Crime & Counterpoint

by Daniel, M. S.

  The mark on his neck caught her attention. Her joy faded. “I don’t want your money, Zach.” She took a breath and then smiled like she’d flipped a switch. “So. Shall we begin?”

  He sat next to her on the bench, her hips and thighs flush with his. She laughingly showed him how to place his giant paw on the keys. His knuckles were a wreck, but they got them to work. Sort of. She checked the span of his fingers from his thumb to his pinky and gasped.

  “You can reach a twelfth! I’m so jealous!” she exclaimed. “Do you know how many times I willed my fingers to be longer so that I could play Liszt like a man?”

  He smirked. “Your fingers look plenty long to me.”

  “I know! But they’re not long enough.” Dramatically, she leaned forward until she nearly hit her head on the raised lid. Then, lifting a hand to sweep aside her curtain of hair, she peeked at him with an impish smile.

  His heart crumbled.

  She sat erect and took his hand. “Okay. From the top,” she declared and placed her fingers in the typical five-note position an octave above.

  Awkwardly, Zach did as she commanded, trying to cram his gnarled, bruised hands onto the pristine ivory. He eked out only the first note, which she’d said was ‘C’, before she stopped him with a shrill, “Wrists!”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “Do not let your wrists sag just because your enthusiasm is flagging,” she said as if quoting a revered forefather.

  He narrowed his eyes. “It’s two o’clock in the morning, your highness.”

  She giggled, biting her lower lip. “Maybe we should try your left hand.” She got off the bench, brushing against his bare back briefly as she came to sit next to him on the other side. Her fragrance moved accordingly.

  He scooted over to give her room.

  She settled her left hand over his and positioned his fingers. “There. Now let’s play the five-note scale we did with your right hand. Ready?”

  She started an octave lower, and he followed her lead. He was mindful of his “wrists”, and she didn’t stop him this time. He actually got through the whole thing, up and down, without any major hiccups.

  Excited to bursting, she clapped for him and then hugged his bicep. “I’m so proud of you,” she said and the words warmed his depths more than he cared to let on.

  He allowed himself a small smile, feeling vaguely accomplished. Different. And he found that he wanted to try again. So he did.

  She held her breath, pleased that he was taking it seriously. He did even better the second time, and her enthusiasm was no less palpable.

  “Amazing,” she declared. “Vous êtes un très bon étudiante.”

  “You speak French?”

  “Oh, oui monsieur. Mais je dois rarement l’occasion de l’utiliser. Sauf avcec mon père.”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  She beamed and leaned against his shoulder, reminding him she was inebriated. He’d forgotten.

  “Thanks for the lesson,” he spoke softly.

  She turned her focus to him.

  He stared directly at her with an indefinable expression in those deep blue eyes of his that made her want to cry. Her mood shifted drastically yet again.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you,” she blubbered. “I didn’t mean to, that is, I wanted to make sure you didn’t come down to have any alcohol. And then I just couldn’t sleep after that. So I thought if I drank the whiskey” – she hiccupped – “you wouldn’t. And I also thought that maybe I’d drink until I fell asleep. And I’d never wake up.” Her lower lip quivered. “That’s terrible of me, isn’t it.”

  Her face contorted, and her fingers covered her mouth. “I’m sorry, Zach. I’m so sorry.” Huge tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  “I did!” she moaned piteously. “I led you on, I didn’t mean to, but I did. And I deserve to feel like this. I finally know what I want after all these years, and I can’t have you.”

  She broke down then, burying her face as she cried, so utterly torn and depressed. Her shoulders shook with the force of her anguish. His heart broke for her, and heedless to the warning bells in his mind, he took her in his pillar-strong arms. She turned into his chest.

  He stroked her hair and she clung to him as if for dear life.

  He understood what she was saying even if her words weren’t really clear. “You could have me,” he replied, voice deep and even. “But that would be going against your father.”

  “I would do it for you,” she sobbed.

