Naked Hope

by Rebecca E. Grant

  Gage muttered into her glass, “An age-old truth…a man never treats a woman better than when he’s trying to win her heart. Damn.” She swiveled on her stool. “Did you ever see him again?”

  Jill reached toward the end of the counter for her purse and dug around for an aspirin. “After a succession of dead-ends, I reached one of his editors and learned Tommy Reynolds was really Tommy Reyes, a free-lance writer who occasionally worked for this editor, but never out of the country. Tommy didn’t have the training or experience to work on international assignments. He suggested I try calling Tommy’s wife.”

  Gage’s neck snapped. “What?”

  How she hated to admit her stupidity. Jill nodded. “He’d told me Chicago was his home base, but home was right here in Minneapolis and included a wife, two children, a dog and three goldfish.”

  “So you never saw him again?”

  Jill shook her head. “I changed jobs, bought the loft, and started consulting for Wilson. I buried myself in my research, and you know the rest. No—” She lifted her chin. “I never heard from him again.”

  Gage placed her hand on Jill’s shoulder. “And you’ve been the tosser ever since.”

  “Look, I see your point but don’t you get it?” Jill shook off her friend’s touch. “Gavin won’t listen to anyone. He’s sowhat did you call him? Damn bigger than life. And he’s holding onto a dream that is likely to shatter both of them. Ethics, conviction, expertise, whatever aside, I don’t have the heart to hang around for that.”

  “Jill, do you want a relationship with him?”

  Her throat constricted and her shoulders slumped. Into her glass, she whispered, “God help me, yes.”

  “Don’t bite off my head now, but is there any chance she’ll return to music? You’ve had a number of breakthroughs in your research.”

  Jill stood and poured water into the coffeemaker. She measured the grounds and waited until the water began to drip through the grounds. She faced her friend and leaned back against the granite counter. “Sure. Olivia has about a one in one-hundred-million chance that some kind of breakthrough might allow that kind of recovery. But as a scientist, I can tell you with no uncertainty Olivia’s brain has sustained too much damage to the right temporal lobe and the auditory cortex. Until we know more about these and all the other areas of the brain that process and store music, the chance of her recovering any musical ability is so miniscule, it’s not measureable.”

  Gage rested her elbows on the counter. “But new discoveries happen every day. You could be just a moment away from finding something that would change everything.”

  Tears leaked out of Jill’s eyes and streamed down her face. She reached for a tissue. “I’ll never knowingly encourage people to believe in miracles regarding TBI, again. Once, I made that mistake and almost left the field as a result. There was a young couple, their child had about the same odds as Olivia. I encouraged them to hope. They did everything right, but when their child didn’t recover, they fell apart and eventually divorced.”

  “You can’t take responsibility for that.” Gage shook her head.

  Her throat dry and scratchy, Jill blew into a tissue. “That’s not the end of the story. Later, the father came to me, looking like a dead man walking. His ex-wife had committed suicide. Do you know what her note said? Because trust me I can tell you word-for-word. It said, ‘I couldn’t believe hard enough and so my child didn’t recover. I’ve failed as a mother and as a human being. Forgive me.’ That taught me to believe in the protocol.”

  Jill’s forehead hammered as if someone had smacked her with a baseball bat. She reached for her purse again, this time dumping out its contents onto the counter. Out fell the small white envelope containing the ticket to Gavin’s performance.

  Both women looked at the ticket as Jill twisted the cap off a bottle of pain reliever tablets.

  “So, will you go tomorrow night?” Gage asked, tapping a finger on the envelope.

  Would she go?

  Chapter Nineteen

  A respectful hush settled over the orchestra as Gavin walked into the rehearsal room. He took them through the evening's selections moving his baton at a madman's pace, his mind crammed full of images that would not stop haunting him. Vivienne’s angry face, Olivia at the piano at seven, her fingers flying across the keyboard, Olivia at the piano today, and Jillian’s face when he admitted he’d been looking for a music tutor. He surfaced, surprised to find himself swinging his baton in front of a silent orchestra.

