She flexed her fingers and traced the zigzagged scar. She was playing music again. Warmth bloomed in her chest, but a little voice in her head stamped out her excitement.
Langley Park’s music prodigy threw away her talent years ago.
What makes you think you’re anything more than mediocre? You haven’t even played anything difficult.
You’ll never be as good as you were.
She glanced over at the violin case on her desk, shoved her hands into the hoodie’s pockets, and headed down to the kitchen. She set the kettle to boil and leaned against the kitchen counter.
In one day, she had seen Zoe, Ben, Kathy, Kate, and Jenna. She had run into Kyle Benson at Sadie’s Hollow, and she’d played the piano for the residents at the Senior Living Campus.
And then there was Michael.
Michael holding her in his arms. Michael smoothing back her hair. His fingertips grazing against her neck made her body want things it shouldn’t.
The kettle whistled, and Em poured the boiling water into a mug. Dunking a teabag, she surveyed the peeling paint on the kitchen cabinets. Maybe it was a good thing she had run into Ben Fisher. She would need his help to get the house ready to sell.
Ready to sell.
That was the reason for coming home, right? She needed to help her father sell the house, but then what? Go back to Australia? Sure, she loved working at the Renwick Centre and being close to her mother. But her life didn’t feel so black and white anymore. The anger that used to sustain her wasn’t enough.
She sipped the tea and looked out the window. Her carriage house sat dark, but there was a light on inside of Michael’s. The square windows glowed yellow-orange like a beacon in the darkness.
She slipped on her old rain boots and caught her reflection in the window. Messy bun. Oversized hoodie. Tiny sleep shorts and old rain boots. She looked like the definition of a train wreck. But her appearance didn’t matter. She was only going to Michael’s carriage house to ask after Mrs. Teller.
She opened the back door and gripped the hot mug. An icy breeze rustled the tree branches, and she doubled her pace as her breaths came in short excited gasps.
There was no reason to get worked up, but her heart disagreed. Of course, she wanted to ask Michael about Mrs. Teller. That was enough reason to be trudging across her backyard half-dressed, wasn’t it?
Before she could stop herself, she knocked on the side door. Michael opened it, and all thoughts of Mrs. Teller disappeared. Every time she looked at him, fire and ice coursed through her veins, and her heart beat like a pendulum swinging wildly between extremes.
Focus.
“Can I come in?”
Michael took a step back. “Sure, I was just…” He gestured to his laptop. It was connected to an electric piano keyboard.
Em surveyed the space. The Range Rover sat parked in the first stall. Michael’s computer along with the keyboard and a large computer monitor were situated on an L-shaped desk in the corner. An old futon sagged along the back wall, and a well-used punching bag hung in the far corner next to it. A space heater plugged in next to the door glowed red and was doing a pretty good job of keeping the room warm.
“Why don’t you do this in the house?” she asked, walking to the far corner and giving the punching bag a nudge.
Michael ran his hand along his jaw. “My dad never let me keep any of my equipment in the house. He never approved of it. He thought it was a distraction.”
“I get that. But now he’s…”
“Gone? Pretty much a vegetable?”
“No, Michael, you know that’s not what I meant.”
He nodded, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed.
Em went to the desk, set down her mug, and examined the screen. It looked more like something you would see in the hospital with wavy lines akin to a heart rate monitor. Her gaze was drawn to a piece of paper taped to the corner. It read: Chopin Nocturne 20 remix.
“Are you doing something with Nocturne?” she asked, knowing Michael heard her play the piece tonight.
“It’s nothing,” he said and reached to close his laptop, but Em placed her hand on top of his.
“Wait a second. Tell me what all those lines are,” she said, leaving her hand in place.
Michael opened his laptop, and the lines came to life.
