by Amy Poeppel
“Oh my God,” she said, getting teary, holding her head in her hands. “I feel just… I’m so embarrassed—”
“No need for that,” said Will, coming over to her and guiding her to a stool at the island. “Let me ask you, Jackie. Other than the last part of the evening, did you have a good time?”
Jackie had to think for a moment. “I guess so, everyone was nice—”
“That’s all that matters. We’re not judging you. So you drank too much. And now you feel wretched, which is punishment enough, don’t you think? Are you hungry?”
Jackie looked like she honestly didn’t know.
“I’m going to cook some eggs and bacon, and you can decide when you see it.”
“I need to go to work,” she said, trying to stand back up again. “Mr. Stratton’s expecting me, unless I’ve been fired for bad behavior.”
“No one’s firing you, and how would Edward even know?”
Jackie had to think for a moment. “Someone might tell him.”
“Who?” Will asked. “Why would anyone do that? Besides, he needs to rest today. As do you. Doctor’s orders. Coffee?” he asked.
She nodded weakly and sat back down on the stool.
Will poured her a cup and gave her a small glass of Gatorade. “Electrolytes,” he said and went about the business of cooking bacon and eggs, hoping the smells wouldn’t make her feel worse.
“Do you know if I can call that cabdriver from here? Frank?”
“Ah, good old Frank,” said Will. “He despises New York. Did he tell you that?”
Jackie couldn’t seem to wrap her head around that concept. “But why—?”
“Whatever you do,” Will said, “don’t ask him about it. You’ll get an earful.”
Jackie stared into her coffee cup and said sadly, “I love New York.” Then she looked at Will. “I’ll need to get to Mr. Stratton’s, eventually.”
“Not to worry. One of us will drive you.”
There was the sound of the dogs thundering down the stairs, and then Oscar came in, darling Oscar, trudging after them. He moaned as he sat down next to Jackie. “Help me,” he said. He was wearing a ratty Rolling Stones T-shirt and jeans, and his hair was in need of shampoo.
Will gave him a cup of coffee, a glass of Gatorade, two Tylenols, and a pat on the back. Jackie’s shoulders dropped at the sight of him in such a sorry state.
Oscar turned to her. “You must feel even worse than I do,” he said.
Jackie didn’t answer. She looked like she wanted to disappear under the floorboards.
“Or maybe you feel better than me. Throwing up might have been the smartest thing you ever did.”
From the pained expression on Jackie’s face, Will thought it would be best if they dropped the whole topic. “After breakfast and a shower, maybe you could drive Jackie to Edward’s? Or are you still drunk?”
“I can drive,” said Oscar. “I was thinking later we could take the dogs to the river.”
Will liked that idea, but he had problems that needed to be addressed before he could do anything fun. He scrambled the eggs, toasted and buttered slices of bread, and set the cooked bacon on paper towels, while Oscar and Jackie drank their coffee in silence.
When he put breakfast in front of them, Oscar dove right in, while Jackie approached the food cautiously, like she couldn’t tell if this meal would save her life or end it.
Will cleaned up, tossing the eggshells down the disposal, which he soon discovered wouldn’t turn on. He cursed under his breath. “It’s one broken thing after another with this damn house,” he grumbled. He turned to the kids, who hadn’t seemed to hear him. “I’ve got some work I need to deal with, so I’ll leave you guys to it. There’s juice in the fridge. I recommend lying down on the porch under the fans. It’s very soothing.”
As he walked out of the room, he heard Jackie say, “Is your grandfather getting married, or did I dream that?”
Will couldn’t be bothered with talk of weddings. He went upstairs to the loft, preparing to write the most sycophantic, desperate email of his life. Even if it killed him, he would make his letter warm and personal, in hopes of making a reunion sound appealing. He would be cool and confident, to make the proposition sound worthy. He never thought he’d have to rely on Gavin Glantz to save his ass.
JULY
12
Gavin’s wife wrote in chapter seven of her book that the truth should always come out, regardless of the cost. “Lies lead to psychological disorders,” Juliette said. “Secrets damage the soul.” If that were true, his soul would be in intensive care.
Gavin was in Munich, drinking tea in the upstairs of Spatenhaus and watching people walk around in front of the opera. But as soon as he remembered the email he’d gotten from Will Harris, he felt a need to get out of the dark, wood-paneled restaurant and take a walk in the sun. Flagging his waitress, who was wearing a traditional German dress revealing a decent amount of cleavage, he paid his bill and headed out into the heat of the afternoon. He had plenty of time before he needed to be at the Philharmonic, so he walked toward the English Garden. It was too warm for the expensive Panama hat he was wearing to keep the sun off his face and hide his receding hairline, but he kept it on anyway because his hat was not the cause of his uneasiness. Walking past shops and cafés, dabbing at the sweat under the brim, Gavin thought of Bridget and felt a spasm of tension running across his shoulders.
Why had Will invited him to play with Forsyth, as if he were still a member of the trio, as if no time had passed? Will, whom he hadn’t seen in years, other than the one accidental sighting last month on the street in Greenwich Village. It was a bizarre proposition anyway, even if they’d stayed in touch, which they hadn’t. Bridget still owed him a phone call from over twenty-five years ago.
