Wayworn Lovers

by Gun Brooke

  Giselle stood by the window, holding her cooling cup of tea. Tierney and Charley were out of sight, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the view of the flowerbed that Tierney had begun weeding. Frances was still the one Giselle would rely on, no questions asked, but the woman was in her late sixties, and her back often acted up. Gardening was getting too hard on her—and who knew when she’d return home to the US. Giselle had received a short email from her in which she wrote that her sister would need around-the-clock care for the foreseeable future. The mere fact that Frances hadn’t asked if Giselle had found a replacement spoke of Frances’s concern for her sister. Normally, she was extremely protective of Giselle and thoroughly dedicated to her work as assistant and housekeeper. Giselle wrote an equally brief note back, stating she understood that Frances needed—and should—prioritize her family members and that she had employed someone else. She didn’t see any need to mention that Tierney would be staying with her for only two weeks. Giselle knew Tierney would stay longer if she asked, but for some unfathomable reason, that seemed ill-advised.

  Her cellphone rang, and she glanced at the screen. Vivian. Straightening her back as if the world-renowned mezzo-soprano could see her, Giselle answered.

  “Dearest!” Vivian sounded like she was in the same room with Giselle. “I’m just calling to confirm our meeting tomorrow.”

  “We’re on, Vivian. How are you?” Giselle walked to the music room, still speaking. “And Mike?”

  “We’re both splendid. I saw my eye doctor last week, and he thinks the progression of the disease has stopped, at least for now. That means I can identify shadows and brightness and that I’ll keep that ability for an extended period. I was really dreading complete blackness.”

  Giselle closed her eyes hard, as if trying to experience being visually challenged. She saw a bright pattern on the inside of her eyelids from squeezing her eyelids too tight. “I’m glad you have some good news, medically speaking, Vivian.”

  “And you, dearest? Anything looking up for you when it comes to your diagnosis?” Vivian spoke matter-of-factly, clearly not considering her question intrusive. Perhaps it was because Vivian, and the rest of Chicory Ariose, didn’t regard mental-health issues as any type of a stigma.

  “I haven’t seen a doctor or a therapist in more than a year. The last one suggested hypno-therapy, but the mere idea gave me such anxiety, I…I just couldn’t.” Giselle sat down on the piano stool. “I have found a routine that works. I can still write music, and with Tierney here—”

  “Ah, that sweet girl! She showed up in the nick of time, I understand. Poor Frances has her hands full in the UK, I imagine.”

  “Tierney is very conscientious and a nice young woman.” Trying to speak without inflection in her voice, Giselle played with the edge of her mug.

  “Very nice,” Vivian said. “And, according to Mike, very striking.”

  Images of Tierney’s long, dark-auburn hair and light-gray eyes, the slightly upturned nose, which boasted a band of pink freckles against her pale complexion, appeared. The way she moved with such ease and confidence, like she was a woman of the world and knew exactly what to do, or not, at any given time, made Giselle want to ask Tierney about her past. The story she had given Giselle about looking at colleges didn’t ring true, but as far as she knew that was the only thing Tierney had deliberately lied about.

  “She’s very beautiful. Outdoorsy.” Giselle could hear the awe in her own voice. She had to stop talking about Tierney altogether. “Please tell me you and Mike are staying for dinner. We have plenty since Tierney stocked up the pantry and the freezer as if food is going out of style.”

  “We’d love to. Should we shoot for two p.m.?” Vivian’s voice gave her smile away.

  “Sounds good. Just come directly to the music room if I’m working. I have some new pieces and need your feedback.”

  “Exciting. See you tomorrow then, dearest.” True to her nature, Vivian blew her a kiss over the phone and disconnected the call.

