Soon I arrive at Mr. Hart’s street. When I get here, I’m a bit blown away at the neighborhood, and then at his place. It’s gorgeous. I was expecting some small townhouse, but not this huge fancy place. Maybe it wasn’t such a smart idea to bring the dog.
A heavy old-fashioned doorknocker hangs from a beautiful wooden door, so I clang on the door several times.
When Mr. Hart opens it, I can tell by his expression that he’s surprised to see Ethel. I also have to prevent the gasp that almost rushes past my lips. Handsome doesn’t work for him. He’s downright beautiful. Yesterday when we met I was so addled, like I usually am, I didn’t take the time to notice his looks. How in the world could I have missed that? Thick brown hair that is artfully mussed, high cheekbones, firm jaw, and full lips, he looks like he was made to order. I’ve never seen anyone that could be described as having a chiseled face, until now. His fits that bill. But his eyes are what draw me in the most. They are blue frost rimmed in navy, icy, and clear. They look like gemstones—pale blue topaz to be exact. Naturally occurring blue topaz are quite rare, and Mr. Hart’s eyes are too. They remind me of my dad’s jewelry store—of the past that I need to bury. He’s so tall I have to crane my neck to look at him. I’m a shrimp at five feet three. He must be close to a foot taller than I. Quickly scanning him, I can’t miss his obvious strength—muscular forearms bared by the shirt that’s shoved above his elbows and thick thighs that his tight jeans are wrapped around. I stop myself from licking my lips but it’s hard not to drool over him.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I hope this is okay. I work at the local animal shelter and I wanted to take Ethel out for a spell. I should have called and asked first.” Then I explain her dire situation.
“So, do you really think Sister Helena will let you have a pet?” he asks.
“No, but I can’t stand the thought of them euthanizing her.” I’m still standing on his porch. “I’ll understand if you’d rather not have me come inside with her.”
“Oh, forgive me. No, please come in. I’m not worried about that.”
I follow him through the entrance into a lovely foyer and it makes me nostalgic for my family and home. Sadness pounds into me and I nearly stagger with the pain of it. I must’ve made a sound because he turns around and I quickly drop my head to act like I’m looking at the dog. That wasn’t the smartest thing because now I truly want to weep as I think of Ethel’s fate hanging over me, too.
Think of something else, Jules, anything to get your mind off that. Wood! There’s beautiful wood everywhere. But what do I do? I stare at his ass instead. It’s a very fine ass. Oh, hell, I need to get my mind out of the gutter.
Golden hardwood floors gleam in the afternoon sun, so I force my focus on the grains in them. We walk down the massive foyer and he leads me into a room that is much bigger than I would’ve thought. In it sits a grand piano, an array of guitars, a smaller electric keyboard, a cello (I think), and some other woodwind instrument.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s a flute.”
“You play all of these?” My tone can’t hide my surprise.
“Yeah.”
“And sing, too?” Again, there is no mistaking the incredulity in my voice.
He chuckles. “Yep. Hard to believe, huh? Me, a recovering drug addict.”
“What are you doing here?”
He gives me an odd look, an assessing one. “What do you mean?”
“A talented man such as yourself could be doing any number of things besides teaching a hopelessly tone deaf person, such as myself, how to sing. You could be making a lot of money.”
He laughs. “How much time do you have? This explanation could take awhile.”
“I have to be back to the convent by six in time for dinner. I have kitchen duties afterward. But I need to take Ethel back to the shelter first.”
“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, but do you have a back yard where I can let her out to—you know—and then give her some water?”
“Sure.”
I follow him again and after Ethel is finished, we go back to the music room.
“So, will I offend you if I use foul language?”
“No.” I laugh.
“Good, because I can’t tell this story without it. My father was the most disgusting human being that ever walked the earth and he fucked me up beyond recognition.”
Wow. I realize he’s not wasting any time jumping right to the meat of things. “He FUBARed you?”
“You bet he did. My father owned a line of casinos in Atlantic City and Vegas and was a mobster. He adopted my two brothers and me. But what he did was heinous. He would find women in his casinos who were addicted to gambling, get them to run up their debts, and then in exchange for their payout, he would force them to sell him their sons. I was one of them. It was all legal, you see, but when he brought us to his home, he told us our mothers didn’t want us. Then his brainwashing tactics began. It started with my oldest brother, and with each one, it grew worse. I was the youngest and the last of the three. I lived in a padded cell that was soundproof without light for almost a year. In other words, I was deprived of light, sound, and touch. I was fed two meals a day and that was the only contact I had with him or anyone for that matter. He was big into sensory deprivation and it was abuse in the worse sense.”
“My God. What kind of man would do that?” I try to absorb what he tells me and it sounds like something from a novel. “Did he sexually abuse you, too?”
