“Ugh,” she says with a sigh. “We’ve been waiting so long. How long does it normally take?”
“Blocks of one hour. We have ten minutes left. You do practice, don’t you? Or will I have to take sides with the professors and chastise you?”
She sticks her tongue out. “Don’t you start. Normally I practice at Jude’s house.”
“Oh?”
“He’s got the best piano ever. It’s on the top floor of the mansion. I don’t know how they got it up there. I was stuck at boarding school.”
That’s a lot for me to take in at once. Mansion. Boarding school. Playing piano in Jude’s house.
“Where did you go for school?”
“Here in New Orleans. I was barely sixteen when my parents . . .” She looks away. “You know.”
“Yeah.” I restrain the urge to touch her, somehow, just to say that I do know. It’s not just a platitude from me.
“Anyway, I started running wild. It was messy. I’m . . .” Pausing again, she stops to dig a lip gloss out of her purse. It smells of marshmallow cream. “I’m lucky I made it through without needing rehab or hiring a nanny. Although Jude would say I’m still playing Russian roulette.”
“I think that’s an exaggeration.” I decline to mention Dr. Saunders. “What turned you around?”
“More like who. I hated him for him, sorta for the same reason I hate how nosy he is now. Not that I can blame him sometimes. But I blame him plenty when I want to have fun. That’s college, right? The freedom to have a little fun?”
She exhales shakily, in a way that takes the gusto out of her challenging words. “When our parents died, Jude had just finished business school. Dad left him in charge—some shareholder thing built into the works when he incorporated. If Jude had finished business school, and the worst happened, he’d take over. Twenty-four years old and boom, suddenly he was head of a multibillion-dollar company. I don’t know how he did it and stayed sane. Well, relatively. And with me, to boot.”
To take on that burden at such a young age . . . I shiver with the need to apologize to Jude, although I can’t figure out what for. Doesn’t that just suck when it comes to arguments? I can’t remember when he and I went from Let’s go get a hotel room to The end.
“He decided I needed stability,” she continues. “And that I needed a keeper. Instead of moving the company headquarters to New York like all the board members wanted—really, we were kinda oddballs for still being based in Louisiana—he said no. Kept it right here. Fought for it. That way he and I could still be home. I didn’t need to change schools. He didn’t need to leave the mansion, although I’ve been telling him to sell that place for years. It’s like living in a crypt with our parents.”
She shudders, then rubs her hands together. “Anyway, enough sad sack Addie. Now you can tell me about you. I’m super curious.” With that conspiratorial smile of hers, she bumps my shoulder. “Jude is too. I swear, other than how to rein me in, I can’t remember seeing him this worked up over a puzzle that wasn’t based on opportunity costs and PE ratios.”
He’s been talking about me to Adelaide? Before or after how things ended?
“Nothing to tell,” I say evenly.
If I was inclined to tell her anything, I’d only be playing a game of telephone with her and Jude. I don’t want him to know anything more about me than he’s already pried out. And if I thought our age difference was a barrier to being more serious, I can’t imagine what my past would do to any second chance with him.
Jude’s parents: paragons, lost too soon.
My parents: menaces, not gone soon enough.
“All right, fine.” Adelaide stands and offers me a hand. “I’m only letting you off the hook because we’re up.”
A slim boned young man with slightly hunched shoulders is clutching his portfolio, leaving rehearsal room number one. He hurries past us without looking. God, do I look that withdrawn and scared? What’s scary is to realize that might be the case.
If so, why did Jude notice me in the first place? A jest, maybe, to begin with. Not later, though. I know he’d been perfectly serious about making that deal with me. What I couldn’t know then—and knew now—is what craving more of his attention would do to me.
Thinking about him too much, with no relief.