  Turning toward the grand piano, Giselle began playing the soft, slow piece she’d been working on the last few days. Every time she thought she was onto something, it sounded too sweet, too romantic. She saw nothing wrong with music being romantic, but this melody needed a chorus that was gentle yet not ingratiating. Words for a potential lyric were floating in her mind, but nothing had manifested itself as solid. After all, she wasn’t a lyricist. Chicory Ariose would have to decide whom they wanted to write the lyrics for Giselle’s songs. Perhaps Eryn, their electric guitarist, who also was a journalist, had the required skills?

  The verse flowed so well when she played it, but when she attempted to let her fingers run over the keys and flow into the chorus, she came to a stop.

  “So beautiful,” Tierney said from the doorway, and only now did Giselle realize she’d forgotten to lock the door.

  “Thank you. It’s not ready yet. Not by far.” She couldn’t fault Tierney for poking her head in when the door was open. To date, she’d never disturbed Giselle when it was closed.

  “I could tell you’re struggling with the chorus. May I hear the verses again? And perhaps the bridge, if that’s ready?” Tierney smiled encouragingly.

  About to refuse and break off the writing session, Giselle couldn’t make herself extinguish the light in Tierney’s eyes. “Sure. Take a seat here.” She pulled a round stool close and patted it. “You’re a music lover. Tell me what you think.” She played the intro and moved on to the verse. Then she went on to play the bridge, a melody that would challenge the singer, in this case Vivian. After she finished, she lowered her hands onto her lap and turned to Tierney. “Yes?”

  “Stunning verse and bridge. I’m sure nobody but Vivian could ever manage that last note.” Tierney hummed the melody of the bridge, and even if her voice was quiet, it was pitch-perfect.

  Giselle stared at Tierney. “You can sing?”

  “I can carry a tune.” Tierney tucked her hands under her thighs, as if to keep from nervously fiddling with them.

  “Can you just hum along as I play, you think?” She was all professional now and only regarding Tierney as an unexpected tool in the process.

  “Um. Sure. Why not?” Tierney colored faintly.

  Giselle played the intro again, and when she came to the verse, Tierney began to sing rather than hum, a wordless sound of different vowels, following the melody. When they reached the chorus, Giselle managed to keep at it for a few moments, creating a melody that didn’t seem too saccharine.

  “Better,” Giselle muttered and wrote down several rows of music on her sheet. “Besides, you seemed to hit that note just fine, even using your chest voice.”

  “Yeah?” Tierney seemed to relax. “I really love the melody, and you played more of the chorus this time.”

  “That’s why I had to write it down instantly. When I’m at this stage, experimenting with the music so much for hours, I need to make sure I know which version I saw some potential in.” Enthusiastic now, Giselle immersed herself in the melody and chorus of one of the other songs, for which she had a decent first draft ready. “This one then? Keep in mind it’s a rough draft.”

  “Wow.” Tierney looked dazed. “A rough draft? It’s…I hate to keep repeating myself, but it’s beautiful.” Blinking, Tierney shook her head slightly. “If I wasn’t a down-to-earth person, I’d say ghosts or other spiritual critters are at work.”

  “What do you mean?” Giselle’s lips parted. “Ghosts?”

  Tierney lowered her gaze, and Giselle could feel her withdraw. What was wrong now?

  * * *

  Why couldn’t she simply think before she spoke? Tierney pinched her thigh to punish herself. What would she say now that sounded at all plausible? Giselle was still studying her closely, and even if Tierney would have given a lot to have such attention directed at her from the exciting mystery of a woman that was her employer, this wasn’t what she had in mind.

  “I only meant—”

 
“You’ve heard this melody before?” Clearly stricken at the thought of her song not being original enough, Giselle laced her hands together. She looked like she couldn’t bear to play her instrument right now, not even touch it. This reaction in turn shocked Tierney into action. No way could she let Giselle think that.

  “Never in my life have I heard anything like that.” Tierney didn’t think but reached out and placed her hand on Giselle’s right arm. “That wasn’t what I meant. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but something I wrote my first night in the guesthouse has pretty much the same cadence as your melody. I mean, my stuff is amateurish and not anything special unless you—well, unless you’re me, or know me really well.”