  They looked at him with blank faces.

  “Well, why have you stopped?” He demanded.

  No one said a word. Twice a bass violinist opened his mouth, cleared his throat, but said nothing.

  From the back of the orchestra, a brave percussionist offered in a quiet voice, “Because we finished the piece, Maestro.”

  Gavin blinked and scanned the group. “A damn good reason to stop.” He pivoted and made a beeline for his dressing room.

  A moment later, someone knocked at the door.

  Jillian?

  “Gavin, darling.” Adrienne swept into the room. “We have a full house. I couldn't help but notice some very prominent people out there—”

  “Fine, Adrienne.”

  She looked upward through long lashes. “I thought we could arrange to have drinks afterward with some of them…”

  His mouth tightened. “Stop pushing, Adrienne. Not tonight.”

  She rested her hand against his chest. “But Gavin, you know how people love to say they mingled with you. Mingling would be so beneficial to your—”

  Gavin’s jaw ticked. He put a finger under her chin and lifted. “Sometimes you act as though I don’t know anything about this business. Or anything else that might be going on.” He forced an unmistakable warning into his gaze.

  A rap sounded on the door again. “Two minutes, Maestro.”

  As Gavin strode to center stage, the bright lights made seeing beyond the second row difficult. The restless pre-performance coughs and throaty whispers gave way to an expectant hush. Over the years, he’d learned to distinguish a full house from a half-filled one by listening to the cease of sound rather than the sound itself. With a full house, the tension built and fed his enthusiasm.

  He faced the orchestra, waiting for the magic but it eluded him. Baton raised, he paused, willing the magic to come. The gaze of every orchestra member focused on Gavin, awaiting his upbeat. Then, because he couldn’t stop himself, instead of bringing in the orchestra, he craned his neck toward the east wing where he’d reserved the box for Jillian. Even though he already knew she wasn’t there.

  He turned back to the waiting orchestra and lowered his hands to a resting position. The orchestra lowered their instruments. He closed his eyes. Please. How would he do this without the magic?

  When he opened them, movement in the east wing caught his eye. His head snapped. He caught the elegant upsweep of her dark hair, and the smooth curves of her body. His breath evened. Their gaze met. She smiled and gave a slight nod. Everything about her shimmered.

  With a slow move, he raised his baton, the orchestra eased into its first note. The audience relaxed. They were with him now.

  When he looked again, she was gone.

  ****

  As she read the newspaper headline, Jill gasped, and glanced over at Ross who sat unmoving behind his desk, face pensive. Murder suicide ends the dynamic Fairfield duo. Horrified, she scanned the article written by Jeff Warner.

  In an exclusive interview with the maestro Gavin Fairfield, international globe trotter and heartthrob PROBE learned he unofficially retired his baton after his concert two nights ago.

  Fifteen months have elapsed since authorities discovered the maestro’s wife Vivienne and daughter Olivia wrapped around the side of a bridge. The so-called accident ended the life of Mrs. Fairfield. Daughter Olivia, a brilliant child prodigy, survived the wreck but sustained extensive injuries to her brain. Although many promises have been offered about
her return to the spotlight, PROBE has learned she will never compose or perform again.

  Hold onto your hat. PROBE has also learned the so-called accident was actually a deliberate attempt at murder suicide. Although motive unknown, Vivienne Fairfield intentionally smashed her car on the bridge determined to end both her life and the life of her daughter. Now that’s payback, folks. Sounds like the maestro isn’t such an easy guy to live with.

  Wouldn’t Viv be interested to know her actions were even more effective than originally planned? Not only will the young lady never return to the spotlight due to her brain injuries, neither it seems, will her father. The maestro as much as admitted he hasn’t composed since the discovery of Olivia’s talent at age three. Some believe he’s even taken credit for what is really his daughter’s work. That’s a no-no, maestro.

