Aiden blanched. God, why does that have to keep coming up? He’d thought Springhaven would be someplace he could escape people pressuring him to be what he’d once been, but every time he turned around someone wanted him to perform in that goddamn Fourth of July celebration.
“I can’t,” he said. “I just…. Please don’t ask me again.”
Dean turned his head to look at him over his shoulder, but it was impossible to read his expression in the darkness. Then he turned away again. “No problem.” He paused. “I should probably get going. I’ve gotta get up early to work on Lonnie Tuttle’s driveway.”
“Dean….”
“Yeah?”
“I wasn’t trying to be rude. I just—”
“That’s fine,” Dean said curtly. “I get it. It’s just a Podunk little town fair. It happens every year. Nothin’ to get excited about.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Dean sighed and gave him a little wave. “I’m really beat. I shoulda been in bed hours ago. It’s good to see you, Aiden.” Then he hopped down to the grass, ignoring the two wooden steps. He crossed the bridge and strode off across the lawn.
Aiden stood and went to the top of the steps, but he didn’t chase after him. It wouldn’t do any good. Maybe later he could try to explain to Dean his reasons for not wanting to perform in public, but… not tonight. It would sound weak, like a lame excuse he was making up. Sorry, I can’t play in your rustic little… what was it again? A fair? How droll. But I’m afraid my fingers are tired.
Groaning through gritted teeth, Aiden jumped down and made his way around to the front of the house. By the time he reached the porch, Dean’s truck had pulled away.
As Aiden climbed the front steps, his father opened the door and came out onto the porch. “What’s up?”
Aiden didn’t have the strength to make something up. “I was talking to Dean.”
“On the phone?”
“No. He was here. We were just talking in the backyard.”
His father grinned. “Talking? Or smooching?”
“Dad!” Aiden said, scandalized that his father knew what he and Dean had been up to as kids. There was no point in denying it. “That was a long time ago. Tonight we were just… talking.”
“If you say so.” The smug look on his Dad’s face was insufferable.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She went up to bed.”
Aiden plopped down wearily on the rattan love seat. “Can we talk a minute?”
Chapter Eight
THE only way that could have been more humiliating, Dean thought darkly, was if he’d cried or wet himself. What had he been thinking? That Aiden would confess he’d been holding a torch for him all these years and leap into his arms? It had been seventeen years. Aiden hadn’t even come back to visit the following Christmas, as he’d promised he would. He’d gotten over whatever infatuation he’d had with the town “bad boy” pretty quickly. And now he had a life in New York City. He might be visiting with the ’rents, but he’d be going back soon.
Why do I even care?
Was he seriously still carrying a torch for his high school crush? That was kind of… disturbing. Admittedly, Aiden was fucking gorgeous. Even if they’d just met, Dean would be drawn to him. But this feeling that there was a bond between them? That was bullshit. He needed to stop acting like an idiot, before Aiden took out a restraining order or something.
He wouldn’t go back. There was no reason to. The job he’d been hired to do was done. Whatever there had been between them as teenagers was ancient history, and they both had different lives now. God knew, Dean had plenty of other things to keep him occupied.
Like the friggin’ band.
Ugh.
Well, first things first. Patching and sealing Lonnie’s driveway would take up the next two days. Hot, miserable work, but Lonnie had offered him a fair amount for his labor. If he got that done before too late, Dean could talk to Sarah or Rick.
He wasn’t sure what kind of jazz band they could slap together without a bass player or George on drums. For a brief moment, he’d fantasized about Aiden on keyboard, but….
Fuck it.
He’d figure something out.
“I THOUGHT the doctors said your hands were completely healed.”
Aiden shrugged. “Sure. They’re healed. They function as well as most people’s hands do—maybe even a little better.”
“But not good enough to play piano,” his father filled in grimly.
“I can play piano,” Aiden said. “You’ve heard me practicing. I just can’t play as well as a concert pianist should be able to.”
His father sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “Isn’t there something that can be done? Laser surgery or…?”
“It’s not like there’s a cluster of nerves they can zap or anything like that.” Aiden flexed both hands in front of himself. “Everything seems fine. But all the specialists I’ve been to…. They say, when nerves are damaged, sometimes they never fully bounce back. There may always be some amount of pain, some slight difficulty moving my fingers….”
“What about… I don’t know… painkillers?”
“I have some. But they made my head fuzzy, and… you can’t play a concerto well if you’re stoned.”
Then Aiden’s father said something Aiden had almost never heard him say before. “Shit.”
“I’m sorry,” Aiden said. He cleared his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. “I know you and Mom invested a lot in my education… that piano….”
His father looked at him, jaw set, and said harshly, “What the hell are you talking about? Do you think I’m upset because of how this impacts me? And your mother? Do you really think we’re that selfish?”
Aiden shook his head, but he couldn’t talk anymore. He blinked furiously. Goddammit! I’m thirty-two years old. I’m not going to cry in front of my daddy like a little boy!
Louis would never have put up with tears. He would have been disgusted. Most of Aiden’s friends in New York would have at least been embarrassed and left him alone while he got himself together. It wasn’t that they hadn’t cared about him, but none of his friends there had been very close to him. They were people he’d known in the orchestras he’d played in. Not good friends.
