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

by Q. T. Ruby

  I stepped out on stage to polite applause in a simple black dress with my hair pinned loosely up. Taking a seat on the bench, I steadied myself. The entire world seemed to hush as I began to caress the keys, and within moments, I was lost in my own musical world. When I was done, I re-entered the real world to surprisingly loud applause. I caught up with my parents afterward.

  “Honey, you did a fabulous job tonight!” my mother gushed, smiling wide and giving me a quick squeeze and peck on my cheek.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I smiled, swelling with pride.

  “Honey! When did you start writing music? That was wonderful!” my dad said, grabbing me into a bear hug.

  I glowed and finally had the confidence to say, “You know, I felt more inspired writing this particular piece of music than I ever have before. Composing this was beyond amazing. It changed me.”

  “That’s wonderful, honey.” My mother patted my back.

  I took that as a good sign and went for it. “I was thinking—instead of majoring in education, maybe I could flip my focus; you know, major in music and minor in education. Professor White thinks I could have a real career composing and performing.”

  My mom straightened up. “You did a fantastic job tonight, honey. You are a very talented girl, but a career in music? Professor White is a lovely man, but really, that’s not the smartest idea. You can’t rely on that. You know that.”

  My father nodded.

  “But I love this so much, you know? I feel so alive when I’m creating and playing.”

  “That’s wonderful, and that’s what makes it a fine hobby, Claire. You can make a living and have a steady career in education, and you can relax by playing—maybe make some extra money on the side by giving music lessons. Education is the smart person’s way to go.”

  Crushed and speechless, I let it go. I knew that to push the matter would likely lead to an argument that could sever family ties—a separation I couldn’t fathom. I simply accepted that education was a good career and was glad I liked kids.

  Lost in thoughts of my past, I play my piece dead-on. This time, however, the tears that stream down my face aren’t from joy, they’re from the realization that the choice I made back then led me . . . where? Here—back home, alone, and empty inside.

  Although I should be celebrating the fact that this composition flowed so smoothly from my fingers, I’m not. Instead, I shut the piano cover and head to my room with my heart overflowing with regret.

  What did I do?

  I spend Friday night and Saturday entrenched in my thoughts, contemplating the decisions I’ve made throughout my life.

  When my parents leave for the evening on Saturday, I can hardly face the piano, knowing that, in some way, what I could have had long ago is lost. I’ve missed that train. I’ve missed so many trains.

  On Monday morning I get the call—I got the teaching job. Sure, I’m pleased, but there’s an undeniable sadness lurking. I’m half in the past, half in the future, and still entirely rudderless.

  My parents are thrilled over the news, though. They hug me, congratulate me, and say how much they love me. They’re so proud. It’s all I’ve ever wanted from them, but . . . it’s just not enough now.

  I’m lying on my bed, counting the nubs on the popcorn ceiling like stars when my phone rings.

  “Hey, Claire! How are you?”

  “Hi, Camille. I’m okay . . . I got a teaching job.”

  “That’s good, right? Why don’t you sound happy? Everything okay?”

  “I should be happy, right? I should be feeling like it’s all falling into place, shouldn’t I? But I don’t. Something’s missing.”

  “What do you think it is? Is it Dan?” she says carefully.

  I sigh. “What aren’t I missing, Camille? I’ve let one thing after another slip through my fingers—music, years wasted on Mark, and Dan. But now that I’ve accepted this teaching position, it kills that one percent chance of it working between us.” There are no tears, just a weighty dread that invades every thought, every fiber of my being. “I moved home because I had no chance of a career in New York, and now I have that chance here—but . . .”

  “It doesn’t feel right?”

  “No, it doesn’t. It feels completely wrong. Everything feels very wrong.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What can I do? The only thing I have is this teaching job. I can move out of here if I take it. I’ll just go do it, you know? I’ll just get on with things.”

  We’re both silent.

  “When do you start?” Camille asks quietly.

  “Next Monday. I’m meeting with the current teacher tomorrow.”

  There’s nothing but silence again.

  “Well, maybe you can come into the city this weekend. We can celebrate or something,” Camille offers, and the melancholy in her voice mirrors mine.

  “Maybe. I have to get lesson plans ready, so I’ll let you know, okay?”

  “Okay. Um, congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  I spend the rest of the week pushing the cart at the library, trying to make sense of my crazy, mixed-up emotions—the pride of recapturing my piano skills, the satisfaction of securing a job and steady career, the joy of my parents being proud of me, and the sheer, maddening confusion and unease that overwhelms everything.

  On Friday morning, I head over to the library for my last day—on Monday, I’ll be a teacher again. The warm, spring sun beams on me as I walk through the parking lot. Maybe it’ll be all right. Maybe I just need to give it time. I reach for the library door when my cell beeps.

  I missed a call? Weird.

  When I dial my voice mail and listen to the message, I nearly pass out.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Nearly hyperventilating, I grip the brick of the library’s exterior and replay the message. Did I hear it right?

