Plan Overboard (Toronto Series #14)

by Wardell, Heather

  He hasn't left. I thought he was gone, but he's not, and that fills me with hope. I watch him for a second, then am about to text him to tell him I'm sorry when I see him raise his head sharply like he's made some sort of decision. It's hard to tell, but I think he might pull something from his pocket and hold it in his hand a moment. Then my phone vibrates with a text.

  Can I come talk to you?

  I fire back, "Of course," buzz him into the building, and wait breathlessly until he knocks gently at my door.

  I say, "I'm sorry," as I yank open the door, and he shakes his head and says, "No, I am."

  He holds out his arms to me, and I fall into them and say, "I am too," against his chest.

  He pulls me close. "Then I guess we're even."

  "Yup." His arms around me feel so good, even better than usual because I wasn't sure I'd ever feel them again.

  We release each other so he can come into the apartment, then settle onto the couch side by side.

  He sighs. "I understand why I upset you with that. I don't, I swear I don't, think you can't take care of yourself and Jenna. I know you can. You're the most together person I know."

  I give a bark of surprised laughter. "Then you need to get out more."

  "Nope, I get out plenty. You're doing great." He slides his arm around my shoulders. "And I truly don't want to leave you two. I have no intentions of it at all." He sighs again, sounding so tired. "But look, if everyone including your mom thought you couldn't handle Jenna, wouldn't that make you doubt yourself a bit?"

  A bit more than I already do? Yes, it would. I nod, and he says, "That's how I feel. I want to believe that I'm capable of a long-term relationship, but it's tough when everyone else thinks I'm not. Even Art—"

  He cuts himself off, and I frown. "What about Art?" I didn't go to their last session because I thought Jenna might be getting a cold. "Did he say something to you?"

  Shaking his head, he says, "Nothing unusual. Just can't believe I'm dating you. He gave me the standard 'oh my God, you're with someone? For more than a week? Someone with a kid? You? No way you'll stay around' thing. I'm getting a bit tired of everyone thinking I'm the biggest flake on the planet."

  "I don't think that," I say, loving that he used the word 'dating' and didn't even seem to notice. "Not at all. And you did stay around tonight. I saw you by your car."

  "Yeah. Couldn't bring myself to leave and make everyone right."

  As I try to figure out how to say, "I don't want you with me just to prove them wrong," he says, "No, it's not that. I didn't want to leave because I don't ever want to walk away from you."

  My throat tightens and I burrow in closer. "Same to you. And I believe that you won't. I do. I don't care what everyone else says, I believe in you."

  He wraps both arms around me and presses his lips to my hair, and we sit in a peaceful silence for at least a minute before he says, "I've got an idea. Why don't we hang out and watch some of that DVD set I didn't let you watch on the cruise?"

  I stare at him. "You would voluntarily watch 'Sex and the City'? Who are you and what have you done with Austin?"

  His neck reddens, but he laughs. "I'm still me. I just thought you might like it."

  "I would," I admit. I haven't watched any of it because before his return every time I saw the DVDs they reminded me painfully of him and since his return I haven't had time. "But I don't want to make you suffer."

  "Sure you do," he says, hopping off the couch to fetch the DVDs. "I probably deserve it."

  We watch the first two episodes, then he yawns and says, "Bed time. I should get out of your hair."

  "You don't have to," I say, then feel my cheeks blaze. "I mean, you can sleep on the couch. Or you can have my bed and I'll sleep out here."

  He smiles at me. "You look like a beet. A pretty beet. And I'd be happy to stay if you're sure you don't mind but of course I'll take the couch. I wouldn't kick you out of bed." He chuckles. "That came out wrong. But it is true, in all senses. Plus you've got Jenna in there in that little side bed."

  He said 'bed' but his tone said 'deathtrap', and I roll my eyes. "I keep telling you, it's totally safe. It's got sides on it so she can't get out without me picking her up, and it's not like I could get in there and squish her. But she does still wake up at least a few times a night, and you're not exactly equipped to feed her, so if you're okay out here..."