  “You wrote something? A text? Lyrics? And they fit this piece?” Giselle now placed her hand over Tierney’s. “Do you know it by heart well enough to sing it with my composition? It doesn’t matter if it is nonsense or less than perfect, but it would really help for me to hear lyrics, any lyrics, with this melody.”

  Tierney sighed. Oh, she was in so much trouble. The text was about her, how she felt, and a portrait at this point in her life. Sighing inaudibly, Tierney nodded. “Just take it a little slower and let me find where I need to start. The verse and the chorus are dead-on, but I haven’t written any words to fit the bridge.”

  “All right. No pressure, Tierney. Just hum if you don’t remember or have any words.”

  Tierney rubbed her now-sweaty palms on her thighs. This was crazy, but she wanted to help Giselle, and if she had to expose herself to do it, it couldn’t be helped.

  Giselle began playing, and Tierney listened intently to the melody. Joining in with the lyric to the first verse, she hoped nothing would make this moment any more awkward or, worse, get her prematurely fired.

  The sunlight bathed her

  Drowned her with its gold

  Proved it had the power

  To keep her from the cold

  Still she played it safe

  Tried staying in the shade

  Wary of the sunshine

  Mindful of the shame

  Giselle stopped playing. Her slender hands with their long fingers lay like slain birds on the keys of the piano. She slowly turned her head toward Tierney. “What…” She cleared her throat and drew a deep breath. “What, or who, is that song about, Tierney?” Before Tierney had a chance to answer, Giselle snapped her eyes wide open and captured her. “And be honest.”

  Tierney blinked and dug her blunt nails into her palms. With more confidence than she felt, she jutted her chin out and answered truthfully. “You.”

  Chapter Seven

  Giselle wasn’t sure she’d heard Tierney right. Had she really said “you”? Trying to collect her whirling thoughts, she asked, “About me? Guess it is a recent piece then?” Cringing, Giselle dragged her fingers through her hair and dislodged her headband, causing it to land on the hardwood floor with a resounding clatter. Giselle did her best to control her breathing before it escalated until she couldn’t stave off a panic attack. Usually she scoffed at her former therapist’s use of mantras, but now she let the word andante resound in the back of her mind.

  Tierney bent and picked up the headband, handing it back to Giselle. “Yes. Very recent. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so forward. I never meant for you to know about my writing or my singing.” She pushed her hands flat under her thighs again, something Giselle had noticed Tierney often did when she seemed awkward or nervous.

  “If you think about it, I asked you to listen in and have an opinion.” Giselle smiled politely, her lips tense enough to make her feel they would crack. Andante, andante.

  “Guess you got more than you asked for.” Tierney shifted on top of her hands. “Thanks for not assuming the worst though.”

  “What ‘worst’ are we talking about here?” Her stomach ached as Giselle forced her breathing to remain even, calm. Her fingertips tingled, and she didn’t dare analyze Tierney’s lyrics. Blinking slowly, another method to calm her mind, she regarded Tierney closely.

  “It wouldn’t be a far stretch to assume that I was trying to take advantage of the fact that you have connections in the music industry. All I can say is that it’s not the case.” Pulling her hands free, Tierney rubbed her palms on her jeans. “Not at all.”

  “Can you try to sing the text to the melody again?” Giselle heard herself say. “If you want to? Calando.”

  Tierney gaped. “For real?”

  “Again. I asked, didn’t I?”

  “Um. Yeah. You did.” Blinking fast a few times, Tierney squared her shoulders. “All right. From the top?”

  Giselle nodded and played the rudimentary intro. It needed more work, but right now she was only interested in determining if Tierney’s lyrics really had anything to do with her. If they did, she wasn’t sure how she would deal with that situation. Explore what this young woman’s motives were? Why she would write something deeply personal about a woman she’d known for a few days? Returning to the part where she felt safe and in control, Giselle kept mentally murmuring andante over and over, while she let her fingers play along the keys, coaxing out the music, listening with both anticipation and dread—at least with more passion than she could ever remember feeling.

