Ah, better yet, she’d take her shopping. She couldn’t be presumptuous about what Yun wanted.
Brinley waved to Yun, reminded her again to lock the doors, and nearly sprained her ankle on a shifting floorboard on her way across the porch. Good thing her dress shoes had a chunky heel instead of the usual stilettos she wore to dinners.
She backed out of the driveway. She felt sleepy. She’d been flying all day across time zones. Right now it would be way past her bedtime in Zurich. However, she’d given Ivan her word that she’d return to the party.
So return she must.
When she gave her word, she kept it.
Chapter Eight
The music of Wynton Marsalis was the king of the after-party, bursts of brass and percussion and New Orleans, with Zoe’s new husband off to one side, standing tall with the bass he seemed to be enjoying thwacking and thumping.
Jazz might’ve been Quincy’s thing, Brinley thought. Zoe was more into Béla Bartók and Antonín Dvořák. Not jazz.
On the platform were a couple of trumpet players, a man and a woman. Brinley didn’t recognize the man, but she’d seen the woman in the brass section of SISO this evening. Her eyes on the jazz band, Brinley strolled nonchalantly toward the front to get a closer look at the pianist in the fedora with his tuxedo jacket off and white oxford shadowing toned arms. His straight back, shoulder width, and that slight leaning forward told her that it was unmistakably Ivan McMillan.
Unmistakably?
Brinley caught herself. She’d only known Ivan for what? A year? And not even on familiar terms. How could she have spotted him in a crowd?
An empty table opened up in front of her, beckoning her to sit and stare. She shed her coat and piled it onto a seat. And sat down. And stared. Unabashedly. Ivan’s back was turned toward her, anyway, and he wouldn’t have known she was enjoying more than just the music. Besides, he seemed to be single, and so was she now.
Then again, so what? They were strangers.
Brinley’s iPhone pinged at the same time the jazz band finished the number. She checked her email. Helen Hu said the Stradivarius trail had gone cold. Brinley emailed back asking her to keep at it.
A wail and a shriek startled Brinley. Her head snapped up and she stared incredulously as Quincy McMillan began to sing something that sounded like a cross between a wolf howling and a rooster crowing. The piano bench was empty. Staggering up to the platform, Zoe nearly tripped on the steps.
Brinley watched Zoe and Quincy give karaoke a really bad name, slurring lyrics to indiscernible songs, transposing the tunes into what sounded like a five-car pileup on Interstate 285 back in Atlanta. And the baby—
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Ivan.
His voice caused Brinley’s heart to flutter a bit or she thought it did.
“You mean fetal alcohol syndrome?” Brinley offered.
“I’m thinking my brother is making a fool of himself.”
“So is my sister.”
“But we can’t babysit them.”
“They’re above the age of consent.”
“I concur.” He sat down on the chair and threw his tuxedo jacket over the back of another chair. “Glad you came back.”
“I don’t know why I did.”
“Hope you didn’t feel pressured.”
“I can still hear Air in my head. You really made that violin come alive.”
“I credit God for that.”
Brinley hesitated with what she was about to ask. She went back and forth in her mind and then she decided there was no harm asking. “You and Yun talk about God all the time.”
“God is very important to us.”
“I can see that.”
“If you love someone you keep talking about that person. Grandma and I love God, so we talk about Him all the time. What do you talk about all the time?”
“Work. Food. Work. Food.”
Ivan looked at her like he couldn’t believe how shallow she was.
“I suppose those are essentials,” Ivan said. “What about the intangibles?”
“We all have our own beliefs.”
“Exactly.” Ivan paused long enough for Brinley to wonder what he was going to say next. “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
“You’re religious, like your grandmother.”
“I’m not into religion.”
“No? God. Lord. Aren’t those religious words?”
“I’m just a Christian who loves God.”
Brinley leaned toward him. “As opposed to a Christian who doesn’t love God?”
“I don’t want to get into a debate.”
“I didn’t mean to start one.”
“Are we fighting?”
“How can we? We barely know each other.”
Ivan leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. “Have you ever tried to wind down and were unable to?”
“With that cacophony?” Brinley pointed her chin at Zoe and Quincy. Suddenly she realized that was what Mom did a lot. She pointed with her chin.
Fortunately the song was short. Amidst claps and catcalls, another dinner guest went up to sing her favorite number, something mellower. Thank God.
“SISO did a great job tonight, I must say. You’re good with the violin. Way better than karaoke.”
Ivan smiled. Something about that smile tugged at Brinley’s heart. It was both glad and sad.
“How long have you been playing the violin?”
“Since I was four. Grandma Yun was my violin teacher. She retired some years ago.” A glint in his eye hinted at memories that Brinley wasn’t privy to. He quickly changed the subject. “Anymore news about the Strad?”
“We don’t have it yet.”
“What are you going to do if the collector won’t give it back?”
“There’s always compensation.” Brinley would pay anything to get the 1698 Damaris Brooks Strad.
Ivan chuckled. “Who has that kind of money? It’s only a violin.”
“It’s history, Ivan. Keeping memories alive, you know.”
