by Darien Gee
“I don’t really have a problem with the design itself,” he tells them. “Though I have to tell you that I don’t really give a shit about all that eco crap. I just feel that the artistry is missing. Where is the passion? I don’t see it.” He waves his hand toward the plans. “I want a firm that’s going to give me passion. You understand?”
For once Vivian is caught off guard. “I can assure you, Bruno …”
“I don’t want assurances. I have lawyers—they give me assurances. The firm that works with me has to have passion. Chicago isn’t New York, but it holds its own promise of the American Dream. This town has had its fair share of fires—I want to bring that into 227. Something hot. Alive. Dangerous. And yet full of promise.”
What the hell? A few weeks ago Lemelin was talking about an eclectic mix of colors, a bright mosaic. He wanted to use every color of the rainbow in a way that was fun and uplifting, natural, not tacky. Every element they chose to use, inside and out, was selected on that premise. While tasteful, they most certainly are not hot. That’s not just a new design, that’s a completely different take, a completely different project.
“I can look at the color palette …” Vivian glances at Mark, who doesn’t know what to say.
“Do whatever you need to do. If you want this project, you’re going to have to fight for it. Three weeks.” Lemelin stands up and shakes their hands, then strides off toward his car without a backward glance.
“Damn.” Vivian starts jamming things into her briefcase. “I should have taken that champagne while I had the chance.”
Mark watches Vivian gather their things. She looks tired, her playful demeanor replaced by one of surrender, defeat.
Mark feels guilty. Vivian has done everything she can to help get this deal and hold it together. He doesn’t want to give her too much credit and yet at the same time, she deserves it. “Sorry about all this, Vivian.”
“What are you apologizing for?” Vivian rolls up the plans. “He’s playing us. Always has. He just wants to see what we can come up with, and then he’ll take our ideas to a bigger player with a bigger name.”
With a sinking feeling, Mark knows she’s probably right. “Well, I’m not giving up yet,” he says. “We’ve gotten this far, we may as well go all the way.” Three more weeks of hell. He can do it.
Vivian looks at him, suspicious.
“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the street. It’s still early. Julia is off with her friends and Gracie is in good hands with Livvy. “I’ll buy you a drink.” He owes her that at least.
They walk out of the building and are immediately greeted by a strong wind. The papers threaten to fly off but Mark grabs a firm hold of everything, including Vivian, and they battle their way to the parking garage.
Is that Mark? Julia can’t be sure, but it looks like him, right across the street. He’s with a woman and they’re huddled together, braving a Chicago wind that has come up out of nowhere. Julia watches the man who looks like her husband turn the corner and disappear from view.
Should she run after him? What would she say? She’s seeing things. It couldn’t be Mark. Mark is in Avalon, at home with Gracie. He doesn’t even know she’s here. And why would he be here with another woman? It’s dusk, too dark to really say for sure, but Julia knows his walk, knows his shadow. Doesn’t she?
Hannah is next to her, her pashmina wrapped tightly around her. “I think I’m going to go back to the hotel,” she says at that moment, turning on her heel.
“What? No, we’re already here, Hannah.” Julia gets a firm grip on Hannah’s arm. “We’ll sit through the performance and then if you don’t want to see him, we’ll go. Okay?”
Hannah nods. “I need chocolate,” she says weakly.
“We’ll order chocolate back at the hotel,” Julia promises. She glances back to the empty corner where she thought she saw her husband. She shakes her head—it must have been an illusion. “We’ll order up one of those chocolate fountains, just for you.” She turns back to Hannah and gives her a distracted pat on the arm. “Now let’s go inside.”
Inside the lobby of Symphony Center, Julia is caught off guard by the throng of people. It’s overwhelming at first, the bodies bumping into one another, a stray hand on her shoulder or waist, gently moving her in or out of place as people navigate their way around.
Julia finds herself relaxing, enjoying the anonymity, the busy cacophony that feels so appropriate, so carefree. Here, everyone is a stranger but oddly familiar. She glides along, content to follow Hannah through the wave of people.