  Tierney cleared her throat softly and sang the same lyrics as before. When Giselle moved on to the chorus, Tierney followed, stumbling on a few words when the syllables didn’t quite fit. This didn’t matter, as the song came alive right before Giselle. As they reached the crescendo, Tierney had closed her eyes and swayed to the dramatic melody.

  Her dreams rarely come true

  And still I try to give her everything

  She carries that old stake in her heart

  It tears me to shreds when she screams

  When nightmares steal her soul

  And she won’t let me in

  All I can do is sit outside her door

  And pray she’ll hear me sing

  Slowly, Giselle pulled her hands from the keyboard, suddenly spent and completely exhausted. “And how can that be about me?” she asked quietly.

  “I don’t know,” Tierney said, her hands back under her thighs. “Not literally, of course.”

  “I daresay not.” Giselle stood so quickly, the piano stool crashed back against the wall behind her. “I’m…I’m going to work out. You can take the rest of the day off once you’re back from grocery shopping.”

  “What?” Tierney looked alarmed as she stood also. “What about dinner?”

  “I’m not entirely helpless in the kitchen. I’ll make myself something from the freezer. You have a decent selection to choose from at the guesthouse.” Feeling her heart pick up speed with each passing moment, Giselle knew she had to get into the room behind the garage and throw herself into a massive workout session. Sometimes that warded off a panic attack and kept her from having to take the medication she had if everything else failed. She realized today was a “just grab the damn pill” day.

  “All right.” Tierney looked concerned as she took a hesitant step toward the door. “If you’re sure.”

  “Of course, I’m sure.” Giselle spat the words and just wanted Tierney to get away from the door, so she could pass her at a safe distance. If someone touched her at this point, it would hurt physically. Wound up enough for her teeth to clatter, she clenched her jaws and darted past Tierney. She hurried toward the garage, where she had everything she needed, casting a quick glance behind her.

  Tierney had followed her to the door leading into the gym and stood there with the softest expression in her eyes. Giselle saw no pity, or signs of anything but concern, which made her draw several deep breaths as she headed to the changing area of her gym. Tearing her clothes off and pulling on her gym outfit, Giselle stepped onto the treadmill and started at the highest setting she could safely maneuver. She ran as if the devil were coming up behind her, the lyrics Tierney had sung with that sultry, slightly husky voice marching through her mind. Especially the part that sa
id, “She carries that old stake in her heart,/It tears me apart when she screams,/When nightmares steal her soul.”

  The gym door opened, startling Giselle. Tierney came in and strode over to the cross-trainer. She mounted it, created new settings, and began her workout, not even glancing at Giselle. This woman was infuriating but somehow had to care, or she wouldn’t have given Giselle so much thought that she could write that song. Or disregard her orders to make sure she was all right. Tears rose in Giselle’s eyes, and she let go with one hand to wipe at her wet eyelashes. She had to get a grip on herself. If Tierney could get to her like this, in her home where her privacy was paramount, she could very likely fall apart at any given time.

  Eventually, she’d run so far, she’d set a record on her treadmill. Stepping off, she grimaced at the pain and stiffness in her legs, remembering belatedly that she hadn’t warmed up. She hadn’t had time. Ignoring the agony building in her system, Giselle moved to the side of the gym that held her weights. She strapped some around her wrists and carried out the exercises a personal trainer had showed her, exercises meant to keep her from injuring her hands and arms. She depended on them for her career and livelihood, after all.

  Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw Tierney leave the gym without a word, and twenty minutes later a familiar noise indicated that Tierney had taken the Jeep out of the garage. Soon the house would be empty, and Giselle could shower and then retire to her bedroom. There she would use her Roland electric piano and work on some of the other music she had written for Chicory Ariose. Just not that song. With sorrow flooding her chest, Giselle wondered if she would ever be able to play that song again—let alone hear Tierney’s haunting voice sing it—without ending up in the gym like now.