A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  Camille says, “Look, you go back to playing—show those fingers who’s the boss, got it? And I expect to get a progress report in a couple of days.”

  I manage a grin. “Thanks, Camille. I’m sorry to be such a mess. I’m just trying to figure it all out.”

  “I know you are. I wish I could help more.”

  “You already have—you always make me feel better. What would I do without you?”

  “I don’t know, but you’d be down one hot friend.” She laughs lightly.

  “And that would be tragic. I miss you. Talk to you soon.”

  “Miss you, too. Good night, Claire.”

  I spend a while longer at the piano, futilely trying to play. My fingers remain rigid and stubborn. When I’ve had enough torture, I close the piano cover and adjust everything in the room to look as though it hasn’t been disturbed. I don’t want to field questions from Mother Superior.

  I climb into bed and grip Dan’s shirt tightly. My body is stiff with frustration. How could I have allowed myself to not practice? Playing was always so important and such a big part of my life. I can’t believe I let it go! I let it go . . .

  My body tenses. I don’t want to let go of Dan. I don’t. I only knew him for six weeks, but every moment with him was nothing short of magical. Was it even real?

  * * *

  “Dan?” I’m beside myself with excitement when I spot him not so far away from me. I hurry to him, and like a giddy teen, tap him on the shoulder. As each beautiful feature is revealed when he turns to me, my breathing falters. He’s so handsome.

  “Claire!” he says, beaming back and scooping me up in his safe, strong arms, his scent soothing my aching heart.

  “Oh Dan, I missed you.”

  “Me, too. Come with me,” he says excitedly. He puts me down but keeps my hand in his, leading me somewhere. He opens the double doors to a massive room that houses the largest concert grand piano I’ve ever seen. I stop in my tracks.

  “Play for me, Claire?” he asks, smiling.

  I swallow hard and nod.

  “Good,” he says, leading me to the piano bench.

  I slide in, and he sits beside me, grinning proudly. I stare hard at the keys as my heart hammers away in my chest. Nervously, I begin to press the keys when an ear-splitting sound screams from the piano. I try again, but the same horrible screech happens. Panicked, I look over to Dan . . . who is gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The next two weeks are a blur. I’m Semi-Librarian-Girl by day and My-Fingers-Don’t-Play-Like-They-Used-To-Girl at night.

  The library offers me a hefty dose of mind-numbing monotony, though. I shelve the books faster and faster each day. The only downside is the magazines I have to change out. Newsweek is never the problem, but Gossip Guru is wretched. I toss those bad boys on the shelf like they’re on fire. On a few occasions, I see Dan’s name or a glimpse of his spectacular face, but to look at him, to read about him, would unhinge me.

  It doesn’t matter how much I try not to think about him because each night I dream of him—his smile, his laugh, his touch. Then I shoot up in my bed, realizing my life is the nightmare, not the dream.

  I have yet to hear from any principals. I need a job, a career. Will I ever find another teaching job? What if I have to work at the library past the summer? I dread the thought mostly because it’ll give my mother all the reason she needs to rationalize ‘helping’ me.

  The only thing that keeps me together is my sheer determination to regain my piano abilities, the one thing that is entirely up to me. So every time my parents are out, I practice until my hands and fingers throb.

  Such is my life, week after week after dreaded week.

  * * *

  Then on a Thursday evening, six weeks after I’ve arrived, I sit down with my parents at dinner like I do when I can’t otherwise avoid it.

  “How was work today, Claire?” my dad asks over steak and mashed potatoes.

  “It was fine,” I say before shoving some food in my mouth so I can’t talk.

  “What did you do?”

  “The usual—just put the books back on the shelves.” I know I’m not offering them anything to work with, but I learned long ago that it’s better this way.

  When I was younger, I was so open and relied on my parents for advice and guidance the way most young people do. My parents had all the answers, and when I trusted their advice, things seemed to work out. I’m not sure when, but somewhere along the way, all that changed.

  Maybe it was when I was a sophomore in high school . . . I liked a boy named Eric. I hadn’t told anyone—not even my friends—I was too shy and afraid the news of my crush would get out. So I silently drooled over Eric during science and English.

  Then one day, Eric and I walked down the hallway toward our lockers, chatting after English class. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face all day after that. Even once I got home, the smile remained, and of course my mother noticed.

  “What are you so happy about?” she asked, grinning at me.

  My mom was a safe bet; she didn’t know Eric at all. “There’s this boy I like, and we talked today.” I swooned, leaning against the kitchen counter.

  “Oh? What’s he like?” she asked, pausing in her counter wiping.

  “He’s smart and nice and has the sweetest eyes,” I gushed.

  My mom stood quiet for a few moments but still smiled at me.

  “What’s his family like?” she asked gently.

  “His family? I have no idea. I just spoke with him for the first time today,” I said, remembering his engaging smile.

  “Well, you can tell a lot about a boy by his family. Is he Italian?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “What? Um . . . Boswell.”

  “Doesn’t sound Italian.”

  “Does that matter?” I asked, not seeing a connection.