A few men and women greet Hannah, give her hugs and kisses on the cheek, exchange pleasantries. Julia does catch a few concerned glances but Hannah doesn’t seem to notice. It’s a look of sympathy or, possibly, pity. It suddenly occurs to Julia that this is how people must have looked at her, too, not because of a wayward husband, but because of a lost son.
They find their seats. As their bodies sink luxuriously into the plush crimson cushions, Julia turns to focus on the stage in front of her. As the auditorium darkens, she feels a tremor of excitement, a thrill rushing through her body as the orchestra warms up. She knows they are here so that Hannah can see Philippe, but somehow that seems more of a means to an end. Perhaps the real reason they are here is so that Julia can have this moment, this perfect moment where she can witness 109 people of different ages, backgrounds, and ethnicities, each with their own stories and tragedies and moments of joy, play together in perfect harmony.
She sees him before he even steps foot on the stage. She pictures him slipping on his jacket, the black coat of his tuxedo. He nods and laughs, sharing a joke or two with the other musicians, but his mind will be on the music. People will be warming up everywhere, in the dressing rooms, in the hallways, but Philippe will play and walk, like a fiddler at a restaurant, moving between tables. He’ll climb the stairs to the stage this way, playing as he goes, warming up his fingers, his neck. Then he’ll stop, roll his shoulders, wait for his cue, then tuck his violin under his arm and walk out on stage, head held high.
Hannah’s eyes skim over the musicians she knows. It’s a comfort that with the exception of a handful of faces, she recognizes everyone. Perhaps things haven’t changed as much as she had feared. She’s been away from this life a long time but she hasn’t forgotten the highs and lows of being a performing artist with a major symphony or orchestra. Madeline was right—she and Philippe are not like other couples. This is their home, this is their family.
When she sees the familiar mop of dark hair—he cut it! When did he cut it?—Hannah holds her breath. Can he see her, sense her in this crowd of two thousand people? It’s a full house. Does he know she’s there?
The box seats in section F give them a clear view of the violin section. He’s so close that she can see his cowlick, the way his dark hair flips up at the peak of his forehead. Philippe has his eyes lowered, the corners of his mouth turned down in a slight frown. Hannah feels a flood of love for her husband. When the conductor raises his baton, Hannah is immediately swept away by the music and filled with hope.
CHAPTER 16
The bar is right around the corner from Symphony Center. It’s a restaurant, actually, and they have to fight their way upstream against last-minute stragglers on their way to catch a performance.
“You have season tickets, don’t you?” Mark remembers.
Vivian nods. “I’m a bit of a buff but I hate going alone.” She doesn’t bring up what happened at her apartment. “I donated the tickets back for the rest of the season. I need to keep my focus on the Lemelin project anyway.”
“Whoa. Philanthropic and a strong work ethic. I’m impressed.”
“You should be,” she says. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
They sit in the lounge and order drinks—passion fruit margarita for Vivian, vodka martini for Mark.
“That’s some drink,” he says when they bring out her margarita. It’s like an art deco margarita, colorful a
nd elaborate.
“Here, have a sip,” she offers. She holds it out, the rim of salt perfect and untouched.
“No, no.” Mark holds up his martini. “I’m set.”
“Suit yourself.” Vivian takes a sip then settles back in her chair. She takes a look around with a sigh of disgust. “God, what a scene. That’s one thing I don’t miss.”
What scene? Mark looks around but doesn’t see anybody making a scene. “What do you mean?”
“The whole dating scene. The first date, the blind date. The bad date. Ugh.” She shudders and holds up her drink. “This is why I throw myself into my work.” She seems to be gesturing to the crowd lined up at the bar but she’s pointing her drink directly at Mark.
“So dating’s not your scene,” Mark recaps. “Is that what you’re saying?” They both laugh.
“You got it,” she says. She pulls out a thin wedge of pineapple from her drink.
“So what, then? You’re just going to work forever, forget about romance, marriage?”
“Marriage.” The top of her nose wrinkles. “I’m a realist, Mark. I know that romance and marriage don’t last. I mean, I’m sure there are some exceptions, but I wasn’t one of them.” She looks away, takes a long draw on her margarita.