But now he was with family. Mr. Scott left his seat to crouch down in front of Aiden, taking his son’s hands in his own. “Listen to me, son. Ever since you were a little boy, it was clear you had a gift. More than that, you were driven to use that gift. We never had to tell you to practice. More often than not, we had to drag you away from that old upright we had so we could force you to eat dinner. We didn’t buy you that grand piano and send you to school so we could pat ourselves on the back and brag about our musically talented son. We supported you because we knew you needed music more than you needed air.”
“You spent so much on my education. The second mortgage—”
“Screw that. It was worth every penny, and it’s all paid off. If we were hurting for money now, I wouldn’t have bought a Tesla, for God’s sakes. We’re fine.” His eyes glistened as he squeezed Aiden’s hands firmly. “You’re the one I’m worried about. I’m not giving up on you. It’s only been two years—”
“Dad,” Aiden said, his voice cracking, “at this point—”
“I don’t care what the doctors told you. Two years is nothing. You need more time. And you can have all the time in the world. You stay here, you keep practicing. And in the meantime, you tell all those town fair people to go fuck themselves.”
Despite himself, Aiden burst out laughing. “Dad! Jesus! Mom’s going to wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Son, before you were born, I was in the Army. Just because I choose not to swear under normal circumstances doesn’t mean I don’t know how to when the need arises.”
Aiden smiled down at his father, so much affection for him welling up inside he could barely contain it. “I’ll try, Dad.”
He’d
begun to give up on himself. But despite what his father had said, Aiden still felt he owed his parents. For their sake, he’d keep pushing.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Chapter Nine
DEAN was exhausted and sweating buckets. Even in late May, sealing a driveway was miserable work. He’d spent hours yesterday sweeping it and washing it clean in the morning, then coming back to seal all of the cracks once it was dry in the afternoon. Today he’d had to sweep it clear of leaves again, but that hadn’t taken long. The thick black sealant was horrible stuff, though. It reeked of burnt oil and reflected the sun back at him, until by noon, he’d been forced to strip down to the waist. He always felt self-conscious about showing off his tattoos. He liked them. He didn’t regret getting them. But the residents of Springhaven were always vaguely disapproving, and he thought it unprofessional to work shirtless.
It was also unprofessional to pass out from heat exhaustion in the middle of the driveway.
Lonnie’s chainsaw was setting his teeth on edge. The guy made chainsaw sculptures and sold them at the various tourist traps along the roads around the White Mountains. Today, he was working on a bear waving its forepaw. It was cute—decidedly better than the politically incorrect Native American caricatures Lonnie used to prefer before local business decided those particular sculptures weren’t doing much to bring in customers. But the chainsaw had been going nonstop for several hours.
Then, just to make Dean’s morning perfect, a bright yellow sedan pulled up at the end of Lonnie’s driveway, which Dean had had the sense to block off with orange safety cones. Esther Kelley stepped out.
“Dean!” she exclaimed happily. “I’m so glad I came across you!”
Dean wasn’t glad. She was one of the last people he wanted to see at the moment. He had nothing good to report about the band. He also wasn’t really fit to be seen in public, and he could smell his armpits even over the stench of the sealant. “Um… good morning, Mrs. Kelley.”
“I heard the news—” she began, but Dean held up his index finger to tell her to wait a minute.
He shouted over his shoulder. “Lonnie! Lonnie!”
Lonnie finally heard him and shut the chainsaw off, looking miffed. He was shirtless too, his skin glistening with sweat and a substantial beer gut slopping over the waistband of his blue jeans, so at least Dean felt less naked with the guy around.
“I heard about Mr. Tyler’s… cello, was it?” Mrs. Kelley continued.
“It’s an upright bass. Or at least it was.”
The old woman shook her neatly coiffed head, the pink highlights glistening in the morning sunlight. “Such a shame. I really don’t think Bernice would have been pleased to see her husband carrying on like this.” She tsked. Then her expression immediately brightened. She moved to put her hand on his arm, but pulled back quickly, as if the sweat glistening on his skin was best left untouched. “I wanted to let you know, Dean, the ladies and I still have the utmost faith in you! You always come through for us, and we know you won’t let us down this time.”
Terrific.
“Mrs. Kelley—”
“Perhaps you can find another bass player.”
That seemed unlikely in a town this size. But Dean knew it would be useless to argue with her. “I’ll do my best.”
She laughed lightly. “That’s all we can ask of anyone. I don’t want you getting discouraged. You have the full support of the Ladies of Lilac Lane. Please don’t hesitate to call on me if there’s anything I can do to help.”
The best thing she could do to help would be to drop the whole thing. But that was about as likely as Lonnie carving a standing bass out of a log with his chainsaw.
“I’ll do that, Mrs. Kelley.”
“Well, I have to run. I just wanted to give you a little pep talk. I know we all need them from time to time.” She gave him a bright smile and waved. “Good luck!”
Dean watched her drive off and failed to notice Lonnie walk up alongside him until the man said, practically in his ear, “What did the old biddy want?”
