Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4)

by Jerica MacMillan

  No. I can’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe after the wedding. When there’s some time for his initial shock to wear off before school starts again. Because Damian has the worst poker face. And he’s congenitally unable to tell a convincing lie. I saw him try to lie to his roommates once, and they saw through him as soon as he started talking. It was funny at the time.

  But if he tried to cover his shock with them …

  No.

  It’s too much of a risk. I trust Damian not to sell me out once he gets a chance to come to terms with the new information. But his roommates? I don’t know them well enough to make that call. And even if they didn’t directly call up TMZ, who knows who’d they leak the information to? Once word gets around, there’s no stuffing it back in. My cover would be blown and this life would be over.

  After we get back. We’ll have some time to ourselves. That’s when I’ll do it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Common time: indicated with a C on the staff, means that there are four beats per measure and the quarter note equals one beat

  Damian

  We take an Uber to the airport so we don’t have to pay for longterm parking. My car stays in Charlie’s driveway, where it’ll probably be safer than on the street in front of my house. She and Lauren live in a nicer neighborhood, even though it’s not that far from me.

  Charlie surprises me by asking the check-in agent if there’s room in first class and paying to upgrade both of our seats. When I start to splutter out a protest, Charlie turns and kisses me. “Merry Christmas. I promise I can afford it. It’ll make the flight much more enjoyable.”

  “Okay.” What else can I say?

  The agent smiles politely as Charlie hands over her credit card, processes the upgrade, and hands us new boarding passes. After checking our suitcases, we head for security, making it through the line in time to get something for breakfast before we board the plane.

  “I’ll get this,” I say quietly in Charlie’s ear. “You upgraded our tickets, so it’s the least I can do.”

  “It’s really not a big deal.”

  I wrap my arm around her and give her a squeeze. “It is to me.”

  Two breakfast sandwiches and coffees plus a puddle jumper and two and a half hours of plush first-class service later, we get off the plane in the Santa Barbara airport. A man in a suit is holding a sign with our names on it in the baggage claim area. Our ride to the resort.

  “Ms. Baxter. Mr. Ramirez. Did you have a nice flight?”

  We both nod, and he tucks the sign under his arm. “This way, please.” He reaches for Charlie’s suitcase and leads the way to the exit. He takes us to a sleek, black sedan, pops the trunk and loads our suitcases before going around to open the door to the back seat. Charlie climbs in and scoots over like this is something she experiences every day. I follow behind her, settling into the plush gray leather seats and ample legroom behind the passenger seat.

  The driver smoothly navigates out of the airport and into the surrounding countryside, the road noise and bumps of the country roads minimized by the luxury car we’re privileged enough to ride in.

  “This is a really nice car,” I whisper to Charlie.

  She grins at me. “Yeah, it is. Did you expect them to have us picked up in a beat-up old Honda Civic or something?”

  I chuckle. “No. I didn’t really think about it I guess. I expected maybe a hotel shuttle or something more along those lines. A uniformed driver with a sign and a luxury sedan wasn’t anywhere on my radar.”

  She offers me a tight smile, that neutral shutter she’s so good at pulling over her features, and I’m not sure why. Is she used to this kind of thing? I know her parents run some kind of touring management company or something, and she worked with them before coming to Marycliff. Maybe she is used to this level of luxury. More so than my solidly middle-class existence with three siblings, where we bought used cars and my mom clipped coupons all throughout my childhood. We never lacked anything essential, and my parents put us all through a variety of lessons and sports, but the tradeoff was skimping on higher-priced lifestyle luxuries like wearing brand name clothes.

  But if Charlie’s parents own a major business working with big name bands and popstars, I guess it makes sense that this is her frame of reference. Look at how her and Lauren’s house is decorated, after all. Matching furniture. New. Not thrift store finds and Craigslist castoffs like my house. She must’ve made good money while working for her parents too. Otherwise how could she afford that house, that furniture, and upgrading our tickets today?

  I want to ask, but I know she doesn’t like talking about her family or her life before coming to Marycliff. And from the stories she’s told me about her hyper-controlling mother and doormat father, I can’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to relive that either.

  Instead, I reach across the back seat and thread my fingers through hers. If this is how she’s used to living, will she want to come back to this eventually? Is her time at Marycliff just a lark, a way to irritate her parents? She’s said more than once that going to college is her big youthful rebellion. It always comes off as kind of a joke, but at the same time, it’s not.

  Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’s at Marycliff right now. We have the rest of this year and all of next to figure out what might happen after I graduate. Now’s not the time to worry about that far in the future.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Vamp: improvised accompaniment, usually a repeating pattern played before the next musical passage

  Charlie

  The resort is exactly as elegant as I’d expect from Jonathan and Gabby. Rich, plush, decorated in understated creams and sage, but luxury evident in every amenity from the high thread count sheets to the included spa package. There’s a gift basket filled with chocolates, expensive body care products for both of us, name brand bottled water, and a note saying “Enjoy!” folded around a gift certificate for a couples massage, a facial for me, and a hot shave for Damian.

