Alexia ignored her mind’s message that she wasn’t making any progress in the rough water and brought herself into rhythm with the rolling waves. Although she wouldn’t have considered trying to cross the English Channel, Alexia was a strong swimmer. Boris, always positioning himself between Alexia and the beach, paddled alongside her.
As she swam, Alexia began to think. Not about when to breathe and how hard to kick—those activities were second nature to her. Her mind soared, free to consider anything. In the past, she’d planned the cross-examination of witnesses, daydreamed about meeting a man with whom she’d want to spend the rest of her life, and outlined the itinerary for her next vacation. Today, her thoughts stayed close at hand, and she meditated on the world surrounding her. Love of nature was nothing new to her, but since her experience with God in Ted Morgan’s backyard, the sky appeared more vibrant, the marsh more varied, the ocean more awe-inspiring. She tasted the salt water on her lips. It was bitter, yet contained the exact combination of chemicals needed to sustain an almost infinite variety of life. She glanced sideways at Boris’s head as he steadily paddled along beside her. He, too, was an amazing creature—a mixture of personality and instinct that when packaged together made him her friend.
Because time was not a factor, Alexia swam farther than usual before turning back toward shore. Her legs were slightly wobbly as her feet touched the bottom and she stood up. At that moment, a wave hit her in the back and caused her to pitch forward into the water. Boris was immediately beside her. She came up sputtering. In a few more steps she was in the shallow surf and then onto the hard sand. She sat down just beyond the reach of the tiny lines of foam that marked the edge of the ocean and took off her goggles. Boris padded over to her and licked her cheek.
“Did you enjoy your swim?” she asked him. “You have a natural wet suit.”
Often, Boris would shake himself dry and then run down the beach, but today he stayed close to her. He sat down beside her, and she scratched behind his right ear. Boris closed his eyes and panted.
When the incoming tide reached her feet, Alexia stood and began to hike toward the north end of the island. The wind had died down as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the air temperature rose to a pleasant level. As she walked along the edge of the surf, she looked for shells. Few intact specimens made it to shore; waves pounded them into small pieces before allowing them passage. But today was different. Half buried in the sand lay a medium-sized, pinkish conch. Alexia had turned over hundreds of similar conchs only to find them broken and marred. She nudged the shell with her big toe, but it didn’t move. She pushed harder, and it rolled over. It was in one piece. Leaning over, she picked it up and washed it off in the shallow water. Even the small spikes along the leading edge were in good shape. She carried it in triumph to her beach bag. Later, it would take its place as the centerpiece for the clear glass table in her kitchen.
Alexia’s hair had dried in the stiff breeze by the time she crossed the marsh. She hooked a rope to the front of the boat and cranked the winch to pull it onto the trailer. She dropped the tongue of the trailer beneath the house and stepped with Boris into the small, outdoor shower stall. Both she and Boris had dirty feet, caused by a combination of sand and mud. The dog didn’t mind the spray so long as he could shake off the excess moisture within close proximity of Alexia. Alexia finished cleaning herself and her dog, then sat on the steps and wiped her feet with a towel.
She went into the kitchen to drink a glass of water and saw the message light blinking on her phone. She dialed in the access code.
“Alexia, this is Rena. I need to talk to you before your date with Jeffrey. I’m also leaving you a message on your cell phone. Call me at home.”
Alexia considered taking a warm shower before calling but decided to correct Rena’s misunderstanding as soon as possible. Her client’s tendency to ruminate could be toxic. Alexia finished the glass of water and punched in Rena’s phone number. As soon as her client answered, Alexia launched into corrective mode and told her that she’d invited Ted Morgan to accompany her to the benefit concert.
“That’s not the reason I called,” Rena said. “It’s about Baxter. I’ve definitely decided to file for divorce.”
“I thought we were going to talk—”
“And I don’t want you giving Jeffrey any information about me.”
“I wouldn’t do that anyway. My plan was to get information from him.”
“Well, I wanted you to know before you had any other contact with him. Will I have to pay you more money?”
“Uh, yes. The balance of your retainer will barely cover the beginning stages.”
“I’m sure I can get it from Jeffrey.”
“Are you sure? How will he react to you filing for divorce?”
“He’ll be fine after I explain. Just don’t say anything to him tonight. Jeffrey is a snake. I’ve got to go. Bye.”
Her head spinning with possible reasons for the conflicting signals her client was sending about Jeffrey Richardson, Alexia slowly returned the phone to its cradle.
11
A talent is formed in stillness, a character in the world’s torrent.
GOETHE
Alexia listened to Rachmaninoff while she dressed for the evening. Her long silver gown fell gracefully from her shoulders and highlighted her short black hair and green eyes. Around her neck she placed an emerald necklace and added matching earrings she’d purchased with the first large bonus she’d received while at Leggitt & Freeman. Strappy black shoes and a black shawl completed the ensemble.
“What do you think, Misha?” she asked the cat, who lay curled up on the bed watching her. “If I make a big fee, should I buy you an emerald collar?”
The sun was inching below the tree line as Alexia descended the steps to the living room. She gave Boris a quick pat as she left.
