Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  “You’re pretty good,” she says finally.

  “Not too shabby yourself.”

  She clears her throat. “I’m Ivy.”

  The name is like a bat to the back of my skull. Uncle Perry’s adopted daughter, Ivy. The one Mother apparently dotes on, if even half the stuff Edgar and Harry said is true.

  By the time I recover, bitter disappointment is flooding through me like acid. Thank God for the gentlemanly decorum my European teachers hammered into me. I manage a polite smile. “I’m Tony,” I say, then immediately want to kick myself. Anthony is the better choice—the default name I give to people I have no intention of becoming close to. I can’t believe I screwed up, but too late now to take it back.

  “Tony?”

  “Anthony Blackwood, but Tony to friends and family.”

  She tilts her head as she smiles. “Am I your friend?”

  An honest answer won’t do. Mother wouldn’t approve. “Well, we’re related.”

  “Not by blood,” she says hurriedly. A flush deepens her cheeks as she clears her throat. “I have to practice some more.”

  “I’ll do it with you.” The offer slips out before I can catch myself. Shit.

  She looks at me from under her lashes. “Can you do it ten times?”

  “Sure. Ten more times.”

  Chapter Two

  Ivy

  It’s a good thing I can play Schubert in my sleep because otherwise I would’ve made an idiot of myself.

  Why did I tell Tony I had to practice it? Or say I had to do it ten times? The plan was to work on Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3, so I can record it and send it to Yuna. It’s a pact my best friend and I made before the summer break started to make sure we continue to challenge each other and improve. We were supposed to practice a few select pieces Tatiana asked us to work on, record them and issue a challenge with “Beat this!” I only spared a few minutes to play Schubert to humor Harry, who insisted he could pull off the secondo well enough to accompany me.

  The entire Fantasie is a little over eighteen minutes long. At least I recovered enough to say I only needed to practice the first movement, but that’s still almost an hour of playing next to Tony, sitting entirely too close to him, our arms and hands brushing each other.

  I’ve played Schubert with other pianists before, but no one quite like Tony. He has excellent control of those strong fingers, effortlessly going from exquisite and soft to passionate and powerful. The heat radiating from his body is too warm—almost searing—but I don’t mind. He’s like a quietly brewing storm, and I’m aware of his presence like a little bird in a forest, my skin prickling and the fine hair on the back of my neck standing up. Despite my best effort at staying calm, my heart is racing, and it’s all I can do to keep my fingers from matching my rushing pulse. I let my hand graze his from time to time just to see if he’s as affected as I am, but he’s totally focused on his part of the music.

  To him, you’re probably just a kid.

  He just graduated from Princeton, and in only three years. Uncle Lane announced that at dinner a few weeks ago, one of his quarterly, businesslike mentions of how his second son is doing. As usual, Aunt Margot showed no reaction, not even a smile, while Edgar and Harry let out a few excited interjections to express their admiration for Tony’s accomplishment. Despite Aunt Margot’s lackluster response and Uncle Lane’s flat and prideless voice every time he speaks of Tony, I’ve long been impressed with and wondered about my mysterious cousin.

  Well, he’s much more impressive in person. And more intriguing.

  Maybe Uncle Lane and Aunt Margot didn’t look that pleased over all that he’s done because they expected more. I’ve heard whispers from the townspeople about Anthony Blackwood, my aunt and uncle’s favored second son. They sent him to Europe to study at the best boarding schools on the continent. Their oldest, Edgar, who graduated from Harvard, didn’t merit such special treatment.

  Instead of taking off, Harry takes a seat and listens. Tony leaves without a word when we hit the final note for the tenth time. The moment the door closes behind him, the pressure in the room drops. I draw in air as the prickling sensation eases.

  “Damn,” Harry says. “Sorry he’s being rude.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you know. He just…left.” Harry frowns.