  “Yes, because it makes life easier if you have the same heritage.”

  “We only talked for like ten minutes about class and the paper that’s due next week.”

  “Yes, I understand, Claire, sweetheart,” my mom said, tilting her head to the side and smiling kindly. “All I’m saying is it’s important to know someone before you get involved with them. Heartbreak is a tough thing, honey. Before you get too wrapped up, make sure you find out about things like his family and his goals. Plus, I’m not sure your father will approve of you going out on a date.”

  “He didn’t ask me on a date.”

  “Oh,” my mom said, sounding surprised. She fell quiet for a moment before continuing. “Well, it sounds like he just wants to be friends. If he wanted a date, I’m sure he would have asked.”

  I couldn’t understand why I suddenly felt so hurt, but I knew I needed to be by myself. “I’m going up to do my homework now.”

  In my room, I tried to make sense of what my mom said. I figured she was probably right—Eric wasn’t interested. He didn’t ask me out, after all, and it would be arrogant of me to think that he wanted to go out on a date. I didn’t know him and didn’t want to get my hopes up. I’d feel hurt if it turned out that he was simply being polite.

  I decided it would be best to forget about Eric; it seemed a much more complicated thing than I realized, and I wasn’t up for the obvious distraction it would cause. My life was already full with school and music.

  “Are you enjoying working at the library?” my dad asks, bringing me back to the here and now.

  “Yes, it’s nice. Quiet, relaxed.” I grin politely.

  “What are your plans for this weekend?” my mother asks.

  I freeze. Like prey that’s realized it’s within reach of its predator, I strategize how to leave the table. “I don’t know.”


  My mom continues. “You remember the Palumbos’ son, Michael, right? He’s their youngest—the one who recently got divorced that I told you about? Anyway, he’s in town, and I’m sure he’d love to catch a movie with you.”

  “No, that’s okay.” I shove a big bite in my mouth, hoping she’ll take the hint and drop it.

  “Why not? You have nothing to lose, honey. I mean, he’s a very nice guy—Italian, Catholic, he’s a lawyer—”

  “I’m not going on a date, Mom.”

  She puts down her fork. “Are you still hung up on that boy?”

  Yes, Mom, I’m totally still hung up on that boy! I say nothing.

  She shakes her head. “Claire, really, you have to let that go. You’ve been here for weeks, and the truth is, honey, he’s probably moved on by now. You need to face the facts, Claire. He’s too young for you, anyway. Young boys like him have only one thing on their minds. They flit from girl to girl, and frankly, I’d hate for you to go through the same thing that you did with Mark. Plus, he’s an actor, Claire. An actor. A glorified liar, if you ask me. Certainly not someone—”

  I toss my fork onto my plate. “Stop! Just stop it! You don’t know the first thing about Dan! And I am not going on any dates!” I push back my chair and take two stairs at a time up to my bedroom. I’m so angry I see spots. I pace in my bedroom, devastated at hearing my fears of him moving on validated out loud.

  What if he has moved on? Oh God! Fuck! He probably should move on, but God, I don’t want him to . . . and she doesn’t know anything about him. Nothing! She has no idea how much he meant to me, how much he still means to me. Why can’t she just leave me be? I have no problem being single and would rather stay that way than settle for someone I don’t want to be with. The only time she was ever happy for me was when I was with Mark. Why? What was so great about him?

  Ready to scream and cry, I realize I need someone to talk me off the ledge. I pick up my phone and dial.

  “Hello, hot, sexy librarian chick,” Camille says, chuckling.

  Still pacing, I gather myself and wipe away my tears. “Hi. I have a question for you. Do you have a second?”

  “For you, I have two seconds—shoot.”

  “Why did I date Mark? I mean, he was good-looking and successful and all, but why was I with him?”

  “Wow. Well, that’s one hell of a question.”

  “I just don’t know why. Back in L.A., Dan asked me what I saw in Mark that made me want to marry him, and you know, I had the lamest answer ever. So why the hell was I so ready to marry him? And for that matter, why have I been hung up for so long on a guy who treated me like crap at the end? What is wrong with me?”

  “First off, nothing is wrong with you, and second, you need to calm down. What’s brought all this on?”

  Back and forth I pace across my bedroom, watching my feet make marks in the fluffy rug as my anger trumps sadness. “I was sitting at dinner with my parents, and my mom starts going off about Dan and how as an actor he’s a glorified liar, how he’s a horrible choice for me, and then she starts her matchmaking again, and when I told her to stop because she doesn’t know Dan—”

  “Wait! You actually told her to stop?”

  “Yes. I told her to stop talking about Dan like that and that I didn’t want to date anyone. Then I left the table. Why?”

  “Oh my God, Claire! You’ve never walked away from her, and you’ve certainly never told her to stop—her jaw must be on the floor right now.”

  “What? Well, whatever. The point is . . . why was I with Mark? Because now that I’m thinking about it after about two years in, he was kind of a dick and yet I stayed.”