  He shook his head; she was a lost cause. The seat grew uncomfortable as his fatigue strengthened as well. “You need to get to bed.” Keeping her stable with one hand, he got up and pulled her to her feet. She was practically dead weight. Spying Carter’s ring, he swiped it up and pocketed it. “Do you want me to carry you?”

  She frowned at the air in front of her face, which more or less contained him. “I can walk,” she said with regal indignation.

  He put his hands up in surrender and backed off. “Okay, then.”

  She took a few jelly steps without trouble and smiled at him like ‘see? I told you’. But her graceful stride caught a hitch in its get-a-long and she nearly planted her face in the floor.

  His arm stabilized her. Again. She embraced his limb like the ground had become water and it would take faith to cross this turbulent sea. “I can walk, you know.”

  Patronizingly, he nodded, leading her out of the library. “Of course you can.”

  “I don’t need you,” she continued as he hit the lights and left the unchanging piano room shrouded in raindrop-shadow blackness.

  He coaxed her into her bed with the soft light of the piano-themed lamp glowing. And pulled the covers over her.

  “I feel sick,” she garbled, eyes already closing.

  He smirked despite her seriousness. “You should.” He lowered his chin to her mahogany crown and kissed her forehead. She reached for his neck.

  “We could run away.”

  Again, she sounded grave, but he couldn’t help but find her subject-jumping amusing. “Good night, Shelley.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  He was about to do just that, but the pleading in her voice made him change course of action. Not that it took much. Bone weary, he sat down with his back against the headboard. She laid her head in his lap, her hand resting on his thigh. Overcoming his surprise, he stroked her hair, staring at the painting of the little girl in a yellow dress playing the piano.

  “What did you feel when they had that gun to your head?” she asked with amazing coherence. “Were you afraid of dying?”

  He kept staring at the painting. “I was only afraid of you getting hurt.”

  She raised her head and looked into his back-lit blue eyes. “Do you mean that?”

  His hand smoothed the hair away from her face, unafraid of her reading into his gesture. She’d be lucky to remember any of this come morning.

  She closed her eyes, relishing the rough warmth of his palm against her cheek. Her reaction aroused him, and he took a deep breath. But it was all her.

  Her lips beckoned, and his gut dipped into a burning pool of deep desire, but he reined in the powerful tide. “I should go.”

  “No, please. Just” – she yawned and settled onto his lap again – “a few more minutes.”

  He had no inclination to push her away. He turned off the lamp and the room fell into dark, watercolor silhouettes created by the opened curtains. The trees outside the window yielded to the elements, dancing to the rain. He stared at the city-foreign sight, soaking it in.

  The seconds stretched luxuriously.

  Just when he thought she’d fallen asleep, she spoke softly. “You need to forgive your dad.”

  The mere mention of David Ericson cooled his demeanor like an ice bath. “You only say that because you had a good father,” he said tersely. “But could you forgive a man who abandoned you? Who tore you down? Who willfully
allowed you to be abused and ruined a once-in-a-lifetime shot?”

  “But if he hadn’t, where would I be now?”

  Her words echoed loudly in his mind. He grasped her hand and kissed it. “You said it yourself: you don’t need me.”

  “But I want you,” she whispered.

  He felt a pang as her statement registered. Sadly, he sighed, combing his fingers through her sweet-smelling hair. “That’s not an option, sweetheart.”

  She pricked at the term of endearment her father always used, and her heart tightened with delirious ache. His gentle motions soothed her.

  The pattering against the windows filled the silence. Until–

  “Do you know why I failed?” she asked timidly.

  He searched his memory. “You mean the Van Cliburn thing?”

  She pushed herself up and sat next to him, the outside glow barely illuminating her face. “The night before the competition, I heard my parents talking in our hotel room when they thought I was asleep.” She sniffled. “My Mother’s hands were bothering her – the nerve damage from the accident.”

  “What accident?”