  “Hello, this message is for Claire Parelli. My name is Beverly Williams. I’m the music coordinator for the film A Long Walk Through Night. I’d like to speak with you regarding your musical composition. We’d like to get your permission to use it in our movie, as well as for you to come to L.A. on Monday, if possible, to record it. We’ll need to know by Saturday morning if this is something you’re interested in. Please call me back as soon as possible to discuss, Ms. Parelli.”

  Oh my God.

  Oh my God.

  With a thundering heart, I bolt into the library, grab the cart and push it to the most secluded section. I stand between the stacks of books, processing this . . . opportunity.

  Oh my God!

  Dan gave someone my tape. Holy fuck! I breathe hard.

  Dan . . .

  Why would he give out my music? We haven’t spoken in seven weeks.

  I’m woozy. I sit down and stick my head between my knees and breathe slowly.

  In.

  Out.

  This is a train, Claire. Get on the train. Get on it . . .

  In.

  Out.

  My head spins round and round. Maybe I don’t need to be a teacher. Maybe I can do something else.

  I think back to the other night when I nailed each and every note, when my muse sang, sending me soaring.

  But it’s only one song, Claire. You can’t make a living off one song. This is a fluke.

  Breathe . . .

  Okay, one step at a time . . . maybe you can do both. Call the woman to find out the details. Call her. There’s no harm in that. Figure the rest out as it comes.

  Breathe . . .

  I sneak out of the library and make the call.

  “Beverly Williams.”

  “Hello, this is Claire Parelli. You left a message for me about a musical composition I wrote?” I say, trying to ke
ep my voice steady and professional.

  “Oh, yes, Claire. I wanted to speak with you about using your composition in a movie I’m working on and having you come to L.A. to record it. We got your music from the director, who gave us your name and number. If you’d rather, I can contact your agent, but no one seemed to know who that might be, and I only had this number, so that’s why I contacted you directly.”

  “It’s not a problem. I was wondering—you said you need me to come out on Monday—can I come next weekend instead?”

  “Unfortunately, we’re already behind schedule, and we’ve only just gotten your music, which is why were so late in contacting you. But your music is the perfect backdrop for one particular scene in the movie. We’d really like you to record it, but we need it done before Wednesday. I know this is such short notice and we’re inconveniencing you, but we’ll set everything up—transportation, hotel, et cetera,” Beverly explains.

  Get on the train . . . Get on the train . . .

  I can’t let this train leave the station without me. Not again.

  With a deep inhale, I close my eyes tightly as though I’m about to jump off a cliff. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Wonderful! I’ll draft up a contract and FedEx it with the tickets, so you’ll get them tomorrow. You’ll come in on Sunday, record Monday, and leave Tuesday. Is that agreeable?”

  “Yes.” Oh my God. I can’t believe I’m doing this! My hands shake. I start to sweat.

  “Great. We’ll have someone pick you up at LAX and drive you over to us. You already have my number in case you have questions. Thanks, Claire.”

  “Thank you.”

  We hang up. In shock, I stare at my phone.

  Call Mr. O’Brien, Claire.

  My fingers seem to dial the principal’s phone number of their own accord. I pray this will all work out . . . but what if he says no?

  “Hi, Mr. O’Brien, this is Claire Parelli.”

  “Hello, Claire. All set for Monday?”

  “Actually, there’s a problem with Monday and Tuesday.”

  “Oh?”

  I exhale heavily. “Something’s come up, and I won’t be able to start until Wednesday.”

  “I thought I was very clear, Ms. Parelli. I need you here on Monday. We’ve already put out notices of your arrival, much to the relief of many nervous parents. We also said you’d be here for our science fair Monday night, which, as I’ve already explained, is our school’s biggest event. You need to be here on Monday. Figure it out.”

  Get on the train . . .

  I take another deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Brien, this conflict can’t be worked out. I can’t be there on Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Are you’re telling me you don’t want the job?”

  My pulse is a drum roll.

  Get on the train . . .

  “I do, but it seems I have no choice but to decline the position.”

  “Well, Ms. Parelli, I’ll be sure to pass your name along to my educational contacts regarding your lack of professionalism.”

  With a confidence that seems to come from somewhere else, I say, “I understand, but I don’t plan on returning to education, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Good-bye,” he snips and hangs up.

  Oh God! Slightly giddy, yet terrified, I breathe hard. What I face next will be the most difficult and frightening encounter by far—my parents.

  Back inside the library, I shelve books, knowing I need a plan, but before that I need to call Dan. I need to thank him. Maybe he’ll be willing to see me if I beg . . . or will he hang up on me before I get the words out? I scroll through my contacts on my cell to see his number safe and secure in my list. Please God, don’t let him have changed it.

  I’m nearly out the door to call him when the librarian stops me. “Claire, dear, can you put these on the shelves now? There are some folks here looking for the new editions.”

  Damn the periodicals! “Sure.”

  I’ll do it quickly and then make the call. What should I say? Oh my God, the English voice—I’ll finally hear it again! Done with the newspapers and moving onto the weekly magazines, I can’t do this fast enough. I’m flinging them on the shelves when my eyes catch sight of Dan’s face. I shouldn’t, but I look.