“Memories are intangibles.”
There it was again. Fleeting sorrow in his eyes.
“Some old things are reminders of moments lost and time gone.” Brinley had many old things from old books to old Stradivarius violins and old Steinways to old whatnots handed down to her from Grandpa Brooks who seemed to be a hoarder of all things historical about the Brooks family. That was why she had to get the Strad back. Even if Grandpa was gone, this was his legacy of handing down history to the next generation. Besides, that one empty case in the art and music vault must be filled.
“Are you all right?” Ivan’s voice was soft, uplifting almost, like a strand of sea oat grass floating on the sea breeze. A kite in the air. Then coming down, he lowered his voice even more. “Don’t worry. We’ll pray that you’ll get the Strad back.”
Pray.
“Do you think prayer works?” Brinley asked.
“If I pray to the wind, what good is it?” Ivan replied. “If I pray to my God, it means something because my God, to whom I pray, is the One who works. Speaking for myself, of course.”
“Grandpa Brooks used to take us to church.”
“Grandpa Otto used to take us to church.”
Brinley understood. “We all have losses.”
“Some more than others.”
Brinley rubbed her forehead. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”
“Me too.” Ivan waved down a server. “Want coffee or hot cocoa?”
Brinley shook her head. “No, thanks. Don’t want to be up all night.”
“I’m driving home. I need caffeine.”
“For a ten-minute drive?” Brinley laughed.
“See. Made you laugh.” When the server came by, Ivan asked for two cups, one for here and one to go. “But truth be told, anyone can fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“It’s a ten-minute drive, Ivan.”
“That’s what happened to a
friend of mine. Heart attack at the wheel.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It does happen.” Ivan left it at that.
As he sipped coffee, Brinley swiped her iPhone and texted Malik Medcalf, Director of Security for all of Brooks properties worldwide. He texted back that the security personnel assigned to Zoe was in the ballroom. She turned around to find him. The crowd had dwindled to Zoe’s friends. There at the back of the ballroom, the security personnel looked up from his iPhone and waved to her. Funny how he was as far away as possible from the singing couple. Brinley felt sorry for his having to put up with Zoe.
“Well, I’d better be going.” Brinley started to rise.
Ivan helped Brinley with her chair. “Grandma texted me. She said you were kind to her.”
“It was nothing.”
“I—we—appreciate it.”
“No problem at all.” Brinley thought it was nice of Ivan to help her with her coat even though she didn’t need any help at all.
“May I walk you to your car?” Ivan asked.
“I’m just going back to the cottage next door.”
“That’s nice. When I visit my sister in Atlanta, she makes me stay in a hotel most of the time. That way she doesn’t have to clean up after me.”
“Well, it’s nice to have some space sometimes.”
“I’ll walk with you.” He put on his tuxedo jacket, slung his backpack violin case over his shoulders, and grabbed the hot paper cup.
Brinley hesitated. “It’s just a short sprint.”
“I’ll sprint with you, then. Is that okay with you?”
Oh, more than okay.
* * *
Brinley led Ivan through the French doors and loggia and across the green grass now dark under the floodlights. The stone path was lit with solar-powered luminaries curving parallel to the ocean beyond the sea oats. They walked quietly together, savoring the night.
The ocean with its waves of the night sloshing and swishing on the Atlantic sands evoked memories in Brinley’s mind of Grandpa Brooks’s animated voice regaling tales of worldly nonsense. She could hear her brothers, Parker and Dillon, and her baby sister, Zoe, laughing at Grandpa’s jokes as they picked up seashells on the beach. Brinley was the quiet middle child who’d soaked up everything he’d said with intrigue, meticulously arranging his words in a mental treasure chest as though they were rare jewels.
All forgotten now.
Sometimes in desperate nights, her regret of not having written down Grandpa Brooks’s wisdom gnawed at her, little painful nibbles here and there, plaguing her. Those walks on the beach could never be rewound and replayed, and eventually they ebbed away, as with all things, returning to the nebulousness.
If only a great palm could scoop up what she had lost and bring them back to her.
“Cold night.” Brinley tugged her coat around her.
“Forties, I think.” Ivan sipped more coffee. “Want some?”
“I don’t share cups, not knowingly.”
“Generally, I don’t either. But you’re freezing to death.”
“I’m not.” Brinley unlatched the painted gate. There it was. Grandpa’s pool, an eyesore to some but a gem to others.
“What in the world is that?” Ivan spread his arms and headed for the edge of the lighted pool.
Brinley watched him walk around the violin-shaped pool. He seemed fascinated by the black tiles at the bottom of the pool that stretched like strings from the tailpiece on one end of the pool to the other end where the scroll was. On both sides of the pool were the violin F-holes, also carved with tiles. Tiles from Italy, of course, where the luthier Antonio Stradivari lived until the eighteenth century, making his namesake violins.
“The springboard is in the chin rest. This is crazy!”
Brinley felt his amusement. “Grandpa Brooks was a bit eccentric. He was obsessed with Strads.”
“Only violins?”
“Well, he collected pianos and other musical instruments too.”
