a high chair, baby Eric in his mother’s lap. It was when Melody began to breastfeed the baby that things erupted.
“You can’t do that in here!” cried Noel Sutherland, jumping up from the next table. “There are children present!”
A man across from Noel, who Jennalee didn’t recognize, leaned across to quietly offer what appeared to be reason, but was brushed off with a wave of the hand. Phyllis Sutherland’s head hung as she tried to make herself small while the three boys tried to see what was going on. Of course they likely wouldn’t have been drawn to the exposed breast had not their father made a thing about it and, sure enough, the one who seemed oldest was craning around his father to see.
Kyle remained in his seat as he advised Noel to calm down. “It’s perfectly natural,” he reminded a man who had surely seen such a thing before, what with three children.
“Not at the breakfast table, it’s not!” shouted Noel. He was quickly escalating and Jennalee, whose fingers the outburst had returned to their natural state, decided the moment required better accompaniment. She stopped the Nocturne to jump into a lively Étude called The Horseman, which she thought had the appropriate galloping quality. A couple people looked her way, one with a smirk, the other openly laughing.
It was Parker Sutherland who stood, hand squeezing his wife’s shoulder before he strode over to Noel. Parker was a good two inches shorter, but he outweighed Noel considerably, not to mention he appeared substantial where Noel, despite his best effort, came off as desperate. “No need to make a scene,” Parker said. Jennalee’s galloping Étude suddenly required a lighter touch if she was going to hear what was said. “If you’ll notice, nobody else is offended, so why don’t you just sit down and enjoy your breakf
ast? If sight of breastfeeding bothers you, the solution is not to look.”
Noel appeared ready to explode. “Come on,” he commanded his wife, who slowly got up, shoulders slumped. She got the boys out of their seats, one complaining he wasn’t done eating, and as Noel strode from the room with head high, his family followed as if they were headed not to gallows but maybe to view a hanging.
Parker, before he resumed his seat, leaned over Melody’s shoulder and said something. She nodded, returned a comment, and brunch settled back into a happily noisy meal, breastfeeding and all. Jennalee went back to Nocturnes.
She looked around for Vaughn and Anita Southerland, but they were absent. She wondered if they were in jail. And where was the old man? He was at their mercy, what with his wheelchair. She hoped somebody had checked on him. She spotted Troy and Carl sitting with some U’s and wasn’t that some kind of family breach, O’s communing with U’s? Vaughn should be here for this, thought Jennalee. She fixed on Troy, gay Troy, and put Harley beside him instead of Carl. Then she put them into what she knew was a gay sexual position, doglike, which caused her to strike a wrong key. Aghast, she hurried on, knowing nobody heard. Just her, and maybe Mr. Mendel, who always advised never to stop, not unless she felt faint or worse.
Where was Harley? she wondered when she’d recovered and chased off all gay notions. He’d said he’d see her at brunch or no, said he might see her. Which was it? And where were his folks? Had they all gone into town and had the special at Denny’s? No, couldn’t be, she never heard motorcycles. Just Garth’s and no, not about to replay that. A shudder rolled through her before she switched to another Étude, The Butterfly, which, though less than a minute in length, had a wonderful fluttering quality. After that she did The Bees, which was her showing off because the Études were all busy pieces, her hands flying over the keys which she loved, racing along while making beauty. Now heads turned. Now conversations stopped. Her mother, who stood with Benita Witherspoon near the buffet table, started beaming again while Benita stood with mouth open. Jennalee had never felt so onstage before. And it was wonderful.
She could have remained onstage, so to speak, had not Lorene Sutherland sauntered in. She wore a bright yellow halter top and shorts, her tan all but glowing. Large yellow hoop earrings dangled from beneath her mane of dark hair. Not one minute later, Vaughn Southerland came in, looking around as if he didn’t know Lorene was there, which had the opposite effect, at least to Jennalee. They’d been off somewhere fucking, she decided, maybe Building Three again or no, another spot, maybe Building Eight because it was at the back. Imagine if Noel Sutherland looked out his window and saw that.
Vaughn had that prideful look men—and boys, she’d discovered—displayed when they’d spent themselves that way. Lorene kept her distance, playing cool, aloof, but once plates were filled, the two just happened to secure places at a table with Alden Sutherland, the madman, as well as some of the nameless.
They sat across from each other, Lorene and Vaughn, but it didn’t matter. Even Jennalee, who launched into another Nocturne, saw their silent exchanges and she wondered if Vaughn had a hard-on under the table, like Kendall, who had undoubtedly kept his during the whole of her performance.
Chopin was good for people, at least in Jennalee’s world. He soothed wounds, engaged hearts, and proved an all-around good guy. She was musing along these lines when Anita Southerland rushed in like a hound on the chase. She even raised her nose to sniff before charging Vaughn’s table.
“You animal!” she yelled, at which Vaughn stood to offer her an upturned hand, like a traffic cop to an oncoming car.
Alden Sutherland, evidently fearing physical violence, jumped between the pair. “Vaughn, Anita,” said the CEO, “let’s stay calm.”
“Out of my way,” commanded Vaughn, shoving Alden aside in what Jennalee saw was a mistake, saw it before Vaughn did. Alden didn’t hesitate. He drove a fist into Vaughn’s stomach, doubling him over, and, as if this wasn’t enough, pulled him upright and hit him in the jaw.
