by Tara Lain
“Ow!” He slapped a hand against his skin and came away with blood. “Damn.”
They pulled the woman harder and she tripped, falling back against one of the men. She shrieked, “You no-good bastard! Is this how you treat people? I’ll tell everyone I know that you’re a hack. You put on airs and pretend to be this great pianist, but you’ll never be more than so-so. Nobody should even say your name with people like Stephen Hough or Lang Lang.” They kept hauling her and she kept screaming. “I’ll get you. I promise. You can’t treat people like this!”
François pressed his palms against his ears. “Make it stop. Make her stop.”
Joseph, their chauffeur, who’d appeared from somewhere, took his arm and gently led him toward the door. “She’s gone now. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”
His knees kept trying to give way. I’m such a coward. Such a pansy-assed wuss. But her screams echoed in his brain. I’ll get you. I’ll get you.
He managed to get to the car outside the stage exit and practically landed on his face on the seat. He dragged himself in, wrapped his arms around his waist, and huddled against the window.
Outside the car, from somewhere by the door, his mother was yelling. “Dear God, do you realize that woman could have had a gun. When I say my son must be protected, I’m not joking or saying words for my own amusement. He’s sensitive. He simply can’t be marauded by idiotic fans.”
Someone said something softly.
His mother stopped yelling but said icily, “It’s unlikely I can persuade him to come back. We’ll speak again after he’s had a chance to recover himself.”
A moment later she slid in beside François, and the car door closed behind her. She moved over and put her hands against François’s back. “Oh, mon ange, all is well. Please, take a deep breath. There’s no one here to fear.”
She’s right. She’s right.
Still, the huge hole in the ground specially prepared for him opened at his feet as it always did. Hands pressed against his back, shoving him toward the edge of what was meant to be his grave. “I don’t want to go back. No, please. I won’t go back.”
“OKAY, GUYS, here’s some food.” Artie sprinkled fish food into the tank and smiled as the little buggers raced to the surface in a blaze of squad car stripes and waving purple wings. Then there were those prehistoric-looking plecostomus things that scavenged the bottom. They probably got more goodies. No competition.
Because he couldn’t resist, he stuck a finger into the water and got a few little nibbles. Finally he slid the top back onto the tank, tapped gently to say goodbye, and walked into the kitchen. Eggs bounced in bubbling hot water, so he grabbed the pan with an oven mitt that looked like a giraffe, drained the liquid, ran cold water over the eggs, and scooped them into a dish. After adding a little salt, he sat down at the small, rickety kitchen table and tapped fingers on his phone while he ate with the other hand. He typed in show-pan, then added music. When he clicked, Google said Did you mean Chopin?
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Do I?”
He clicked again and it took him to some YouTube pages. Okay. Artie clicked again. Oh hell yes. It was an orchestra with a guy playing the piano in front, and the music wasn’t the same as François did, but it sounded similar, like maybe the same person wrote it. And man, was it pretty.
Okay, let’s try. He typed in Franswa Dumaray.
In the list of stuff that came up was one that said How to pronounce François.
François? Shouldn’t that be pronounced Fran-koys?
Try again. Chopin by François Dumaray.
Bam. A whole list of recordings by some guy called François Desmarais. Click. Artie gasped. Yes. Oh man. His eyes closed, and the rest of his boiled eggs got cold as Artie dissolved into the most beautiful music ever.
When that piece ended, he clicked on another and another. As fast as he could, he navigated over to iTunes and found the same recordings, then paid his money and grinned as they downloaded.
He started the first one, plugging in his earbuds. Something called Nocturne. He listened and felt like his insides were melting. My God, that kid in the baggy sweats with the stressed expression and uncut hair was a flat-out genius. True, Artie didn’t have any real way to compare, but if François wasn’t one of the best in the world like his mother said, then Artie couldn’t imagine who was. Of course, who the hell was he to say?
Still listening, he washed his dish, grabbed his tool bag, and sailed down the stairs. Don waved from his kitchen window and Artie waved back, then hopped in the truck. He pulled out his earbuds, then plopped the phone on the passenger seat and let the music wash through the cab of the truck. Driving toward Newport, he could barely tell where he stopped and the music began—not the ideal way to drive, probably. He didn’t care. The music made him feel—different. As Artie pulled through the gate and into the driveway at the house, his gut bubbled with excitement. I could see the guy who made this music.
He parked, grabbed his bag, and went to work, trying hard not to think about seeing François instead of the most efficient way to connect pipes that led to the toilet. He chuckled and focused.
When he raised his head, it was almost noon. Some part of his nervous system recognized that he hadn’t heard any music since he got there. He glanced toward the house. Silent and still.
With a sigh, he walked to his truck to collect his lunch.
As he dragged his lunch bag out the truck door, he glanced down the driveway and saw the limo pulling out. That probably explained the no music. François must be gone—or going.
Dumb to feel disappointed.
He walked to the tree he liked, plopped down on the sparse grass under it, and opened his bag. He’d gotten used to getting his lunches mostly ready on the weekend and then sticking his ingredients between slices of bread or adding dressing to a salad at the last minute. The guys called him Martha Stewart, but fuck, he didn’t like burgers and tacos constantly. That’s what his father had eaten practically every day of his working life, and now he was barely past fifty and he acted like he was eighty-five and could hardly get out of his chair. Shit. Artie didn’t want to live like that.