  He nods. "Are you okay having me here?"

  I lean over and kiss him. "Absolutely. Will you make me breakfast tomorrow?"

  "Nope."

  I pout, then say, "Oh, well. I'm still okay with it."

  He kisses me. "Good. Me too."

  I find him a towel and give him the new toothbrush I just bought, and while he uses the bathroom I make the couch as comfortable as I can for him.

  When he reappears he looks at what I've done and says, "You're the best."

  "I hope it works."

  "No." He comes over and pulls me into his arms. "You're the best. I mean it."

  "You're not so bad yourself," I say, touched by the sincerity in his voice.

  "I hope not. I'm trying not to be."

  "Come on, you're awesome. You watched Carrie and the girls with me."

  He laughs. "And I'll never be the same. Have a good sleep, Miss Corinne."

  We let each other go after a good night kiss and I say, "You too," then lie in bed wondering how good it would feel to fall asleep in his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "I'm not sure about this," I say to Austin the next weekend, holding onto the open car door with one hand because I feel like I might pass out.

  "They won't give you a hard time," he says, hauling his bass drum out of the back of the SUV. "They mock me but they won't do it to you. They'd better not anyhow."

  "We won't," Chris says earnestly, grabbing Austin's cymbal bag. "We've never had a clarinet play with us and we're all looking forward to hearing you."

  Though I know I can't go after the orchestra again, the second chance I'd never thought I would get has been nagging at me. So when Austin suggested a few days ago that I bring my clarinet to this week's jam session and show Art "how a real musician plays" I agreed because at least that would give me a chance to see whether I can still play at all, whether I really am still a musician. Mom offered to take Jenna so I wouldn't have to worry about her, and I agreed to that too, but now I'm here with the clarinet I fear without the baby I love and I'm so scared I can hardly draw a full breath.

  "Hey, Corinne, you okay?" I look to see Art, holding Austin's long black bag full of assorted drum set bits, staring at me with his head tipped to one side. "You look like you're gonna be sick."

  I feel like it, so I give a sort of half-nod-half-head-shake because I honestly don't know what the right answer is.

  Austin comes over and wraps his arms around me, pulling my head down against his shoulder. "It's okay," he says softly into my ear. "You can do it. It's like how you improvise with the yarn. Same thing."

  "It's not," I say, knowing he's talking about last night when I gave up on a badly written baby bootie pattern and started trying to do my own thing. I've done that with a few patterns now, and it impresses him every time. "Not even close."

  "Sure it is. You figure out what you want to make and make the yarn do that."

  But here I can't just pull out the stitches and go back, like I did over and over with the bootie. Everyone will hear me, hear all my mistakes. Do I really want to do this?

  I do, and I don't, and it's all so tangled up inside me that I don't know what to say but, "Okay."

  Austin gives me a squeeze then lets me go, and I realize that he doesn't understand how hard this is for me. Nobody does. Even Mom was delighted that I was going to play again, with no apparent realization that it terrifies me.

  I don't know why it terrifies me. I didn't think it would, and there's no reason it should, but it definitely does. I want to run away.

  I'm here now, though, and bailing out would
make things awkward for Austin, so I take a deep shuddering breath, pick up the clarinet case from the floor of the SUV, and follow the guys into the rehearsal space.

  Once inside, they begin setting up and I sit down to put the clarinet together. Its pieces feel both strange and utterly familiar under my hands, and I wonder how many thousands of times I've assembled this instrument since my dad gave it to me all those years ago. It was such a huge part of my life for so long. What is it now?

  I play a tentative quiet note once the clarinet is together, then adjust my reed and play a few more. Then I run a few scales, still as quietly as I can. Yes, I can still play, at least to some degree. Scales are dead easy, though, after how much time I've spent practicing them. I could do them in my sleep, and in fact had many dreams in the run-up to last year's audition where I did exactly that. Would I be able to play my audition pieces if I went for the orchestra again?

