Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  I nod because Edgar won’t give up until I do. And he’ll keep his word and be scrupulously fair.

  He goes to the guest room to get some sleep before his flight. I finish another whiskey, thinking back on the encounter at Hammers and Strings. If there’s even the slightest chance Ivy somehow survived…

  I pick up my phone and text Wei, sending a link to the video. Find the pianist.

  You’re an idiot, Tony. Chasing a ghost, my head says in a voice full of disgust.

  My mouth twists bitterly. It doesn’t matter what I agreed to. I can’t sit on my ass and do nothing, even though this is probably how men fall and empires crumble.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Iris

  The next morning, a call wakes me up at seven. I roll onto my stomach and grab my phone. Sam. Must’ve gotten tired of me not answering his texts.

  I don’t really want to talk to him, but he’s probably no longer in a rage about the video or the fact that I came back to L.A. Ideally, he’ll have sort of fizzled out to just peeved. “Hello?”

  “Iris. You’re a difficult child to reach.”

  “Sorry. The battery died,” I lie.

  He harrumphs, but doesn’t pursue it. “Listen, I need you to play at the Peacher & Son spring reception tomorrow.”

  “What?” I thought he was calling to give me another around-the-world ticket or complain about the video, not ask me to play. In public. And at an annual business event I’ve never, ever been invited to before.

  “The quartet Marty’s assistant hired can’t come.” Sam’s tone makes it clear what he thinks of the poor woman’s professional capacity. “And we can’t find a replacement. Too last minute.”

  Wow.

  “You can probably swing something. I like this song in particular.” He hums the main melody from “Claire de lune.” Off-key, of course. “Chopin, if you don’t know.”

  “Mmm.” Debussy must be rolling in his grave that one of his most recognizable works is being attributed to Chopin. “Can you just have the venue play recordings? I have some MP3 files that are pretty good.”

  “No! That’s what poor people do to cut costs! I’ve never, ever not had live music at a reception. It’s simply too important.” He takes a breath. “Iris, receptions are where we mingle with our best clients and investors. The music’s there to make them feel relaxed, appreciated…and generous with their money.”

  I bite my lip. I haven’t had any coffee yet, but my mind starts whirring slowly. “You know I get panic attacks when I have to perform in front of an audience, right?”

  “It isn’t like a recital. Nobody’s going to be watching you. You’ll be more like pleasant background music to elevate the event. Not the focus of attention.”

  I purse my mouth. Perversely, it actually bugs me that I won’t be the center of attention. Maybe it’s a remnant of my old ambition to be a concert pianist. No concert pianist would want to perform, only to be more or less ignored by everyone. Still… This is my opportunity to assert two points I want to make. “I thought you hate it when I ‘show off.’ As a matter of fact, you didn’t even want me back in Los Angeles.”

  “This is business—what feeds our family and provides for us.” There’s enough emphasis on provides and us to signal he’s really talking about me. Although my parents had a sizable life insurance policy, it wasn’t enough to pay for all my medical care while I was in the coma…and subsequent therapy once I woke up. Sam stepped up and took charge, so I didn’t have to worry about anything except healing.

  “You’re right; business is important. But this means I can stay, right? I can help in all kinds of ways. And please don’t yell at Byron about the video because he didn’t mean to upset you, and I didn’t realize he was going to post it. Pleeeeease?” I add cajolingly, so it doesn’t feel like a negotiation…even though it totally is. He always responds better if his pride isn’t too hurt.

  “Well… I suppose you can stay in L.A. Although I don’t know how you plan to get a job and all that. It’s going to be terribly stressful,” Sam says, suddenly radiating paternal concern. “The economy is atrocious, and employers are really picky these days.” He’s phrasing it kindly, but what he really means is that nobody’s going to want to hire me.

  Thanks for the confidence booster. “I promise I’ll let you know if I need anything,” I say, although I’d rather eat a cardboard casserole. Sam will always indulge me…so long as I do as I’m told. But I’m doing this one my way—to not only live my life but to recover my lost memories.

  “As for Byron…” He sighs. “How can I be upset with him? He’s like an unleashed wild dog.”