“Where did he keep all those things?”
“In a safe place.”
“So you’ve said.” Ivan was still walking around the pool. “You know, musical instruments are meant to be seen and played, not locked in vaults.”
Ivan squatted down and touched the water. “It’s warm.”
“They filled it up because they thought my brother, Dillon, was coming today. He didn’t make it.”
“Why didn’t they make this an indoor pool? You could use it year round.”
“Grandpa could see it better from his chopper if it were outdoors.”
Ivan stood up, straightening his tuxedo. “This must’ve cost a fortune.”
“Not as much as the money he spent hunting down the lost Strad.”
“I bet.”
“No need to bet.” Brinley started to shiver. “I told you.”
Ivan frowned at her. “Let’s get you inside. You’re shivering.”
“Don’t mind me. I’m always cold.” Brinley could have gone up the stairs by the pool to the balcony that was a shortcut to her room, but she decided that it would be too close for comfort. She went around the stairs to the terrace instead.
The door was unlocked. Brinley opened it to chimes. That was good that the chimes worked, but it was bad that the door was unlocked. She’d have to speak to Dad about it. He’d probably say she had lived in Atlanta way too long, where she locked everything, and that Sea Island, as she should have remembered, wasn’t infested with crime.
“Good night,” Brinley said, warming up as the indoor heat permeated her coat through the open door.
“You have a good night too.”
“I will.”
“See you around?” There was hesitation in Ivan’s voice.
“I’m sure we will. We’re family now with our siblings married to each other.”
Ivan shook his head. “I still can’t believe they eloped.”
“At least the baby will be born to married parents. That’s not always the case these days.”
“Somehow I don’t think Quincy had social causes in mind when they ran off.”
“And who knows what Zoe had in mind.” Brinley extended her hand. “Do you want me to take that?”
Instead of handing her the empty paper cup, Ivan stepped toward Brinley. In the dim light of the terrace and the moon, Ivan reached for her chin. The pads of his fingers felt rough and calloused against her face, probably from his years of contact with violin strings.
He lowered his lips.
She didn’t protest.
Before he reached her, he hesitated. Stepped back. Drew a deep breath. “I don’t know what overcame me.”
“Air.”
“What? Yeah. The air is cold.”
“No. Bach’s Air. That overcame you.”
Ivan didn’t say anything to that. Brinley wasn’t sure why. Did he think she was accusing him of being emotional? Well, he could be. What about that split second of something or other between them back at the dinner party?
“I’d better go. It’s late. Good night, Brinley Brooks. Have a nice life.”
Have a nice life?
Brinley wasn’t sure what to make of that. Ivan wasn’t making any sense. Did he talk gibberish when he was nervous? He didn’t look nervous. Just a bit confused about his feelings.
So was she.
She felt a twinge of loss as she watched Ivan walk away into the December night.
He didn’t look back.
Chapter Nine
Brinley nearly collided with Mom in the hallway connecting the sunroom to the living room. It looked like Mom had come out of the living room in a desperate attempt to get away from Dad. Her voice was harsh.
“There’s nothing wrong with having a baby, Ned.”
“It’s her portfolio I’m worried about.” Dad went after her, but Mom walked faster than his walking stick could catch up.
“They’re in love, Ned.”
“Without a prenup, it’s just lus
t.”
“You’re impossible!” Mom disappeared into the elevator in the kitchen they’d added to the house after Dad’s stroke.
Brinley didn’t go after her. Mom could take care of herself. Dad was the stability of the Brooks family. Mom was the sinew of persistence in the family. It was Dad whom Brinley was worried about. He’d shown himself strong through the stroke recovery, but he tired more easily these days, couldn’t remember things sometimes, and preferred an uncomplicated life.
Those years of his being on the go and multitasking in several companies were gone. Dr. Endecott had insisted the family kept Dad’s life simple so he could heal. His speech and physical therapy were coming along very nicely, but there were still other internal recoveries and discoveries to come.
Dad made a U-turn in the hallway, heading for the family room. “See what I had to put up with the last forty years?”
Brinley followed. Fake skinny Christmas trees were here and there, framing large windows that opened to the dark outdoors. In the daytime there was a bougainvillea garden outside those windows.
Dad took up his usual seat on his old leather smoke chair circa 1880. It’d been reupholstered. If Mom had her way, it would’ve been gone, replaced by some European finds. Mom was allergic to smoke, and the whole idea of where the chair had been in the past somehow made her quite pixilated. Dad just laughed it all off. He hadn’t smoked in years and had no intention of going back to that old habit.
Brinley sat across from Dad on a more modern sofa. Still antique but more Edwardian. From where she was sitting, she spotted the Napoleon chess set to Dad’s right. It had been Grandpa Brooks’s, the same one he’d taught Dad and then Brinley to strategize life on. Dad and Brinley used to play chess a lot. And then she went to college. Now it was Dad’s travel chess set. He never went on vacation without it.
To Dad’s left there used to be a tray of imported spirits, but it was gone, replaced now by a couple of books and Dad’s iPad where he checked stocks and kept tabs on his international corporations.
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