Modern Heart: City Love 3

by Belinda Williams

  “I want you for more than one night, Scarlett. But you’ll have to ask me,” he said.

  The word never died on my lips. Standing here, like this, surrounded by him, I could imagine wanting him for more than one night too. But he didn’t realize what he was asking.

  I pressed my back harder against the wall, crossing my arms protectively in front of my chest. “If you’re not going to invite me back to your place,” I said coldly, “then I’d like to go home.”

  John nodded as if it was what he expected. “I’ll find a cab.”

  Chapter 12

  “Squeee!”

  I watched Cate, a small smile on my face. We were standing on the sidewalk out the front of our hotel. Cate’s green eyes were rounded in child-like fascination. She didn’t know where to look. Her eyes kept darting upwards to the towering skyscrapers, then back to the scene in front of us. Yellow taxi cabs stood out among the other traffic. Car horns beeped at regular intervals and sirens echoed in the distance. Pedestrians bustled past us, unmoved by, or at least used to, the sight of tourists being wide-eyed at their city.

  “Oh my God!” She sounded breathless. “I can’t believe we’re here. New York City!”

  I grinned. Her enthusiasm was catching, not that I would admit it. “Come on.”

  I grabbed her hand and tugged her along the city street.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. Her voice sounded distant, lost in the hum of the city.

  “Breakfast first, then art galleries and Central Park.”

  Cate stopped suddenly and my boots skidded on the pavement as I tried not to bump into her. The crowd of pedestrians parted easily around us, like a school of fish swimming past.

  “Really?” She looked at me hopefully. I was beginning to think that her wide-eyed expression was going to be permanent until we landed back home in Australia.

  “Really what?”

  “You’d do some touristy things with me?”

  I shrugged. “Art galleries aren’t touristy to someone like me and Central Park is right near the Gallery of Modern Art. It’ll be a nice walk.”

  “Oh, thank you!” She pulled me in for a tight hug.

  I stiffened and prayed to God she’d let go of me quickly. If John’s hugs were like being engulfed, Cate had cornered the market on hugs that left you unable to breathe.

  “Alright, alright. Don’t make me change my mind,” I said when she loosened her grip slightly and I was able to squirm out of her arms.

  We started walking again. Whether I liked it or not, I was Cate’s companion. Christa and Max had decided to spend a few days in Hawaii on the way and their plane didn’t arrive until tonight.

  Cate looked over at me uncertainly. “You do know where you’re going, right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. There’s a cool cafe not far from here that does proper New Yorker coffee, and I’m pretty sure they serve food all day too.”

  “You’re practically a local.” She was teasing me, but I also detected a hint of respect.

  “I was here for work last year. Advertising jolly. At least there’re some advantages to my job.”

  Cate gave me a sidelong glance, but kept walking. She went surprisingly quiet. I put it down to her being preoccupied with the city around us. Usually she was the chatty type, which was fine when the four of us were all together. On the odd occasions it had just been the two of us I’d often found myself a little uncomfortable with her easy conversation. I decided not to question it, and together we made our way in the direction of the cafe.

  About five minutes later I reached over and tugged Cate’s arm, indicating for her to stop. In front of us was a grungy looking café. The shopfront was painted a navy blue, which had faded with time and was beginning to peel in places. Tall windows overlooked the street, with a couple of weather-beaten wooden chairs and a table sitting outside on the sidewalk. Inside the cafe was filled with people, many of them lined up in front of a large old-fashioned counter positioned to one side.

  “I love it!” Cate exclaimed.

  We went in and I insisted on ordering her a coffee. She wasn’t really a coffee drinker but you couldn’t come to New York and not drink coffee. We ordered some big breakfasts consisting of unhealthy amounts of egg and bacon and settled into a small table near one of the windows.

  “This is nice,” she said with a contented sigh. She observed the buzzing cafe for a moment longer before turning back to me. “New York suits you.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And Sydney doesn’t?”

  “Of course Sydney suits you, it’s your home. All I meant was I look like a tourist while you seem to fit in here.”

  I picked up my mug of coffee and took a sip. Oddly, her comment pleased me. “You’ve still got stars in your eyes, that’s all.”

  Cate set down her cup. “You know I’m a country girl, right?”

  It was funny, for as long as we’d been friends we didn’t talk much about our families or where we’d come from. “Yeah, but you’ve lived in the city for as long as I’ve known you.”

  Cate turned to stare out the window. “You grew up in Sydney. I didn’t. As much as I love visiting places like this, Sydney is about as big a city as I can handle.”

  “Sydney is hardly small.”

  “I know, but New York is bigger.”

  It definitely explained her reaction when we’d stepped out of the hotel this morning. It was also possibly the reason for her uncharacteristic silence. It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d feel intimidated by the city. “Do you miss the country?”

  A small frown line appeared between her eyebrows. “Yes, and no.” She looked down at her coffee intently.

  I stared at her. It was a very vague answer for Cate. For the first time I considered that maybe there was more to Cate than her sunny disposition. “Would you ever go back?” I asked.

  “Not to where I grew up, no,” she replied quickly, then seemed to catch herself and smiled. “But I can imagine retiring somewhere a little more rural when I’m older.”