  Whaaaaaaaaaaaa? I almost sputter at the ludicrous comparison. At least Sam’s consistent. He used to call Byron a bumbling bear, and he uses whatever animal that pops into his head to label my other friends as well. He calls Julie “that flighty fox.”

  “Anyway, I knew you’d come through for me,” Sam says, rather pleased with himself. “You should also add some other nice, easy songs by Chopin. Mozart isn’t too bad, either.”

  For someone who knows nothing about music, he tosses out those composers pretty carelessly. “Leave the selection to me, Sam. I know what you want.”

  “Fantastic. Perfect.”

  I’m unable to figure out my precise reaction to his exuberance. Annoyance isn’t right, but uneasy isn’t quite right either. It’s a mix of uncomfortable feelings that makes me want to squirm and shower. But I decide not to dwell on it. I got what I wanted—for Sam to back off on my living in L.A. and not comment on the video.

  “By the way, where are you staying now?” he asks.

  “With a friend.”

  “Who?” There’s an unyielding edge to his tone. He won’t give up until he knows.

  “Byron.”

  “Iris, you should be staying with me.” There’s a deep frown in his voice.

  No way. Still, I keep my tone light and even. “I know, but I think it’s better if I stay with a friend. I don’t want to impose too much, and you’ve already done so much for me, Sam.”

  Even if I had zero friends in L.A., I wouldn’t go to Sam’s mansion. It may be huge and luxurious, but it isn’t welcoming or warm the way homes should be…like my parents’ cozy house was. His place is more like a museum, full of expensive, meticulously dusted things that discourage you from touching. And every time I’m there, I feel like I’m being closely watched, like some exotic new zoo specimen.

  Besides, my blood pressure shoots up whenever I spend more than ten minutes in the same room with his son, Marty, mainly because he delights in mansplaining everything. To him, nothing is too small to leave unexplained. Sometimes I wonder if he’s going to start demonstrating how I should hold a fork.

  “Byron Pearce isn’t the kind of ‘friend’ you want to live with,” Sam says.

  Ugh. Could he make it sound any sleazier? “I’m not living with him. It’s a temporary arrangement until I can afford my own place. He’s a great friend.”

  Skepticism colors Sam’s grunt. It’s the same sound he made when my “friends from the past” came out of the woodwork to be closer to me once they realized how much money Sam had. I was too naïve to realize what they were up to until Sam got rid of them. I don’t understand why he’s reacting this way to Byron, though. Byron’s family is wealthier than anybody I know, and they’re old money.

  “Still, I—”

  “Hey, listen. I gotta go shopping if I want to look good tomorrow.” I have a few dresses I can put on, but I’m going to be busy working on the repertoire for the reception. “Bye, Sam.” I hang up, then write down a summary of our call and the fact that I have to be at the party in my notebook. It’s a new habit since the coma. This way, I’ll never lose anything again.

  I add, Feels good to win what I wanted without having to ugly-fight Sam. Playing at the party is a small price…although I’m worried about having a panic attack. But if I do okay there, can I play at parties from now on? Do I even want t
o?

  I stop because my pride bristles at the idea that the best I could ever be is someone’s background music. I don’t know what to think. Wouldn’t making a living from music be better than a nine-to-five job? I shut the notebook and put it in my purse. I can’t answer that question yet. Not until after the party. For all I know, I’ll faint dead away at the piano.

  I shower, change into a loose T-shirt and shorts and go downstairs to the huge kitchen. Byron doesn’t cook much—his attitude is “why bother when you don’t have to”—but the kitchen is simply to die for, with the latest feature-rich stainless-steel appliances, marble countertops and island.

  Byron’s already there, pouring two mugs of coffee. The plate in front of him is clean except for a few crumbs and a knife with white streaks.

  “We have Greek yogurt, chopped fruit, bagels with cream cheese, lox and cereal. Pick your poison,” he says with a grin, pushing me a coffee with double cream and sugar, just the way I like it.

  “Thanks. Cereal sounds about right.” I grab a bowl and fill a third of it with crunchy flakes with nuts and dried fruit chunks.

