Share with Me: Seaside Chapel Book 1

by Thompson, Jan

  “You know what’s ironic?” Ivan asked.

  “What?” Art was a tall man at the wheel. His head was nearly up against the roof of the SUV.

  Ivan was tall but not that big. “SISO is not rich, yet every time we come to Savannah we stay in some swanky hotel on River Street. Know why?”

  “Do I care?”

  “Probably not, but I’ll tell you anyway. Because one of the SISO patrons owns the hotel. SISO stays for half price.”

  “I was right. I don’t care.” Art cranked up the radio. He turned the dial until he found a jazz station. “You play jazz?”

  “My brother Quincy is in a jazz band. Disbanded now that he’s moved to Paris.”

  Art slammed on the brakes as a family van swerved out of an adjacent street and cut in front of him. “Tourists!”

  Ivan saw that they were still on Abercorn, but now they were following a slow-moving van with stick figure decals on the back window and out-of-state license plate.

  Art was unable to pass him. “Five or six minutes to the hotel, they say. No traffic, they say.”

  “You could cut across one of these streets here and get to Drayton one block over there,” Ivan suggested.

  “Thinking the same thing.”

  Coming up on Ivan’s right was the old Colonial Park Cemetery. Quiet and dark. He wondered if some of Brinley’s ancestors had been buried here. He tried to remember what she had told him. A rich Charleston planter, heir to the Brooks family empire, had fallen in love with a poor, destitute, indentured servant girl from Sav—

  The airbag exploded into Ivan’s face and chest so fast, so quickly he didn’t even realize it until he was already covered with the inflated bag. It took him a moment to reorientate. Then he heard a moan.

  “Art, you there?”

  No answer. Just more moans.

  Ivan felt another impact, this time from behind the SUV. It felt like they were in a multi-car wreck.

  Have to get out of here!

  Was it safer for him to get out of the SUV or stay inside?

  He tried to open the passenger-side door, but it was stuck. The SUV frame must have gone bonkers.

  Ivan heard another groan. “Art?”

  Then he heard the windshield shattering.

  Doors opening. Chiming. Chiming.

  As strong arms grabbed his tuxedo, Ivan reached for anything he could find, airbag, door, whatever his hands landed on, to prevent himself from being pulled out of the passenger seat.

  In the shadow of the night, Ivan thought someone punctured the halfway deflated airbag and sliced through his seat belt before he was ripped out of the SUV and thrown down as if he were a bag of dirty laundry. He stretched out his arms to break his fall. He body-smacked into the concrete pavement as he heard a sharp cracking sound like something snapped very close to his ears.

  He screamed a million shards of agony as the sharp and mind-blowing pains shot up his left arm.

  It wasn’t over as leather gloves descended on him. As he heard metal against flesh and bones, he felt pain on his head, neck, and torso. His arms flew up in front of face to protect it.

  In the cloudy night, he saw shadows of hoods and masks all around him coming in and out of visibility in the distant lights. The streetlights directly above him were apparently out.

  Then shouts. Muffled screams. Gunshots.

  Gunshots?

  Ivan couldn’t breathe. “Art!”

  He couldn’t get up. He felt his own flesh rip. He tried to get away, but something pressed him down like he was being sat on. The pain in his left arm increased.

  In the racket of metal pipes beating up organic bones, Ivan’s world faded to black.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Stitches went here and there on Ivan’s forehead and cheeks. Where there were no stitches, Brinley saw swollen tissues and scrapes, as if the assailants had rubbed his face on the surface of the road. Bruises streaked his arms like broad brush strokes, blackish and reddish and looking painful, growing out of his hospital gown sleeves and down his arms. The bandages on his right arm were nothing compared to his left arm.

  The full impact of what the doctor had told Yun earlier in front of Brinley hit her now as she stared at the cast on Ivan’s left wrist that extended all the way to his elbow. The doctor had said that Ivan’s wrist was broken in several places, muscles damaged, possibly tendons too.

  The healing time? Months, possibly unknown. He’d still be feeling it more than a year from now.