“You were married?” Mark asks. He’s surprised. Vivian comes across as so fiercely independent, it’s hard to see her as part of a couple. He had checked her personnel file one night and saw that she’s thirty-one, thirteen years younger than he is.
“Twice. First time I was in college—I left with only one year to go. My boyfriend was going to medical school in Texas and gave me an ultimatum. We got married, moved to Houston. I worked two jobs to pay off his school loans. He left me four years later when he graduated.
“The second time I thought I did better. I went for the ambitious guy, the guy who didn’t need me to wait tables so he could get a degree. He paid for me to finish school, bought me nice things, let me decorate the house. Money was no object.” She gives a biting laugh. “I made the most of that one. But I was good, you know? I oversaw the renovation for our house, for the properties belonging to some of his friends, some of his clients. He was in real estate, subprime mortgages, that sort of thing. We had a shitload of money.”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he tells her. He’s uncomfortable seeing Vivian in this light, doesn’t want too many details in case it makes a mess of things.
She looks up at him, shrugs. “I’m over it,” she says indifferently, but Mark notices that she has a white knuckle grip on the stem of her margarita glass. “The economy went bust, his company went bust, my marriage went bust. Fortunately I had a feeling something was going to happen, so I’d been putting money aside for a rainy day. Then I ran out. Who knew it would be such a fucking downpour?” She finishes her drink.
“Come on, Vivian,” he says, trying to cheer her up. “You’ve got so much going for you. You could have any guy.”
She stares at him in disbelief. “Oh my God. You’re giving me the break-up speech.”
Mark is startled. “What? No, I’m not.”
Vivian bursts out laughing. “The hell you’re not! You’re giving me the break-up speech and there’s nothing to break up. We’re not even dating!” She’s laughing hysterically now, bona fide tears rolling out of her eyes. She motions to the waitress for another drink. “I know I’m in trouble when guys are giving me the break-up speech and we haven’t even slept together. Jesus!” She erupts in laughter again.
“Vivian, I was not giving you the break-up speech, I was being serious …”
“Serious? Uh-oh. Are you going to give me the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech next?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Because I’m a really great girl!” She says this sarcastically.
“You are a really great girl, Vivian,” Mark says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you …”
“For once, please stop being the nice guy, Mark!” Vivian grabs a cocktail napkin. She dabs her eyes, quickly composing herself. Her second margarita arrives and she doesn’t look at the waitress, just accepts the drink and takes a sip, glaring at Mark. “You’re the world’s most perfect martyr,” she snaps. “It’s never your fault, no one can ever blame you for anything because you’ve had a personal tragedy. We’ve all had personal tragedies, Mark. You’re not the only one.”
Mark feels himself tighten inside. “I have never used my personal life as an excuse for my professional one,” he says, clenching his teeth.
“You don’t have to! Everyone else does it for you. Poor Mark, he just needs some time. Poor Mark, his wife won’t talk to him.”
“You don’t know anything about Julia. You don’t even know her.” He debates getting up and walking out. Or firing her.
Vivian looks disgusted. “Oh please. It’s a small office, Mark. You think people don’t talk? And look, here you go, defending her again. There goes Mark, defending his wife! Isn’t he great? He can’t hold on to a client, he’s blown his one chance at success, but what a guy!” She finishes her drink and picks up her purse. “What’s it going to take for you to make a stand, take a chance? Bruno thinks you’re weak, that’s why he doesn’t want to give you the project.” She stands up, eyes flashing, taunting him. Challenging him. “Be a man, Mark.”
The top button of her blouse has come undone. Mark can see the lace from her bra, the creamy curve of her breast. Vivian is right. He’s been acting like a guy without balls, scared to make the wrong move, always wanting to keep the peace, keep everybody happy.
He watches Vivian sway, trying to keep her balance, all 5′9″ of her plus a couple of extra inches for those sexy heels. She’s beautiful even if she is a little tipsy.
Mark throws a few bills down on the table and stands up, getting a firm grip on Vivian’s elbow. “I know what you need,” he says. His voice is low.