  “It’s fine.” I didn’t even notice because I was wound so tight from the playing. If he hadn’t left, I might’ve, just to breathe a bit and recover. Did he feel the same way I did? Hot goosebumps break out over my skin at the possibility.

  “On the other hand,” Harry says, stretching his arms over the back of his seat, “I didn’t think he’d actually play it all ten times. Isn’t really like him.”

  My heart thumps. “How do you know?” I say, keeping my voice as nonchalant as possible.

  Harry shrugs. “He doesn’t usually have the patience for all the repetition. He’s naturally gifted, so…”

  “You mean you can’t do what he can even with practice, so you’re going to attribute it to talent.” Gifted or not, nobody gets that good without practice.

  Harry’s eyes are worried. “Probably be best if you don’t get too close.”

  “What do you mean?” It isn’t like him to tell me who I can or can’t hang out with, and I don’t like the way he’s warning me away like…somehow Tony and I are totally incompatible.

  He sighs. “Getting too close would mean getting on Mom’s shi—uh, persona non grata list.”

  My face heats. He probably noticed my attraction to Tony. “Who said anything about getting close? It was nothing but some piano practice. I just met the guy. Besides, he’s your brother, which makes him my cousin. Sort of ick, if you ask me.”

  “But like you said, not by blood.”

  “Still ick.” I scowl to hide my embarrassment, then gather my music and leave. I can never tell if Harry is being perceptive or just saying whatever pops into his head.

  But one thing’s for sure—insightful or not, I don’t have to listen to what he says.

  My eyes on the ground, I trot down the hall and almost run into Aunt Margot at the bottom of the main staircase.

  She’s so delicately elegant, it seems like she exists on nothing but air and water. Her eyes are unusual—one green and one blue. She always has her golden hair pulled up into a French twist, and the makeup on her stunning face is subtle and flawless, highlighting her eyes and high cheekbones. Despite her age, she hardly has any wrinkles. Her skin is actually better than some of my friends’ at Curtis.

  A lavender silk dress hugs Aunt Margot’s slender figure, her small, narrow feet in purple Jimmy Choos with skyscraper heels. I’ve never seen her less than perfectly dressed and coiffed, and it sometimes makes me wonder if she’s truly an angel who can do no wrong. I know my life would’ve fallen apart without her, because my innocent child’s world ended the moment my parents died.

  When the police told me my parents weren’t coming back from the car crash, I was so stunned I couldn’t cry for a few moments while my child’s mind processed it. They asked me about relatives, and I told them Dad had a sister in Louisiana. We never visited her for some reason. I don’t recall any Christmas cards or birthday calls, either. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if I really had an aunt in Louisiana, except for hearing my dad talk about her a few times. But Aunt Margot came for me.

  I still remember the first time I saw her. Elegant in a classy black dress, she was breathtakingly beautiful, and I thought maybe she was an angel who had come to put the pieces of my broken world back together.

  She took one long look at me, then knelt, hugging me tightly and whispering into my hair, “It’s okay, Ivy. I’ll make everything okay. I promise.”

  She kept her word over the last eight years, and I’ve done everything in my power to make sure she’ll never regret making the vow.

  “Hey, Aunt Margot,” I say cheerily.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Nothing. Just got done wi
th practice.”

  “Any improvement on Liebestraum?” She’s always expressed a great deal of interest in what I’m working on, and I give her daily updates.

  “Um. Not really.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re mentally blocked by what Tatiana said.” Tatiana is my teacher at Curtis. Unlike most professors and teachers, she hates being called Ms. Seger. She says it makes her feel old, like her mom.

  “I’m not. I ended up working on Schubert instead.”

  “Oh. You were going to play with Harry.” She sighs, vaguely irritated. Although she pays for his lessons, she doesn’t think much of his musical talent or discipline. “Don’t waste your time and effort on him. He’s too lazy to be any good.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t Harry I was practicing with. He couldn’t manage the secondo, so I ended up playing with Tony.”