Others now jumped in, but every move to stop the fight seemed to make it worse. Troy and Carl came to Vaughn’s rescue, grabbing Alden, who turned and swung, missing Troy who ducked, but catching Carl in the face. As he went down, Troy slapped Alden, which sent him reeling, more from surprise than the slap itself, or so Jennalee thought.
As the melee kept on, Jennalee switched to an Étude, deciding as she zoomed through the piece that this was what it must have been like to play on the Titanic.
“That’s enough!” came a woman’s scream. “Goddammit, I said enough!”
Marian Sutherland’s voice, when raised to its most powerful level, had a shrill quality that demanded attention. Everyone stopped fighting, even Vaughn after he landed a punch into Alden’s kidney, sending the man to his knees.
“Enough!” Marian screamed again. “I won’t have the weekend ruined!”
“Too late,” gasped Alden, still on his knees and ghostly white.
Just then Gerald stepped into the room, uttering a “What in hell?” when he saw remnants of the fracas. He went to Jennalee, who stopped playing. “What’s going on?” he asked her.
“Sutherland shit, as Harley calls it,” she replied.
Anita now began to wail and Vaughn issued a “Shut the fuck up” before storming out. When Lorene attempted to follow—where was her husband? Jennalee wondered—Anita caught her by the arm. “You’re nothing to him,” Anita growled. “He’ll fuck anything that moves.”
“Piss off,” said Lorene, yanking free. She then hurried out. Anita, stunned at the rebuke, lasted less than a minute before following.
Alden was now in a chair, Carl had a makeshift ice pack on his swelling cheek, and Sutherlands were cleaning up dishes and glassware jarred from tables. Water glasses were refilled by Donna Witherspoon while Jane, who had retreated to a corner when the fight broke out, now approached her daughter. “Really something, isn’t it?” Jennalee said. “Sutherland shit,” and Jane broke out laughing.
The funny thing was the rest of the party resumed their seats and got on with brunch. Mimosas flowed while some Sutherlands got back in line to refill plates, still others huddling to discuss events. Jennalee’s parents were taken up by the distraught Marian, so Jennalee decided to resume playing. She returned to the Nocturnes to help calm things, and had nearly finished one when she felt somebody come up behind her.
She savored the moment because it was undoubtedly Harley. She finished playing with flair, hands floating up to drift above the keys until she heard, “Miss Preece?”
Her head snapped around to find Wesley. Wait, she thought. Wesley spoke?
“Do you know Mozart’s Turkish Rondo?” he asked.
Jennalee snorted a laugh, then saw he was serious. “How do you know that?” she asked.
He grinned and she saw he had good teeth. His gray hair still had traces of brown and she saw he might be younger than she’d thought, maybe fifty rather than ninety.
“I listen to more than Johnny Cash,” he said. “I have a Mozart record.”
“So you have a record player?”
“That I do. Better than TV. Waylon Jennings, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and Mozart. He was in with albums I got at a yard sale some years back, probably wondering at the company, so I decided to give him a try. I liked it, pretty and all, but that Rondo was something. Makes me want to dance.”
The outpouring rendered Jennalee speechless for a few seconds. Then she chuckled. “I do know the Rondo and I also like it a lot. Here you go.”
When she began to play the lively piece, fingers zooming over the keys in a number that took a good year to master, nobody but Wesley took note. Sutherlands continued eating, laughing, drinking, and swapping stories while Wesley, who had moved to stand beside the piano, danced in place, feet still but whole body quivering as the music raced along with its catchy tune. After all the Chopin, Jennalee liked cutting loose and that’s how she’d always considered the Rondo, Mozart goi
ng manic.
Soon Sutherlands started to notice. Talk fell away as the Rondo took over the room, took over Jennalee, as well. She hadn’t been so exhilarated in ages and, even while soaring with the challenging familiarity, she noted her present state higher than with sex. When she put her all into the final notes, Wesley broke into applause, alone at first, then one or two people joining in until all were clapping. Now Jennalee beamed. So did Wesley. She stood to take a little bow, deciding her program had concluded in high style.
“Thank you, Miss Preece,” said Wesley. “That was a real treat.”
“You’re welcome, and please call me Lee. I’m happy you like Mozart. Maybe I should try some Johnny Cash.”
Marian Sutherland, having regained her composure and settled at a table with some others, freed Jane and Gerald, who came over to their daughter. Jane gave her a big hug. “You were wonderful,” she gushed. “You are wonderful.”
Jennalee hugged her back. Had Chopin rescued her, too? “Do I have to do anything else?” she asked.
“Nope. You’re free. Why? Do you have plans?” Jane asked.
Jennalee shrugged. “I just want to find Harley. He didn’t show for brunch when he said he would.”
Jane looked at Gerald, who appeared exhausted by brunch events. No more was said, though Jane did offer the tentative smile parents of precocious teens exhibit when forcing trust. “Have fun,” she managed.
“Dad?” Jennalee said.
He had already turned to leave, raising his hand in a wave as he left.
“Is he okay?” she asked Jane.
“The Sutherlands are wearing on him.”
Jennalee laughed. “Tell me about it.”
Chapter 16
Sutherland Page 14