“Sit,” he said, pulling out the chair. He slid the earphones over her ears then leaned over and gestured to the screen. “This is the EQ or equalization. It helps shape the frequencies of the sound.” He pointed to the next line. “This is compression. It controls the dynamics. The last line is reverb. It gives the sound space and can make something that was recorded in a small studio sound like it’s in a concert hall.”
He moved his finger across the laptop’s touchpad, and the music came to life inside the headphones. It was Chopin’s piece, but Michael had mixed in electronic and industrial sounds that added a depth of emotion she wasn’t prepared to hear.
The song ended, and she slipped the headphones down to hang around her neck. “Michael, that was incredible. You did that to Nocturne 20?”
He nodded but kept his eyes on the screen. “I’ve been playing with the idea of taking classical pieces and adding an electronic, modern element to them.”
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard.” It broke her heart that he felt he had to keep this part of himself hidden.
Michael bent down, and they were nose to nose. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers.
“Em,” he breathed. “You have to know. You haven’t lost any of your talent. You’ve still got it.”
She shook her head. “It’s not the same. I haven’t played anything technically difficult in over a decade. Anyone could have knocked out the pieces I performed tonight.”
“No,” Michael said, opening his eyes and cupping her face in his hands. “I know you. I’ve listened to you play the piano and the violin my entire life. I hear your music in my dreams. I’m telling you, you haven’t lost anything. I’d know. I’d be the one who would know if you did.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “I still need to know what happened.”
“I know,” he breathed and pressed his lips to hers. “Me, too.”
Her breaths were coming faster. Michael’s fingers traced the length of her jaw and settled on the headphones resting around her neck. He pulled back a fraction. Em craned her neck forward to try and reach him, but before she could move another inch, Michael gripped the headphones and pressed the ear pieces together. The pressure around her neck forced her to gasp, and he pressed his lips against her open mouth as their tongues met in a hot clash of desire, each kiss stoking the heat growing in her core.
Michael released the headphones, pushed them aside, and wrapped his bare hands around her neck. The exquisite pressure had her chest heaving as she gasped for air. This should have terrified her. For her, sex was about control. It hinged on manipulation and conquest. But right now, all she could think about was Michael twisting her pearl necklace the night he kissed her at Sadie’s Hollow.
No one else had ever touched her this way.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips. “You like this, don’t you,” he breathed.
“Yes,” she gasped, the delicious pressure forcing her to work for each breath.
He kept one hand on her neck and with the other, he unzipped the hoodie. His hand found her breast, and she arched into him as he kneaded the delicate flesh, and her nipples tightened into sharp peaks.
Michael pulled away, his hands releasing her neck and breast. He picked up the headphones and let them dangle from his index finger. “Put these on,” he said, then licked his lips.
Sweet Jesus, he was sexy when he was telling her what to do.
Em took the headphones and slid them over her ears. Michael pressed a button on his laptop, and his techno version of Chopin’s piece came streaming through. It filled her lust-infused mind with pulsing beats and the Nocturne’s haunting melody.
&nb
sp; Em kept her gaze locked with Michael’s, and when he mouthed, “Stand up,” she followed his command.
He swiveled the chair and sat down. She was about to protest his stealing her seat, but Michael pulled her into his lap, her back against his broad chest. Her ass pressed against the hard bulge of his cock straining against his pants.
She gripped the arms of the chair and let her legs fall open. Michael’s hand wrapped gently around her neck while the other traced a line from her sternum, down past her stomach, and slipped inside her pajama shorts. The thin fabric stretched as he cupped her sex. He dropped his hand from her neck and planted hot kisses on the delicate skin where his fingertips had pressed and teased her flesh.
Em rolled her head back, allowing it to fall against Michael’s chest. Her hips moved back and forth, rubbing against his length. Michael massaged her in a steady beat that matched the pulsing rhythm.
Her senses on overload, Em surrendered. She surrendered to the spearmint-lemongrass scent filling her nostrils. She surrendered to his mouth, hot and wet, nipping at the delicate skin below her earlobe. She surrendered to his touch as he worked her sweet bud. Reaching back and entwining her fingers into Michael’s auburn hair, she surrendered to it all, writhing with lust and grinding her ass against him like a bitch in heat.