For a second he rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. How do I want to live? Hell, a guy like him didn’t have a lot of options. Only a high school diploma and not a ton of real learning from that. A blue-collar job without a ton of prospects, but a lot of people who depended on him to give them whatever money he could. Not like he was going to decide he wanted to go live in Paris or lie on the beach in Maui or some shit. He took a breath, let it out slowly, and shook his head. That still didn’t mean he had to live like his father.
He stabbed a fork into his tuna, lettuce, and avocado salad and took a bite, chomping down so hard on the fork, the metal hurt his fillings.
Music drifted from the house. Artie’s ears tingled. Yes! He didn’t leave after all. He wanted to move closer, but if François saw him, that could seem like spying so he didn’t budge, just chewed absentmindedly. François must be writing, because the piano started and stopped, then started again. Unlike the last time he’d been writing his music, this time there didn’t seem to be a pattern. The sound felt kind of ragged, maybe even angry, banging and pounding without that sweet flow he had before.
Artie stopped chewing and stared at the house. So music meant François was there—maybe. Maybe that wasn’t him and explained why it sounded so weird. And the limo driving away could mean Madame had left. Or maybe not.
Not your business. Just eat and get back to work. He took another bite, then one more.
The piano started up again, faltered, played a little, stopped. Started. Then crash, a huge noise like someone dropped a box full of hammers on the keys.
Shit! Something’s wrong.
Artie leaped to his feet, tossing his salad, and ran toward the house. Close to the bank of windows, he slowed his pace and ducked down. What if it’s not François?
But he had to see.
Stepping softly to the windows, he rose up and peeked in—then caught his breath. François sat at the piano in a different pair of ragged sweats, his head leaning on his hand so his hair fell around his face, but Artie didn’t have to see his shoulders shaking to know he was crying. The sound of his sobs carried even through the small opening between the windows.
He ducked back down. Damn. I should walk away. What do I know about some rich piano player?
Fuck! He bobbed up and stared in the window. “François?”
He just kept crying.
“François? Come on, man. Look up.”
Very slowly, François’s head rose. He stared toward the closed door of the room he was in.
“Over here. At the window.”
François turned his head, gasped, and leaped up from the bench, trying to back away at the same time, which didn’t work with the piano. He slammed his knees against the wood, half sat, half fell backward, kind of bounced off the bench, and tumbled to the floor.
Well, hell, how threatening do I look? Artie took off like a deer toward the front door. When he got around the huge house, he rang the bell. Once. Twice.
A small black-haired woman wearing a uniform answered. “Can I help you?” She frowned and stared behind him, probably trying to figure out how he’d gotten there.
“Look, I’m sorry. Uh, I’m working in your backyard, and I think Mr. uh, Desmarais got hurt.” He craned his neck to look around her.
“What?” Her frown got deeper.
“Yeah, I heard, like, crying and I looked in to see if he was okay, and he fell down and— You better check on him.”
“Oh dear!” She turned and ran through the big entry, skirted a round table holding a giant vase of flowers, and down a hallway—leaving the front door open.
Chapter Five
ARTIE PEERED in the open front door of the Desmarais’s house. No way he’d pass that opportunity up. He stepped inside and followed the sound of voices. Man, what a house. All fancy and traditional and shit, with paintings on the walls of scary-looking people. Funny. He wouldn’t exactly expect that messy, casual, snarky guy to live in a house like this.
He walked quietly down the hall the woman had run down. Voices came from ahead of him.
“The man said you were hurt, Senor Desmarais.”
“I’m okay. I’m fine. Just go back to—whatever. Honest, I’m fine.”
“But he said—”
“Where is this man?” He sounded pissed and upset.
Artie stepped into the doorway. He might get a vase in the face, but—he just needed to be sure François was okay. “I’m here. Sorry. I was just worried that you were hurt.”
“Why? Because you scared the bloody hell out of me and made me fall on my butt?”
Artie fought a smile. François must be feeling better if he could be a wiseass. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
The woman looked back and forth between them like she was watching tennis.
François crossed his arms. “It’s okay, Maria. I want to talk to Artie here for a minute. Thanks so much for looking out for me.”
“But—” She looked seriously uncertain.
He waved a hand. “It’s okay. Honest.”
“Your mama—”
He turned a full frown on her. “What does my mother have to do with this?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks. I’ll get it.” He walked to the door of the room, herding her toward it. When they got there, he smiled, thanked her again, and closed the door; then he turned to Artie with a crease between his eyebrows—barely visible under his pale, shaggy bangs. “So why are you messing in my life? What business is it of yours?”
Good question. Artie gave François a look. The gorgeous face was still blotchy from crying, and he vibrated with stress. “Look, crying’s one thing. Everybody needs a good cry sometimes.” François looked shocked at that statement, but Artie pushed on. “But when I hear your music going all to shit, I figure something’s really wrong, and I don’t see anybody doing fuck about it, so—” He shrugged and took a breath. “—I did. Sorry I scared you, but I couldn’t think of what else to do.” He let his eyes meet François’s.