Gavin had been smitten the instant they met. How could he not? Bridget was two years older than him, pretty and confident. Not the best cellist in their class maybe, but still, she was the daughter of Edward Stratton, which was incredibly cool. Plus, she was funny and nice and laid-back, while also being serious about music. And she was sexy: long hair, gorgeous legs, and perfect lips. Gavin, young and virginal, wanted to make out with her so bad it hurt.
And then Will had called him out on it.
“I see how you look at her,” he once said. It was near the end of senior year, and they’d just committed to spending the next three years playing together in the trio.
Gavin hated Will for seeing right through him. And, of course, he denied it. “What? Not at all, man,” Gavin said. “I’m not even attracted to her.” He did a move that was a casual shrug combined with a sneer, a look that he hoped said, I could do way better.
Will acted as though Gavin hadn’t said a word. “I’m telling you, it’s for the best, she’s not interested in you. A relationship would mess up our group chemistry.”
Gavin disagreed. He didn’t think being with Bridget would mess up anything. He got it now, of course, all these years later, but he’d been immature then and unable to anticipate consequences like hurt feelings or awkward breakups.
But no, Gavin never made a move on Bridget because—and this was a fact, plain and simple—he didn’t stand a chance with her. Will knew it, and he knew it, so he kept his horny thoughts to himself. Gavin was used to getting rebuffed by girls. As the youngest in their class, he was treated by the other students like a kid brother. Will teased him for being underage. The girls told him he was “cute” and “sweet.” They used the term “child prodigy,” which had the word “child” right in it, making him feel unmanly. They never took his attempts at flirtation seriously, and his response to this was to become an unbearable, callous show-off. Juliette made him see how his insecurity caused him to put on the persona of a cocky, overconfident little prick, and it had taken years of retraining to be able to see himself as others saw him, and several more to become truly self-aware and humble.
His success in the dating arena improved after graduation. He fina
lly got some facial hair that made him look older than a high school student, and he bought a leather jacket and Levi’s that fit him the right way, T-shirts that showed off his chest muscles, the kind of stuff his parents had dismissed as frivolous but that Gavin found made him feel good about himself. He got a girlfriend, broke up with her, and then got another, normal for most people but a whole new world for Gavin. Women started to notice him when he performed with Bridget and Will, and he loved the attention, even mugged a bit onstage to attract a little more.
The trio was doing well, and after their first three years together, they committed to another five, shaking hands on it over drinks. Then, a couple of years into that period, he was invited to audition for an orchestra. It was a great opportunity, and Gavin jumped at it. Who wouldn’t? As he prepared, he knew he should tell Bridget and Will what he was doing, but he justified keeping it secret: he wasn’t going to get it anyway, he told himself.
One night he and Bridget went out for drinks together after a rehearsal in their studio on Forsyth Street. He felt guilty; auditioning behind their backs had been a rotten thing to do, so after they’d had a few cocktails, he and Bridget walked out of the bar, and he thought, I have to tell her. Chest pounding, he turned to her and held her hands, trying to think of how best to confess. Bridget, apparently misunderstanding the look of desperation in his eyes, held his face in her hands in a way that was sexy and surprising, and she started kissing him. His heart slowed, he focused on her mouth, and he breathed in deeply.
“Whoops,” she’d said, pulling away.
“Sorry.” Gavin wasn’t sorry; he was elated.
“No, I’m sorry.” An ambulance went by, and she covered her ears. After it quieted, she said, “God, now I made it awkward—”
“What? Nothing’s awkward. See?” He was incredibly turned on but thought the best strategy would be to act like this situation was no big deal. He gestured to the normal world around them, the cabs, the people, the storefronts. “We’re just a couple of friends, hanging out.”
“I don’t know what came over me,” she said, her hands on her neck. “A couple martinis, and I suddenly wanted— I really shouldn’t have done that.”
“We’ll pretend it never happened,” he said, hoping, in fact, that it would happen again, and as soon as possible.
“Are you sure?” She looked worried. “Should we talk about it?”
“It was only a kiss, Bridget,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t make a whole thing out of it.” Yeah, like he didn’t care that he’d just made out with Bridget Stratton. His heart was beating so hard, he covered it with his hand. “Wanna go back to my place?”
Bridget hesitated.
“I mean as friends,” he said. “I have a bottle of wine.”
“Sure,” she said, “but we’re not—”
“No,” he said, waving her off, “no, of course not. Gross.”
He loved making her laugh.
As they walked a few blocks to his crappy Lower East Side studio, he resisted the urge to reach for her hand, to put an arm over her lovely, bare shoulders. They went inside to the sound of a ringing phone, and he answered it. A voice on the other end told him he was being offered a position in the orchestra of the Sydney Opera House. The voice congratulated him, sharing details about salary and benefits. It asked him if he would accept. “Wow, yes,” he said, looking over at Bridget’s puzzled expression. “That’s amazing. Yes,” he said again more quietly and hung up the phone.
