Naked Hope

by Rebecca E. Grant

  His broad smile revealed beautifully aligned teeth. Jill turned away to ponder the way his smile emphasized the hollow look in his eyes. Who knew Gavin Fairfield actually had a heart.

  ****

  Gavin shifted in the chair enjoying the way her body folded and unfolded as she opened filing cabinets and stuffed things into her briefcase. He appreciated her unconscious habit of smoothing her hands over her hips each time she straightened. For several months, he’d been reading about Dr. Jillian Cole, the award-winning researcher whose work promised to revolutionize the field of TBI with her advanced technology and innovative technique. He’d even read she grew up on a farm in Hope, North Dakota, and occasionally enjoyed playing the cello. But until she faltered in the doorway of Chapman’s office that morning, he’d had no idea that Dr. Jillian Cole, and his former student, were the same woman.

  As a student, she’d understood music well enough intellectually and had a reasonable amount of technical mastery. But to be a great musician required confidence and maturity—neither of which was in her repertoire. To encourage her would be to condemn her to a life of bankrupt obscurity. His thoughts took a dark turn. Once he recognized her as his former student, he almost panicked. These days there were only two things he did well—charm women, and orchestrate control. And so he’d turned up the heat by showing her the video clip in an effort to keep things moving. Even now he worried she’d change her mind. He shifted in the chair, painfully aware that Dr. Jillian Cole held Liv’s future in her hands. If this were an orchestra, he’d be shouting presto, presto!

  He looked away, trying to focus on something other than the surprising Dr. Cole but couldn’t resist the seductive pull of her movements. She’d grown into those fantastic legs of hers, wore her hair longer, and he hadn’t missed the way she commanded attention through the simple act of taking a quietly indrawn breath. Did she harbor resentment toward him? Such an ancient past. Maybe she didn’t even remember him. He stopped to consider the idea and then broke into a confident grin.

  ****

  Jill’s fingers moved decisively through the test packets and other instruments she needed, more than a little aware Gavin Fairfield watched her every move. She pulled her laptop from its docking station, and turned to retrieve her briefcase from the floor, only to find that he’d gotten there first. The casual grace of his lean body as he straightened, and the strength of his outstretched arm from years of conducting orchestras, were all-too familiar. Yet, this more charming mature version of the man she knew to be an egotistical tyrant unnerved her.

  Jill’s fingers closed over his as she accepted her briefcase. “Mr. Fairfield, I always like to set an agenda so the client is informed.”

  “I’m a client now?” he grinned.

  Her mouth tightened. “Unless you suffer from Traumatic Brain Injury, you’ll never be the client. As the parent of a potential client who is a minor, we will be establishing three things over the next four days. The first is whether Olivia can navigate the academic rigor of the program”

  “Of course, she can,” he interrupted.

  Ignoring him, she continued, “The second is to establish her emotional state. Last, we need to determine whether she has enough emotional support and guidance from her family. Specifically, this will mean looking into you, Mr. Fairfield.”

  The maestro gaped.

  For the first time since she crossed the threshold of Ross’ office that morning, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  Chapter Three

  Gavin’s black, two-seater BMW convertible screamed of upscale comfort. Jill sank deep into the leather interior, appreciating the dynamic complexity of classic luxury and sporting intensity.

  He swung into the driver’s seat and pointed to the open sky roof. “Okay with you? We can close it.”

  Jill looked up into a cerulean sky streaked with twirls of bridal white clouds. “Oh, I love it. Leave it open.”

  Gavin offered a doubtful glance at her long hair. “Sure?”

  Already sorting through her purse for a hair clip, she smiled. She found one, twisted her hair into a knot, and secured it behind her left ear.

  Gavin gunned the engine and dipped his head. “Nice.”

  “Nice,” she agreed, smoothing a hand across the buttery leather seat.

  He smiled. “Not what I was referring to.” They were out of the city in moments, skidding along the highway toward Shadow Hills. “The house is on a bluff that overlooks the St. Croix. I’ll show you the view.”