François stared at him like maybe he’d lost his mind—or maybe he’d found it. Somewhere in between. “What do you mean, my music went to shit?”
Artie gave him a duh look. “You were all over the place. All angry and making no sense. It sounded like you were pissed at the piano. I mean, when you write, you stop and start, but it has a flow. You know? This didn’t. It was just like a bunch of notes, like—” Artie stopped because François’s lips were parted and he looked like he might pass out. Well, hell. “Look, I don’t mean anything by it. I never heard better music than you play, but what the fuck do I know? I’m just a plumber. So don’t pay any attention to—”
“How do you even know that?”
“What?”
“What my music sounds like. How I was all over the place?”
Artie pointed toward the window. “I listen.” He held up his hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t eavesdrop. But I work right out there. How could I not hear?”
“You listen.” He said the word like he was sleepwalking, and his eyes got all shiny. “People pay huge prices for tickets to my concerts and don’t listen!” Shit, is he going to cry again?
Artie didn’t say anything. Hell, he didn’t know what else to say. But crying men weren’t really an everyday thing for him. He’d never seen his father cry. His brother, a little, but never any guy he worked with, even when they got hurt bad.
I cry. Alone, under a pillow. Sometimes to the fish. I know what that feels like. He’d stick his fingers in the water and let them nibble just to have something touch him that wasn’t cold or hurting. Tentatively, he reached out and put a hand on François’s arm. “It’s okay.”
The crease flashed between his brows as he stared at Artie’s hand. “What’s okay?”
“Whatever.” Artie smiled. “All of it. Sometimes being a particular way is just a pile of shit.” Jesus, he didn’t even know why he’d said that.
François gasped—and suddenly Artie had an armload of guy. François threw his arms around Artie’s neck and just squeezed.
For a second Artie’s arms flailed. Hugging guys was also not in his skill set. Fucking them up against a wall occasionally, yeah. But this was not sexual. Come on, man, you started it. He let his arms close—very carefully.
The minute his arms tightened around the slim, surprisingly hard body, François became still like a rabbit that spied a coyote. And then, oh shit, he did it. François’s head fell forward and landed against Artie’s shoulder. Artie tried to keep breathing and not read anything into it except an unguarded moment of comfort, but he couldn’t resist hugging just a little tighter.
Literally for minutes, they stood just like that. François sniffed and his body shivered every few seconds. Artie? He barely even breathed. Finally François raised his head and smiled shyly but didn’t meet Artie’s eyes. A lilt of a French accent crept through his American English. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Want to talk about it? The tears, I mean?”
He shook his head.
“Care to come share the rest of my lunch? I’ve got chicken and avocado.”
François finally looked up into Artie’s gaze. “I think Maria made something for me. I should go eat it, I guess.” He sighed. “And then I have music to write.”
“You sure you feel up to it?”
His shoulders rose and fell.
Artie smiled. “Sometime I’ll take you to meet my fish. They’re like music in a tank. They’d be a great inspiration. The first time I heard you play, I thought of them.”
“Really?” He cocked his head in that pretty way he had. “When did you first hear me play?”
Since they were now a short distance apart, Artie crossed his arms. “Funny. I was working on th
e plumbing at Sanderson Hall one night a few days ago when I heard this amazing music coming out of the big theater. I sneaked in and it was dark in there, which shocked me, but I sat and listened real quiet. Man, it was great. The dark, the music. Like some fairy tale with rabbit holes and teapots or something. But suddenly the music stopped and I was so sad, I hurried up to the stage. It was wild. The keyboard was still warm.” He shook his head. “Of course, I didn’t know who was playing until later.”
“How did you find out?”
“I heard you playing that real pretty music like you played there. I knew they had somebody playing the piano the next night—which was last night—and then I saw you leaving all dressed up. I figured you must be the guy.”
He got a funny expression. “Because you listen.”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
“And I remind you of fish.” The edges of his mouth curled up.
“Oh yeah, well, you need to see these fish. They’re like yellow and blue and pink and neon and they all move in this, like, I don’t know—”
“Symphony?”
“Yeah, right, symphony of color and all swooping and curving and shit. Seriously, there are worse things than having fishy music.” He chuckled because he couldn’t keep it in.
François barked out a laugh. “I shall aspire to be fishier.”
Suddenly, the weirdness of the situation washed over Artie. He was standing in this rich-bitch house, having just embraced a man he barely knew, talking about fish. He cleared his throat and took a couple of steps back. “Well, glad you’re okay. Uh, enjoy your lunch. I better get back to work.” He gave a little salute, and all the way to the front door, he kind of hoped François would stop him.
When he got to the backyard, he sighed. Stupid is as stupid does, to quote Forest. Just get the fuck to work.
“Yo, Artie.”
Artie jumped a foot and looked over his shoulder. Two of JT’s guys, Mal and Armando, walked toward him through the yard carrying their tool bags. Shit, what if they’d come a few minutes earlier and looked through the windows? Damn. “Hey. You here for framing?”