  He hands me a spoon and some milk. “That’s all?”

  “Uh-huh.” Ever since the accident, my appetite hasn’t been the same. I enjoy good food, but I don’t have any desire to eat more than a few bites. Often, I just forget to eat. My doctors didn’t think it was a huge concern and told me to eat at least three small, nutritious meals a day…and that was that. Given the extent of the damage I’ve suffered—messed-up memories, emotional outbursts, extreme mood swings, loss of muscle tone—a lack of appetite isn’t really a priority.

  “Guess we can do an early brunch before I have to fly out.”

  “You’re leaving town?”

  “Unfortunately. Got a call last night. I need to be in Hawaii for some business stuff over golf, blah blah blah.” He puffs out a breath. “Probably take a week or two. No more, I hope.”

  Tilting my head, I study his lazy, model-like pose, his bare feet hooked to the rungs on the stool, his body lean and beautifully proportioned. “I can’t understand how you don’t like golf. You seem like you’d love it, leisurely walking around and whacking a small white ball.”

  “It’s boring. And I have to pretend to suck to protect fragile corporate egos.”

  I pat his shoulder. No matter how much he hates it, he has to go and do a good job. Julie told me their father’s decided only the most capable son is going to inherit the family business, and now Byron and his older brother are engaged in a battle to prove who’s the best.

  “You’ll be great,” I say soothingly. Although Byron appears easygoing, he’s ultra-competitive. I’ve seen him play tennis and actually felt sorry for his opponents.

  “So what do you say to the early brunch? Maybe we can do something fun afterward.”

  “Can’t. I have to master a few Debussy and Mozart pieces for Sam.” There’s no way I’m doing Chopin or Liszt.

  Byron frowns. “Why?”

  “Apparently the quartet hired for the reception tomorrow can’t come. So he wants me to play instead. He was so desperate he decided he was okay with me being in the city and he doesn’t mind the video from yesterday too much either.”

  Byron shakes his head. “You don’t usually play Debussy or Mozart, do you? You’re going to learn them in one day?”

  “The fundamentals are the same. It’ll take all day, but I can learn enough to manage. It’s only the first arabesque and ‘Clair de lune,’ which he specifically asked for. I can fill up the rest of the time with Mozart sonatas.”

  Byron’s handsome face scrunches. “Can I just say how much I don’t like your uncle right now?”

  I almost laugh at his petulant tone, wondering what he’d say if he knew Sam called him an “unleashed wild dog” less than an hour ago. Byron prides himself on his urbanity. “Why don’t we do something together after you come back from your trip?” I suggest. “By then I’ll be over my jet lag, and Julie should be back too.”

  He gazes off to one side for a few moments, then sighs. “Okay, deal.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Anthony

  The Peacher & Son reception is a textbook example of too much money and too little taste. But then, taste is one of those things money can’t buy. Sam does, however, know how to Google, so he’s made sure to have the most expensive wine and liquors and the finest hors d’oeuvres.

  I wouldn’t have bothered to attend this orgy of excess if Wei hadn’t told me the pianist from the video was Iris Smith, distantly related to Sam Peacher. Wei added he heard she’d be at the party, although he wasn’t sure in what capacity. He gets all the gossip because he looks sweetly unassuming and is great at making people think he’s tight-lipped. Which he is…except when he thinks it’s something I should know.

  Sipping a flute of Dom, I look around the glittering ballroom. It’s filled with people dressed to impress in silk and jewels. I don’t understand how Sam managed to get Mother to invest in his first major real estate deal. It wasn’t a bad plan, but she never liked him well enough to give him a penny all those years. She’d rather have torched the money. Edgar and Harry told me with disbelief about the series of loans she’s made to Sam because they couldn’t figure out why she changed her mind so abruptly. It’s obvious she despises the Peachers even now.

  I can feel myself squinting a bit, trying to make Iris appear. Where are you?

  I’m only here to check if I’m hallucinating, like Edgar said. I have to be certain, regardless of whatever this woman is calling herself now.