  The pleasant mask slips a fraction. “You met him already? When did he arrive?”

  “At least an hour ago.” Why doesn’t she know the son she hasn’t seen in nine years is back? Didn’t Tony text or call her when he landed? If not, shouldn’t Uncle Lane have done that?

  Then I notice she looks anything but thrilled, even though she’s still smiling. “I see.” She turns toward the stairs, then stops. “I’m thinking about driving down to New Orleans tonight, and would like some companionship. Want to come along?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m going to a party with Sue Ellen.” She’s my best friend and the first girl to befriend me when I came to Tempérane. When we realized we both played the piano, we grew close—almost inseparable, really—until I went off to study three years ago.

  Aunt Margot makes a vaguely disapproving noise. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? She hasn’t been the same since you left for Curtis.”

  “She was probably just disappointed, that’s all,” I say loyally. We auditioned at the same conservatories. Unfortunately, she got rejected, while I was accepted at all of them. She tried again year after year with the same result. “It’s her dream to be a concert pianist, and it’s got to be frustrating.” I sometimes feel terrible I’m living my dream while she struggles. I haven’t mentioned the competitions I’ve won out of respect for her feelings.

  Aunt Margot places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Ivy. You are the average of the company you keep. Sue Ellen will never amount to anything, and she’s in your past. You’re a smart girl. Don’t let her drag you down.” Then she turns and goes up the stairs.

  I sigh. Aunt Margot is never overtly rude to Sue Ellen, but she’s never cared for her, either. Aunt Margot considers Sue Ellen lazy and undisciplined, much like Harry. “If she practiced like her life depended on it, maybe she would’ve gotten in,” she said after one of Sue Ellen’s failed auditions.

  That may be true, but I’m not ditching one of my closest friends whose only sin is she doesn’t play well enough to get into a music program. Friendship should be more lasting than that.

  I walk up to my room, put the music back on the bookshelf and go to my walk-in closet to pull out the black and white dress I wore on stage at a competition last year. It’s sophisticated, with an off-shoulder asymmetrical neckline. It isn’t too long, either, ending two inches above my knees. Aunt Margot bought it for me, calling it classy and fashionable. Although it’s not as risqué as Sue Ellen would like, it’s a bit tight around my breasts, since I’ve filled out more in the last two years, and combined with a push-up bra, it shows some pretty spectacular cleavage. It should be okay for the “awesome, hot” party Sue Ellen swears is going to blow my mind. She explained breathlessly it isn’t an event with “idiots,” a.k.a. high school boys, but “college men,” and I need to look my age. It’s like she’s forgotten I’m eighteen because I left high school three years ago.

  I hold the dress in front of me and study my reflection in the full-length mirror. Is Tony going to be there?

  I shake my head. He’s in Tempérane only because he finished college and the local TV station might require a shot of the entire family for its feature on Uncle Lane. Tony’s been gone long enough that probably nobody knew when he’d be town to invite him. Even Harry and Aunt Margot didn’t know exactly when he’d be back, since Uncle Lane just said Tony was returning—without any specifics—at our last Sunday dinner.

  Harry, on the other hand, will definitely show. He’s good-looking, fun-loving and popular, just the kind of guy you want at a party.

  Maybe he can bring Tony. That’d be nice. I’d love to get to know him better, in some place more neutral.

  Getting too close to him would mean…

  I purse my lips. Why does Harry think his mom’s going to be upset if Tony and I get close? She encouraged Edgar and Harry to befriend me as quickly as possible after bringing me to Tempérane. The only reason I never met Tony was because he was away, but if he’d been home, I’m sure we’d be close the way his brothers and I are.

  Maybe she has some kind of grand plan for Tony. After all, he’s good-looking, smart and magnetic. And Edgar mentioned once that Tony speaks five languages fluently. So Aunt Margot might have somebody else in mind.

  Oh my God. I pat my cheeks a few times. What the hell am I thinking? I’m mulling over this whole thing like Tony and I are Romeo and Juliet. We just met.