Ted’s work truck wasn’t a suitable carriage for a formal affair, so Alexia drove her car to pick him up. She arrived at the old parsonage a few minutes late. With a mixture of anticipation and curiosity, she knocked on the door. Ted opened it. The change in the music minister’s appearance was dramatic. Except for his Sunday choir robe, Alexia had never seen him in anything but casual attire. Tonight, his hair was carefully brushed in place, his black tie knotted neatly at his throat.
“You look ready to perform,” Alexia said. “When you said you had a tuxedo, I forgot to ask if it was decorated with red sequins.”
“I’ve never played Las Vegas, and black is probably better for Charleston.” He looked at Alexia and smiled. “You, on the other hand, are beautiful enough to go anywhere.”
Ted took her hand and touched it to his lips. Alexia smiled quizzically.
“Who needs to go to Charleston?” Ted asked. “Let’s go over to the church for a private concert. We can barter. I’ll play a song for a kiss—the longer the composition, the longer the payment.”
Alexia stepped away. Either her dress or Ted’s mood was making him more amorous than usual.
“That’s not tonight’s program,” she said. “I don’t want you to have to work. This is your chance to listen to someone else.”
Ted frowned. “I’d rather work.”
“Then you drive.”
They left the parking lot and retraced Alexia’s route. They passed the intersection of the coastal highway and Pelican Point Drive. The sign for her road leaned slightly to one side.
“That’s where you turn to go to my house,” she said. “Follow that road to the marsh and turn left. I live in the only house on the road.”
“Tell me about it.”
Alexia described her refuge by the marsh and life with her pets.
“Boris and Misha,” Ted said. “That’s the Russian influence.”
“Yeah, they’re my best friends, and I talk to them all the time. Living alone has made me a little bit eccentric.”
Ted laughed. “I’ve been solitary a lot longer than you have. Do you think I’m eccentric?”
>
“Do you talk to your piano?”
Ted nodded. “Yes, and I talk to my fingers if they’re not doing what I want them to do on the keys.” He held up the middle and ring fingers on his right hand. “Except for these two. I don’t scold them.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just grateful I can use them at all. I had an injury over twenty years ago when I was preparing for the Tchaikovsky competition.”
Alexia was impressed. The International Tchaikovsky Competition for young pianists was the Olympics of the piano world.
“You went to Moscow?”
“I wanted to. I’d moved from Atlanta to Hollywood so I could study under Aube Tzerko. Are you familiar with him?”
“Yes,” Alexia replied.
“At first, Tzerko didn’t want to take me as a student, but I did some carpentry work on his sunroom, and he agreed to give me a chance.”
Ted set the car on cruise control as they entered a long, deserted stretch of highway.
“I took lessons too,” Alexia said.
“Tell me about your teacher.”
“She had perfectly coiffed gray hair and a huge diamond ring that probably slowed down her finger speed on her left hand. At the beginning of a lesson she wound up a metronome and put it on top of the piano. When it started ticking, I began playing. Every swing of the arm gave me a mental beating. Fortunately, a lesson only lasted thirty minutes.”
Ted laughed. “Tzerko had an internal sense of meter more musical than a metronome. He set up two Steinways in his studio. He would sit at one and the student at the other. Our sessions lasted two hours. He was unbelievably demanding—very intimidating. He believed if a student could survive the emotional onslaught of the lessons, the pressure of the competition would be bearable.”
“I had law-school professors like that,” Alexia said. “They sometimes made me stand up and attempt to answer ridiculously difficult questions for an entire class period. It was rough, but it prepared me for what I face in court now.”
“Tzerko never allowed his students any break from the spotlight.”
“Were you working too?”
“Yeah, I did small remodeling jobs, but I always reserved time to practice several hours a day.”
“Did you meet Roxanne in California?”
Alexia knew nothing about Ted’s first wife except that the marriage didn’t last very long, and they had a daughter who was now in her early twenties.
“Yes, on a job. I did some work for her parents while she was home on Christmas break. We dated for several months while she finished at UCLA, and we married in mid-June.”
Ted stared ahead with a faraway look in his eyes. Curious, Alexia wanted to conduct a quick marital-history cross-examination. Instead, she settled on an easy question.
“Did she enjoy piano music?”
“Perhaps more than she liked me.” Ted turned toward Alexia with a serious expression. “Do you want to know about Roxanne or my preparation for the Tchaikovsky competition?”
Alexia retreated. She wanted him to enjoy this night.
“The competition,” she responded in what she hoped was a cheerful voice.
Ted passed a slow-moving truck before continuing. “Every pianist going to Moscow has to memorize and master about three hours of difficult piano music and be ready to play whichever piece the judges request. My lessons with Tzerko were open to other piano students, so occasionally people would come to the studio and listen.”
“Like me at the sanctuary.”
A slight smile returned to Ted’s face. “Yes, only they were more likely to be critical than complementary. One day, Tzerko got caught up in the piece we were rehearsing and didn’t stop when my two hours ended. The next student arrived and sat in the gallery with the spectators. We kept going another two hours. Another student arrived. We continued. Five hours later, he finally let me leave.”