  I wasn’t going to push. I of all people understood that the past was sometimes best left in the past.

  Our meals arrived and we were quiet for a few minutes while we ate.

  “Oh my God,” Cate said, putting her fork down with a worried expression. “I can’t believe I didn’t ask yet. How did everything go at work? Did they suspect anything when you said Aunt Cindy was dead?”

  I stifled a laugh at pretend Aunty Cindy’s convenient demise. “Not a thing, thankfully.” I’d spent my teenage years being duplicitous but I’d still felt jumpy and stressed in the days leading up to my flight when I’d run with the Aunt Cindy story.

  “I’m not sure I could have done it,” Cate admitted.

  “You were the one who came up with the whole Aunt Cindy storyline after Christa suggested it.”

  “Oh, yes, that was fun, but to actually lie to people, that must have been hard. Not to mention terrifying if they found out the truth.”

  This time it was my turn to look out the window. I’d had more experience lying to those around me than I cared to admit.

  I felt a gentle hand on my arm. “Do you like your job, Scarlett? You risked a lot to come here.”

  I turned back to her. Her hand was still on my arm. Part of me wanted to brush it away. I lifted one shoulder, letting it drop again. “It’s a job.”

  She removed her hand and sat back in her seat, crossing her arms in front of her. “A job. Not a career.”

  She was more astute than I gave her credit for. I didn’t feel the need to answer and shoveled another spoonful of egg and bacon into my mouth.

  “But you’re good at it,” she stated.

  “So?” I said in between chewing.

  “So? Surely you must enjoy it just a little bit to be so good at it.”

  I swallowed. “You didn’t grow up with my mother,” I muttered.

  “That’s the second time I’ve heard you say something like that,” she observed. “Why? What�
��s your mother got to do with it?”

  Usually I’d tell her to butt out, but I figured she was more likely to leave it alone if I was truthful. “Cate.” I put my fork down with a light clatter. “I don’t really like talking about it. Let’s just say I grew up learning to become good at things I didn’t particularly like. My job, in comparison, isn’t all that bad. I don’t love it, but I don’t hate it either. That’s enough for me.”

  Cate blinked, at my honesty or my explanation, I wasn’t sure which. “But you love art,” she stated.

  Love wasn’t a word I liked to use, so I thought carefully before I replied. “Art fulfills me,” I allowed.

  Cate nodded. “Then you’re lucky.”

  I was waiting for more questions, but when they didn’t come I sat back in my seat and looked at her. Her blonde hair was out around her shoulders, and she continued to eat, not the least bit concerned I was studying her. “Do you like your job?” I asked eventually.

  “Sure. I enjoy it a lot,” she replied easily.

  “But it’s accounting.”

  She laughed, a light, melodic sound that drew a few interested looks from some of the men nearby. “The world needs artists but it also needs accountants, Scarlett. Sure, it’s not very glamorous, but there’re lots of things to like about it. The rules and order, because I’m that sort of person, but I also deal with clients a lot and I’m good at that.”

  “Yeah, you are,” I admitted.

  “Really?”

  “You just said you were.”

  “I know, but sometimes when I’m around you, I don’t know …” She dropped her eyes to her almost empty plate.

  “What?” I demanded.

  She met my eyes sheepishly. “Sometimes, I don’t know, you make me feel like I must not be very good at dealing with people because I don’t know how to talk to you.” Her face had gone pink and she looked away.

  I admired her honesty. “Cate.” I waited until she met my eyes. “I am not a normal person, we all know that.”

  She laughed and grabbed her mug of coffee quickly, as though she needed something to do with her hands.

  “I wish I was good with people like you are,” I told her.

  “What?” she breathed.

  I shrugged. “You’re great with people. I think my staff can’t decide whether to admire me or be scared of me.”

  “You are a little scary sometimes.”

  I laughed. Loudly. “And you talk too much, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. We’re just different.” My words surprised me. Cate was my friend but I’d never let her in as much as Maddy or Christa. With a bit of time alone with her, I was discovering she was perceptive and had a quiet honesty I hadn’t appreciated before now.

  “We are very different, aren’t we?” She gave me a small smile. “I’ve always thought of you as my friend, Scarlett. I’m glad you’re starting to realize it.”

  A mixture of emotions stirred in my stomach. A little bit of guilt at keeping her at arm’s length for so long, as well as an odd sense of happiness that she understood me. Or at least accepted me.

  I pushed away from the table. “Come on. You look like you’re all done. Let’s go explore this city.”

  A bright smile lit Cate’s face. “Bring it on!”

  Fourteen years old

  It smelled musty in the backstage area. It was no surprise really. The massive red velvet curtain looked ancient and it had probably never seen the light of day. The bright stage lights illuminated the floating dust swirling on stage in front of me. It added a burning smell to the mustiness as though the heat from the lights might cause the curtain to burst into flames at any moment.

  From offstage, I watched the dust dance in the light. It seemed odd to be jealous of a speck of dust, but that was exactly how I felt. A speck of dust was free to float where it wanted. Failing that, it would be picked up and tossed along on some invisible wind current and taken someplace new. It was unfair that a tiny particle of dust should be allowed that amount of freedom while here I was being forced, against my will, to perform yet again.