  Focus, Ivy. You have more important things to worry about than Tony.

  Like the party and having fun. After all, Tatiana always says one of the best ways to improve at music, other than practicing, is to live. Experience life at its best and worst.

  And this party is going to be me living.

  Chapter Three

  Anthony

  I undo my top two buttons and try to take in some air as I reach my old childhood room. I don’t remember this house feeling so suffocating, but it does, despite the high ceilings and windows everywhere. It’s far worse than that day nine years ago.

  What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to play Fantasie ten times, seated so close to Ivy that I could feel her breathing? Schubert wrote the piece out of love for a woman he could never have. The music gave him a reason to be as close to her as possible, feel her arm graze his as they performed together. I should’ve told Ivy to play with Harry when she asked…

  Except the idea of him sitting that close to her and being affected by her presence bothered me. But the connection I felt for her for almost an hour built such a restlessness, I had to leave as soon as I hit that last note.

  After gulping a few lungfuls of air, I blink and look at my old room. It’s a suite with a balcony, almost at the end of the hall, and little has changed. It’s spotless, the sage bedsheets perfectly spread, not a wrinkle to be seen. My Princeton diploma is already framed and hung—probably Father’s doing, since he took it with him after the graduation ceremony—but everything else on the pale mint walls, shelves and desk is gone except for a picture of Katherine on my nightstand.

  She’s smiling in it, a dimple in one plump, rosy cheek and Mother’s golden curls around her heart-shaped face. Fringed with long, curly, dark eyelashes, her blue eyes are wide and bright, the rosebud mouth cherubic and red. And she had the cutest nose. I could never resist pushing it like a button every time I saw her. The dress she’s in is frothy pink, with more lace and satin than a fairytale princess costume. Mother designed and made it just for Katherine, spending hours on her sewing machine.

  I run my fingers over Katherine’s young face, sorrow and the old grief clenching their cold, bitter hands around my heart. She was the best of the four of us—all that innocence, all that vitality. She read better than some of the older kids in the area, much to Edgar’s astonishment, and played better piano than Harry, much to his indignation. She sang better than me.

  It should’ve been you. Mother’s rage rings in my head, as fresh as though it were yesterday.

  Suddenly feeling dirty and unworthy, I yank my hand away from the picture.

  “Is everything to your liking?” Jonas says, standing in the doorway.

  How long has he bee
n there? Jonas is paid to be discreet, but I hate the idea of people watching me. “Don’t you ever knock?”

  “The door was open, sir.”

  I run my fingers roughly through my hair. Was it? I can’t remember.

  “I’ve had your things unpacked and put away—in the places you preferred before,” Jonas continues. “Except for the condoms,” he adds, shifting a bit. “The small drawer under the right bedside stand.”

  So there is something that can ruffle his unfailingly calm demeanor. The idea is amusing for some reason. “Thanks,” I say, looking at the dressers and the open door to the huge walk-in closet.

  It used to hold my old toys and memorabilia—collectable comic books, autographed baseballs and tickets…all gone now.

  “What happened to Bolt’s things?” I ask. Bolt is my golden retriever puppy. Well. He must be a big dog by now. Then I realize his photos are gone too. “And his pictures?”

  “Your mother had them…removed.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  I pause and draw in a shaky breath. She was furious when the little dog tried to comfort me that day, but I didn’t realize her anger went this deep. I swallow an ugly lump stuck in my throat. “He’s not here, is he?”

  “No.”

  “Did he at least go to a good family?”

  “He did, sir.” Jonas’s voice is gentle. “I made sure of it.”

  “Thank you. That’s all. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  He nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.

  I sit heavily on the bed, elbows on knees and head cradled in my palms. Bolt’s only crime was being too loyal. If he hadn’t sat next to me, whining softly and licking my cheeks in tender canine solace and love, Mother wouldn’t have sent him away.