Reckless Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  Yet for me it is more than what my eyes are seeing. It’s what my body is feeling—because unlike the people around me, I know what it’s like to be in between that man and the instrument he is playing.

  My eyes are fixated on Asher and, damn it, I hate that he makes me react this way.

  His fingers work the strings of the fingerboard and the neck settled further into his shoulder as he takes the song into a wolf tone. With each pluck of his fingers, the strings vibrate, moving the air around it.

  Instinctually, my body moves with his and again we are one with the song.

  Loud beats.

  Resonating sounds.

  Bowed and plucked.

  Like the strings of my heart.

  Asher dives deeper into his performance and if I weren’t paying close attention I would have missed the startle of his muscles, the jolt in his shoulders at the very second he realizes I am standing right here.

  His face rises and I am hit with intense emotion. Every feeling he has at this moment is being projected to the back of the room with a look of remorse so powerful I feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me.

  He continues to play. He continues to feel. And he continues to keep his hold on me. The connection is too powerful, too much for my damaged heart. I can’t let him pull me in further. I’ve been down that rabbit hole and almost didn’t make it back up.

  I excuse myself from the crowd around me, pushing past the ones in the doorway and make my way into the hallway. The air in here is too stuffy; I can’t find my breath. Running, my feet charge down the hallway and through the heavy doors to the stairwell, leaping down the four flights and through the lobby. I leave the building as quickly as possible forgetting my coat and regretting it as soon as the afternoon chill hits my bones.

  And my bag? I left my damn bag upstairs!

  My palm begins to itch at the thought of my bag being so far away from me. My hand rises to my head and I yank down on my hair, contemplating whether I should head back upstairs for it or stay as far away from that room as possible until I can get my emotions back in check.

  I pull my sweater in tighter and hunch my shoulders into my body taking quick steps hoping to get home as quickly as possible. I’ll have to ask Crystal to drop my bag off on her way home.

  “Emma.” My name is shouted from a space in front of the building. It’s not a voice I immediately recognize but I turn around anyway. I may not recognize the voice but the face is familiar. Devon is dressed in black dress pants and matching button down, gesturing over to me. “Do you need a ride?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m just a few blocks.”

  He walks over to a black SUV and opens the back passenger door as any chauffer would do. “I have time for a few blocks.”

  If the man hadn’t been anything but a complete gentleman to me this summer I would say, “Screw you.” I find it hard to believe he had anything to do with what happened then. And, let’s face it, the man saved my life. I don’t have the privilege of being a bitch to him.

  I walk back toward the building and up to Devon. Placing my hand on the top of the proffered door, I push it closed. Devon is taken aback by the action. He is about to open his mouth in argument but is surprised when I push past him and place my hand on the front passenger door handle and open it.

  “I’ll let you drive but I won’t let you chauffeur me around.”

  Devon lets loose a small grin as he closes the door behind me. He walks around the car, climbs in, and starts the car.

  “Make a left at the light.”

  “I know where you live, Emma.” The hoarseness of his voice brings me back to the moment he rescued me in the water and told me to hold on.

  “Keeping tabs on me?”

  Devon eyes are focused straight ahead. “Only to make sure you’re okay.”

  God, for someone with his stature of discipline and chivalry, he certainly found himself in less than gentlemanly company working for Alexander Asher. “Why did you let me believe it was your boat? Why did you pretend to be . . . him?”

  “You came to that conclusion on your own.” His tone is calm and soothing. He’s right. I know Leah and I came to that assumption by ourselves. I want to be mad at him but I know better. He was the one who helped us get our passports and get home. I can never thank him enough for that.

  This gentle giant doesn’t belong with a conniving predator like Asher. Which makes me wonder something that has been plaguing my mind for the past week. “You made the call to Frank, didn’t you? You are the reason I got the job.”

  Devon doesn’t say a word. I take that as confirmation.

  I throw my hands up in agitation. “Why? I don’t understand why you would purposefully get me to the school of the man who used me. You have no idea what happened in Capri. If you did, you would never have wanted me here.”

  My adrenaline is at an all-time high; I could leap out the roof of the car. Devon, on the other hand, is stoic, unfazed by my drama.

  “You know what happened in Capri yet you still came to New York.” He steers the car in front of my apartment on Mott Street. Putting the car in park, he leans back and turns to speak to me. “What he did to you was awful, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’ve watched him do worse.”

  A taste of bile rises in my throat. I close my eyes to calm down the surge of feelings I have been riding in the last fifteen minutes. “Then why did you bring me here?”

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re different.”

  I look up at the ceiling. What a mind-fuck. I bang my head against the back of the seat. “That is the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

  “He tends to . . . make decisions based on the people around him. The wrong person getting too close to him can be dangerous. You’re good for him, even though he tries to convince himself you’re not.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen someone more unhappy to see me than when he looks at me.” I shake my head. “How did he not know I worked here?”

  Devon looks at me with a crooked smile. “How did you not know he founded the school?”