  I watched the violinist on stage perform the last dramatic trill of the sonata she was playing. With a triumphant look, she concluded the piece and stood proudly as applause surrounded her. She had to be at least two years younger than me. Asian, like me. Twelve, or possibly even eleven, and her playing had been exquisite. She would have put in some serious hours since a very young age to become that good. I wondered if she’d hated every note as much as I had.

  After soaking up the rest of the applause, she made her way offstage. I offered her a smile. Just because I hated it here didn’t mean I couldn’t recognize talent when I saw it.

  “That was amazing,” I told her.

  The girl smiled proudly. “Thanks. It’s one of my favorite pieces.”

  My own smile faltered. I sensed a genuine love for her instrument and it made me sad. “I wish,” I muttered.

  Instead of continuing to the backstage area, the girl paused. “What do you mean? Don’t you like the piece you’re playing tonight?”

  I laughed. “I don’t even like playing the piano, so having a favorite piece is kind of pointless, isn’t it?” I couldn’t believe I was telling someone this. To actually say it out loud felt strangely freeing.

  “But you’re so good,” the girl said, as if that somehow justified it.

  “I was never given the choice to be bad.”

  The girl blinked at me several times, confusion creasing her pretty features. “But why play if you don’t like it?”

  The announcement of my name and the piece I was playing interrupted us, followed by a respectful round of applause. I stared at the girl for a moment longer before turning in the direction of the stage.

  The grand piano sat waiting. It was beautiful and black, a sort of cultured beast. They’d polished it so much it sparkled under the stage lights. As much as I hated playing piano, I did like playing on a grand. It was different somehow. With the lid propped open it allowed the notes to soar free. My upright piano seemed restrained in comparison.

  The applause faded and gradually an uneasy silence settled over the crowd. A low murmur rippled through the audience. Where is she? I imagined them saying to each other. What’s wrong? Does she have stage fright?

  I almost laughed aloud at the concept of stage fright. I’d been on display for so many years that the idea of stage fright seemed ridiculous. I didn’t care what people thought of me.

  But I cared what my parents thought of me.

  I stared at the empty piano stool, which sat waiting. I could hear the murmuring becoming louder and somewhere backstage hurried footsteps were coming my way. People were looking for me.

  Why play if you don’t like it? The girl’s words echoed around and around in my head until they were too loud to ignore. Louder than the commotion backstage and the murmur from the crowd.

  With one last glance at the piano, I turned and ran past the confused looking violinist and into the bowels of the backstage area.

  “Scarlett!”

  I ignored whoever was calling me and raced down the emergency exit steps two at a time. When I burst outside, the cool evening air was a welcome relief compared to the stifling mustiness of the theater. I bent over and placed my hands on my thighs, breathing in long heady gulps.

  Never again, I vowed. I wouldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t do it anymore. The next time I sat down at a piano to play, it would be because I wanted to.

  Chapter 13

  It was actually happening.

  I was standing in the center of a New York art gallery surrounded by my artwork. I forced myself to swallow the lump in my throat.

  I’d been part of exhibitions before in Sydney, but the galleries had been small indie outfits, and I’d been one of many. Nothing like this. Julian Escrow was one of New York’s up-and-coming galleries that regularly featured works by promising new artists, of which I was one, it now seemed.

  It was after eight
pm and small groups of trendy New Yorkers strolled around viewing my paintings. Most were impeccably dressed in designer labels, while others presented a low-key, scruffy look, which was more shabby chic than genuinely untidy. Opening night was invite only and I was painfully aware I was standing among some serious art lovers, and potentially an art critic or two.

  “Your work looks amazing,” Christa said from beside me.

  “Thanks.”

  She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Who could have known Aunt Cindy’s death would be such a turning point for you?”

  Max laughed quietly beside her. He regarded Christa with amusement. I didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on his girlfriend. Christa had worn a dress that looked like it should have been hanging on the wall along with my art. It was bright blue with slashes of yellow and pink thrown haphazardly all over it. She’d piled her curls loosely on top of her head and the effect was of disorder coming together into something striking.

  We couldn’t have been more different if we’d tried. I’d chosen to wear a fitted black satin dress with a low neckline. It highlighted my athletic figure but it was classy. Until you added the boots. Most women would have gone for delicate heels, but I wasn’t most women. Tonight I wore my favorite special occasion boots – a glossy black, pointed at the toe, and with a towering, precarious looking stiletto heel. For once I came past Max’s shoulder, which was saying something because he was as tall as John.

  I frowned and caught myself. I wasn’t going to think about John tonight. He may have been why I was standing in a New York City art gallery showing my work, but I wasn’t going to brood about it. Especially not the fact that I secretly would have liked him here. Not that I would dare admit it to anyone. After our heated standoff last week, he’d seen me home in a cab and that had been the end of it. The thoughtful text to wish me luck earlier today? That wasn’t going to change anything. There was no way I was going to let our feelings – lust, or whatever the hell it was between us – develop into a relationship.