  Oh, and ladies, it’s time to give it up. By all reports, the maestro has lost his heart to a Dr. Jillian Cole, the so-called miracle-worker engaged to help daughter Olivia recover her lost ability. Whether she sold the maestro a bill of goods or simply is no good at what she does, Olivia remains hopelessly damaged. But I’ve seen Dr. Cole, and what a hottie that one is. She joins an estimably long list of the maestro’s love interests. Looks like he’s off the market, ladies—again—at least for the moment.

  The accompanying photo showed an angry Gavin, a cowering Olivia, and a mystified-looking Jill.

  Ross drummed his fingers against the desk. “You better take a closer look. While the article doesn't specifically mention the institute, some people are bound to make the connection. And of course, with your picture on the cover…We’ve already gotten a few inquiries—no actual complaints as of yet. I don’t know how extensive this rag’s print circulation is—” Ross brought his chair down hard. “But this is all over the Internet.”

  He clicked to one of the ever-popular video websites. “And here’s the worst.” The selectively edited video showed Gavin kicking Warner instead of Warner’s hat. Ross pointed. “The video has already been viewed 938,671 times…and counting.”

  Jill lowered herself into a chair. “None of this is true. The truth has been twisted into…” She searched for words, “Gavin did not kick that man—he kicked a hat—it was a hat—” She stopped, realizing how addled she sounded.

  “I’ve already checked with legal and we’ve been advised to ignore the article.”

  “What about the Board?”

  Ross gave a one-sided grin. “They’ve been silent on the matter. They drove Olivia’s admission so I can’t imagine they’ll have much, if anything, to say.” He gestured toward the computer screen. “But, with this kind of publicity, I’d understand if you chose to have someone else officiate Thursday’s ceremonies.”

  “Parents Day.” What wretched timing. She hesitated, considering her options. “No, let’s stick with the original plan.”

  Ross reached across his desk and flung the Probe into the trash. “Good for you. This is garbage. We'll handle the fallout, if there’s anything to handle.”

  Jill chose a seat in the back of Olivia’s classroom, which would allow for strategic observation. From this vantage point, Jill watched the spacious room with its open atmosphere and colorful walls and modular tables come alive as parents and kids greeted their teachers, made their name tags, and settled into their seats. One of the statistically tragic realities of TBI meant the majority of Wilson kids had lost one or both parents to the same accident in which they’d sustained TBI. So a majority of the students attending the institute came to Parent’s Day with only one parent, a relative other than their parent, or in some cases, a guardian.

  Jill eyed the clock. Eight twenty-one. Would he come?

  Death and injury weren’t the only things that ripped apart these families. Layering tragedy on top of tragedy were things like divorce, depression, financial strain, job loss. The list went on and on.

  So much damage.

  That’s why she’d created Parent’s Day, so that every child and parent or care-giver in every program at Wilson could celebrate their child’s success. Jill scooped Wonder into her lap and stole another glance at the clock. Eight twenty-nine.

  And what if he does come?

  At eight-thirty, the bell rang. Gwyn, the lead teacher, walked toward the door and stepped into the path of Gavin and Olivia.

  As if he knew where to look, Gavin’s gaze found hers. He whispered something in Olivia’s ear and pointed in her direction. They picked up their nametags and made their way back.

  “Good morning, Dr. Jill,” Gavin greeted, his smile playfully crooked.

  He appeared relaxed. Even easy, reminding her of their weekend at the lake.

  “Good morning Dr. Jill,” Olivia sing-songed, the perfect parody of her father.

  “Oh, good morning Olivia, Gavin.” Her own greeting sounded breathy and girlish. “We're so glad you both made it to Parent’s Day.”

  The students had been asked to come prepared to introduce their parent or parents. Over the next hour, the group listened to introductions that ranged from tentative to comedic to intensely serious. When Olivia and Gavin walked hand-in-hand to the front of the room, he wore the picture of perfect parentage and devotion. Absent even a hint of a stutter or hesitation, Olivia introduced her father saying, “This is my dad. Some people call him maestro. He's famous, and composes music. Sometimes, I help him. He directs orchestras and gets mad at the violin section all the time. I don't have a mother. She died. But I have my Grandmere and Grandpop and Daddy and Baines.” Jill smiled at the way Olivia emphasized Baines’ name.

