by Ines Saint
He was looking at her lips and she didn’t like how good that made her feel. It also made her feel guilty. She let him go.
Seconds later, as the last notes of “Strangers in the Night” died away, he released her.
“Bye,” she said, unable to think of anything else to say.
CHAPTER ONE
September 9th, Pittsburgh
Keila sprinted through the Streets of Pittsburgh, eager to get home. Michelle Moynahan, Second City Symphony’s concertmaster, had left her a voicemail asking her to call back as soon as possible, but she didn’t want to talk to Michelle with the sound of traffic and the buzz of dozens of conversations surrounding her.
She took the steps to her apartment two at a time, fumbled with her keys, and opened the door. Before she called Michelle back, though, she needed to get a grip. It was a well known fact within their world that orchestras never bothered to call with a rejection. She leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and put her palm against her chest, willing her heart to slow down.
When she opened her eyes, her gaze landed on a picture of her and her father taken after her very first recital. She’d done everything he’d told her to do. She had striven for plan A, but had worked equally as hard to have a more practical plan B in place, just in case. After eight years of constantly studying, working, and playing, it seemed like plan A would come true.
Keila knew how fortunate she was and she felt dizzy with happiness at the thought of moving back home to Chicago to play with a renowned orchestra. Thoughts of renting a loft near Tania’s Albany Park condo and buying a cute used car also whirled in her head. A dream job, family nearby, a nice place to live, and a car!
But two minutes later, the thoughts stopped whirling. They collided with reality and came crashing down.
“It’s not you, Keila, it’s us.” Though Keila could hear the conviction in Michelle Moynahan’s voice, it didn’t make her feel better.
She was now sitting on her bed, listening to Michelle reject her. “I wanted to catch you before the auditions committee called, wanted to talk to you first and explain.”
“The auditions committee is going to call, too?” Keila struggled to keep her voice steady. All she wanted to do was hang up and have a good cry. She really didn’t want to hear the sympathetic thanks, but no thanks, twice.
“Yes — to offer you the newly-created contract position.” Michelle paused and Keila heard her take a breath. “I was afraid you’d reject the offer on the spot because it doesn’t pay much, only a $6,500 stipend for ten months, but I wanted to let you know it’s really a great opportunity in disguise.”
Keila bobbed her head robotically at Michelle’s hurried speech. Inside, different emotions were playing out. Contract position? She’d still be part of the orchestra and she’d be home! But...only a $6,500 stipend for ten months?
She forced herself to untie the knots in her stomach and to listen, to consider. With student loans to pay off and not much money saved up, she was only being offered a small stipend by the orchestra. She couldn’t stay where she was because the education department was cutting music funds and her current position was on the chopping board. The full-time teaching position she’d been offered at an elite private school in New Jersey seemed like her best bet.
“Though we’re stable right now and we’ve largely escaped the funding crisis plaguing many orchestras across the country, we still need to have a healthy reserve and we need to bring in more support,” Michelle continued.
“It’s a funding problem? So, you’re not going to hire anybody full-time just now?”
Michelle sighed. “Well, not quite … we’re hiring Julia Hamilton, but we really want you, too. It’s hard to explain … ”
“Julia Hamilton?” Keila repeated, feeling the walls of her already too-small studio closing in on her. Funding crisis. Julia Hamilton. She shouldn’t be surprised.
Keila fell back on her bed, her thoughts racing. Julia Hamilton was, in a sense, Chicago royalty. Her mother owned a string of trendy, boutique hotels and her father had played bass for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for over thirty years. Julia was a technically outstanding violinist, though many felt her performances lacked emotion.
But orchestras needed outside patrons, funding, and support. And someone like Julia Hamilton could bring all three to the regional orchestra.
“Keila, are you there?” Michelle asked.
“I’m here.” She sat up. Should she chase a difficult dream with everything she had or should she settle for a bland, but easily attainable reality? Taking a deep, calming breath she asked, “And you were saying something about a contract position being a great opportunity in disguise?”
“Yes! Even though it sounds like a raw deal, there’s a really great chance you’ll be asked to become a regular member at some point … ”
None of what Michelle said sounded especially promising, but Keila pushed the thought away. Her decision was made and she now needed to focus on making ends meet. She’d have to move in with her mother, take on private students, and find part-time work.
After a warm, feel-better shower, Keila heard a knock on her door. Tying a long towel around her body, she padded across the stained carpet and peeked through the peephole to see that her boyfriend, Mark, was back from Chicago. Happy to see him but still feeling ambiguous about the future of her career, she opened the door, eager to share her news.
Mark took one look at her towel-wrapped body and pried his eyes away, settling them instead on one of two battered chairs in front of the window. In two quick strides, he was sitting there, legs apart, hands folded between his knees. Frowning, Keila swung the door shut, noting he didn’t even offer her a hello.
“Sorry, I should’ve changed.” She quickly went to the bathroom to pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He’d been acting strange the past few weeks, but Keila figured it was because they’d been doing the long-distance thing for a few months.
When she came back out, he said, “We need to talk.”
