by PJ Sharon
Maddie’s face fell. “Oh, dear. What a shame.” She glanced at Ethan, understanding finally dawning. “Well, don’t worry. Lexi and I will take good care of Ethan. He truly is a wonderful young man—a credit to your outstanding parenting, no doubt.” Her cool gaze held a challenge, and my chest tightened.
Ethan stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared at the cobbled street.
His father cleared his throat and deflected the barb. “Any good manners he has I’m sure are attributed to his mother.” Now both men fidgeted, an uneasy silence settling between them. “I hate to be rude, but I must get back to my patient.” He turned and laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. Raw emotion rolled off of Ethan, but he stood rigid and squared his shoulders, stiffening further as his father hugged him. “I’ll see you in a few days, son. Try to have a good time.” Then he gave Maddie and me a polite nod and turned to walk briskly down the Boulevard, hailing a cab as he went.
Ethan stood staring after his father, a strained expression making his jaw twitch.
Maddie touched his arm and drew his attention. “Would you like to join us for the day? We’re taking the tour to Grasse and St. Paul-de Vence.”
“I don’t think a perfume factory is really my thing,” Ethan said, honest disappointment showing for the first time.
“Of course not,” Maddie said, pursing her lips. She gazed up the long hill at the far end of the Boulevard, and a revelatory grin spread across her face. “Lexi wasn’t too keen on the excursion either. Tell you what. Why don’t you two stay with the walking tour of Cannes and really get a feel for the French Riviera while I take the bus tour to Grasse. I love the perfume factory and seeing all those lovely lavender fields. Besides, I’m not anxious to make another hike today in this heat. Let’s meet back on board the ship for dinner. What do you say?”
Ethan’s expression lightened and I wanted to hug Maddie.
“You mean it? Are you sure you don’t mind?” I had been secretly dreading the perfume factory given my aversion to most fragrances. I imagined the bus ride back would be sheer torture after everyone on board had sampled the flowery French concoctions. Maddie cornered the tour guide and exchanged a few words with her, pointing toward us and nodding, a determined look on her face that pretty much guaranteed any irregularities in procedure would be overlooked. She returned a moment later.
“That’s settled, then. You two stay with the walking tour, and I’ll head off with the old folks.” She glared at the bus driver, who, with exaggerated watch checking, impatiently waited for his last passenger. Grateful beyond words, I hugged Maddie, and Ethan and I headed off in the opposite direction, leaving her standing on the sidewalk smiling and waving cheerfully. “Stay out of trouble, young lady!”
“That was really sweet of your grandmother,” Ethan said as we walked along side by side up the hill toward Saint Anne Church, which, according to the brochure, had been preserved as Musee de la Castre, a museum filled with archaic relics, historic photographs, and antique instruments.
“She has her moments.” We fell in line behind the other tourists plodding up the wide stone steps. “So what’s with your dad?” I asked boldly, taking a lesson from Maddie’s interrogation style.
“Let’s just say, I wasn’t surprised the plan changed.”
“Depending on someone who doesn’t keep his promises must suck.”
“Being a doctor isn’t like a regular job,” he stated in defense. “When you’re dealing with people’s lives, everything else has to take a back seat. It’s the job. I’m used to it.”
“You almost sound convinced,” I said, shooting him a wary smile.
“I only hope that when I have kids someday, I can learn to balance being a doctor with being a dad better than mine has.” His tone was more sad than bitter, and I had the urge to stop and hug him. Instead I hesitantly slipped my fingers through his and gave his hand a light squeeze.
“I have no doubt you’ll be amazing at both.”
His mood shifted and a genuine grin lifted the corners of his mouth, revealing straight white teeth and a perfect set of dimples. My heart skipped with relief when he hung on tighter and let our hands swing together all the way to the top of the hill.
The church turned out to be crowded but worth the hike. I learned that the building was originally a fortress erected in the eleventh century. The structure was both offensive and defensive, providing a base from which raids could be launched, as well as offering protection from pirates and invaders. Now, the beautiful stained glass, a fresco painting of Jesus being baptized, and the boat models sitting at the feet of the saints gave the place a sense of sanctuary. Historic photos of the church, from days past, lined the interior wall leading to the museum section, where the antique instruments were behind glass and off limits to touch.
“That’s a cool one.” Ethan pointed to an ancient stringed instrument propped on its side in the case.
“It’s a lute,” I said. “They were some of the earliest string instruments and what eventually became today’s guitar.” We continued browsing the cases, stopping to admire what appeared to be a lap harp. “This one is called a dulcimer.”
“You sound as if you know a lot about musical instruments.”
“I used to take guitar lessons.”
“I always wanted to learn music, but with school and sports, everything else took a back seat. Are you any good?” Ethan eyed me sideways, a curious grin on his face. Warmth crept up my neck and into my cheeks.
“I don’t know. I like to play, but playing in front of people...makes me nervous, so I’ve never had anyone tell me if I’m good or not.”
Other than my music teacher and a few close friends, no one had heard me play for some time. At home, when Mom and Mitch were around, I practiced on my electric guitar—the one that made little sound without being jacked in. I didn’t want to drive them crazy with the noise, nor did I want any kind of critique of my playing or my music choices.