  Jill nodded, enjoying the cool rush of wind and penetrating warmth of the sun and the sound of his voice, low with vibrato. He liked speed, and drove fast but responsibly, a demonstration of his unequivocal confidence. She shivered.

  He reached around the back of her seat and produced the sports jacket he’d been wearing earlier. “Put this on.”

  Jill smiled and nestled under the warmth of his jacket drawing in the faint, spicy, white woods and smoky amber smell of Gavin Fairfield. She sank deeper into the leather, enjoying the rough of his wool jacket, aware she skirted the edges of what any number of her psychologist colleagues would call the dominant man effect—a psychological mechanism that helps women seek out good genes. Again, she breathed in Gavin’s scent and reluctantly let his jacket slide down and pool in her lap.

  “Not cold anymore? We’re almost there,” he added.

  They pulled off the highway and slowed for a red light. The small, urbanized river town wore late August well. Giant trees lined the streets, their leaves moving like jade medallions in the breeze. Jill held the opinion that each season had its own green. The new green of May was peridot, followed by fern green in June which was still fresh and light. By July, the green had deepened to a rich velvety emerald. In August, as the dry heat wore out its welcome, the velvety emerald faded to jade. Today was a perfect jade-green day.

  They were close to the river, she could smell the water when Gavin broke into her reverie.

  “This is us.” He made a neat turn onto a cobblestone drive, pressed a hidden button above his head in the roof’s interior, and slowed as they waited for electronic gates which bore an ornate F to open. As they drove through, he said, “When you drive here yourself, just press the intercom and smile.” He flashed an easy grin. “Someone will buzz you in.”

  Surrounded by towering evergreens and red oaks, the cobblestones wound and curved. Jill expected to be greeted with her first view of the Fairfield mansion at any moment. With each curve, they were greeted by more sedate pines bending in the breeze.

  Her first glimpse of the mansion revealed a rambling, pleasant-looking structure of sandy pink brick which sprawled rather than climbed. Hunter green shutters graced each window, and gabled dormer windows capped the cobbled roof. It looked more like a very large cottage than a mansion. To the side of the house, water trickled over a natural stone wall made of boulders, into a pond below where goldfish darted in and out of view.

  Circular stone steps led down from the wall and were lined with wildflowers. Jill recognized the yellow creeping jenny, white yarrow, and what looked like purple marsh thistle interspersed with ferns, strawberry bushes and red poppy. Two giant weeping willows towered and tilted toward each other as if guarding the pond.

  Gavin steered the BMW into a large private drive. He sprinted from the car in a fluid motion and placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the stone steps. The heat of his fingers made her skin tingle. As he leaned forward to open the front door, his chest brushed against the back of her shoulder, liquefying her bones like the smoky amber of his scent. Inside the expansive foyer, they encountered a well-dressed butler who wore a deferential smile.

  “Good afternoon, maestro,” he greeted in a clipped British accent.

  “Baines, this is Dr. Cole. Has my mother arrived home?” He turned to Jill. “I’d like you to meet her first before spending time with Olivia. She’s the one family member who won’t give you any trouble.”

  His smile c
urled her toes.

  “Madam is out at the moment,” Baines replied with quiet dignity. “She expects to return in time for a late lunch with you and Dr. Cole.”

  “And Olivia,” Jill added. After all, that was the whole point of her being there.

  “Thank you, Baines. Where is Liv?” Gavin asked.

  A benevolent expression crept across Baines’ face rubbing smooth his crisp formality. “Miss Olivia is in the sun room.”

  “Please ask her to join us in the library.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer we go to Olivia. The sun room sounds perfect.” As Jill anticipated, Gavin looked as though he might object.

  Baines cleared his throat, crisp formality restored. “Excuse me, sir. I was about to mention your agent is in the library.”

  “Adrienne’s here?”

  “Yes. She’s been waiting most of the morning. I informed her that you might be awhile but she insisted on waiting.”

  Gavin tensed. “Did you tell her anything else?”

  Baines glanced at Jill. “Just that you were expected back for a late lunch.”