  As the morning progressed, she examined every parent’s face for even a hint of judgment resulting from seeing the articles or videos but found none. And why should they? Every one of these folks had already been through so much, a bit of bad publicity about her probably didn’t even make their radar.

  Gwyn held up her hands extending an invitation to the other two teachers, Kaye and Mary. “Okay everyone, now is interactive storytelling time. Remember, we know how to do this, but your parents don’t so let’s go over a quick review of the rules. I'll start out and when you’re ready to take over the story, just raise your hand. But here’s a twist. When you raise your hand, that means both you and your parents have to add to the story. Wait to be called on, and be original—not something you’ve read or seen on TV.”

  She began, “Amy woke up early this morning, excited because today was her eleventh birthday.” Gwyn nodded at Lilly and her mother who managed to get Amy up, dressed and through breakfast before they collapsed into giggles. Braden and his parents led Amy straight into an argument with her little brother. Ava and her mother made peace within short order and got her outside to play. Noah was very clear Amy should be getting presents, but his poor father struggled with where to take the story until he realized maybe Amy wasn’t going to get any presents.

  Olivia’s hand shot into the air. “After it turned out that Amy DID get presents and she’d opened all of them, she felt sad.”

  “Because,” Gavin stepped in, “she hadn't gotten the present she had hoped for most of all.” With a sly grin, he looked at Jill.

  Olivia agreed. “Yes. And what she wanted most of all…” She hesitated and then smiled up at her father.

  “My turn?” he asked.

  Grinning, she bobbed her head.

  “And what she wanted most of all was a very special friend. Someone who could be a friend to both Amy and her—”

  “—Dad.” Olivia inserted with a decisive nod. “After all, Amy had no mother because she died.” She looked up at her dad.

  Eyebrows raise, Gavin pointed to himself. “Me again?”

  Olivia giggled.

  “And so, they called a friend they’d recently met who just happens to like cats.” Gavin pointed to Wonder. “Then they asked her to come over and have cake and ice cream with them. That made both Amy and her dad happy because they thought the cat woman was very special—”

  Olivia bounced in he
r chair. “—the cat woman has long black curly hair and blue eyes.”

  “Violet eyes,” Gavin corrected.

  Olivia peered at Jill, and then smiled up at her father. “Violet eyes.”

  Before things got out of hand, Jill intervened, wishing her cheeks weren’t burning. “That night when Amy went to bed, she told her parents it had been the best birthday ever, and went to sleep looking forward to waking up the next day.”

  Gwyn, Kaye, and Mary clapped their hands. “Good work, everyone. Now, let’s turn our attention to our last activity before our picnic and trip to the zoo. Each parent-student team will create a picture of something that has recently made both of you happy. Take a minute to think what that is—make sure you all agree, and then begin.”

  Heads were bent, markers squeaked across poster boards accompanied by bursts of laugher. Masterpieces were in the making. Gwyn, Kaye, Mary, and Jill walked around the room, observing and offering encouragement.

  At lunchtime, Gavin and Olivia strolled over. “Have lunch with us, Doc?”

  His smile made her knees weak and she nodded.

  The sun had vanquished any sign of November frost as the three of them crossed over the little footbridge to the apple grove where a winter picnic waited. Laughter mingled with the smell of burgers and chili dogs roasting over the fire pit. Gavin brought them hot cocoa, the backs of his fingers grazing hers. They ate hot dogs and roasted chestnuts while Olivia chattered.

  She stopped abruptly and demanded, “Why aren’t you talking?” When neither of them said anything, Olivia urged, “Don’t be mad. Bad things happen when you’re mad.”

  Gavin knelt down and took his daughter’s hand. “Who do you think we’re mad at?”

  With a shrug, she pointed at them. “Each other.”

  Over her head, Gavin and Jill exchanged looks. “We’re not mad at each other,” he denied.