  I push back my chair sharply and stand up. It doesn't matter. I won't be doing that. I leave that thought, and the clarinet case, behind and join the guys on stage.

  Though I knew, for some reason it hadn't fully sunk in with me that the guys do not use sheet music when they play. They improvise everything. I have never improvised a damn thing in my life. I had the option of an improv class in university, but I took performance techniques instead so I'd be better prepared for the audition I knew I'd get some day.

  Their first song, Meat Loaf's "Bat Out of Hell", is in the key of F concert. That means for the clarinet it's in the key of G, but even knowing that I only manage to make myself play a few notes here and there and most of them sound wrong even though I'm sure they should fit. I don't know the song that well, but it's more than that. I have no idea what I'm doing and I hate it.

  "Needs more clarinet," Art says, grinning at me, when we're done. "I've always thought that about Meat Loaf. Bring it out, Corinne."

  "Shut up," Austin says sharply from behind his drum set. "She's doing just fine."

  I'm not, actually, but I can't bring myself to say so. I feel completely incompetent.

  "What song do you want to do next, Corinne?" Patrick says, his brow furrowed.

  I shrug.

  "Anything at all."

  "Something slower, maybe?" Might give me a fighting chance to hit a few more notes.

  "'We Are The Champions'? It's slower."

  I know it better too, so I nod, but I do no better than I did before. I try to play the melody on the chorus but I miss all sorts of notes and I end up hopelessly lost and by the end of the song I'm fighting back the tears I can't cry in front of Austin's friends. I know it should be no big deal, but it's killing me that I am failing so spectacularly. Austin thought I'd be better than Art at this, and now he knows I stink worse than Jenna's most terrifying diapers.

  "Nice," Patrick says to me, but his smile, full of sympathy, proves he doesn't mean it. He's just trying to cheer me up. Good luck with that.

  Chris, his alto saxophone hanging around his neck from its strap, says, "Why don't we do a jazz improv thing? No actual song. Just whatever we want to play."

  The others agree, and I nod although the only thing I know how to do less than improvise to existing songs is make up something out of thin air. I'm used to playing what's on the page, exactly what's written, used to struggling to be note-perfect. But there are no notes written here, there are no plans, so how will I know where to go?

  Austin lays down a steady jazz beat and the guitar and bass join him after Chris says, "B-flat concert" in answer to Patrick's question about what key we'll use. That's C for me, the easiest key since it has no sharps or flats to worry about, and I strongly suspect he picked it to help me out.

  After a few bars of just rhythm, Chris says to me, "I'll do eight bars of melody then you can and we'll go back and forth for a bit, okay?"

  I nod, glad he's going first and hoping I don't throw up when it's my turn as I think I might.

  Chris lets the guys go through another set of chord changes then plays a simple melody with them. It's far more simple than I've heard from him before, and knowing he is trying to make things easier for me makes me feel a million times worse.

  I count the bars as he plays, listening intently to the chords, and when he finishes and it's my turn I manage to play something that mostly fits in. It's not so much a melody as a random assortment of notes, but it's better than I've done before and Austin shouts, "Attagirl!" as Chris again picks up where I left off.

  We go back and forth a few times, then he makes his melody more complicated. I don't take the bait, instead staying simple, but the next time I can't resist opening up a little.

  Chris says, "Yeah!" and goes even further on his next turn.

  His last few notes sound exactly like the third movement of the Mozart clarinet concerto, my favorite part of the orchestra audition. The sound wakes up something deep inside me, an ingrained memory of the rest of the song, and before I know I'm doing it I launch into the part that follows on from what he played, picking up speed to get from Austin's beat to the usual fast speed of the concerto.

  The other guys stumble almost in unison but then pick it back up, finding the chords that go with what I'm playing and turning the concerto into something new and amazing, and we cruise along for a good minute that way until my memory fails me and I have to stop.

  They stop too, all staring at me. "Damn, girl," Art says, "you can play."