The piano room is cool, as always. I’m gratified to see Adelaide strip down. She means business too. She takes off her hundred thousand bangles and even her four-hoops-in-one earrings. She ties her hair back and sheds a knee length sweater that isn’t missing a single color from the rainbow. In fact, I think it made up a few colors no one’s ever seen before. I do the same, getting rid of my purple jacket and opening my portfolio.
“Ooh, wait,” she says. “I forgot to ask. What do you listen to? You know, in your off hours?”
I list a few singers, mostly Florence and Ellie Goulding and Sara Bareilles.
“I thought so. No offense, but you’re just the type. Crazy creative on your own, but a little stuck in a rut.”
“How can you tell that?”
“Just a guess. Plus, I like showing off my diverse tastes. Jude says it’s pretentious, but he still listens to The Killers.” She fishes through her giant tote. How she could find an elephant in that giant thing is beyond me, let alone a little flash drive. “This is for you. The Dead Weather, Santigold, Lana Del Rey, Flyleaf, Bastille, Purity Ring, Billie Holiday, Skrillex. Even some old school Reba McEntire and Johnny Cash.”
“Country music?”
“Don’t knock ’em. Great performers. So . . . listen and take it all in.”
I shrug and pocket the drive before spreading my sheaves into place. Unlike that time with Brandon, when I reflexively hid my work, I don’t do it now. Not because I want to be open, but because for a few delusional seconds, I forget Adelaide can read every note as easily as a junior high kid reading a baby’s board book.
“Whoa,” she whispers over my shoulder. “That’s come a long way. I’m impressed. But I wanna do something different. I get the feeling you wouldn’t have called me if you wanted to practice this. You sounded . . . flustered.”
I shrug to readjust the tension between my shoulder blades. “Yeah. A run-in at lunch with a guy I don’t like much.”
“Tell me who he is and he won’t bother you again.”
“Is this some If I tell you, I’d have to kill you thing?”
“Totally.” With a giggle, she looks down at her flowing skirt and unfurls its colors. “I’m so the secret-service type.”
“He’s just a jerk in my building and he’s been trying to play me and this other girl at once.” I shrug some of the tension out of my shoulders and roll my neck. “Turns out he’s a bit psycho. I mean, he got really defensive and angry when I called him on it.”
“You expected something else?”
I smile to myself, amused by the idea that, yes, I’d expected something else, something better from Brandon. Do I think that of everyone . . . without even realizing it?
“Now,” she says, her voice surprisingly no-nonsense. “You wanted performance tricks? I have them for you.” She sets my sonata aside and replaces it with a single sheet of music. On it is a basic melody and harmony, only twenty-four bars long. Thirty seconds of music, tops. “That’s your assignment.”
It’s elementary. It’s something I could’ve played when I was three. Had my parents realized what a whiz I am with the piano, they’d have used me for stuff other than luring potential marks. Instead my moment of discovery came by chance with a music teacher when I was twelve. Some junior high. Some town. Her name was Mrs. Krevitz and she must’ve seen what no one else could. She kept me after class one day and sat me at the piano.
“Play,” she said.
I was only scared that getting home late would get me in trouble. An hour later, I didn’t care. I had a gift . . . and a secret
. Being raised by two people who knew what it was to keep secrets, I hid mine well. I only spent a few months with Mrs. Krevitz before I was jerked away again, but they were profoundly formative months.
I saw a glimmer of who I could be. Sometimes it was empowering when my secret gave me strength. Sometimes it was this heavy thing in my head. My living with my folks would’ve been like Mozart working in a coal mine.
“It’s for kids,” I say, my throat rusted. “Besides, who’s the mentor here?”
“It’s for kids.” Adelaide nods, fake earnest. “You’re the mentor and doing a great job. I’m serious! Here I am giving a damn about music, without a bar-sized audience and no spotlight. I’d have only asked you to do this tomorrow.”
“Play this?”
“Yup.”
She sits on a chair she pulls close to the bench, wearing a satisfied expression I don’t get. Whatever. Let the Villars sister get what she wants. I glance at the sheet music, then press the appropriate keys. The end.