  For all I know, she might not have come back to Tempérane because Mother sent her away. Maybe she didn’t reach out to me all these years because she didn’t know how much I truly love her. Because I left town instead of staying and fixing what I messed up.

  Ivy, if you only knew. I would’ve crawled naked over the Himalayas to have you back in my life.

  The famous melody from Debussy starts up from a corner, and I slowly turn around. Ivy is at the glossy black Steinway baby grand, so breathlessly beautiful. I stand there, drinking her in. She’s exactly like before—only more mature now. She glows like a dark ruby in a wine-colored cocktail dress. Every cell in my body is vibrating with deep longing. How can she not be Ivy?

  You thought Lauren was just like Ivy too, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Edgar reminds me.

  Once she’s done with “Claire de lune,” she goes into Mozart. It’s as though she’s doing her best to avoid pieces that can show off her technical mastery. Mozart, however, isn’t the best choice. It only serves to highlight her musicality.

  “Tony! I didn’t realize you were coming,” Sam says, clapping my shoulder as though we’re long-lost friends. His eyes are shrewd and calculating, even as he’s smiling in my direction. He’s aged well the last few years, with a comfortably round stomach, florid complexion and a few gold rings he didn’t used to have.

  I step away slightly, neatly shrugging his hand off my shoulder. “Anthony, if you don’t mind.”

  Sam’s expression sours for a second before smoothing. “Right. I forgot how particular you are about your name.”

  Obviously money has affected his memory, since I’ve never allowed him to address me as Tony. “I don’t like people being overfamiliar.” I look down at his left hand, which he used to clasp my shoulder just moments ago.

  He pastes the smile back on. “I see you have a drink. Very good,” he says, his voice annoyingly jovial.

  I tilt my flute in Ivy’s direction. “She’s not bad.” What will he say? I don’t like it one bit that they’re supposedly related. Nor do I believe it’s true. It can’t be. “Where did you find her?”

  Sam’s graying eyebrows pinch together with vague dismay. “A distant relative.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not on the same branch as your mother, obviously.” Sam shifts his weight. “I’ve been caring for her since her parents’ accident. Nice folks. Truly unfortunate.”

&nbs
p; “Generous of you.” Ivy was taken in by my parents after a car crash killed hers. Isn’t it always good to mix lots of truth with your lie so it looks convincing? “When did it happen?”

  “Nine years ago.”

  I almost snap the stem of my flute. Motherfucker. How stupid does he think I am?

  “She was in the car with them. It put her in coma for a year or so.” His voice is theatrically heavy. “Simply wasn’t the same after she woke up.”

  I bet she wasn’t. It’s all I can do to not beat the truth out of him.

  He plucks a glass of white wine from a waiter passing by. I wait until he has a mouthful.

  “She looks remarkably like Ivy.”

  The muscles around his eyes twitch, but he swallows without choking or sputtering. “Ivy? Oh, you mean… Yes. What a loss. What a shame.” He takes another drink of wine. “But other than the fact that they share similar coloring…” He shrugs. “I don’t really see a resemblance.”

  That’s what Edgar said too—strawberry-blond hair and gray eyes and that’s it. So what if they share a similar physical build?

  Edgar’s right. You’re seeing things.

  Sam adds, “And Iris is nowhere as good as Ivy on the piano.”

  He’s trying too hard. Harry and Edgar both thought Iris’s Grand Galop Chromatique was great. “Did you ever hear Ivy play?”

  “A few times. Very talented girl. Didn’t she go to some fancy music school?”

  “Curtis.” I tilt my chin toward Iris. “Is she planning to debut as a concert pianist at some point?”

  He laughs, looking away as though he’s embarrassed. “No. She never went to a conservatory or anything. Probably going to get a nine-to-five somewhere, since she doesn’t seem to want to travel anymore.” Dismay fleets over his face as quickly as lightening. “By the way, have you seen Margot recently?”

  Is this some kind of petty revenge for my probing into Iris’s background? I won’t give him the satisfaction. “You know I’ve been disowned,” I say lightly, as though I’m discussing the weather. There’s no reason for anything except bluntness here.