“No. But he did everything else. I craved someone to hold me. I was a little kid—six years old at the time. He was a fucking monster. We called him the dragon. He was shot and killed by my mother almost two years ago when he tried to kill my sister-in-law. I had just entered rehab, but the day I found out he died was the happiest day in my life. That man was an animal in every sense of the word. It’s because of him that I ended up on drugs. They were my escape route. I couldn’t cope with what I had been through. I never finished college because I couldn’t go to class. I took every drug imaginable and eventually ended up living on the streets. If my brother hadn’t found me when he did, I wouldn’t be alive today. I tell this story loud and proud so I can help others. Don’t mistake me; I’m not saying I’m proud of being an addict. But I am proud of being in recovery. Too many people are ashamed of being abused or ashamed of their addictions. I don’t want them to be, because then it takes them too long to get help. My mission in life is to get them to talk about it and to help them get to recovery.”
As I listen to him, I’m amazed at how frank he is. He doesn’t cringe and he doesn’t act embarrassed at all by his admissions. “That’s very admirable.”
He shakes his head. “There’s nothing admirable about what I went through. I only want to help others get out of the hell they are living in, much as I was. When I think back, if someone had said to me, ‘I understand what you’re going through and there’s another way,’ maybe I could’ve latched onto that and who knows? Maybe I could’ve avoided all the pitfalls. I needed a shrink to help me in my teen years but my father would never have agreed to it. Drugs were the next best thing. They were the friends I never had.”
“So, you stayed in rehab and now you counsel?”
He laughs. “Oh, it wasn’t nearly that easy. Even now, there are times I want to use. At first they recommended intensive rehab for three to six months. My sister-in-law is a psychiatrist who, ironically, is deeply involved with helping addicts. She started doing this during her residency, long before she met my brother. So she was instrumental in getting me to Denver—to the rehab center where I ended up. After six months, I knew I wasn’t ready to leave, so I did another three, and then another three. I was scared shitless to leave. So I started a company that is sort of an exit strategy for people like me. It’s a facility that houses individuals who don’t think they are in control enough to do it on their own. It’s called Living Free. My brothers are sort of en
trepreneurs. They jumped on the idea and I had the capital, but they had the business knowledge. I’m the artsy dude out of the three of us.” He laughs.
“Artsy is great. What would our world be without music and art? A pretty drab place I say.”
“Oh, they agree. But they both have these brilliant minds. You should hear them in their business-speak. It’s like when we get together and talk Mandarin. At least I can understand that. Business, not so much.”
My jaw hits the floor. “You speak Mandarin?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t by choice. My father forced that one on us. He felt it would be important for our business education. Though I was the music one in the family. Maybe he thought I would go on tour and it would help me communicate.”
“I speak English. And not very well, sometimes. And I can’t play any instruments nor can I sing. I feel very diminished around you, Mr. Hart.”
“Kade. Drop the Mr. Hart thing. So, since you know all about me, what about you? What led you to a life in the convent?”
“Jesus Christ.” It’s time to dodge.
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. I’ve always been a devoted Catholic so I thought it was my calling.”
“Hmm. You thought it was or it is?”
“It’s my true vocation, Mr. … I mean Kade.”
“College?”
I try not to cringe when I answer, “LSU.”
“I thought I detected a hint of a Southern accent there.”
“Yes, just a bit of one. I picked it up when I went to school.”
“So, where’s home?”
Crap. He’s getting way too personal now.
“Iowa. Just a boring Heartlander.” I pray my lie goes undetected.
“Family?”
“Unfortunately, no. I was raised in an orphanage.” My head screams ‘liar’ again.
He’s silent; I suppose he’s expecting more.
“My parents were killed in an accident when I was four. I don’t remember them.”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes turn soft and kind. They make me want to put my trust and faith in him, but I won’t. I can’t ever trust anyone. Not even Sister Helena or Father Anthony.
“Thank you. It was long ago and like I said, I don’t remember them.” End of story.
He keeps staring at me and I want to fidget. God, I want to fidget. I hate when people stare at me. It makes me feel like they can read my mind, like they know I’m hiding something. My hand automatically reaches for the necklace that’s hidden behind my sweater. It always comforts me, knowing it’s there, safe and sound.
Divert. Divert. “So, Kade, is Living Free your main activity in working with addicts?”
“Oh, no. I also run some Narcotics Anonymous meetings. That’s how I met Father Anthony, like I told you. We have meetings all over the place and St. John the Baptist is one of the places that allows us the use of one of their rooms.”
“I remember you telling me that. How many classes do you teach?”
He laughs. “They’re not classes. They’re meetings and I don’t really teach anything. I just moderate them, keep things going, bring up topics to discuss. Things that addicts have issues with, that type of thing. As someone in recovery, it’s key to have a mentor-type person you can go to if you find yourself in a situation where you think you may fall off the wagon. That’s what NA is all about. Plus it helps to have a place to vent, to talk about your problems with others who are experiencing the same things you are.”
“What drug were you on?”
“Not drug, drugs. All of them. Anything I could get my dirty paws on.”
“What was it like?” I ask.
“What was what like?”
“Withdrawal?”