Adelaide grins unexpectedly. “That’s our starting point,” she says. “What is—shit, that intro science class I’m in. What’s that called?”
“The control group?”
Snapping her fingers, Adelaide says, “That’s the one. That was your control. That was you playing twenty-four boring bars as boringly as possible. Nice job.” She leans back in her chair. “But that’s not your problem, remember?”
“I have a problem?” It’s a token reply.
“Yeah, Miss Stage Fright. You don’t know how to work a crowd. You know how to move people, but you don’t know how to harness that skill—like an untrained superhero or something.”
“That sounds just like me.”
“You’re a goosey,” Adelaide says. “Now play it again, but do it trying to make me laugh.”
“No way.” I shake my head. It’s all defensive. I know it even as I do it, but I don’t want to try any sort of playacting with Adelaide, when we’re just getting to know each other—and in the neutral ground of a rehearsal room. “That’s . . .”
She leans forward on her chair and props her chin in her hands. “That’s what? Childish? Silly? Or . . . No, I got it. You think it’s a waste of time.”
I look down at the keys. With my hair pinned up, she can probably see my blush. The bright rehearsal room isn’t as brightly lit as a stage, but I feel that exposed. Only, I’m not a performer; I’m being interrogated.
“That’s all you want? Just to make you laugh?”
Before Adelaide even answers, I think of Jude’s smile. Nothing about him was simple, and I sure as hell didn’t know how to make him laugh. Otherwise I would’ve done it every minute we were together, just to see his full-on smile and hear that rich, full timbre. He’d look at me with affection and surprise. . . .
And I’m playing. Those—yes, childish; yes, silly—notes tinkle out from my fingers. Without Adelaide needing to say so, I try again. I try again. I know it’s not right yet. I’m still too stiff. I wrestle with those scant few bars. I want to beat them. Win against them.
That idea makes me laugh. Me. Sitting on the bench. The idea of me wanting to win against a few scratches of ink on paper, and the absurdity of this situation, and the three of us locked like mental patients in a padded cell, and just . . . God, all of it.
Adelaide giggles, but that’s like saying a twister is a light breeze. She’s her own whirlwind of pure energy. Her drawl is the only part of her that’s syrupy slow by comparison.
I gust out an exhale that feels like expelling fire. Then I suck in something very near to . . . success. Her reaction is great, but I want more. I want the hard-core junkie stuff. She seems to know it, just like she knew I needed this ridiculous exercise.
“Try again,” Adelaide urges, smiling brightly. “Do it intentionally.”
She’s right. The first time was me being caught by the surprise of my own thoughts. As if practicing scales rather than performance technique, I do as she says and play the piece one more time. I do it with gusto, a bit of cheekiness, some saucy bubbles in my blood. This time Adelaide laughs and gives a little clap. His eyes have tipped into half moons that remind me so much of Jude that it nearly kills my sense of triumph.
“Okay.” Adelaide’s all business again. “Make me cry. Same notes. Be sure this time. Don’t guess. You know this piece inside out now. Know it well enough to find the cracks. The places that’ll twist my heart.”
I do. Intentionally. I own these twenty-four bars. They’re mine to mold. I think about the bad kind of crying—my mother’s face the night before she died, her haggard features, her sunken eyes. But I don’t let those memories overwhelm the pressure of each finger against each key. Then there’s the good kind of crying, and how happy I was the night of the Joshua Bell concert. Clair and John looked so fine and lovely in their dress clothes. My own personal angels.
I’m in charge now. I play it three times, each slower, each more like a funeral procession walking toward a gravesite in the rain, with shoes soaking wet to match tearful faces.
When I finish, Adelaide wipes her eyes, looking at the back corner of the room, completely distant—but not unaffected. This is . . . guarding herself.
“Wow,” she says at last. She stands and shakes her fingers out, like getting blood back to frozen limbs. “You’re forbidden from doing that again. But are you feeling it now? Control? How to work us both?”