She looks up at him, her lids heavy, and she leans into the curve of his body. She’s the right height for a guy like Mark—physically he can tell they’re a good fit. Even Julia is a bit too tall, almost the same height as him, a good match but not like this.
“What do I need?” Vivian whispers. Her words are almost slurring as her lips part expectantly. “Tell me.”
Mark guides them out of the bar, aware that Vivian’s hand is trailing suggestively down his arm. They approach the hostess stand at the entrance. “You need some dinner. Table for two, please.”
“Philippe?” Hannah is backstage now, the concert having been over for half an hour. It had been absolutely brilliant, a selection of Beethoven’s masterpieces including his Fidelio Overture, Opus 72, one of her favorite pieces of all time. The music left her on a high, and even Julia was glowing, ecstatic.
Julia surprised them both by deciding to brave the post-performance reception before returning to the hotel. Hannah is chatty and animated as she fights her way through the wave of familiar faces, all anxious to greet her, to find out how she’s been. She knows people are happy to see her and while she does want to catch up, they’re only serving to delay her reunion with her husband. As she approaches him, she sees why.
It’s the violist, Janet Vandesteeg. She was a year behind Hannah at Juilliard. She teaches orchestral repertoire for viola at Northwestern, and it was Hannah who actually introduced her to Philippe when he first joined CSO. Given the way Janet’s arms are wrapped around her husband, that was clearly a mistake.
Janet and Philippe are kissing. It’s not a polite kiss or a social kiss, nor is it the airy double-cheek kiss that Philippe is so fond of. It’s a romantic, passionate, intimate kiss. A whole-body kiss that is so entirely inappropriate and off-putting and yet Hannah can’t turn away. It takes her a moment before she finds her voice, first a whisper and then louder. “Philippe!”
It’s Janet who actually hears her. Their kiss interrupted, Janet is quick to disentangle herself and step away. The other musicians are embarrassed and mumble excuses or just leave. In a matter of seconds, it seems, the room has cleared. Ph
ilippe scowls as he crosses the room to where Hannah stands.
Hannah is amazed that Janet has the gall to stay, and at the same time finds herself unable to stop staring at her. Janet used to be as flat chested as Hannah, who struggles to fill a B-cup. But now Janet is all curvy and voluptuous with breasts that threaten to spill out of her dress. She’s also done something to her hair—it’s now glossy with a slight curl, like something out of a Pantene commercial. Or maybe it’s more of a Lauren Bacall thing with that smoky look, full of allure and mystery. Hannah decides that she officially hates her.
“Hannah!” Philippe’s voice is low but seems to fill the room. “What are you doing here?” Philippe blocks her view of Janet and Hannah actually has to crane her neck in order to see her again. Janet is pretending to look at something on the ceiling.
“I wanted to talk,” Hannah says. She looks at her husband, tries to summon anger. He’s cheating on her! With Janet! She knew he wasn’t being faithful (it wasn’t like she thought it was the maid who had answered the phone that day) and yet here she is, she’s standing here in front of him—in front of them—and trying to have a conversation.
Wake up, Hannah!
Ironically it’s Philippe who looks put out. “Hannah, now is not the time. I just finished a performance, for God’s sake.” His voice is curt. “Go home. I’ll call you tomorrow.” His hand is on her elbow as he steers Hannah toward the door.
“Go home where?” she asks. “The apartment, you mean?”
By the way Janet whips her head in their direction and Philippe is glowering, that would be a no.
“Oh,” Hannah drawls. “You mean back to Avalon.”
“Hannah …”
“Don’t Hannah me, Philippe.” She glares at him and he takes a step back, uncertain of the woman in front of him. “You don’t get to do that anymore. I don’t know why I even let you do that to me before.” She tries to laugh but it comes out a strangled cry. “I mean, when you told me to trust you, I trusted you. When you told me things would be fine, I nodded my head. When you told me you were staying in the city because the commute was too hard—guess what? I believed you. Because you’re my husband and because you said you loved me. And I loved you. But not anymore.” Hannah feels a surge of power, of confidence. Philippe no longer looks menacing. Instead he looks pathetic.
