Table of Contents
Naked Hope
Copyright
Dedication
Praise for Rebecca E. Grant
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Naked Hope
by
Rebecca E. Grant
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Naked Hope
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Rebecca E. Grant
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-223-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-224-0
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Elizabeth, Laura and Ilene
Praise for Rebecca E. Grant
From judges for the Romance Writers of America 2011 chapter contest, The Emily:
“You have a GREAT start, a lovely storytelling voice, and a unique storyline. You've blended your expert knowledge to create a fascinating setting. I wish you the best for this manuscript.”
“You've hooked me. Excellent beginning to an intriguing manuscript. Dialogue, internalization, plot, pacing, descriptive scenes all work very well. I wish I could read the entire thing! Good luck!”
Prologue
There is a moment before we are fully awake when truths known only to our unconscious mind brush over us like a mother’s kiss. These truths represent our dreams—our naked hopes that will go unrealized unless fate smiles, or the angels intervene, or a woman reaches for a man.
Chapter One
The oppressive late summer heat clung to Jillian Cole like shrink wrap and followed her as she pushed through the heavy-framed door of the Wilson Institute. Air conditioning must be out again. She peeled off her light shrug and headed down the shiny tiled hallway.
Just outside Dean Chapman’s office, Nona, the dean’s administrative assistant, blocked her path holding a tall glass of ice water. “Take this in with you.”
Jill glanced at her watch. “He’s thirsty already? We haven’t even gotten started yet.”
Nona shook her head, a smirk flirting on her lips. “That’s for you.”
“For me?” Jill’s serious demeanor warmed. “Thanks, Nona. I noticed the air’s out again.” Gratefully, she lifted the glass to drink.
Nona’s grin broadened. She inclined her head toward the dean’s office. “Better save it for in there.”
Jill offered a confident snort. “No worries. After seven years, this meeting is practically routine. I act indignant and offended, Ross acts like he’s in charge, but in the end, we always manage a reasonable compromise.”
Jill swung open Ross Chapman’s door.
Two men’s heads turned. One man stood and took several steps in her direction.
She faltered. Her ice water sloshed. Before any spilled, she steadied her glass and took a less-than-delicate swallow. Sweat broke out and beaded across the back of her neck just under her hairline. Gavin Fairfield! Here?
Fairfield’s energy saturated the room like some kind of exotic elixir. The years had been good to him despite the highly publicized tragedy. Tall and tanned with well-muscled arms, Gavin looked as rugged and as aristocratic as she remembered, with two exceptions. The hair at his temples displayed a hint of premature gray that he wore well. More noticeable, though, were his eyes, heavy-lidded and watchful, indicating a great deal of experience keeping the world at arm’s length. Tragedy certainly had a way of tearing at the spirit.
“Ah, Dr. Cole, there you are! Come in, come in.” Ross greeted, pointing to the leather sofa on which their guest sat. “Maestro, I’d like you to meet Dr. Jillian Cole. Jill is in charge of our curricula for kids with traumatic brain injury.” Ross’ smile widened. “We’re very proud of our Dr. Cole. She’s this year’s American Psychological Association’s award recipient for Traumatic Brain Injury Research in Children. Jill, meet the maestro Gavin Fairfield. He is an eminent pianist, composer and conductor here with the Minneapolis Orchestra, and a member of the faculty at the University of Minnesota.”
Would he remember her? Jill extended her hand. The sweat collecting on the back of her neck gave way and trickled down her spine. Her lips stuck as they split over her teeth in what she hoped was a gracious, professional smile.
He grasped her hand, held it a beat longer than necessary, and allowed his gaze to probe hers.
Commanding and cast against his face with the symmetry of a poem, his eyes were a fusion of blue and gray. But where was the heat—the fire she remembered so well? She revised her earlier assessment. Haunted, not distant. However he might try to hide it, Gavin Fairfield harbored a deep sadness.
Jill approached the sofa, eying the nonabsorbent leather surface. If she didn’t stop sweating, she’d leave a telltale puddle.
She heard the air-conditioning kick in, set down her water glass, and wrapped her shrug around her shoulders. As she sat, she withdrew a small leather-bound diary and pen from the pocket of her shrug, and cradled them in her lap.