At least that’s what I told myself. But I knew there was more to it. Down deep, I wasn’t interested in having people make me feel like more of a freak than I already did. Or maybe I just didn’t want to share the part of my soul that came out when I sang or played. Whatever the reason, my being good or not didn’t really seem the point. Ethan’s voice drew my attention again.
“What kind of music do you play?” asked Ethan, the one question I’d hoped he wouldn’t. He led me away from the tour guide, apparently more interested in talking than listening to her tell us the history of the place. Her melodic French accent faded as Ethan tugged me out of the cool church and into the hot sun.
I took a breath and answered the question. No use stalling. “My music teacher insisted I learn classical, but I really like playing the classic rock stuff and even some...well...don’t laugh, but I kind of like folk...and country. It’s soulful, you know? Some of it’s twangy and irritating, but some of it has real depth and emotion behind it. And every song tells a story.”
“A sad, twisted story.” Ethan laughed. Seeing me cringe, he recovered quickly. “Sorry. You did ask me not to laugh. But I can’t see you playing country music. You look more the type to play in some alternative rock or punk group.”
I couldn’t blame him for thinking so with the row of ear piercings I had on each ear and my signature dark eye liner. “I have a few friends who play hard core stuff. They’re always bugging me to join the band, but it’s not my thing.”
“You being so reserved and all,” he teased.
I glanced away, my cheeks likely flushing pink again—an effect I hoped would be mistaken for the heat of the day.
Then he stopped an caught himself. “Oh, I forgot something inside. I’ll be right back.” He jogged the short distance to the stone chapel, giving me time to reclaim my senses.
Whatever power he had to make me feel simultaneously awkward and completely awesome was beginning to fray my nerves. I wanted to relax and give in to liking him, but warning bells clanged in my head loude
r than the noontime bells from a village cathedral below. In less than three weeks, Ethan and I would say goodbye and likely never see each other again. It seemed beyond stupid to allow myself to develop any attachment that would surely lead to heartache and misery—something I had more than enough of already. Thoughts of Amanda crashed in on me. An instantaneous knot formed in my throat and my eyes filled. The rush of emotions snuck up on me when I least expected and always at the most inconvenient times. I sighed and pushed the tears back down, wiping my cheeks with the backs of my hands.
I was close to the top of the hill so I continued on. When I reached the high point, I took in the breathtaking sight. Below lay the ancient village with sweeping views of clear blue water and the Lerins Islands not far off.
“This was definitely worth the hike up,” said Ethan, coming to stand beside me, a little breathless. We settled onto an empty bench.
I took in the scent of the sea and the fragrance of aromatic flowering shrubs wafting up from below. The smell of baked goods and bread reached my nose and a twinge of hunger ignited a low growl. The intrusion was a welcome distraction, but I wished I’d taken Maddie’s advice and eaten more breakfast.
“I suppose we should join the tour. It’s almost lunchtime and we don’t want to get separated,” I said, hoping my shift in mood didn’t show.
“Wait,” Ethan said as I stood. “Not that I wouldn’t gladly fight through the stampede of elderly ladies heading for the French bakery for some buttery croissants, but...” a shy smile came across his face, different from his usual confident grin. “I have something for you.”
I sat back down and he handed me a small, flat box. I stared blankly. “What is it?” I turned the box upside down.
“You’ll have to open it to find out.”
Slowly I lifted the lid, my heart pounding unreasonably hard. Inside was a tiny silver charm. I dropped it into my hand and studied the design. It was a tiny replica of a lute—like the one we’d seen behind the glass case in the church. When I didn’t say anything, Ethan spoke up.
“It’s nothing big, but I noticed your charm bracelet. I thought you might want to add a charm to remember your trip to France.”
I stared at the bracelet dangling on my wrist. It had been the one item of Amanda’s I hadn’t allowed Mom to pack away—a gift I’d given my sister two Christmas’s before, having spent a month’s worth of allowance and babysitting money. It had come with a single charm—a dolphin—her self-ascribed totem. The heart, the dancer, the tennis racquet, and the peace sign charms she’d added on her own clinked together—pieces of herself she’d left behind. My throat all but closed and words stuck like I’d swallowed peanut butter. Before I could stop them, tears flooded my eyes.
Chapter 10
Ethan’s apology and confused expression did nothing to calm me down. I wasn’t ready to talk about Amanda—not with him. Not with anyone. I pulled myself together and gave him a lame explanation—how I’d never gotten a present from a boy before. Unless I counted the silly Valentine’s cards we exchanged in grade school or the rabbit my neighbor Billy tried to give me when I was six, trying to make me feel better after my dad died. Another sharp stab hit me deep in the chest. Why did so small a gesture of condolence or a heartfelt gift bring on an ocean of grief and pain?
I didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. Or maybe, as the Medusa Lady had said, I didn’t feel deserving of love. She’d said that Dad’s death at such an early age was perceived in my child’s mind as if he’d abandoned me—as if he didn’t love me enough to overcome his drinking. She was also quick to point out that his death being surrounded with so much tragedy and guilt was an added burden for family members left behind. But it wasn’t like I’d caused his drinking, or that I had contributed to his driving drunk and killing himself and someone else. He’d been drinking since he was in his teens according to Mom. Medusa Lady said that alcoholism was a hereditary disease and that Amanda and I were susceptible. Somehow, I’d been spared that genetic trait as far as I could tell. Even the smell of alcohol turned my stomach. Amanda hadn’t been so lucky.
The rest of the day was uneventful as I was lost to my grim thoughts and wanted nothing more than to be alone, get high, and play my guitar—none of which was likely to happen. My foul mood when I returned to the ship was evidence enough that at the very least, some alone time was called for. After ditching Ethan with another lame excuse of needing to rest up before dinner, I retreated to the upper deck, a swanky spot called the Crow’s Nest that I’d found was pretty much deserted in the middle of the afternoon.
The bartender nodded as I wandered into the spacious lounge, the only inhabitant other than the waiter who was prepping for the before dinner crowd to show up for cocktail hour. I grabbed a booth and stared out the bank of windows overlooking the port.
Provence’s gorgeous Mediterranean beaches lay stretched out in front of the modern city and its suburbs sprawled upward into the hills beyond. Several other cruise ships of various sizes floated nearby, situated among the smaller yachts and sailboats that bobbed along the coastline. The crystalline blue sea sparkled in the afternoon sun.
“Can I get you anything, Miss?” A short, mocha-skinned man with the trademark Indonesian accent pulled me out of my daydream.
“Ginger ale, please.”
The waiter raised a brow and disappeared.
Ethan and I had eaten a hearty lunch at a sweet little café on the Boulevard after our tour of the church and my stupid meltdown. Now, in spite of the motion sickness pills he’d given me, I felt a little queasy. To distract myself I gazed around the room at all the plush red chairs, polished brass, and deep burgundy carpeting, and noticed an entertainment area set up for the musician who was currently nowhere to be seen. A piano and bench sat on one side and a guitar stand and mic were set up nearby. My pulse quickened at the sight of the acoustic guitar leaning enticingly on its stand.
The waiter returned with my drink.
“Do you think it would be okay if I played the guitar a little?” I asked tentatively, fully expecting to be told the notion was out of the question.
He scoped out the empty room and exchanged a quick glance with the bartender who smiled and nodded. “I don’t see why not. No one will be coming in for another hour or so, and I don’t think Tommy would mind.” The man set down a fresh bowl of peanuts and walked away.
I grabbed a handful and popped them in my mouth, following it up with a long pull off my soda as I geared up for the thrill of playing a guitar for the first time in weeks. I wiped my hands on a napkin and slipped out of the booth. Excitement and apprehension warred within me. What if someone came in? I assumed Tommy was the musician who owned the instrument, and knowing how I felt about my own, I doubted he would be too thrilled to find some kid shredding on what was likely his prized possession. I darted another glance at the entrance as if I were about to commit some criminal act.
As I settled onto the stool, the curve of the guitar rested on my thigh and my fingers found the strings. It was a beautiful instrument—a vintage Martin with a deep mahogany back and sides, a traditional maple bridge-plate, and an East Indian rosewood fingerboard. I tuned it by ear and strummed lightly, a sense of peace washing over me like warm surf. Playing transported me out of the world and deep inside myself in a way nothing else could. It took me to happy places, sad places—lonely places. But it always took me where I needed to go at any given moment. The words to a song I’d written right after Amanda died, rose to my lips. A song I had titled:
Pieces of Love
To hear this song, go to http://www.pjsharon.com/pieces-of-love/ and type in Pieces of Love as your password. (Case sensitive and include spaces.)
Or purchase the song on i-Tunes for .99 cents https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/pieces-of-love-single/id848325918
When I was just a girl
Playing in the sun
My sister chased after me
She taught me to run
Then the clouds
grew dark
And the air turned chill
The rain came down
When my sister lay still
Tears fall down from the heavens above
Til they wash away
All the pieces of love.
I cried with the clouds
But no one heard
Not one whisper
No, not one word
Tears fall down from the heavens above
Til they wash away
All the pieces of love.
Pieces of love, pieces of love, til they wash away
All the pieces of love
A life cut short
She threw it all away
Now I cry with the clouds
Most every day
Tears fall down from the heavens above
Til they wash away
All the pieces of love.
Pieces of love, pieces of love, til they wash away
All the pieces of love
Til they wash away all the pieces of love
As I finished the refrain, my voice drifted soft and low through the empty room, carrying my pain on the notes and filling my heart with longing for my sister. I continued to strum the chords, imagining myself in a time and place beyond the hell that my soul was determined to inhabit. It wasn’t like I wanted to wallow in self-pity and suffering. I’d been doing everything I could think of to evade it. But nothing helped, really. Agonizing heartache and perpetual tears that lay just beneath the surface seemed inescapable. I blew out a long, slow breath, picking away at the strings as if trying to pluck the pain from my heart.
“That was beautiful.”
My head shot up. Startled to see Ethan standing a few feet away, I stopped playing. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“I’m not surprised. You were pretty lost in your song. You sounded awesome. Did you write it?”