  Damian looks over my shoulder as I unfold it. “Wow,” he breathes, clearly not expecting such sumptuous gifts from our hosts.

  I shrug and smile up at him. “It’s pretty standard at these kinds of things.”

  His arms wrap around my waist. “When my sister got married, she and my mom put together little gift bags for everyone, but they had the mini water bottles from Costco, mini Hershey’s bars, a list of fun things to do in the area, and a coupon for Marco’s restaurant. Not”—he reaches over my shoulder and plucks a candy bar from the basket—“full-sized Toblerone bars and a gift certificate for massages.”

  Turning in his arms, I force my smile wider. “Welcome to the other half. Jonathan and Gabby can more than afford all this. Just enjoy it.”

  He sets the Toblerone bar on the table and settles his hands on my low back, kissing me softly. “I know. I will. It’s just weird. When I knew her, Gabby was another college kid like me, eating on meal plan, and scraping together enough extra cash to go out for dinner once in a while to get a break from the cafeteria.”

  I bite my lip, stifling a giggle. “Um, well, since she met Jonathan like the first week of classes, I doubt she was scrounging for off-campus dinners as often as you.”

  “Jonathan was a normal college student at that point too, though.”

  “Not quite. He was a member of Brash. And even though they were just a flash in the pan, they did well for themselves. He had more money than most college students probably do.”

  “Oh.”

  I pat his chest. “Don’t worry about it. She’s still the same person she was before. She just has access to more resources now.”

  “I guess so.” He says the words slowly, as though he’s unsure of their truthfulness, his eyes unfocused as he stares over my shoulder. Then he shakes his head, bringing his eyes back to mine. “You don’t think all this—the fame, the money, everything—changes a person, though? They say power corrupts, after all.”

  I laugh now, but it’s forced.
“You think fame and power are the same thing?”

  He lifts one shoulder and tilts his head. “Isn’t it? Famous people have money and influence. I couldn’t rent out a hotel for a wedding. Neither could my parents. We reserved a block of rooms when Sara got married. But the people who came paid for their own rooms. When I got the invitation for this, I assumed we’d have to pay for our own room. It wasn’t until later that I realized all we’d have to cover was our travel expenses. If they decide to support a cause, people listen, don’t they?”

  I barely manage to nod, my muscles freezing up as I’m seized by fear. “Yeah. I guess so,” I choke out.

  Oh God. How will Damian react when I tell him the truth? I was going to make us dinner and sit him down and fill him in on all the sordid details of my family and how I became Charlotte James when we got back. But if he’s worried about Gabby changing after her brief flirtation with fame and fortune, what’s he going to think of me—the pop diva for the better part of a decade?

  “Um, I need to use the restroom. And then maybe have a snack.” My lips are numb as I force the words past them, backing out of Damian’s hold and bumping into the table behind me.

  Concern creases his features. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, stumbling past him. “Yeah. Yeah. Fine. I just, I think something I ate isn’t agreeing with me.”

  “Okay. I can go to the gift shop and get you some medicine if you need, or …”

  I wave a hand. “No, no. I don’t need anything. I just …”

  His worried face and nod of understanding is the last thing I see before I close the door, letting my forehead rest against it for a minute before flipping on the fan, hoping that’ll make my story more convincing.

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  I take several deep breaths, then slow them down, counting to four on the inhale, holding for four counts, and breathing out for eight until my panicky heart rate slows to something more manageable.

  It’s normal to think that someone might change based on their experiences. It happens. In many ways, I’ve already changed from my experience at Marycliff. I’m more confident in my abilities, and even Dr. Gomez has commented on how much my technique has improved over the last semester. I haven’t found out my grades yet, but I know I did well in all my music classes, which are the ones that matter most to me. All the faculty members were complimentary after I played my jury, both on my poise and musicality. No one gushed about my technique, but I didn’t expect them to.

  So if that’s true, even if I reveal the truth to Damian, I just have to convince him that I’m not corrupted by fame and power, even if I do have access to more money than he’s used to. I’m the person he knows and loves. As long as he sees that, we’ll be fine.

  Okay. I take another deep breath and stare at myself in the mirror. This isn’t that big of a deal. It doesn’t change anything. We’ll get through the wedding this weekend, and then we’ll spend time with just the two of us when we get back. I’ll tell him everything. He’ll be surprised. But he’ll realize that it’s really not that big of a deal. Everything will be fine.

  I use the toilet, because I made it seem like that’s why I came in here, wash my hands, and head back out.

  Damian stands from the edge of the bed, closing the space between us. His eyes scan over my body and examine my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I think I need something to eat. My stomach gets weird when I travel if I don’t eat often enough. I’ve normally had lunch by now.”

  He nods, accepting my excuse. “There’s a café downstairs with outdoor seating. The sun is shining, and it’s like seventy degrees out. I want to go experience warm weather in December.”

  I can’t help grinning at his lopsided smile. “You’ve never been anywhere warm in December before?”