  “You really don’t know?” she asked, astonished. He shook his head and so she plowed forward. “I was accompanying my mother. She was rehearsing for her upcoming tour. And – well, she was very agitated that day. I don’t know why. I was particularly nervous. She yelled at me for everything and I jumped. Finally, she left her best violin in the mouth of the piano to get herself some water. Only I didn’t notice. She was saying that she couldn’t hear herself and so I decided to lower the lid. But as I was lowering it, my Mother yelled at me so loud, I dropped the lid altogether.” She covered her hands as if frightened, and Zach put an arm around her. “My mother had lunged to try to save the Stradivarius and because of that–”

  She couldn’t continue. Her voice died away, but he figured the rest out. The heavy piano lid must’ve crashed down on both the violin and Carol Mitchel’s hands.

  “And when was that?” he asked gently.

  She sucked in a shaky breath. “When I was about fifteen. There was blood everywhere. On the keys. On the carpet. On her clothes. She was wearing cashmere that day. I couldn’t get the stains out.” She sobbed. “My Daddy was so devastated. That’s why he fell in love with her, you know. Because of her talent. And I took it away. She couldn’t play anymore. She couldn’t use her hands for anything.”

  Zach felt his walls tremble. He hugged her tighter. “So what happened? With Van Cliburn, I mean.”

  She swallowed convulsively and wiped at her wet cheek. “At the hotel, she was telling my Dad that she felt horrible for resenting me. For wanting me to fail. Because I ruined her life.”

  Zach’s brows drew together.

  “And Daddy, he didn’t even tell her to forgive me. He just – he just held her while she cried. She said I stole her passion.” Another swipe at her cheeks. “I don’t even know how I made it to the finalist round. But at the worst moment, I – I just couldn’t remember any of the music.” Her voice degraded to barely a whisper. “I deserved to fail.”

  He frowned, her words resonating with him. He had nothing to heal her. Wrapping her tightly in his arms, he pressed her close, sheltering her.

  A minute later, and she was asleep. He knew it but reluctant to let the moment pass, he stayed there, holding her. Thinking. Remembering. Listening to the steady rain. Her rhythmic breathing.

  Leaning his head back against the headboard, he stared at the dark shadows playing along the wall. The sense that he was going to expire sooner than later hit him all at once – powerfully, sickeningly, creeping into his bones and lodging there. His head wretched with pounding ache. He pleaded with God to spare him, to give him another chance, but the feeling never lifted and instead strengthened, shackling his spirits further.

  Dead certainty broke the temporal peace.

  And for the first time in forever, he wanted to weep.

  61

  The room glowed a fiery red as the sun rose over the trees, crowning the new day. The gentle flames roused Zach from a deep sleep. The rain had moved on, leaving the bedroom cool but cozy. The waters of the bay glittered in the morning sunshine.

  On his back, he came fully alert, lifting his head a few inches, gaze darting around the blue and purple environs. But there was no immediate danger. He was fine. And Shelley was – he looked over – snug against him beneath the blankets, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her body. Safe.

  Last night, he’d fallen asleep sitting up. But apparently, he’d managed to lie down and she with him. He glanced down at her profile; she was fast asleep if her closed lids fringed by dark lashes were any indication. He could feel the rise and fall of her rib cage.

  Reluctantly, he turned his head to inhale the top of hers. The sweet-smelling, mahogany strands caught the stubble on his jaw. Her long hair blanketed his bicep, and her hand covered his scarred chest. Warm, bare legs curved against his, her breath fanned his skin, and her breasts pressed sweetly into his side. His fingers dared to move along her back.

  Too tired to gauge the inappropriateness of her proximity, he closed his eyes and listened instead to her gentle breathing; her nearness quieted his soul. Reflexively, his left hand moved to cover hers on his chest. He feathered her skin, marveling at how soft she was.

  Intruding on his rest, his phone vibrated on his night stand. She didn’t wake, and he was careful not to move too much as he reached to check the caller ID. And as soon as he saw the lawyer’s name, he knew this was one call he couldn’t send to voicemail. He answered, voice husky and rough.