  Camille sighs. “Honestly, Claire, I don’t know. Bridget and I used to talk about it. We couldn’t understand what made you stay with him for so long.”

  I seethe, so angry with myself. “Why didn’t you ever say anything to me?”

  “We tried, but you always brushed it off like you avoid every uncomfortable topic. We didn’t know what happened behind closed doors. We thought he made you happy. You seemed happy enough.”

  “Did I? Because I don’t remember feeling overly ecstatic about him.”

  “You seemed happy to marry him. Weren’t you?”

  I think about it for a few moments. “I don’t know; that’s the thing—was I? Was I happy to marry him or just to get married?”

  “I don’t know. I remember you wondering if Mark was ever going to pop the question—”

  “That’s because every holiday and birthday, I’d get hounded with ‘is this going to finally be the moment?’ and . . . Shit, I think Dan was right.” I plop on my bed with my head in my free hand.

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked if I stayed with Mark for my family’s sake, and you know what, Camille? Oh God . . . I think I did.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I spend the following week avoiding my mother while thinking about all the time I wasted on Mark. The sickest feeling settles in my hollow stomach. I can’t eat. I barely sleep. I’m so angry with myself for allowing my relationship with Mark to progress further and far longer than it should have. God, I’ve been so foolish and blind!

  Thankfully, a distraction comes along—seven weeks after I arrived in hell, I land a teaching interview at the town’s middle school. I head to the school on Friday morning for the interview. It’s a temporary assignment until the end of the current school year, but if all goes well, it’ll turn into a permanent assignment starting in August.

  I nail the interview. The principal, Mr. O’Brien, seems impressed with my answers. I know all the jargon and the latest methods, and my portfolio is exemplary. I know if a job offer comes in on Monday, it’ll mean the end of living at The Microscope . . . but it will also kill any chance at having Dan in my life. Talk about a double-edged sword.

  After the interview, I complete my shift at the library and arrive home to the overwhelmingly fantastic scent of garlic and onions sautéing. I float toward the scent in the kitchen. Mom is in the middle of whipping up a homemade feast. She’s laying out pasta on the long table while sauce bubbles on the stove. There’s even bread in the oven, baking its final golden moments. The house smells good enough to eat.

  “What’s all this?” I ask, wiping the drool off my chin. Did I forget my dad’s birthday?

  My mom smiles at me. “Oh, I just felt like cooking something extra special tonight. You know, you had your big interview today, and I thought it’d be nice to celebrate things looking up for you.”

  My jaw drops. “For me?”

  “Of course, honey. I’m so happy good things are heading your way.”

  I’m stunned, to say the least. “That’s really nice of you, Mom. Can I help?”

  She beams and, oddly enough, so do I.

  “No, that’s okay.” She smiles wider. “Why don’t you go relax and get changed?”

  “All right,” I say as I head to my room. Wow. That was unexpected.

  We sit down to dinner, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no tension.

  “Mom, this is so good,” I say before I devour another forkful of the thick, homemade al-dente fettuccini.

  “Really fantastic, honey,” my dad chimes in between bites. “When do you think you might hear about the job, Claire?”

  “Um.” I stop to chew. “Mr. O’Brien said he’d call on Monday.”

  “They’d be fools not to hire you,” my mom says, grinning proudly. I find myself doing the same.

  Later that night, my parents are out and, as usual, I set myself up at the piano to practice. I’m not sure if it’s the euphoria of the successful interview, but when I try to play the warm-up piece that’s eluded me for the last seven weeks, my fingers finally work again!

  Over the keyboard,
my agile fingers fly, nailing the chords and tempo of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. My heart soars and I laugh, playing the piece just like I envision in my head. Finally!

  I up the ante by trying a harder piece, Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. Once again, my fingers are in sync with my head. I’m breathless and giddy and ecstatic. I laugh loudly and cry happy tears for once. I stand and jump about, do a little jig, and clap. It’s happening! I’m doing it!

  After calming down, I get serious. I decide to go for broke and attempt to play one of my own pieces—the composition that means the most to me. It’s easy to remember writing this piece; it was such a pivotal moment in my life.

  For a long time, I composed music in secret. No one ever knew about the compositions that would form nearly complete in my head. But writing this particular composition was different than writing the others; this one seemed to come from somewhere almost otherworldly. The melody and harmony, the chords, the tempo—all of it was vastly different and more complex than my other scores. But more than that, I’d been moved to tears while writing it. I remember watching my fingers and listening to the notes, in a sort of out-of-body way, while a fantastical muse sang her song to me through my fingers. It was hands down the most euphoric moment of my life.

  After I played it for my college professor, he urged me to take the next step—to change my major from education to music. Months of his constant encouragement gave me enough confidence to finally discuss it with my parents. I figured it would be best to bring up the delicate topic after a recital when I’d just performed this song. They would undoubtedly see what my professor saw.

  That night, my hands trembled as I waited in the wings offstage while my professor introduced my composition and me. I beamed at his words. “She’s an accomplished artist, a composer, and one of the most talented students I’ve ever taught.”