  His left wrist.

  His livelihood.

  Unless God worked a miracle, Ivan might never be able to play Paganini or Vivaldi ever again. What about his dreams of going back on the road, reviving his concert violinist career, or playing for ASO, or expanding his string studio?

  From the hospital bed, Ivan’s eyelids fluttered open. “Brin?”

  “Hi, handsome,” Brinley said.

  Ivan chuckled then buckled. “Can’t… breathe.”

  “Those ribs will heal,” Brinley said. “At least there’re no internal injuries.”

  Ivan nodded.

  “See, getting better already.” Brinley smiled.

  Ivan reached up for her hand. Then he looked past her. “Grandma? Why… here?”

  “To take you home, dear.” Yun walked steadily with her walker toward Ivan’s bed. “What else?”

  Brinley thought Ivan’s eyes were on her.

  Sure enough. “Grandma—oww—shouldn’t… here.”

  “Brinley is not to blame.” Yun patted Ivan’s foot through the hospital sheet. “I insisted on coming. I’d only worry if I was sitting at home waiting for you. It’ll take more time to check you out of here than for us to drive home to St. Simon’s.”

  “Ain’t that”—Ivan cringed again—“truth.”

  “Shhh.” Brinley squeezed his right hand gently. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk.”

  “Dr. d’Almeida said you’ll be fine in five or six weeks,” Yun said softly. She was holding on to the railings on the hospital bed.

  “My… wrist. Elbow.” He breathed slowly. “Tendons… Doc said—”

  “Hush, Ivan. Rest.” Brinley didn’t let his hand go.

  Yun tucked the hospital sheet around Ivan’s legs. “Not to worry, dear. When we get home, Dr. Rao will take good care of you.”

  “Six months”—he flinched—“or more.”

  Brinley hushed him. “No more talking, okay? I’m glad you’re alive.”

  Ivan nodded. “Art… okay? He… shot.”

  “Didn’t I say stop talking?” Brinley laughed.

  “Art?”

  “If you must know, he’s in surgery. Should be out soon. No worries, okay?” Brinley rubbed Ivan’s hand. “We’ve prayed for him. He’s covered.”

  “Prayed? Brin?” Ivan managed.

  Brinley turned to Yun. “I guess we haven’t told him.”

  “Told… what?” Ivan breathed out.

  “Last night Brinley prayed to receive Christ, dear,” Yun said.

  Ivan nearly leapt out of the bed.

  “That’s grea—owww!” Ivan reached for his ribs. “Aaargggh.”

  “Maybe you should stay one more night,” Brinley suggested.

  “No. No.” Ivan’s eyes were closed. “Want… go home.”

  On the other side of the bed, Yun made a sound.

  “Yun, would you like to sit down?” Brinley pointed to a chair by the window.

  “I can’t see him if I sit down in that low chair. I’ll stand for now. Thank you, Brinley.”

  A nurse came in. “Dr. d’Almeida will be stopping by shortly. After that you can check out.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Brinley followed the nurse out to the nurses’ station. “Whatever his insurance doesn’t handle, bill me.”

  The nurse introduced her to a person behind the counter. “If you give her your info, she’ll take care of it.”

  Brinley was doing that when the director of Brooks Security came up to her.

  �
��Thanks again for driving us up here, Malik.” Brinley walked with Malik Medcalf away from Ivan’s hospital room.

  “No problem. I’m glad nobody died.”

  “And for putting a couple of your guys to chaperone Aunt Ella while we’re here.”

  “Don’t want her wandering around again, collecting lawsuits.”

  “Pretty unbelievable,” Brinley said. “Glad her meds are regulated now. Art okay?”

  “Surgery went well, but his gut is all messed up. When he wakes up the SCMPD is going to talk to him.”

  “They might as well talk to everyone who attended the pops concert last night.” Brinley was glad to hear that the Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department was on it. “Everyone knew about the Schoenberg Strad from the auction. It was all over the news.”

  This is all my fault.

  “It’s not the first time a violinist has been attacked for carrying something expensive,” Malik said. “That’s why we hired Art.”