  “Where is she?” Henri Mitchel demanded. “She’s not answering her phone.”

  “She’s safe with me,” Zach replied, defiance in his tone, privy to oh so many family secrets now.

  “That’s debatable.”

  Zach scoffed quietly. “She’s sleeping off the trauma. I’m watching her right now. And I don’t want to wake her, so…”

  “Then leave the room.”

  Hand moving along her spine, he said with a dark smile, “I’m afraid I can’t extricate myself right now. You’ll have to call back later.” Boldly, Zach hung up. Shelley stirred as he stretched his arm to set down the cell, and he felt more than heard her sharp gasp. She’d apparently woken on the right side of propriety.

  But feeling devilish, he tightened his hold. “Good morning,” he rumbled.

  She lifted her head and looked at him; the sunbeams cutting through the teary windows caught the gold intonation of her eyes. His breath arrested. He thought to himself there was nothing he wouldn’t give to wake up to her every morning.

  “How do you feel?” she queried, eyeing the swell on his neck.

  “Well… I’m alive,” he answered. But he regretted the rash words as hurt overcast her glow, making him feel like he’d drawn her blood.

  Without asking, she sat up and grabbed a packaged disinfectant wipe from the other night stand, ripped it open, and then turned to him, applying the swab to the reddened area.

  It stung, cold electrifying his sore nerves, but he didn’t let his discomfort show. “How does it look?”

  She drew a breath. “A little enflamed, but I think you’ll be alright as long as you keep it clean.”

  He examined her face inches from his, unable to help recalling last night, when she was at her most vulnerable. And the piano lesson. It seemed like a dream now. Maybe it was. But he could remember the resistance of each key he’d depressed, the feel of the smooth ivory.

  Finished, she placed the used swab in the open packaging and then handed him two ibuprofen tablets. “Do you want water?”

  He shook his head and popped the pills, chewing them instead of swallowing. The bitter, desiccated taste filled his mouth and irritated him, helping to distance himself from her. But not much. He breathed her honeyed fragrance; it made his whole body chill and roil with desire.

  Sensing his arousal, she did them both a favor and averted her gaze. “I�
�m… sure you’re hungry. I’ll get breakfast started.” With a fluid motion, she slid off the bed – escaped was more like it – before he could stop her.

  He watched the back of her exit the room. Only then, did he rise.

  Finished with a morning shower, Zach joined Shelley in the daylight-bright kitchen, shirtless, hair again wet, jeans on, his same black polo in his hand. He draped the shirt on a barstool just as she passed him a hot plate of freshly-baked biscuits, a four-egg omelet with Portobello mushrooms, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and bell pepper, and golden-fried hash browns, squeezing a little honey on the side for the biscuit.

  “Wow. You did this in thirty minutes?”

  She smiled pleasurably. “No. I ordered take-out from this amazing diner down the street.”

  He deposited himself on the stool, scrutinizing her. Hard to tell if she was lying or not. But a quick glance at the glowing stove, the cracked eggs, the floured board, the half-used carton of fresh mushrooms, the potato peelings, and he gave her a ‘yeah right’ look. Smelling the savory amalgam, he dug into the food, devouring a bit of everything, his senses heightening with the amazing flavors exploding in every bite. He then chased it with black coffee which tasted exponentially better than his. He didn’t even want to think about what he would’ve had this morning.

  He shoveled the eggs and hash browns into his mouth like he hadn’t had real food in weeks. It wasn’t until he was nearly finished that he realized she was just watching him. He picked up his coffee and washed it down. “Do you ever eat? Or do you only watch people eat?”

  She smiled sweetly. “No. Just you.”

  Warmed, he slid off the stool and treaded the tile towards her.

  Her breath hitched, smile turning to alarm; she backed up. “Zach, stop it. I was being serious.”

  He cornered her against the Pearl Neff cabinets. Taking her waist, he lifted her up and set her on the granite counter. She hadn’t changed out of her silk camisole and shorts, and he was willing to bet she regretted it now.