“The maestro’s daughter, Olivia, is ten years old,” Ross explained. “Fifteen months ago, she and her mother were in an automobile accident. Mrs. Fairfield died. Olivia sustained injuries to several areas of the brain. She’s a classic traumatic brain injury case but—”
Jill leaned forward, smoothing the hem of her skirt. “Mr. Fairfield, I’d like to hear directly from you about your daughter. In your own words.”
The maestro nodded. “Of course. As I understand it, there are three areas of concern. Liv’s physical injuries, which are coming along”
“Coming along?”
“Healing,” he clarified. “The second is her brain injury. I’ve taken her to a number of specialists who all say the same thing.” His expression darkened and his mouth twisted closed.
“Which is?” Jill prodded.
“To quote the most recent specialist, ‘she’ll likely return to a near normal functionality’.”
“So, physical injuries, a
n injury to the brain. And the third?”
His mouth tightened. “Liv has been diagnosed as emotionally unstable.”
Jill tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “And do you agree with this diagnosis?”
Gray overtook blue as his gaze clouded. “I’m not a medical doctor.”
Jill wrote the words evasive maneuver. She flipped the diary closed and looked up. “Of course, I should have been clearer. I wasn’t asking for a medical opinion. As her father, do you believe your daughter is emotionally unstable?”
Gavin crossed one of his legs over the other and narrowed his stare. “I don’t see how what I think, matters.”
Jill frowned. “On the contrary, Mr. Fairfield, your opinion matters very much.”
He yanked at his tie and loosened the top button of his shirt. “I see. May I ask why?”
“Because of the way human beings are wired. If we don’t believe in the diagnosis, committing to the prescribed treatment protocol is nearly impossible.”
He sighed. “Olivia doesn’t remember the accident, and didn’t remember that her mother died. I imagine anyone in her situation would suffer emotionally, but I’m not convinced that qualifies as unstable.”
The sun angled through the wide windows. Jill squinted and motioned to Ross.
Ross twisted in his chair and adjusted the blinds.
Jill toyed with her pen. “You say that as if perhaps she’s begun to remember.”
“Just within the last two weeks. Emotionally, the loss of her mother feels like yesterday to her. She hasn’t adjusted to anyone I’ve hired. I’ve had her in two schools since the accident but neither has worked out. She has wide mood swings, frequently hides, often cries herself to sleep…”
This time, Jill didn’t prompt him but watched his jaw tick and his mouth tighten. She flipped open her diary and wrote, grappling with demons.
He dropped his gaze. “I don’t believe she’s unstable, but she is suffering, and I have no idea how to save her.”
Gavin rose and paced the room like a cougar on the prowl. Jill couldn’t help but notice the way his gray trousers retained their faultless lines.
“That accident changed everything. Liv is more talented than I am. Until the accident, she was” His voice cracked, and his fingers absently traced the leather books that lined the shelves in the dean’s office.
Like many of the wealthy she’d worked with over the years, Fairfield displayed an interesting blend of formal reserve and easy confidence. Elegant yet masculine, his language bore an air of entitlement that would have made most men appear stuffy, but not this man.
“Liv and I are…were scheduled next April for a very special performance—a premiere of the piano concerto we’ve been composing together. We were just about to begin work on the final movement when the accident happened.” Gavin swung his attention from the books, his gaze narrowing. “They say Liv has lost all concept of music—that she’ll never be a musician again. I just can’t accept that.”
Jill and Ross exchanged looks.
“Mr. Fairfield,” Jill probed, “how would you describe Olivia’s behavior in general? Take us through a typical day.” She watched Gavin struggle to conceal the perfect storm that played his face.
He eased himself into the seat across from her. His long body dwarfed the chair. “Liv is uncommunicative—withdrawn, troubled.” He raised his gaze and lowered his voice, enunciating his words. “With special needs. Your program will help her get back on track.” He dropped his gaze, straightened one of his cuffs, and continued, “After that, we can begin to chart a course.”
“And that is?”
“We’re scheduled for a number of tours—and we have a concerto to finish.”
“So, although medical experts have said otherwise, you still think it’s possible for your daughter to return to her music.”
Gavin edged forward in his chair, his long fingers gripping the armrest. “How can I stand by and let her slip away? All right, so she can’t handle the music now. It’s what she loves most. What if all she needs is for someone to believe in her? I’m not ready to accept defeat. Not on the subject of Liv’s music.”
“Let me make a suggestion,” Ross interjected, adjusting his glasses. “Dr. Cole needs time to review Olivia’s file, and I know you’re interested in resolving things quickly since the fall term is about to begin. Why don’t you and I take that tour of the facilities we talked about? That will give Dr. Cole an opportunity to review Olivia’s file.”
