Want

by Stephanie Lawton

  Want

  By Stephanie Lawton

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Want

  Copyright © 2012 Stephanie Lawton

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: Paperback: 978-0-9850115-7-7

  (eBook 978-0-9850115-8-1)

  LCCN: 2012932542

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  In memory of L.K. Madigan,

  whose kind words meant more than she’ll ever know.

  Chapter One

  If you want vampires and werewolves, faeries, fallen angels or zombies, you won’t find them here. I know a real-life monster. She drains the life out of me and tears at my flesh with words and fingernails that sink deeper than fangs ever could. I’m not her only victim, just her favorite.

  Even the thick walls of our ancient house couldn’t absorb the crash of a delicate heirloom when she’d aim at Daddy’s head for his latest transgression. My six-year-old self used to peek around the corner and along the steps to where the monster did battle with Daddy. The night I saw her hit him was the night I knew it’d soon be my turn. I was right, and it’s gotten worse over the last eleven years, especially since my brother R.J. went off to college.

  Tonight I’m studying for finals. Our air conditioner wheezes in the evening heat, and sweat drops stain my history book. There’s a knock on my bedroom door, but Daddy doesn’t wait for an answer before opening it. I’m glad he’s finally home from work, but it’s weird that he’s in my space with a constipated look.

  “Juli, it’s Mr. Cline.” I stop breathing. “He’s in the hospital.”

  I’m going to be sick. “And?”

  “He had a stroke. Half his body’s paralyzed, but the doctors think it might only be temporary. Try not to get worked up.”

  “Try not to get worked up. Right.” My piano mentor and stand-in grandpa might be a vegetable, but I shouldn’t get worked up.

  “He’s already asking for you. His sister said you should try to visit after school tomorrow.”

  I swallow back tears and nod.

  I think about Mr. Cline all through school the next day. If I lose him, that’s one less person who knows the real me. If I lose him, my chances of getting into the music school I want melt like gum in the sun. I bolt for my car as soon as the last bell rings and drive like a maniac to get to the hospital before visiting hours end.

  The elevator smells like onions and bleach. His cramped room isn’t much better.

  “Mr. Cline, if you didn’t want to give me lessons anymore, all you had to do was say so. Hey, look at that. You’re still able to roll your eyes. They’ll be letting you out of here in no time!”

  He rewards me with a lopsided smile. “Would you be a dear…get me glass of water, please?”

  “I’d love nothing more.”

  I stand to get the Styrofoam cup and water pitcher. I wish I could do more for him, but this insignificant gesture will have to suffice.

  “Here ya go.”

  Half his face droops, but he’s still the picture of the Southern gentleman. Wires and tubes dangle from a metal pole, and his face is whiter than the over-bleached institutional sheets. Still, he’s sitting up and attempts to talk like nothing’s wrong.

  “Juli…dear,” he starts. “I am man enough to admit I do not know what to do with you anymore. I am your student. Pretty sure the nurses won’t let us drag a piano into this tiny room, so…”

  Here it comes, the part I’ve been dreading, the part where he tells me I’m on my own. Instead, he tells me about his nephew, the piano prodigy—and prodigal—who swooped back into Mobile last month.

  “Promise you, Isaac is a wonderful young man. Quiet, and he’s going through a rough patch…but he is an effective teacher and brilliant musician.”

  “If he’s anything like you, then of course he’s brilliant.” Though he’ll never fill your shoes.

  “Just be kind and don’t tease him right away. He’s your best bet for getting into the New England Conservatory.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Now what makes you think I’m going to tease him? I save all my best lines for you.”

  “Isaac graduated from the Conservatory last year. Master’s degree in piano performance. That is your heart’s desire, so…is perfect. Will take time to prepare for your recording and audition.”

  At the mention of those events, I can only nod, because if I open my mouth, my anxiety and sadness will drip out and spill all over the floor. I want to shout, Now is when I need you the most! Don’t you dare abandon me! But it wasn’t fair to him and it won’t change a thing.

  I move to leave and kiss his forehead. He’s always been a tiny man, but when my lips touch his fragile skin, I’m afraid he’ll shrink up and disappear into the bed forever.

  ***

  Finals week is over. Now I face the task of surviving the summer at home with Mama. Thank goodness R.J.’s home for the summer. He just finished his first year of college, where he basically warms the bench. He also claims to be working toward a law degree, but that remains to be seen. I’m just glad to have him home. I like the odds of two against one.

  “Redheads fade fast,” Mama says. It’s the third time this week. At first, I retorted with a crack about her gray roots. She grabbed a fistful of my curls and dragged me into the bathroom to face the mirror.

  I automatically touch the tender spot.

  “Have you thought about what I said? You could put a rinse on it to tone it down.”

  “But I get lots of compliments on it.”

  The three of us—Daddy’s at work again—sit at the dinner table where we pretend to be a family.

  “Don’t you kid yourself. They’re just being nice to your face. I honestly do not know where you came from, Julianne Casquette. Your daddy must have had some Amazons in his family tree.”