“What was that about?” she asked. She was standing in front of the one tiny window, looking, if possible, more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. He would lose her now, he thought, before he’d even had a chance with her. He got the bottle of wine from the counter and found the corkscrew. “I just… well, okay. I just got offered a job,” he said, “in Australia.”
She cracked up. “Australia,” she repeated, like it was a bad joke.
He put the bottle down. “The Sydney Opera House.” At that her expression changed completely. “I guess with the time difference it’s the afternoon there,” he said, focusing on the most irrelevant detail.
She was staring at him, expressionless. “You’ve been auditioning?”
“Not in general, no, of course not.”
“Because we said five years,” she said. “Five more years, we said, and that was only like two years ago.”
“Two and a half,” said Gavin.
“You auditioned? And you didn’t think that was something you should tell us?” Her arms were crossed, her purse still on her shoulder. He hoped she wouldn’t leave.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “They heard us at Tanglewood and then—Look, I’m as surprised as you are, Bridget.” God, he loved the sound of her name. He’d never even known a Bridget before her. “They want me to start right away.” The reality of that fact was sinking in and making him feel homesick.
“You’re taking it?”
Gavin considered her question: A young trio whose future was entirely uncertain versus a premier orchestra offering a steady salary and a path to greater things? This wasn’t even a choice. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but yes.” The worst part, he realized, wasn’t even that she wouldn’t sleep with him now; it was that she would hate him.
“It’s a big decision,” she said. “Aren’t you going to think it over? What about Will and me?”
He felt he was having the most adult moment of his life. And while he thought he might like to turn the job down and stay right where he was, he said what he knew was right: “I’m sorry, but I have to consider my own career.”
“Nice,” Bridget said sarcastically, dropping her purse on the floor. “Why didn’t you tell us you were looking for a way out?”
“They contacted me,” he said, walking over to her. “I didn’t go looking for this.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and then she shrugged, dismissing him. “Whatever. We’ll replace you in, like, a day.”
He winced. He’d never seen Bridget be mean before.
Right away, she seemed contrite. “Look, I’m happy for you,” she said. “I could kill you, but I’m really happy for you.” She leaned toward him and gave him a fast hug, like he was her little brother. Then she stepped away. “You’re a better musician than either of us, and it’s not like we don’t know it.”
“Oh, stop.” Gavin was pretty sure that was true, but he sometimes wondered if he wasn’t as good as people said he was. Then again, he’d just been offered a position in a major orchestra. Principal second violin. At barely twenty-five years old! Of course, he was good. “Will doesn’t think I’m better than him,” he said.
Bridget smiled sadly. “Oh, he does. He just doesn’t like to talk about it.”
She leaned over abruptly and picked up her purse.
“Wait, where are you going?” He held up the bottle of wine.
“Home,” she said. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”
He didn’t want her to leave. He thought about how far away Sydney was, the other side of the world, and he felt ill. He wouldn’t know anyone there. Sydney? How did this even happen?
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, sighing. “Will is not going to like this.”
Although he dreaded facing Will, Gavin was focused solely on Bridget. “Hey, since I’m leaving anyway,” he said, stepping closer to her, “couldn’t we end things between us… on a better note?”
“What do you mean?”
“All this time we’ve been working together, so it would have been inappropriate for us to, you know. But now if we’re not in a trio together…” He guided her hands back to the sides of his face, positioning them the same way she’d had them before when she kissed him on the street. “I was just thinking maybe we could—”
“I’m mad at you.”
“Are you?” he said, running his hands through her hair and holding the back of her head. “I bet you’ve always known how much I like you.” He leaned in and kissed her.
She kissed him back, hesitantly at first. And then, as if to shock him, she dropped her purse and took off her shirt and jeans. She kissed him again, and he walked her backward across the room to his bed, his arm around her waist. He wished Will could see him now.
She stayed with him all night, but when he woke up late the next morning, she was gone.
* * *
Sydney was lonely, and the job was all-consuming. Often, Gavin wanted nothing more than to jump on a plane and go home. The transition from playing in an ensemble to playing in an orchestra did not go smoothly for him; he was told by the concertmaster that he needed to keep his head still, that his hair moved around too much and his face was too emotive. It was humiliating, especially when he found out that his swaying movements and ecstatic facial expressions had been the talk of the violin section behind his back.
And then, a few months later, Bridget called him. He was dressing for a concert in his one-bedroom, high-rise apartment, and he dropped his tie and sat down at the sound of her voice.
“Bridget,” he’d said, surprised and delighted to hear from her. It was amazing how clear the call was, as though he were right back in New York with her. It made him want to cry.
“I know we’ve been out of touch,” she said, sounding rather businesslike, “but I wanted to say hello.”
“How are you? How’s Will? I miss you guys.”
“We’re doing well, thanks. How are you?” she asked.
He lied and told her he was happy. “Everything’s great. What’s going on with you?”
“Well, I’m pregnant,” she said.
“Hey, cool.” He wasn’t entirely shocked; Bridget had talked often about wanting kids. “Good for you.”
“I’m really happy about it, and I’m—”
“That’s great—”
“This is… ugh. Look, I’ve been using the term ‘donor’ because it was… It’s truthful. That’s what I did, I got a donor from a sperm bank. And it worked.”