“Weren’t you exhausted?”
“Yes, but also invigorated. To Tzerko, music was everything, and at the time, I shared his passion.”
“Do you remember what you were studying?”
“One of the Transcendental Études by Franz Liszt. It’s glorious, but structured.”
Alexia thought for a moment. “The improvisational music you play is simply glorious.”
Ted smiled. “That touches me at a deeper level. It helps me communicate with God.”
Alexia nodded. She’d felt the presence of a power from beyond this world when Ted touched the keys.
“Does anyone else do what you are doing?” she asked.
“I don’t know of anyone, but if the Holy Spirit is leading me, I’m confident he’s inspiring other musicians as well. I want to talk to Sarah Locklear about it. She caught on so quickly the other afternoon that I suspect she’s thought about these things.”
Alexia felt a pang of jealousy about the nurse, but she brushed it off.
“Why didn’t you go to Moscow?”
The minister took his right hand from the steering wheel and wiggled his middle and ring fingers. “I damaged the tendons and nerves in these fingers and couldn’t extend them properly. It became so severe that it hurt to play the simplest pieces, but I kept practicing anyway. I saw some of the top doctors in Southern California. They recommended surgery as the only way to save my career, so I agreed to an operation. But the surgery made my hand worse. I had to give up my dreams of going to Moscow or becoming a concert pianist.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I was devastated. The problem even limited my carpentry and painting work, and my income dwindled. Roxanne couldn’t take the pressure and moved back in with her parents. In a few weeks, I received divorce papers. Angelica was only a year old.”
“I wasn’t trying to bring up—”
Ted shrugged. “It’s part of the piano story. That was my long, dark night of the soul. But I found hope. I became a Christian through the influence of a friend who worked with me on a construction crew. The next weekend he took me to a home fellowship that met in his apartment complex. They prayed for my hand, and God healed it. The folks in the meeting didn’t know about my career as a pianist; they thought I needed a healthy hand so I could drive nails. Every note I play to God’s glory goes into the heavenly bank account of the people in that group.”
“What about your lessons? Couldn’t you still prepare for the competition?”
“By that point, I couldn’t have gotten ready in time, and in four more years I would have been too old. The competition is only open to people under twenty-eight. So I went home to Georgia, finished my degree at a community college in Atlanta, and went to seminary at Emory.”
Alexia glanced out the window at the dark silhouettes of the low trees that lined the highway.
“Are you still upset about what happened to your hand? Even though it’s okay now, it ruined your career and wrecked . . .” she paused.
“My marriage?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t that simple. I doubt my marriage would have survived anyway. I was so self-centered that it would have taken a saint to live with me, and Roxanne was not a saint.”
“What about your career?”
“The injury to my fingers destroyed my ambition. It needed to happen. People in California music circles were beginning to say complimentary things about me, and I couldn’t handle the praise. I had unhealthy fantasies about my future that went beyond my own hopes and dreams. I began to envy—maybe even hate—other pianists.”
“Knowing you now, it’s hard to believe you felt that way.”
Ted glanced at her. “It’s true. Most people with a talent can easily fall into this trap. Some don’t see it; others don’t care. I’m glad you think I’m different, but I’m not the same person who walked into Tzerko’s studio for my first lesson, and I wouldn’t relive that season of my life for anything in the world.”
“Okay,” she said. “But it’s still a shame that we’re not driving to Charleston to hear you pla
y the benefit concert.”
It was dark by the time they passed the small side road where a patrolman had discovered Officer Claude Dixon’s body. Byron Devereaux’s thorough examination of the area had yielded no hard clues, and subsequent rains washed away the tire tracks left by Rena’s convertible. The site of the officer’s death bore no more sign of what had happened than an unmarked grave.
Within a few minutes, Alexia and Ted approached the outskirts of Charleston. The banquet and concert were being held at the Francis Marion Hotel on the corner of King and Calhoun Streets. Opened in 1924, the recently refurbished hotel now exceeded its original splendor.
The often stifling humidity of summer had fled to regions closer to the equator, replaced by cooler—tonight almost crisp—air. A big crowd had gathered for the benefit event, and Alexia and Ted had to wait several minutes for a valet to take Alexia’s car. As they walked up the sidewalk, Alexia tried to spot Jeffrey.
“Did he tell you where to meet him?” Ted asked.
“No, his administrative assistant told me there would be a guest list for his table inside.”
“Anyone else you know going to join us?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t think to ask.”
They stepped onto the thick carpet inside the building and joined a line of people waiting for table assignments. When they reached the front, Alexia gave her name to a tall young man, who scanned down a sheet of paper.
“Here it is,” he replied. “Table fourteen. Second row from the front on the left.”
Alexia slipped her arm into Ted’s as they entered the banquet hall. The best china and silverware glistened on the round tables, and the servers scurried about in formal attire. Bottles of wine stood ready in the center of each table. Alexia and Ted zigzagged to the front of the room. Table fourteen was on the same side of the room as the eight-foot Steinway that sat waiting for Victor Plavich.
Life Everlasting Page 9