Her orgasm tore through her like a crescendo. Like a thunderclap. Like a symphony’s grand finale. Every sound, every note, working in perfect harmony. She called out, and her words were a tangle of moans woven in with his name.
“Michael! Michael! Michael!”
He pulled the headphones off and tossed them on the floor. With one swift motion, he lifted her off his lap and had her teetering on the edge of the desk. Em grabbed onto Michael’s shirt. Had she been stronger, she would have ripped the damn thing off. But he read her mind and wrenched it off with one quick pull. Shirt discarded, Em let her fingers glide down the plane of his stomach, feeling each hard bump of muscle.
He cupped her face. “I nearly came in my fucking pants hearing you call out my name.” His mouth crashed onto hers as he gripped her ass and pulled her body flush with his.
“Why are you still wearing pants?” she panted against his lips.
“Fuck, Em. I always knew it would be like this,” he growled and unbuttoned his fly.
But just as the button came loose, a loud chime filled the air.
Michael froze, and the chime came again. He pulled away and picked up the cell phone sitting next to his laptop.
Em searched his face. “Who is it?”
Michael stared at the screen. His flushed skin paled into a ghostly white. “It’s my dad. Something’s wrong. They only call this late if it’s an emergency.”
17
“I’m coming with you,” Em said, tucking disheveled strands of hair behind her ears.
Michael pulled his T-shirt over his head and slid his cell phone into his pocket. “No, you’re not.”
She grabbed on to the hem of his shirt. “Give me a minute to run inside and put on some pants.”
“Em, you don’t want to see this.” Michael closed his eyes. “Christ, I don’t want to see this.”
“See what? Is your dad hurt?”
“I’ve directed the nursing staff to call me whenever he has an aggressive episode.”
Images of Noland punching Michael in the jaw during the children’s music recital flashed before her eyes.
“Please, Michael. I want to go with you. I might be able to help.”
His green eyes darkened. “My father has Stage Six Alzheimer’s. Do you know what that means?”
She didn’t answer.
“It means severe fucking decline. It means he can’t remember the people he sees every day. People he’s known his entire life. He has delusions. He thinks we’re all out to get him.”
Em lifted her chin. “You can either wait for me, or I’m driving to the campus myself. Either way, I’m going with you.”
“Jesus, Mary Michelle!” He dropped his head and closed his eyes. “Fine. I’ll pull up in front of your house. We’ll take the Audi.”
* * *
“Tony,” Michael said in a clipped tone. “Thank you for calling.”
“Sure thing, Michael,” the man replied. “Your dad is having a rough night. I’ve put in a call to his doctor. I’d like to give him something to help him calm down and get some rest. We should hear back any minute.”
Michael nodded. “Is it all right if Em MacCaslin joins me? She’s a friend of the family.”
Em’s lips cracked into a weak smile. Between her concern for Noland and Michael describing her as “a friend of the family,” she knew her expression looked far from friendly.
“Sign in, right here, Ms. MacCaslin,” the nurse said, eyeing the duffle bag hanging at her side, then handed her a name tag. “We ask that everyone wears one of these. Visual reminders are helpful to our residents. Once we head inside, you’ll notice that everything is labeled with words and pictures.” His gaze was back on the bag. “You don’t have any food, liquids or medications in there, do you?”
Em shook her head then glanced over at Michael. He shifted his stance and checked his watch.
The nurse scanned the form. “Okay, looks like everything’s in order. Let’s go back.”
The Memory Care Center was housed in the Senior Living Campus’s main building. The nurse led them through two sets of secured doors before coming into the main room. It looked more like a preschool than a nursing home. The room was divided into centers. There was an area with gardening tools, an area that resembled a child’s nursery with baby dolls and cribs, an office area with papers and calculators, and an area with easels, paints and other arts and crafts supplies.