I nod, speechless at what’s happening.
“Believe me,” she continues, “it’s easier with an audience. Then emotions feed off each other. Make one person laugh, and others follow. One sniffle turns another person’s sniffle into tears. You just gotta pry inside and the whole thing ripples out.”
I swallow thickly, my legs restless until I stop tapping my toes against the pedals. “That’s what you did at Yamatam’s.”
“Sure. Just a trick.” She smiles, almost self-deprecating. “That’s all it is.”
“What did you say earlier? Bull puckey. I’ll play real mentor later and talk you down from that pity-party ledge.” I grin to match hers. “Okay, what next?”
From behind me comes the voice I’ve heard through dark nights of dreaming. “How about Adelaide lets us have a few moments alone?”
Whirling, I find Jude standing in the doorway.
Oh God.
Adelaide smiles at us both, watching, as if she’s expecting romantic music to swell out of nowhere. When Jude and I remain rooted, she shrugs slightly, then skips over to give him a hug.
“Hi!”
I start to gather my papers. Although Adelaide appears genuinely surprised by her brother’s arrival, she shoots me a warning look. “Don’t even think about the fire-alarm thing again,” she says.
I glare at Jude. “You told?”
“It was too much fun to keep to myself,” he says without apology.
“And I won’t tell,” Adelaide adds. “You were completely justified after he sneak-attacked you like that.”
“Like now?” I’m surprised by the strength in my voice. This was supposed to be my refuge. Now it would always have Jude’s impression here, lingering, like how he’s become such an integral part of my sonata.
“It was my fault,” Jude says casually.
“Honest.” Adelaide’s words are a whisper near my ear as she gathers her papers. “I didn’t invite him. But . . . maybe it’s a good thing?” She glances at Jude over her shoulder, where he’s standing woodenly. She huffs out a breath. “Or not. Keeley, I hope you don’t let him off the hook as easily as I have to.”
“You don’t have to go,” I say.
You’re leaving me? He’s your brother, but I’m swimming in the deep end here.
“It’ll give me more time to get ready for my date tonight.”
Jude stiffens. “Not with that professor again.”
Adelaide shru
gs. She collects her bangles by throwing them in her purse, then slings her sweater over her shoulder. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
She’s gone as quickly as I was the first day Jude and I met, out in that same hallway.
Twenty-Seven
Not looking at him is impossible now.
He’s wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase. He holds himself with the bearing of a young prince. Wide stance. Shoulders braced against the strongest wind. His hair is neatly combed and his expression is flat. I imagine that more than a few lawyers and accountants have stared at that impassive expression and given up. Jude is too powerful. He takes up too much air. Too much space in my head. I can barely feel Middle C beneath my fingertip. I get frustrated, as if the piano is what’s abandoned me.
He’s there in the full light of the rehearsal room, but I can’t see his eyes. He has his head lowered, his arms crossed. Lights that should’ve lit every feature are angled in such a way that his face is more hidden than exposed. His top lip is highlighted, with the dip at the peak. The end of his nose is visible. How the end of a nose can signal distance—I don’t know.
He’s a businessman. Almost anonymous.
Yet he’s the one who stood up to his board of directors just to keep Adelaide in a stable home and school. He’s the one who took on the impossible challenge of heading a multibillion-dollar company—fresh out of business school, his parents barely buried—exceeding all expectations.
That’s when I see him as if for the first time, all over again. The night we split, he wore a faded U2 T-shirt and a battered pair of Docs. That was Jude as an average twenty-six-year-old.
This is Jude Deschamps-Villars, CEO.
With Adelaide gone, I have plenty of room to combust privately and not take her down with him. Suddenly, our gazes lock. Now I can see his eyes, so dark, so fierce. I can’t read his emotions, only his intensity. He’s there, but why? To berate me? To tease me? To unnerve me?
Blue Notes Page 18