Keila sat down on her bed. Awkwardness stifled the air. “Are we having the sex talk again?”
“No, I’m tired of that talk, Keila,” he snapped.
Keila stared at him, surprised. Mark shifted in his chair, but didn’t apologize. “We need to talk,” he repeated, still not looking at her.
“You said that already.” It was her turn to snap. She wasn’t feeling up to one of his melancholy moods today.
“Yeah, well, this isn’t easy,” he said, obviously on edge.
“Oh God,” Keila said, catching on. “Are you breaking up with me? You’re going to give me the ‘it’s not you; it’s me’ speech, too, aren’t you?” Keila hopped off the bed.
“What do you mean too? Are you seeing someone else?” He looked up at her, his eyes finally showing some emotion.
“No, I’m not seeing someone else! Are you seeing someone else?”
Mark stood up, too. “Never mind, forget it. And no, I’m not giving you the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, he paused and Keila sat back down, relieved. “If anything, I’m giving you the ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ speech.”
Keila stared as Mark hooked his thumbs on the back pockets of his torn jeans and went to look out the window, avoiding her eyes and directing his words to the world outside instead of to her face. “You’re not into me, Keila. You’re not attracted to me.”
“Of course I find you attractive — ”
“But you’re not attracted to me. If you were, you’d be all over me right now. Damn it, Keila, I haven’t seen you in over a week, and then you open the door wearing nothing but a towel, and you drive me nuts because I know that, once again, nothing’s going to happen!” He turned to look at her, eyes blazing.
“I’ve had a strange day and I was really looking forward to seeing you. I was dying for a hug and a kiss; you’re the one who ignored me.”
“You know I’m not talking about hugs and kisses.”
“Mark … you know I h
ave issues.”
“I’m not buying your issues anymore. So your first boyfriend told you he was gay right after your first time together, so what? That was years ago. You’re over it enough so that he’s your best friend, but you still use it as an excuse to not take the next step with me.”
“The whole thing left me insecure, okay? And you know it isn’t just what happened with Robbie. Every time I want to try and go there, I just — I can’t. I was very clear from the beginning! I told you it would take time and you said you were okay with that.” She kept waiting to be swept away by a desire for intimacy, but something was apparently wrong with her.
Mark raked both hands through his hair and closed his eyes. “Listen to me, Keila. I need you to understand where I’m coming from. I’m a saxophone player, I play at jazz clubs. There are willing women, every night, and every night I reject them, hoping that after six months you’ll finally get over your issues. But this weekend it finally hit me that you’re just not into me.” He finished his little speech, never once bothering to look at her.
“If you think that telling me all about your disease-infested groupies is going to get me into bed, then you are seriously delusional. You sound like an ass.”
“Disease-infested groupies?” Mark shot her a weary glance and Keila shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her bedspread. He walked away from the window, squatted in front of her and took her hands in his. “Look, Keila, I didn’t come here to fight. I really mean it when I say I just don’t think you’re attracted to me.”
“But we’re so great together,” Keila reasoned, grabbing onto his hands. “At least, usually we are. We’re both musicians, we like the same restaurants, the same music, the same movies. My more optimistic nature balances your occasional gloom and doom … ” Keila’s voice trailed off when Mark looked down at the floor.
“You’re describing friendship, Keila, not the kind of passion you should feel for me.”
“So, you’re really breaking up with me because you don’t think I’m attracted to you? There’s no other reason?” Keila looked into Mark’s soulful brown eyes. Of course she thought he was attractive. But out of nowhere, an image of intense blue eyes came to mind, and she felt real guilt, quickly dropping Mark’s hands.
Mark leaned in and kissed her softly, and she felt comforted, but not on fire. How could one stranger’s gaze be hotter and more moving than her boyfriend’s kiss?
The answer didn’t matter. Comfort is what she wanted, not fire. Fire left destruction in its wake. In very different ways, it had left parts of her sister and mother in ashes. Comfort could last forever. Fires were eventually put out.
“What I’m saying is: I think we should take a break. Maybe in three or four months you’ll start to miss me and you’ll want to throw yourself into my arms because you can’t resist me instead of opening the door as if you’ve got other things on your mind.”
Keila slowly nodded, wondering if she could wake whatever was dormant within her for Mark. But in the back of her mind, she was busy swatting a nagging thought away. He hadn’t even asked her what the other things on her mind were, hadn’t even noticed she was feeling blue. Their break up conversation had revolved around his needs and her faults.
“Fine, let’s take a break, Mark. Let’s both try and figure out what it is we really want from each other,” she agreed.
He seemed surprised, as if he’d thought she’d beg him to stay, which irked her more.
Keila closed the door behind Mark and tried to make sense of her whirlwind morning. Twenty minutes ago she’d been sure she had both the career and the man she wanted. Then, abruptly, nothing in her future was secure and she felt bewildered and alone.
She tried to concentrate on the fact that in just days she’d be home. Home. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to be eating her mom’s famous sweet, coconut tembleque, with her older sister’s fiercely protective arms around her and her niece beside her, making her laugh.