  “Not December.” He backs up and picks up a key card from the desk and slides it into his pocket. “Family vacations were always during the summer because of school. And orchestra trips were more local. We went to Seattle a few times, and that’s about as far as we’d go.” He holds the door open for me and gestures me through. “But you’re from here, so I’m sure you’re used to it. You’ll have to forgive my poor northerner ways where I’m astonished by sunshine and warm weather in the winter months.”

  With a laugh, I slide my arm through his. “It does get rather gray and bleak this time of year in Spokane. You know, I can’t honestly remember the last time we had a nice sunny day.”

  “It was finals week. Wednesday. The sun broke through the clouds for like an hour.”

  “Ah. I must’ve been inside taking a test that hour.”

  “That’s life in the inland northwest in the winter. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss the brief moments of sunshine.”

  “That sounds like some kind of life motto,” I quip, intending it as a joke, but Damian turns thoughtful, his lips pursing as he pushes the button to call the elevator.

  “Maybe it is. I think it’d be better as something more along the lines of, ‘Appreciate the moments of sunshine.’ Or, ‘Enjoy the moments of sunshine.’”

  “That implies life’s moments of sunshine are fleeting. Do you believe that?”

  He shrugs. “No. But then, I’ve had a pretty good life so far.” The elevator dings and the doors slide open, and we step into the empty car. After pushing the button for the lobby, Damian leans back against the rail and looks at me again. “What about you?”

  I look up at the display counting down the floor numbers. “You know, I used to. But not so much anymore.” Not since I met you, I think but don’t say. This conversation is cheesy enough without that. And that would open the door for more questions I’m not ready to answer. Not yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Spiccato: distinct, separated; a way of playing the violin or other bowed instruments by bouncing the bow on the string, giving a characteristic staccato effect

  Damian

  I make an effort to keep things light over dinner after Charlie’s weird freakout in the room, and by the time we’re done, she’s back to her normal self. No more introspective silences or brittle smiles. Sparkling eyes, witty jokes, and quirky thoughts about how the waitstaff handles having the whole resort rented out for a celebrity wedding.

  “Do you think they get paid extra?” she wonders aloud, her hand propping up her chin as our waitress walks off after bringing us our bill, which we charged to our room. I feel weird doing that, since Gabby and Jonathan are paying for the room, but Charlie assured me it’s expected. Which makes me realize again that she’s more comfortable in this world than I am.

  “I don’t know. It does seem like having the resort closed to the public would put a dent in their tips since there are presumably fewer guests than normal and no one coming just for a meal.”

  She nods. “Exactly. Should we tip her extra? Do you think she gets paid overtime for coming in like this?”

  Pulling out my wallet, I toss a five dollar bill on the table. It’s not a lot, but it brings our tip up to twenty-five percent. “There. It doesn’t make up for all the tips she’s missing, but it’s a little something. Besides, if it’s a celebrity wedding, won’t there be other celebrities here? Aren’t rich people notoriously extravagant tippers?”

  Her acerbic smirk and raised eyebrows make me reconsider my question. “I take it that’s not necessarily true?”

  She shakes her head, taking one last bite of our dessert—a decadent chocolate swirl cheesecake that we split—and stands. “Some of the wealthiest people I know are also some of the biggest tightwads. Of course, some are pretty generous with their spending, not just charities, but like you said, being a good tipper, taking the time to treat people in service positions well. It’s definitely not universal, though.”

  I blink at her a second before I stand. That’s the most she’s ever mentioned about coming from money. Because it’s clear from that statement that she’s spent time with a variety of rich people. That doesn’t usually happen if you’
re not part of their crowd.

  She tilts her head toward the lobby after checking her phone. “Come on. Let’s go shower and change. The cocktail party is in an hour, and I don’t want to look like I just rolled out of bed and spent hours on a plane.”

  Taking her outstretched hand, I give her a grin. “But you did roll out of bed and spend hours on a plane.”

  She purses her lips, but the effect is ruined by her smile. “Yeah, I know. But I don’t want to look like I did.”

  “I see. It all makes sense now.”

  Back in our room, she unzips her suitcase to retrieve her shower kit and heads into the bathroom. I briefly consider joining her, but since she didn’t throw an inviting look over her shoulder and we’re short on time, I decide that can wait till after the party.

  Showered, primped, and changed into cocktail party-appropriate attire, we head back downstairs an hour later. Charlie takes a deep breath and smooths down the front of her scarlet dress that flares out from her hips in a swishy skirt that makes me want to take her dancing again. When the elevator doors slide open, she fixes her fake smile in place and glides out. Perplexed, I follow, catching up to wrap my arm around her waist as we walk to the bar area opposite the café filling with other wedding guests.

  Charlie glances at me as I pull her against me, matching my stride to hers, but it’s like she’s a different person. Distant. Lacking her usual warmth and personality. Normally this type of change occurs when conversation enters uncomfortable territory for her. She starts giving one word answers to questions and asking questions in return, and she has that same look on her face. But we weren’t talking. This cocktail party is putting her on edge? Why?