  Mr. Beautiful graces the cover of Gossip Guru, looking as handsome as ever. It’s a stock photo of course, but in the corner, circled for emphasis, is a grainy paparazzi photo with the caption, “Dan Chase’s Love for Costar Sophie Miller Exposed!”

  My stomach sinks. Oh God! I stare at the photo of them, lip-locked and embracing. I tilt the magazine this way and that as if I’ll get a better, clearer view. This has to be a real shot, not from the film . . . my legs nearly give out from under me.

  No!

  My mother was right; he’s moved on. I can’t call him now. I’ve truly lost him. I want to sink to the ground, to cry and wallow, but I don’t. Instead, I push through the afternoon at the library by focusing on what to say to my parents. I have until the tickets show up tomorrow. What’s the right way to explain to them the need I have for music in my life?

  When night comes and my head hits the pillow, I fall asleep, my mind exhausted and tense from the monumental decisions I’ve already made and the battle I’m about to face.

  “Dan?” I can see the back of his head, the golden highlights in his hair glinting in the very bright lights. I shield my eyes.

  He doesn’t turn.

  “Dan?” I call again, louder this time, and step closer.

  Suddenly, a delicate, creamy-skinned hand slides across his back. Blood red nail polish shines in the lights. There’s a high-pitched cackle, and then a beautiful, female face turns to look at me.

  Sophie!

  She eyes me from head to toe, her lip curling into an amused sneer. “He can’t hear you, silly. He’s forgotten all about messed-up you. I made sure of that. He’s miiiine,” she hisses and laughs again so sharply I cover my ears. The lights suddenly blind me, and I have to turn away.

  No!

  I bolt up in bed, tears streaming down my face. It takes a long while for my heart to slow and to fall back into a horribly restless sleep.

  In the morning, I’m awake no more than a minute before the onslaught of thoughts begins. Dan . . . my parents . . . music . . . my life . . . I breathe deeply and remind myself that this is my life. My life to pursue what I want, but a gnawing emptiness remains. I’m heartsick all over again.

  I cautiously head downstairs for breakfast, all the while bracing myself. My mother is busy cleaning bathrooms and simply shouts a quick “good morning” as I pass.

  I shovel the food in, not really knowing why I’m rushing. I need to calm down. A run will help. I change my clothes and step out into the cloudy, yet warm, morning. As I run, I rehearse the conversation with my parents—like a runner who envisions crossing the finish line first.

  I can do this. Yes. It’ll be fine.

  I come home to find Mom circling around a package that arrived while I was running. Man, they work fast.

  “You got a package,” she says the moment she sees me. I can tell she’s dying to know what’s inside.

  “Oh, okay,” I say, scooping it up. I head out of the kitchen. Maybe I can just avoid it.

  “What’s in there?” she asks sweetly before I get too far.

  No, I can’t avoid it. Do it, Claire. Board the train. Get on it.

  I steel myself. “Plane tickets.”

  “Plane tickets? Are you going somewhere?” my mother asks, very confused.

  With my heart pounding, I clear my throat. “Yes. I’m headed out to L.A. tomorrow.”

  “What?” Mom asks, her head tilted to the side. “Aren’t you starting your teaching job on Monday?”

  Standing across the
granite-topped kitchen island from her, I think carefully of the words I practiced. I muster all the confidence I can manage. “I’m going to L.A. to record a song.”

  “What are you talking about, Claire?” she furrows her brow as if I’ve cracked.

  “I got a call from the music coordinator of a film who wants to use a composition of mine for a scene in a movie. She is flying me out to record it.”

  Then everything shifts—her eyes, her stance, and the atmosphere in the room as the gears click in her head. I want to run. My mother’s chest begins to rise and fall with breaths that grow shorter and louder as the moments tick by. She remains silent a long time—too long.

  And then she snaps. “What happened to the teaching job? You’re ready to start in two days and now you’re not? Have you called the principal?”

  “Yes, yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Yes.” Just the facts, Claire.

  Her eyes widen. Her nostrils flare. “So you’re not going to teach? Instead you’re going to L.A. to record a song?” Rita grips the countertop with white knuckles.

  “Yes,” I respond.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes,” she imitates my answers, her disgust obvious. “What is this all about, Claire? What are you doing to your life?” She slams her fist on the countertop in frustration. “You have the start of a good life in the palm of your hand, and you just brush it away? Did you ever think this ‘music coordinator’ thing was some sort of scam? And if it’s not, what happens when they don’t like what you play? What will you do then? Those kinds of people are a fickle bunch! Does this have anything to do with that boy—the one I thought you had finally put behind you?” she says through gritted teeth.

  I feel myself shrinking with her every new accusation, but . . . I can’t let it derail my plan. No!

  I breathe deep and continue with the facts. “They’re asking for my permission to use my song—they’ve sent a copy of the contract with the tickets—so, no, I don’t think this is a scam. It just feels right.”