He rubs his neck. Then his crystal clear blue eyes lock with mine and he says, “It was like someone was clawing my intestines out over a period of months. After that pain left, the psychological need was still there. It fucks with your head. Makes you want to rip your hair out and slice your skin open until you bleed. It invades your dreams, turning them into nightmares. And the thing about it is, you know you can make it all go away with just one little fix. One hit off the pipe, or one little injection.” As he speaks, his eyes darken with shadows of unknown ghosts. What he doesn’t know is I can completely relate because that’s exactly how I’ve felt for the last two years, minus the cravings. “It eases up after a time, but it’s so gradual that you don’t notice it. It takes for-fucking-ever. In the meantime you think you’re going insane. Truly insane. In the beginning, I scratched my arms so badly they had to put me in a straight jacket.” He pushes up his sleeves to show me the scars. “You have to look for them under the ink. It’s why I got the sleeve—to cover the scars. Emmalia, you don’t ever want to go down that dark, ugly road. I’ve been to hell and back twice now. Once, because of my father, the second, withdrawing from drugs. In both cases I wanted to die. They say the devil doesn’t live here. I call bullshit on that. He’s lived with me for almost my whole life. I fight demons every day, sleeping or awake.”
He’s right. I know the devil lives here, too. He took my family away from me. I still see the blood everywhere and their lifeless bodies lying on the floor. My throat is thick with emotion as I say, “I’m terribly sorry you suffered so much. I pray your life is happy now.”
The left corner of his mouth turns up slightly, and then he says, “I guess I need to give you a singing lesson, don’t I?”
“I guess you do.”
Ethel sits on my lap and I put her on the floor. I keep a close watch on her as she sniffs around. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Do you read music?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
In order to keep Ethel from being a distraction, I attach a leash to her harness and then I pay close attention to Kade. He takes a seat at the piano and hits two notes. Then he asks if the first or second was higher. I tell him. He repeats this over and over. Some are the same to me, some different, and I tell him what I think. Then he hits a series of keys and asks me if the sound gets higher or lower as he plays. I tell him. He does this several times. Afterward, he does the same thing on a guitar and then the flute.
“You’re not tone deaf. You missed some, but you got the majority.”
A smile spreads across my face. “Really?”
“Yeah. There are very few true tone deaf people out there. Most just don’t have enough exposure to music to have correct pitch identity. I can help with that, but you may not like some of what I’m going to recommend.”
“What?”
“On Saturdays, I just started teaching a group of ten-year-old giggly girls recorder lessons. None of them read music, so it would be the perfect place for you to start. But don’t make that face yet.”
“What face?”
“You look like you just swallowed a dozen lemons.”
“Sorry.” He’s offering to help and I act like a child.
“Here’s the thing. The more you’re exposed to music, as in learning how to read and play it, the more you’ll recognize the proper pitch for the notes. That will make all the difference in the world when you sing. So what I want for you to do right now is sing ‘Do Re Mi’ the best you can. I’m not judging you; I just need to get an idea of where you stand.”
“You mean that song that goes ‘Doe a deer’?”
“The very same.”
“Only if you promise not to hate me in the morning.”
His eyes bug open and he laughs. “Isn’t that a bit odd, coming from a nun?”
“No, because I’m a novice.”
“Uh huh. You ready?” He takes a seat at the piano and hits a key. I suppose that’s where he wants me to begin.
My insides are cringing as I sing. My face heats because I know how utterly awful I am. It’s strange because my hands are all sweaty, too. I rub them on my pants when I’m done.
“Please don’t make me do that again.”
“Emmalia, you and I
are going to be doing this a lot. You’re going to have to lose your shyness over it.”
“Ugh. It’s so embarrassing.” I wrap my arms around myself. I feel so awkward, standing next to the piano, in my frumpy clothes and icky haircut. There was a time when I was halfway cute and fashionable. I need to forget about all that, but it’s hard when I look at Kade. He reminds me of my past and how things were back then. When I had a life, a boyfriend, a family. The urge to cry nails me and it happens so fast and hard I have to bite down on my lips to stop it.
“Are you okay?”
“Can I use your restroom?” I barely get the words out without sobbing. Pull it together Jules.
“Sure. Through there and the first door to the left.” I follow the direction he points, almost dragging poor little Ethel. When I realize what I’m doing, I stoop down to pick her up. By the time I get to the powder room, my face is wet and I’m quivering.
My butt drops to the toilet and I grab a handful of toilet paper, dabbing at my wet cheeks. Ethel sits on the floor, looking at up me with her big black eyes. “Two pitiful souls, aren’t we?” I pick her up and snuggle her under my chin. What the heck came over me? I haven’t had a reaction like that in a long time. After I splash some water on my face, I dry off again and head back out.
“Everything okay?” Kade asks. He’s very polite.
“Yes, fine, thank you.”
He scrutinizes me, and I’m sure he thinks I’m hiding something, which I am.
“So, what next, teacher?”
“We work together to identify areas to improve upon, but I think your biggest help will be with learning music. So take a seat.” He pats the place next to him on the bench.
The Fall and Rise of Kade Hart: A Hart Brothers Novel Page 4