  Gavin nodded. “Very good.” He turned to Jill. “You’ll excuse me. Adrienne isn’t in the habit of showing up unexpectedly without a good reason. Baines will show you to the sun room. I’ll join you when I can.” With long strides, he left the room.

  But Olivia was not in the sun room.

  Baines gave her a perfunctory bow and exited with the promise that he would return with Olivia.

  Left to her own devices, Jill wandered through the extraordinary sun room with burnished wood flooring, a vaulted ceiling, massive skylights, and a storybook window seat. Wide French doors allowed easy access to the gardens. Jill took in the sofa, love seat, several chairs including a rocking chair, all of bleached rattan with colorful cushions and pillows in complementing shades of violet, pink, green and yellow. Several tea tables were graced with cut flowers. Leafy green plants in pots, buckets, pedestal vases and crocks sprouted throughout the room boasting a healthy sheen. She clapped her hand over her mouth as two or three birds of various colors and origin flew overhead, each singing its own vibrant song.

  Outside, the garden spilled across the yard, bordered by a white picket fence. A path led from the garden through an arbor into the woods, where it dropped out of sight.

  “I said, who are you?” the rebellious little voice repeated.

  The sound broke into Jill's observations. Startled, she whirled in the direction of the voice toward a lanky long-limbed girl with brown hair, several shades lighter than Gavin's, and badly in need of a good brushing. From this distance, Jill couldn’t make out her eye color but didn’t miss the freckles trailing up and down Olivia’s arms, and over her face, popping red with indignation. “My name is Jillian Cole, but you can call me Jill. Will you tell me yours?”

  Olivia frowned and pointed. “You have funny shoes.”

  Jill looked down at her sandals, and smiled. High heels on a cork platform might indeed look funny to a ten-year old. Olivia spoke in the staccato-like stabbing manner Jill had seen earlier in the video clip. She wondered if Olivia changed the subject because she couldn’t accomplish a linear conversation, or because she was her father’s daughter, and liked to set her own terms. Jill pointed. “And you don’t have any.”

  “Do you like this room?” Olivia stretched her arms in an authoritative sweep.

  The child is so like her father, granting me permission to notice the unusual surroundings. “I like it very much. Do you like the room?”

  “Of course. It's my room!”

  “And where is your favorite place to sit?” she asked the little autocrat softly.

  “Over there.” Olivia pointed in the direction of a bench swing.

  “May I sit there?”

  Olivia’s face twitched into a series of frowns and grimaces. “You have to take them off.” She pointed down at her own bare feet.

  Jill slipped out of her sandals and wiggled her eyebrows. “Now, will you tell me who you are?”

  Olivia shrugged and pointed to Jill’s sandals. “Can I try them on?”

  “Perhaps. If you tell me who you are,” Jill repeated.

  In a solemn voice, Olivia stated, “My name is Olivia Fairfield. And my mother is dead.”

  Pleased to have found common ground so quickly, Jill responded, “Hello, Olivia. My mother is dead, too.”

  Olivia's eyes widened.

  Now Jill could see their color. They were gray blue—like her father's.

  “She is? Really?”

  “Yes. Now may I sit on the swing?”

  “I'll sit with you.” She reached for Jill's hand, and led her over to the swing. After chatting for a moment or two, Olivia asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting.”

  “Visiting who?” Olivia moved close and stared into Jill’s face. persisted.

  Jill intentionally softened her gaze. “Why, right now I'm visiting you. And your father mentioned something about all of us having lunch.”

  At the mention of her father, Olivia's eyes narrowed. “Are you my dad’s girlfriend?”

  At the idea, Jill flushed. “No, Olivia.” She looked into the child's eyes as they changed from anger to ache. “He dropped by my office this morning and suggested I come for a visit.”

  Olivia ducked her head.

  Thick tangles of hair obscured Olivia’s face making it impossible for Jill to predict Olivia's next mood. Jill observed her hunched shoulders and silent legs which had been swinging so vigorously a moment before.