She thought about calling them now, but she knew they’d only focus on the fact that she’d be moving back and brush aside the detail that she didn’t really have a job.
So instead, she called her best friend, Cate Nowak. Cate was pragmatic and realistic, and she’d understand why Keila was feeling ambiguous. But when Cate didn’t pick up, Keila left a message and decided to pack, to give her hands something to do. For once, she didn’t feel like practicing.
Yanking her suitcase from the minuscule closet and wrenching a few drawers open, her mind wandered off to the months ahead as she steadily worked on packing. Would she and Mark work things out or break up for good? Would she be a regular member of Second City Symphony, or would she be applying for teaching positions and auditioning for orchestras in other cities?
Before she could gauge how she would feel about the negatives, Cate called. And, Cate being Cate … she already had a great idea.
One week later …
A stack of papers fell with a neat smack on Jake Kelly’s desk. “Internal polls,” Cate Nowak, his press secretary, said.
Jake didn’t bother to look up. “I already went through them. I’m still behind in a number of key constituencies but I’ve made significant progress; the community meetings are working,” he summarized dismissively. “Eighteen communities down, fifty-nine to go before February 5th. We’ve got time.”
Tyrone, Jake’s best friend and campaign manager, walked up to him. “Did you happen to see how low support for you is among working middle class voters, especially Hispanics, in every area except the South Side and parts of the West?”
“Unless the pollsters get to the root of the problem, there’s nothing I can do except continue to get my message out. My numbers are up in the neighborhoods I’ve visited. Let’s concentrate on what’s working.”
“The root of the problem is a long memory. Your father’s shady real estate deals and his no-holds-barred push for gentrification, Jake. He would’ve razed a popular Hispanic neighborhood if they hadn’t fought back. Every one of his deals benefited the wealthy and stuck it to the rest. People are having a hard time separating you from your father,” Tyrone explained, not mincing words.
Jake almost flinched at the mention of his late father.
“It’s an unfortunate history that has helped shape people’s image of you,” Cate agreed, subtly weaving her favorite word into the conversation.
“I can’t help where I come from any more than the next person. What I want to know is how we can get them to focus on the fact that everything I hope to accomplish is well thought out and out in the open?”
“They won’t listen until we fix your image, Jake!” Cate argued. “Socialite-toting playboy, born with a diamond encrusted — and possibly stolen — spoon in your mouth. How do you expect them to listen to you with an image like that?” she asked, more gently.
“How can you be sure that’s how people see me?” Jake asked, masking his vulnerability with a hard look. He got up and walked toward the window in front of his desk, focusing his attention on the large, restored brick mansion directly across the street where the first of his two nonprofit centers was housed.
Filip Nowak, Cate’s grandfather and the man who’d been like a real father to him, was sitting on the sun-spangled front steps, sharing a bag of chips with a few local kids.
Jake usually felt comfortable in his office, the blue-grey walls, white molding, plush black leather seating, and tempered glass conference table and desk all inviting him to focus on work. But today he wanted to be outside, under the warm sun, instead of in here, worrying about his image.
A fourth generation Chicagoan, Jake felt his city was as much a part of him as his family. He loved Chicago’s dramatic history, storied cultural diversity, rich architecture and most of all, its vibrant communities — no two neighborhoods were alike. His entire adult life had been dedicated to giving back to the city that had allowed him to hide out and disappear, and learn and discover, when things had been too miserable at home.
Right now, though, he knew there was only so much he could do with his organization if the city’s government wasn’t working to its full potential. The next step was to work on the inside, as the city’s mayor. But he couldn’t get there without enough votes. And he wouldn’t garner enough votes if he didn’t fix his image.
Sucking in a frustrated breath, he turned from the window and blinked when a cell phone was placed inches away from his face. “Here, don’t just take our word for it,” Tyrone said before hitting play. “Meet Charles and Edith Mallard.”
A grainy video popped up on the small screen and Jake watched a confused elderly couple sway in and out of focus before beginning to speak, the man too close to the speaker. “He seems earnest when he talks about his ideas, but in general, his demeanor is cold and distant. Every week I see a picture of him out with a different woman, and that tells me something about his level of commitment to people in general.” Charles put his arm over his wife. “How can a man who can’t commit to one woman at a time commit to a whole city?” The time on the video ran out just as the man’s wife was going to speak and her frozen image stared back at Jake, her lips puckered in what seemed like disapproval.
Tyrone hit a button, went back to a thumbnail screen, and expanded another video. “Miriam Gutierrez,” Tyrone said, and a good looking, older woman with short, reddish brown hair and dark brown eyes got closer to the camera, hesitated, and began to speak. “I just don’t connect with him. He’s too … Hollywood, I think. Some people like that, but I prefer someone more human. Even the women he escorts around town don’t seem human; they don’t even have meat on their thighs.”
“And this is Javier-”
“I get it,” Jake interrupted just as Cate held up a page taken from the society section of The Chicago Tribune. The paper displayed a full-color picture of him wearing a tuxedo, escorting a leggy, busty, golden-haired woman, who, he had to admit, didn’t have much meat on her thighs.