“It’s not what you expected, is it?” Tony asked. He was an imposing man, almost as tall as Michael. But when he smiled, he went from intimidating to looking as gentle as a lamb.
“No,” Em replied. “It’s not what I expected at all.”
“There’s some pretty solid research that shows individuals with Alzheimer’s and dementia benefit from an environment that’s familiar. These centers allow our residents to act out the parts of their life that they remember.” Tony gestured to the cribs and then the office area. “Caring for their children and going into work are all activities many of our residents can relate to. They experience less anxiety when they’re engaged in behaviors that are comfortable and routine.”
Em glanced over at Michael who stared straight ahead like a soldier going into battle. She turned back to Tony. “That makes a lot of sense.”
The nurse led them down a corridor, and a man’s angry voice echoed through the hall.
“Dammit, I’ve told you people a million times, I need to get to my office. I’ve got meetings all morning, and I’m expected in court this afternoon.”
Michael released an audible breath. “How long has he been like this?”
They stopped outside Noland’s door. “Not long, about half an hour. I called you after he refused to take his evening meds.”
Michael nodded. He was wearing his lawyer mask. Indifferent. Blank. Detached. A band of ravenous wolves could be closing in on him, and he wouldn’t have even batted an eye.
“You know, Mr. MacCarron,” Tony said, lowering his voice, “we’re equipped to handle this. Don’t get me wrong; you have every right to be notified about your father’s care. But you don’t need to come each time he has an episode.”
Mask still in place, Michael crossed his arms. “He’s my father.”
The nurse nodded. “Okay. Carmen and Anita are in with him now. I’ll let them know you’re here, and I’ll let you know when the doc sends the orders for that sedative.”
“Thank you, Tony,” Michael said as robotically as the Tin Man himself.
Em clutched her duffle bag and followed Michael into the room.
It was a good-sized room, but Em’s gaze was drawn to the bedsheets strewn across the floor. Blank papers covered in scribbles lay scattered
across every surface like a mad scientist’s laboratory. In a chair in the center of the room, sat E. Noland MacCarron, red-faced and eyes wild.
“Who is this son of a bitch,” Noland snarled as they entered the room.
Noland swung his gaze from his son and let it fall on her face. He smiled. She was about to return his grin with one of her own when Noland’s expression faded into a hard line.
He crossed his arms. “Miss, I don’t mean to offend you with this coarse language. We’re in the middle of negotiations here. Why don’t you call my office? We’ll set up an appointment for another time.”
“Are you her husband?” Noland asked, directing the question to Michael, but pressed on without waiting for an answer. “Like I told your wife, call the office, and we can set up a time to meet next week.”
Michael crouched down. “Dad, it’s me. It’s your son, Michael.”
Noland barked out a laugh. “What the hell are you playing at? My son is seven years old.”
Michael and his father were near spitting images of each other. Could Noland not see that the man looking him square in the eye was his own son?
Anita Benson and the other nurse, Carmen, took a step back. The room fell into a thick silence as all eyes fell on Noland and Michael.
“Dad, it’s me. Michael. Remember, I’m all grown up now.”
Noland blinked a few times then stared at his son. Seconds hung heavy in the air as they waited to see if Noland recognized Michael.
The older man leaned forward. “You’re not my son, you lying bastard.”
Em unzipped the duffle bag and her body vibrated with the shock of adrenaline. She pulled out her violin case, and, hands trembling, she released the latches and opened the lid.
Polly. Her Polly. Her beautiful Paul Bailly violin.
Her breath came in short gasps as she inhaled the scent of Swiss chalet pine. Like a parent reunited with a lost child, she lifted the instrument from the case. She had broken every trophy and torn up each certificate. She had ripped photos and butchered all the reminders of her life as a musician. But she hadn’t destroyed Polly.
The Sound of Home Page 13