  My mouth falls open. Is he accusing me of knowing Asher was here? Does he think I’m a gold-digging whore like Asher does? Is he insinuating—

  “What I mean is, it’s not a coincidence neither of you knew each other was here.”

  I sit back and take in his words. It is at this moment I am realizing that while I thought I had control over my life these last few months I was actually being played like a pawn in a game of chess. Lord knows who Devon thinks he’s playing this game against. “I don’t understand. And, why are you telling me this, anyway?”

  “What do you mean? I didn’t tell you anything,” Devon says, pushing the unlock button on the car, letting me know my time is up. He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out an envelope. It’s the familiar rectangular white envelope you get at the bank. This one has a Chase symbol on it. “I’ve been instructed to give this to you.”

  I bang my head one more time against the headrest and unbuckle my seat belt, turning my back on Devon and the obnoxious white envelope. As I’m getting out of the car I hear his voice in the background.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  I slam the car door and watch the SUV drive away. This time, it’s my turn to buzz Mattie for entrance into our building.

  When you’re trying to pick up the pieces of your broken life, it’s hard to sweep up the mess when someone keeps throwing shards of glass at your feet. That’s how I feel knowing Asher is back in my life.

  A year ago, I would have locked myself in my room and poured my feelings into my music. Now I have to find a new healthy outlet for my feelings. In my new Manhattan life that includes walking to Washington Square Park.

  Every Sunday since I moved here, it has become my haven. As I walk into the park, I brush my hand along the marble of the Washington Arch, a thirty-foot–tall monument in honor of our first president. It is one of the most recognized landmarks i
n the city, as it resembles the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. If I were to pick a song for this place it would be “La Vie en Rose.”

  While the park has lush grass areas, I prefer to sit with my iPod on a bench in the grand stone circle at the foot of the park and watch the spray shoot out from the large fountain in the center.

  From the men who play chess on the stone table, or a gentleman who does charcoal sketches from his spot under a shaded tree, the park is always filled. Parents come with their children to play in the playground or dip their feet in the fountain in the warmer months. Today, it is chilly but not freezing. I lean back and let the autumn sun warm me. I scroll through my music and select Edith Piaf.

  When I lived in Pittsburgh, I had a favorite park I loved to visit. Same in Cedar Ridge. Growing up, Luke used to be my weekend park buddy. He’d play on the jungle gym while I listened to my music and wrote in my journal. As he got older, he started bringing his bike and then his skateboard. He was my tagalong, and I loved it. I wasn’t the type of older sister who complained about her little brother following her around. Leah did enough of that for the both of us.

  By the time I was fourteen, I was responsible enough that my parents would let me take my violin to the park to practice. I’m pretty sure it was more because they couldn’t stand the sound of it being played loudly in the confines of our small house. Luke would skate around while I worked on my bowing technique. A couple times I caught Luke putting a hat at my feet as if asking for tips for my playing. I’d just kick the hat out of the way and laugh.

  It is a memory I am reminded of every weekend when I sit on this bench. Around now, a young girl, about early twenties will show up with her violin, stand by the fountain and play her instrument in exchange for tips.

  On cue, she arrives.

  Walking through the archway, her brown hair is in a ponytail and her head is down. She is wearing a checkered jacket, jeans, and sneakers. In her hand is her violin case.

  I watch as she takes her usual spot near a bench and bends down to place the black case on the ground. She lifts the violin with her left hand and picks up the bow with the right. It’s now that she finally raises her head and takes a look around, observing the crowd around her. It is a fascinating thing to watch. She seems almost timid until she has that powerful piece of maple in her hand. Then she becomes fierce.

  Her violin box is open at her feet. A dollar bill and some change are already laying in it. When she lifts the bow to the strings, I turn my music off and my heart skips a beat in anticipation of her playing. It’s the tenth time I’ve watched her and every time I am incredibly moved. While I can tell she needs training, she has great technique. The brand of her violin is for an intermediate, which leads me to believe she doesn’t have money for an upgrade. She’s probably had it from when she was a student. At her level, she should be using a Schneider or Gunter Lobe, which are better for advanced players. Those run anywhere from two to five thousand dollars.

  You don’t even want to know how much I spent on my Laura Vigato. Let’s just say it was enough to have purchased a Hyundai.

  Listening to her play, I close my eyes and enjoy the song. Since I’ve moved to New York my mother has been asking if I’ve seen the Philharmonic play at Lincoln Center. My answer is consistently no. I’m not ready to see my peers doing something that I am supposed to be doing.

  Yet for some reason, I can work at the school with no problem and I can come to the park and listen to this girl play without feeling despair.

  I’ve thought about this a lot over the last few weeks. I know what most people would think if I told them this. They’d say, “Of course you don’t mind listening to people whose skill level are beneath you.” That’s not it. I don’t see the children at the school or this girl in the park as being inadequate or beneath me. Sure, I’m higher in skill level but I should be upset she can play and I can’t. I’m not. Instead, I find myself looking forward to seeing her walk beneath the arch and playing for the crowd. I shrug my shoulders and go back to listening to the young woman.

  I eat my packed lunch of a turkey sandwich and water and do a fair portion of the New York Times crossword. I’ve never completed one without asking for help but am determined to someday.