  Their nearly identical looks of shock might under other circumstances make me laugh. Not now, though. Now all the time I haven't spent playing is rushing back in, and so are all the memories of how hard I worked and how frustrated I so often was and how little fun I had. I've just had more fun than I've ever had before with my clarinet, and though that should probably make me glad I came here today what it actually does is make me feel like all those hours I spent before were utterly wasted. This is how music should be.

  But even though what I had before was nothing like this, I've just realized how terribly I've missed it. The sound of the clarinet is the sound of my soul, and I feel like I'm truly myself for the first time in over a year. How can that be, though? And what does it mean?

  I'm so confused and miserable, and the sadness that is rising to an awful crescendo bursts out of me in a sob, then another.

  The guys all exclaim, and in moments Austin's arms are around me. "It's okay," he says softly, "I've got you. It's okay."

  I turn into him, even in my pain making sure I don't ruin my reed by bumping it against him. It's utter instinct after all my years of playing, and that makes me cry harder though I don't know why.

  "You were great," I hear a bewildered Patrick say. "What's wrong?"

  I just shake my head against Austin's shoulder, and he says, "Give us a minute, guys? Take five, maybe?"

  They mumble their agreement and head out, somebody patting my shoulder awkwardly as they go. Once I think we're alone I manage to push back the tears enough to say, "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," Austin says. "But what happened?"

  I try, through continued sobs, to explain it, but I know he's not getting it. How can he, when I don't get it myself?

  When I give up, he says, "You enjoyed today. Right?"

  I sniffle. "Well, not at—"

  "Yeah, okay, not at first. Improv is tough when you're not used to it. Should have heard me at the beginning, and I don't have any actual pitches to worry about. But you were getting it, and then you rocked it at the end there. That was fun. Yes?"

  He's not saying it in a condescending way. He's actually asking, and I say, "Yeah. It was."

  "Then that's what matters."

  "But... all the time I spent... no fun at all..."

  He holds me back so he can see my face, and lightly brushes the tears from my cheeks with his thumb. "That time's gone, my lovely friend. Don't look back. Look forward. You had fun today. So let's have some more."

  I want to protest this but it makes perfect sense, except that some part of me is still crying
over realizing how much I hated most of the time I put into my musical ambitions and another part is saying eagerly, "We can still play so we can do the audition. We should do it."

  When I don't answer, because I'm still listening to all my parts arguing, he says, "Or we leave now. Whichever you prefer."

  "But you're all set up, and—"

  He kisses my forehead. "Doesn't matter, gorgeous. I'll tear it down and we'll leave, if that's what you want. Your choice."

  I'm still feeling confused and overwhelmed, but the feeling of reinventing my favorite piece while the guys accompanied me is the only part that is clear. I loved it. And I want to do it again. Not with the Mozart, but just with whatever comes to mind. "I'm warmed up now. We should probably play some more."

  His mouth curves into a sweet smile, and when he kisses me I feel the same sweetness. "You," he says, "are amazing, Miss Corinne. Okay, let's do it."

  He steps back and shouts, "Get back here!" and in moments the others return.

  "You okay?" Patrick says to me.

  I nod, wiping under my eyes with both thumbs in case my makeup's run. "Sorry. There's a lot of... crap tied up in music for me."

  "This is a no-crap zone," Chris says, waving his arms dramatically to take in the entire space. "No crap at all. Except what Austin spews, of course, but that's a given."

  "Of course," I echo, smiling first at him then at my wonderful man.

  Austin laughs, shaking his head. "Everyone always dumps on me. But she's smiling so I'll take it."

  I reach up and give him a quick kiss, then say, "Can we try the jazz thing again?"

  We do, and though I don't give another full-blown recital of any of my old pieces I do incorporate little bits here and there into what I play. The guys are hugely supportive of me even though I'm still not exactly outstanding, and Austin beams like he's the one who taught me the clarinet in the first place, and we play far longer than we'd planned because we're having so much fun.

  Still, though, as we leave I can't stop listening to that tiny voice.

  I can still play. Am I doing the wrong thing by looking forward instead of back at the orchestra?