  “Slaves, more like it.” R.J. snickers under his breath. I throw a Brussels sprout at him. It thunks off his forehead.

  Mama slams down her glass. “Could you just try to act like a young lady? Is that too much to ask?”

  “Aw, Mama we’re just playing. Juli knows how to act like a lady. She can’t help it if I make her all squirrelly.”

  R.J. winks at me, but I know Mama’s added this to my list of transgressions.

  I excuse myself from the table and load my dishes into the washer. I glance out the window and the other side of the glass, across the yard, is where I want to be. My piano studio calls to me like nothing else on God’s green earth. Tomorrow, I’ll open its door to a complete stranger who now has my entire future in his hands.

  ***

  “Juli! There’s some dude banging on the studio door. You know anything about that?”

  I skip down the stairs to peek through the kitchen curtains and into the backyard. My studio lies just a few steps away. It used to be a carriage house, but Granddaddy converted it to a four-car garage in the 1950s. Half is still a garage. The other half is my haven.

  R.J. and I stand cheek-to-cheek with our noses pressed against the window like little kids
.

  “Look at the guns on that guy. Jesus, did Mama hire a personal trainer or something?” Backing up from the window, I pull my frizzy hair from my face and bend down to pat Belle on the head. She nuzzles my hand and nips at Beaux when he tries to get my attention.

  “No, that must be Mr. Cline’s nephew, Isaac Laroche. He’s helping me with my audition stuff. He’s not supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes, but I guess he’s on Yankee time.”

  Outside, the infernal heat of the morning presses in as I shove open the back door and get my first good look at Mr. Laroche. He’s not at all what I expected. He’s not boyish, like R.J. The person in front of me is definitely a man, with plain chestnut-brown hair, eyes the color of Mama’s blue hydrangeas, and a build like a farm boy—tall and thick.

  After I check him out, I waltz across the yard to the studio with my head up, fake smile in place, right hand extended. If Mama’s taught me anything, it’s that appearance is everything. I assumed he’d be a younger version of Mr. Cline, so I’m surprised when he bends over to take my outstretched hand. At five-foot eight, I’m pretty tall for a girl, but I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. Something about the flatness I see in them makes me feel small.

  “Pleasure to finally meet you, Julianne.” I shiver at his perfect French pronunciation. Not many people give my name a soft J. “My uncle’s told me a lot about you. Most of it good.”

  I blush. “Thank you, sir. Mr. Cline doesn’t always appreciate my—”

  “Dear Lord, don’t call me sir.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Isaac. Call me Isaac.” He interrupts a second time. “My other students do.”

  His mouth stretches at the corners like he’s trying to smile, but it looks painful, like he’d rather be any other place in the world. It makes no sense to take it personally, but I do. I’m eager to win him over, so I flash my best smile and open my eyes nice and big, just the way I’ve seen Mama do at the mailman, the UPS driver, the boy at the grocery store…

  “So, where do we start?”

  “The beginning. Uncle Robert told me you’re advanced, but I want to hear you play first. Get a feel for your strengths and weaknesses.”

  I cast a glance over my shoulder. R.J. presses his mouth to the window and puffs out his cheeks. I snicker then usher Mr. Laroche—Isaac—into the studio and give him the grand tour of my sacred space. He approves of the thick carpet and acoustic fabric on the walls. A half-hour later, I’ve plunked out the first movement of the Wanderer Fantasie by Schubert. I know the piece in my sleep so I’m sure he’s impressed. Instead, his eyebrows are all screwed up.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, nothing. You’re quite good. You already know that, I’m sure.” He taps a pencil against his lower lip and leans back in the loveseat. “But we have some things to work on.”

  We discuss the pieces I have in mind for my audition—if I land one.

  “The Conservatory makes you jump through some hoops. For the degree you want, you’ll submit a prescreening recording. If they like what they hear, you’ll get an audition and interview in Boston in February.” I know most of this already, but I hope talking will bring him out of his deep freeze.

  Before he can elaborate, the back door slams, then the door to the garage. Only a thin wall separates the studio from the garage, so there’s no way we can continue our conversation.

  “That goddamn woman will be the death of me. She wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit her bony ass.”

  Isaac’s eyebrows shoot up at Mama’s colorful language, but before I die from embarrassment, her SUV roars to life. She peels out of the driveway, sending rocks pinging against the low windows. I summon all my acting skills to smile like everything’s fine. Isaac huffs and picks up where he left off.

  “Anyway, if that goes well, you’ll get a letter in about a month. These days they might let you know by e-mail. Not sure.”

  “That all sounds great,” I tell him. “And I just want you to know, I’m willing to work hard. There’s nothing I won’t do to get into the NEC.”

  Chapter Two

  “So, tell me about Boston. Why did you leave?” I ask Mr. Laroche—Isaac—this question first thing every morning.

  “Doesn’t matter. I live here now.”

  “How old are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “What did you minor in?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Didn’t you play with the Boston Symphony?”