“Chainsaw carving lessons,” Dean quipped. “But I told her you were too expensive.”
“Fine. Be that way.” Lonnie belched and scratched his stomach. “I’m gettin’ a beer. You want one?”
Dean shook his head. “No, thanks. I don’t drink while I’m working.” He quirked his eyebrow up at Lonnie. “What the fuck are you doing drinking beer while you’re waving a chainsaw around?”
“Bah. It helps me stay loose. I ain’t never cut anything off yet.”
“Good,” Dean replied, though he made a mental note to keep his phone handy in case he needed to dial 911.
THE Brahms pieces were some of Aiden’s favorites, but they weren’t particularly challenging—not the short pieces he’d been playing. So after he’d warmed up that morning, he decided to tackle a solo piano version of Addinsell’s “Warsaw Concerto.” The piece was what was sometimes referred to as a “tabloid concerto.” It was short, with a performance time of about ten minutes, and lacked the three movements of a classical concerto. But it was beautiful, and a good piece for Aiden to use as a stepping stone to longer concertos.
The pain was still there, but Aiden was encouraged. His timing felt good that morning. At least until his third iteration of the piece, by which point his hands were clearly tiring. He decided not to push at this point.
He sat at the keyboard, massaging his fingers and contemplating digging the paraffin bath out of his luggage. It was a small heated basin his doctor had made him get—one that melted paraffin in it, so he could soak his hands. It was a pain in the ass to peel the wax off his hands afterward, but he had to admit it did relieve a lot of the aches and pains he’d been experiencing. At least temporarily.
While he was debating it, someone knocked gently on the door that led to the dining room.
“Come in.”
The door opened quietly, and his mother peered inside. “I’m sorry. Are you done practicing?”
“For now, I think.”
“You received a phone call about a half hour ago. Someone named Julie. I told her you couldn’t be disturbed, but I took her number.”
Julie Galway was one of his friends in New York, a French horn player with the Philharmonia Orchestra. The mention of her name filled Aiden with dread—not because Julie was at all unpleasant, but for her to call him out of the blue like this…. He really didn’t want to explain his situation to another professional, how he still hadn’t recovered, and might never recover.
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“Something to do with her orchestra needing a pianist.” His mother sounded worried, and Aiden suspected his father had explained to her what the conversation on the porch last night had been concerning.
The thought of the Philharmonia wanting him to perform with them made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, but he said, “I’ll call her back. Thanks, Mom.”
When he went into the kitchen, he was surprised to discover Julie hadn’t called him on his cellphone. It sat on the counter in its charger, and there was no record of a missed call. He examined previous calls, and the last entry was from before he’d left New York—the call he’d made to his parents, warning them he was coming home.
“Oh, I wouldn’t pick up your cellphone,” his mother said. “Your friend called on our house phone.”
Weird.
He dialed Julie. “Hey. This is Aiden. My mother said you called a little bit ago.”
“Aiden!” Julie sounded delighted to hear from him. “I’m so glad you called back. Forgive me for calling your mom”—she emphasized the word, as if she expected him to be embarrassed about it—“but the last couple of times I left messages for you, you never called me back. I tried Allison, but she says she no longer represents you.” Oh. He supposed that was a reasonable response to him being a dick. Allison had been his agent forever, but they had a falling out over his continued refusal to take gigs, a
nd she’d finally told him he was on his own. The final blow to his hopes of a comeback.
“I’m sorry.” He glanced around, but his mother had made a diplomatic retreat into the living room. “I’ve been in a bad space recently. It wasn’t anything to do with you personally.”
“I forgive you. Even if you forced me to contact that louse you used to sleep with. Louis told me you went to stay with your parents, so I looked up their number. Anyway, I’m hoping you might be ready to come out of your self-imposed exile.”
A fist tightened around his insides. “Julie—”
“Before you shut me down, at least hear what I have to say.”
“Fine.”
“One of my old college friends is the conductor of a small orchestra in Manchester, New Hampshire, and he called me yesterday. He kept going on and on about this pianist who’d dumped him for an orchestra gig in Toronto. He was furious, of course. And with a performance scheduled for late July, he’s falling apart. So I thought, Well, Aiden is right up his way….”
So it wasn’t for the philharmonic. But sweat still trickled down Aiden’s neck into the back of his collar. “Julie… I can’t… perform.”
“Not at all? I mean, come on, Aiden. This is Grieg’s piano concerto we’re talking about here—not Prokofiev or Rachmaninoff. It’s fairly short. It’s one of the first concertos you learned. You could play it with your eyes closed.”
He could have. Three years ago.
“I’m not ready yet.”
“Well, I’ve already sent you both an email,” Julie said, oblivious to his distress, “so you two can work it out amongst yourselves.”
“Julie!” he said sharply, making a last-ditch effort to get his point across. “Listen to me. My hands still haven’t recovered—not the way they should have.”
Julie was undeterred. “Aiden, I know this has been hard for you. But you’ve been out of the circuit too long. Maybe it’s time to get back on the horse, so to speak.”
Small Town Sonata Page 5