  With a muffled sob, Olivia whispered, “My dad hates me.”

  Jill averted her eyes and blinked rapidly to cover her surprise at Olivia’s passionate declaration.

  “He hates me!” Olivia repeated.

  “What?”

  Jill swung her head in time to see shock register on the faces of Gavin and his mother.

  Gavin dropped his gaze and jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “I see you’ve met my daughter,” he spoke through stiff lips. “This is my mother, Edith. She’ll see to whatever you need. I have work in the library.” His gaze glanced off her shoulder as he turned and quit the room.

  “Olivia, honey, is there room for me on that swing, too?” Edith asked.

  Olivia dropped her head. Tangled brown hair obscured her face once more.

  Edith sat on the other side of Olivia and stroked the hair away from the girl’s face.

  She flung herself into her grandmother’s arms.

  Over Olivia’s head, the older woman said, “We chose a bad time to show up, didn’t we? Things are very difficult right now, and there’s so much pressure on them both.”

  Jill looked deeply into Edith’s expressive eyes so like her son's. Not a beautiful woman, but possessed of a graceful countenance, a dignified figure, and soft laugh lines around her mouth. Edith glanced down at Olivia, whose left foot kicked at the floor. Half a dozen shadings played those eyes until love, the kind only a grandmother can offer, settled in their depths.

  “Thank you for coming,” Edith added.

  Baines appeared in the sun room to announce lunch.

  Olivia leaped off the swing and pounced on him, capturing his big hand in both of hers. “Mr. Baines, this is Jillian Cole, and her mother is dead, too!”

  “How unfortunate,” Baines murmured.

  ****

  Edith led Jill down the hall to a wide stone terrace that swept the entire south side of the house, overlooking the river. A wrought iron table, beautifully set, waited with four place settings. Edith frowned and straightened one of the place settings. “Please sit wherever you’d like. I’ll go and see what’s keeping Gavin and Olivia. Have some iced tea while you wait, dear. It’s one of cook’s specialties.” She disappeared back inside the house.

  The sun had long past burned off the cooler morning air. Jill took a sip of the iced tea from a fragile yet elegant tumbler. Laced with raspberries, the effect was a blend of both tangy and sweet. The ice me
lted from the afternoon heat and moisture ran in rivulets down the outside of her glass. This family is like these tea tumblers. Self-contained and proud, yet could shatter at any moment.

  She reached into her briefcase, powered up her tablet, and typed, Gavin MIA since our arrival. I’ve been abandoned on the terrace going on ten minutes. They’re escape artists, always disappearing through one door or another.

  Questions:

  1. Is G’s commitment strong enough? His focus on O shifted to career(?) something else(?) when he learned his agent was waiting for him.

  2. G’s body telegraphs guilt when he talks about his daughter’s condition. What does he have to feel guilty about?

  3. Is J a nurturer or does she enable G & O to their detriment?

  4. Does O really believe her father hates her, or was her outburst merely an expression of frustrated aggression?

  Major concern: can G learn to accept O’s limitations and help her develop new creative outlets?

  Observation: intuition tells me this family has secrets.

  Edith reappeared.

  Jill flipped the cover closed.

  An apology fanned across Edith’s face. “My son says he’ll be a few minutes yet, and Olivia is adamant about not coming to lunch. Poor thing, she has a tummy ache. I suggested a nap but she refused. Best to give her a little time, I think.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Tell me, if she has an upset stomach, shouldn’t she be in bed?”

  Edith’s brows puckered, emphasizing deep worry lines.

  “I think I understand.” Jill placed her napkin on the table and stood. “We’ll accomplish so much more today if Olivia joins us. Would you mind if I give it a try? Is she still in the sun room?”

  Edith shook her head. “She’s in the playhouse. Baines will show you.”

  Jill found Olivia bent over a miniature piano in the playhouse, playing the same two notes over and over.

  She glanced up then continued, her face creased into a frown that grew deeper each time she struck a key.

  Jill sat beside the girl. “What are you playing?”

  “Nothing,” Olivia finally answered.