  “Might have.”

  He won’t tell me a single thing about himself, so I’ve resorted to being a snoop. Our families run in the same circles, and it amazes me what people tell you when they think you’re harmless. He’s twenty-seven, which makes him ten years older than me—practically middle-aged. He minored in jazz studies. He’s played with a bunch of top-notch orchestras, including the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

  I’m totally impressed. Like ooey-gooey, sop-me-up-with-a-biscuit impressed. Since his sudden return, he’s become a small celebrity in Mobile, one of a few people to actually leave to go north.

  “Mobile Symphony asked him to be…guest performer this fall. He will also take over…at church,” Mr. Cline tells me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve pumped him for information, too.

  For as long as I’ve been alive, Mr. Cline has been the pianist and organist at Chamberlain Episcopalian Church. If you’ve ever been to church in the Deep South, you know what a big deal this is, even for a Conservatory graduate. We had mega-churches before they became a trend in the rest of the country because everyone goes. Even if you don’t believe, you attend to maintain your social status—so you can flaunt your children’s monogrammed boutique clothes, your designer hat and your husband’s promotion. Then you get in your overpriced car and drive home where, miraculously, a full spread awaits.

  An organist of Mr. Laroche’s status draws an even bigger crowd today. It’s his first Sunday on duty, and he doesn’t look fazed at all. In fact, he looks bored.

  “Will you look at that,” whispers Mama as we slide into our usual pew, left side, five rows back on the outside aisle. “That man has groupies already.”

  Mama’s running on normal this week, thank goodness.

  I glance up and see the rows in front of us are all filled, which isn’t unusual, but now they’re filled exclusively with women. And not just any women—young, well-dressed, whispering women who openly admire Isaac’s profile as he begins the prelude. The mix of strong perfume and constant chatter gives me a headache.

  How rude. At least they could pipe down so the rest of us can hear the music. Er, worship respectfully. Whatever.

  Reverend Landry stands to welcome the congregation and makes a few announcements. More than once, his gaze darts over the flock of clucking women.

  “Are there any other announcements I missed?” he asks. Despite the air conditioning, I see a bead of sweat trickle down his sideburn into his cleric’s collar.

  Mrs. Marcie Swann, my fourth-grade Sunday school teacher, stands and clears her throat. At the sound, Isaac jerks his head around. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

  Mrs. Swann faces the congregation, so I give her my attention. She’s pushing sixty years old but manages to wear a short, lavender shantung sheath dress, a pearl choker and matching dangle earrings. She’s tanned to the color of camel leather, and her blonde bob is styled to perfection. It’s the same blonde bob Mama has.

  I’ve always liked Mrs. Swann, but Mama says the meanest things about her. We all belong to the same Mardi Gras society, the Mystics of Dardenne, and she and Mama have butted heads more than once. Mama is always the loser in their arguments, but it wasn’t always this way. I remember Mrs. Swann’s daughter, Heather, would babysit me and R.J. I’m not sure when our mamas started to hate each other, or why.

  “On behalf of the Ladies’ Worship and Music Committee,” Mrs. Swann drawls, “I’d like to welcome Mr. Isaac Laroche back to our
congregation. As y’all know, his uncle and our former organist, Robert Cline, is still recovering from a stroke. Thank the Lord”—she cocks a perfectly drawn-in eyebrow—“Mr. Laroche has agreed to be his replacement and will now serve as our full-time organist and pianist as well as choir director. He recently returned to Mobile from Boston, where he went to school at the New England Conservatory, a prestigious music school.”

  Mrs. Swann is what you’d call a handsome woman, but today her mouth looks like she’s sucking lemons.

  “Please join me in giving him a warm welcome.” With that, she takes her seat and the congregation claps.

  Isaac gives a cursory nod and begins the opening hymn before the clapping dies down.

  Mama leans over and whispers. “Juli, what is his problem?”

  “Maybe he’s nervous?” I doubt it. This is small potatoes for him. I mean, the man toured in Europe, for heaven’s sake.

  “Did you see how despicably short Marcie’s dress is? She still dresses like a debutante. If I ever caught you in a dress that short—”

  “Mama!” I hiss and bury my nose in the hymnal.

  ***

  It’s the second full week of lessons, and Isaac drills me until my finger joints ache. All that work and you’d think we’d be over the awkward stage by now. You’d be wrong.

  “So why did you come back to Mobile?” I ask for the hundredth time. While I wait for an answer that won’t come, I twirl a cinnamon-colored strand of hair around my finger. He only talks about music-related stuff. Ask him a personal question and he turns into a verbal mason. The brick wall goes up, and he changes the subject.

  To my surprise, he actually addresses my question, if only a little.

  “Didn’t so much come back to Mobile as leave Boston. Now, why don’t you—”

  “Oh, c’mon, didn’t you play with the Boston Symphony? The Pops? I mean, how could you give that up?” I shake my head in disbelief. “I don’t get it. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  A small smile escapes his lips.

  Score one for Juli!