  When I see the violinist is ready to pack up, I rush up to her case and place a twenty-dollar bill inside. The first time I did so she looked surprised. Now, she just smiles and politely thanks me. She’s probably wondering why there is a weird lady who stares at her every Sunday while eating a sandwich and tips her very well. If she only knew how I envied her.

  I look at my watch and see a few hours have passed; the sun will start to set soon. Autumn in New York is beautiful in the sunshine but when the sun starts to settle down, the temperatures drop considerably.

  Gathering my garbage and belongings, I rise and walk over to the trash. As I’m placing my brown paper bag in the garbage pail, I notice an SUV lurking in the street just beyond the trees.

  For a second, I think it’s the same one Devon drove me in the other day and then I remember something: I live in New York. There are black SUVs everywhere.

  Looks like me, the chesterfield, and our good friend Pinot need to have a get-together tonight.

  It turns out Asher is teaching at the school every Friday. Don’t you think Frank would have mentioned that in the hallway? A simple, “Hey, Ems, Alexander Asher, the billionaire whose foundation is funding this little school of ours, will be teaching the cello every Friday in the classroom attached to your office” would have been nice.

  I also did a little digging on something Devon touched on in the car. How did I not hear the words Asher Foundation once in the last two months? According to Frank, he and everyone on the board with him signed a confidentiality agreement. They weren’t allowed to mention the foundation’s involvement until the opening.

  Well, that makes sense, I guess.

  What the hell do I know? What I do know is I have a problem with my Friday colleague. I would avoid him but after a long chat with Leah I decided against it.

  The conversation went a little like this:

  “I knew that fucker was going to make his way back into your life.”

  “Don’t worry. I just have to avoid him once a week.”

  “No way, Ems. To quote the great McConaughey, “You’ve got blood in your body. Lay it on the line!”

  “Um, what?”

  “Lay it on the line until the final whistle blows. And if you do that, if you do that, we cannot lose—”

  “Leah?”

  “—we may be behind on the scoreboard at the end of the game but if you play like that we cannot be defeated!”

  “We are Marshall?”

  “We. Are. Fucking. Marshall. Emma. You are playing on the same field. Don’t let him push you to the sidelines. Take the ball and ram it down his throat!”

  I couldn’t deny she made a valid point. As theatrical as it may have been.

  “To quote the film How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, ‘You’re like a crack-enhanced Kathie Lee’.” That got a good laugh out of her.

  With a weekend to process the situation, and a mini-marathon of McConaughey films, as recommended by Leah, I arrive at school with a new attitude.

  I can do this.

  My first order of business is to tell Frank I am going to the fund-raiser and I’d love to make a speech.

  My second is to make this school one of the most sought-after music programs in the country.

  I have a feeling I’m getting a reputation as a control freak. Okay, I know I have a reputation because Crystal told me. I don’t care. If this school is going to be a success, it needs to be run a certain way. The students need to be trained on par with any other acclaimed music academy. It doesn’t matter that it’s a free program. We are either the best or we don’t perform at all.

  Don’t think I am going to shy away from Fridays. No sir. If Alexander Asher wants to teach in my school than he is going to get the same treatment as everyone e
lse.

  As Friday rolls around, I find my confidence is at full peak. Walking to the back of the classroom, I pull a folding chair to the corner and take a seat. The afternoon students are arriving, their cases in tow. Watching these kids walk into the room reminds me how incredible this place really is. Not only is this school providing music lessons for free but they also gave out instruments to the students pro bono. The amount of money that went into this is astounding.

  I take out my iPad and Bluetooth keyboard, preparing to take notes. If it weren’t for this little device, I don’t know how I’d get any work done.

  The students continue to enter, each taking their places. With each new face, my heart races a tiny bit more. I bite down and look straight at my computer screen, appearing to be very busy. When he enters, I want to seem all business.

  Hopefully my outsides are appearing that way because my insides are racing at prestissimo tempo.

  Consider that racehorse fast.

  My eyes momentarily close when my stomach drops a beat. That’s how I know he has entered. Keeping my jaw clenched and my attention fixed, I try to ignore how he stops in the doorway for a fraction when he sees me, before carrying on like he hasn’t a care.

  Keenly aware of my excellent peripheral vision, I watch him sit down and open his cello case. When he is engrossed in the task, I glance up and take a look at him. He’s once again wearing a suit. That makes three encounters in a row I’ve seen him in formal attire. His hair is combed back, his entire appearance structured. I miss his shorts and crew-neck shirts, his wind-blown hair and sun-kissed skin.

  When he rises, his gaze meets mine, briefly, without a hint of acknowledgment, before greeting the class. He takes a place in the center of the room, addressing the students who are formed in a circle around him. “Today, we are going to learn to listen. The key to playing great music is to be able to listen to great music. I want you to develop your own musical voice. Find what gives you the most satisfaction. When you hear it, when you feel it, you’ll be able to play it.” Asher’s words remind me of my own inability and those brief moments a few months ago when I felt the music again.