  “Are they going to keep him here for a few more days?”

  Malik nodded.

  “Anything he needs. Make sure he’s taken care of.” Brinley thought for a moment. “He lives alone?”

  “He has a rental in Brunswick. I’m assuming he can recover there before he gets back on his feet.”

  “How long did you hire him for?”

  “Just to keep an eye on the Schoenberg.”

  “Is there something else he can do for us?”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “If he has to do paperwork or something for a while, so be it. Keep him on the payroll. If Dad or Dill has a problem with it, talk to me. I don’t want to let Art go. He took two bullets for Ivan. He can work for us, whatever he can do until he gets better and move on or stay. You know what to do.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that, Miss Brinley.”

  Brinley spotted a small alcove where there was a vending machine. She stopped there and bought a bottled water. “Anything for you?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Brinley sighed. “I can’t believe this happened. I shouldn’t have bought the Schoenberg.”

  “Pray, Miss Brinley.”

  “I’m doing that.” For the most part Brinley followed Yun McMillan. That lady knew how to pray.

  “Sorry I woke you up at three.”

  “I’m glad you did, Malik. You knew I would’ve wanted to know right away.”

  It had been no fun finding out that Ivan and Art had been attacked in an apparently staged traffic accident on their route back to their River Street hotel. Not only had they been beaten up pretty badly, Art had gunshot wounds in his stomach.

  And Ivan.

  Lord, I don’t know how to pray for Ivan.

  Broken wrist, cracked ribs, stitches up and down. Well, he’d walk out of here this afternoon. It was Art who would need more extensive surgery to repair his body.

  All that for a 1721 Schoenberg Stradivarius. The violin wasn’t worth more than four million dollars, but Brinley wanted Ivan to have it. She had told her telephone proxy to max out at six million. He came in close at five-point-four million. It was within budget, but as far as she was concerned, the Strad was probably worth no more than three million on the black market.

  Now she had two Strads she owned not in her possession.

  “Is Helen still in Vienna?” Brinley asked. Helen Hu hadn’t sent anymore news for over a week. More than the Schoenberg, Brinley wanted the Damaris back in the Brooks family vault.

  Now there was more work cut out for Hu Private Investigations, Inc.

  “Budapest,” Malik responded. “The informer said the thief moved the Damaris.”

  “I’m not paying for her European vacation.”

  “Yes, but she’s sending someone here this afternoon to talk to the SCMPD. Try to see if there’re any leads. Reps from the FBI Art Crime Team are also coming to town.”

  “It’s all my fault.” Lord Jesus, help me fix this problem.

  “Can’t go back, Miss Brinley. They say there’s a reason God put eyes in front of our heads. Front. Forward. Onward.”

  “Still.” Brinley glanced at the time on her iPhone. “Will they let me see Art even if he’s not awake?”

  “You want to see him?”

  “I want many things, Malik. I want everything back to what it was. I want Ivan’s wrist to be normal and not broken. I don’t want anybody hurt—or killed—over a cheap Strad.”

  “Five million is not cheap to many people.”

  “But compared to a human life? Two human lives?”

  “I get it.”

  “Life is going to get harder here on out for Ivan and for Art. We better do whatever we can to help them. Why are you staring at me, Malik?”

  “You’re Ned’s daughter all the way. If your brother were more like you and Ned, it might be a pleasure working for him also.”

  “Dill? It’ll never be a pleasure working for him. But someday he might come around.”

  “I’ve been praying for your brother’s salvation.”

  “Thank you, Malik. Did you pray for me too before I got saved?”

  “Everybody was praying for you, even the people in my church on Brunswick who don’t know you.”

  I had no idea.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It felt good to be pampered. Ivan padded out of the kitchen, full of pumpkin pie in his tummy. Who said he couldn’t have pie for breakfast? There was plenty of it left. People from church had been bringing food every day since he came home from Savannah on Thursday. Their refrigerator was packed with food enough to last through Christmas and New Year’s Day and beyond. So he could have another slice of pie if he wanted.