Jill stared at Ross and crossed her arms. “I couldn’t possibly review Olivia’s file in such a short amount of time.”
“Nothing in-depth. Just an overview for now while I show the maestro our facilities.” Ross got to his feet and dropped Olivia’s file into her lap.
Jill eyed the two men, startled by their contrast of expression. The dean’s was cagey and full of corporate expectation. But the vulnerability which lay naked across Gavin Fairfield’s face compelled her to stand and tuck Olivia’s file under her arm. “Meet me in my office. I’ll need at least two hours.”
“You’ll look at it?” For the first time that morning, the tic in Fairfield’s jaw relaxed.
She tapped Olivia’s file. “I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises.” Jill walked with them down the corridor as far as her office, glanced at her watch and swiveled toward Ross. “I don’t expect to see or hear from you before eleven-thirty.” She closed the door behind her and wandered over to the window, cradling Olivia’s file tight against her chest beneath crossed arms. Memories crashed around her like an undertow, pulling her fourteen years into the past.
“No way, you didn’t draw The Beast for your student advisor!”
Jill stared into her beer. The jukebox played Bad Luck Blues loudly in the background, a perfect match for her morose mood. “I did.”
After a long pause, her roommate, Lucy said, “Well, then I guess we’ll find out whether what they say about him is true.”
“Sure, at my expense.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe he’s not as bad as they say. Even if he is, he’s the hottest thing on campus. And young—they say he’s barely twenty-four. That’s doable, you know.” She winked.
“He’s married, Luce.”
Lucy grinned. “I’m just sayin’ he’s hot, young, comes from one of the wealthiest families this side of the Atlantic, and did I mention hot?”
“Sure. Go ahead and laugh. But this year, Professor Fairfield’s changed the requirements. He’s turned the midterm for all the new music majors into an audition for a seat in the concert orchestra. Anyone who doesn’t make it is out.”
Lucy chugged her beer. “Well, I know it’s important to you but if you don’t make it, you can always declare another major.”
Jill took a half-hearted slug of her beer. “Come on, Luce, you know I’m here on a music scholarship. If I don’t make it, I’m not just out of the program, I’m out. Period. If that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. All I’ve ever dreamed about is being a concert cellist.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Okay, Yo Yo. I’ll be watching for you at Carnegie Hall.”
Jill swung her head. “Not if I don’t make it into the concert orchestra, you won’t. He didn’t even show up for our first advising session.”
“He bailed on you?”
Jill dropped her gaze.
The waitress delivered a basket of chili fries and two more beers.
Lucy sucked in her breath. “Not good. You should Ouch! These are hot!” She blew on her fingers. “You should try to switch advisors.”
Jill stabbed the steaming fries with her fork and fished them onto her plate. “I wish, but there isn’t anyone else. Professor Fairfield’s it.”
Fairfield didn’t show for her second advising session. Jill headed for the dean’s office to appeal for a different advisor. Outside the auditorium, beguiling strains of soft music lured her inside the darkened theater. A finger of light lit the stage. Gavin Fairfield sat at
a grand piano, playing. She slipped in and took a seat near the back. He played with his eyes closed. Periodically he’d stop, take up his pencil, and make a notation, then again lose himself to the music. Both master and servant, watching him stroke the instrument into submission changed her perception of music forever.
“Who’s there?” He demanded, shading his eyes and squinting into the dark.
She jumped and considered diving under one of the seats where he’d never see her. Instead, she stood, heart racing. Her voice quavered as she called out, “I am.”
“Whoever you are, I have this auditorium for several more hours. Go away.”
Jill took a deep breath. “Professor Fairfield, I don’t mean to disturb you, but this is the second time you’ve missed our appointment. I need you to sign off on classes and approve my work-study schedule.”
He frowned and ran his hand through his hair. “We had an appointment? What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
“And I missed it, you say?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“I’d like to reschedule. Does tomorrow”
“What’s wrong with right now? You’ve already interrupted me. I presume you have what you want me to sign?”
She climbed the steps to the stage, handed him the form and dug in her purse for a pen. When she finally found one, she looked up to see that he’d already signed it with his own pen and was waiting, his face unreadable.
“What do you play?”
He sounded so bored, she couldn’t imagine why he even bothered to ask. “Cello.”
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