  Four days into his healing, his ribs were feeling better. Maybe those extra kisses from Brinley did it.

  I know better. God answers prayers.

  He winced as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom to get ready for church, taking shallow breaths. The prescription painkillers helped some, but he’d rather be well, thank you very much.

  There was something else worse that he was beginning to worry about, that sometimes throbbing, sometimes sharp pain in his left wrist. The dull pain, he could handle. If he didn’t move his left wrist for a bit, then it’d be all right and he could handle the dull pain.

  But the sharp pain was more severe. It extended from his wrist all the way to his elbow. He was scheduled to see Dr. Rao on Monday. He’d ask him about it. Meanwhile, he had some painkillers left from the Savannah hospital that could last him past Christmas.

  To shower, Ivan tied a small trash bag around his left hand all the way to his elbow where the cast ended. He secured it with duct tape. A simple waterproofing solution. The hot shower relaxed his muscles that he hadn’t known were tense.

  Gingerly, he ran his fingers over the bruises on his ribs. At least there wasn’t going to be any scarring there. Since he still had stitches on his face and right arm and legs, he didn’t take a long shower.

  He dabbed the areas of his stitches with a clean towel. He was grateful he could get them wet. On the first two days he had been home, he couldn’t take a shower at all.

  In the mirror, he peered at those stitches on his face.

  Gonna have some scars.

  Those stitches might be removed on Monday’s visit to Dr. Rao’s office. Those on his legs might stay there for a couple of weeks.

  Ivan prayed that God would heal him quickly. Then he could get back to SISO, finish the season, and call that man from Boston. Whitfield something. Whatever his reason was for being in Savannah at that particular time when SISO was in town, Ivan was glad they had met. He still had the man’s business card. It had been in his tuxedo pocket. At the Savannah hospital, his clothes had been salvaged and put into a plastic bag for him to take home.

  Save for that business card, Ivan wanted to forget the entire Savannah episode. Fortunately, the attack had happened so fast and in such a dark area of the street—he had found out later that the assailants ha
d shot out the streetlights—that he only remembered bits and pieces of it before he passed out. He prayed that what he remembered wasn’t enough to cause him nightmares.

  Some night it had been. After the assailants had thrown him onto the pavement, they didn’t stop there. He had never been beaten up this badly before in his entire life, not even in high school, and not even when he was walking on backstreets and alleys to get around when he was at Juilliard in New York City.

  He could still hear metal against flesh and bones from that Savannah night, feel the slashing pain on his head, neck, and torso, and remember how he had lifted his arms and injured wrist to protect his head.

  Thank God I don’t have a concussion.

  Art had it worse. They had tried to kill him to get to the Stradivarius. He did his best, taking two bullets and getting bashed into the side of the SUV. Finally, to save his life and Ivan’s, Art gave up the violin.

  Good for you, Art.

  Ivan found it a hassle to put his clothes on with one arm, and he couldn’t get his cast into his usual oxford button-down church shirt. If only someone could help him dress. He found a turtleneck and a wool sweater, both with sleeves that could stretch over his cast.

  He winced again.

  Lord, I beg You. Please heal my wrist. I don’t care about the other scars. But my entire career is in this wrist.

  In about six weeks, the cast would come off. They told him he’d do some intensive physical therapy to get his old movement back. He had to recover a hundred percent mobility on his left wrist. He had to. If he didn’t, Warren Yamaguchi would get his job. If he ended up being second violin, he’d quit SISO altogether.

  Or should he?

  Everyone knew he was a better violinist than Warren.

  Yeah, but Warren doesn’t have a broken wrist.

  He picked up his iPad and went downstairs.

  Grandma Yun was waiting for him in her usual rocker, talking to Brinley, who must’ve arrived while he had been in the shower. Otherwise, he would have heard her vehicle from his upstairs bedroom. Vehicles made a lot of noise on their gravel driveway. Someday when he had some money he’d pave that entire driveway with something nice. For now, it was dry enough, and Georgian rains hadn’t washed away too much of it. It was functional. No one complained.