“As you might guess, I was pretty upset. I was also very drunk. The timing of his announcement couldn’t have been worse. But of course he knew that; he’d planned it that way.”
“Montserrat. God. What did you do?”
“I begged him to reconsider. I told him I’d do anything, anything to keep the Vuillaume safe with me.”
Prudence told her she’d heard enough, but a lurid sense of curiosity got the better of her. “How did he respond?”
Montserrat’s eyes flickered from her wine glass to Alice and back to her glass. “He invited me to show him and his wife ‘anything.’”
The insinuation became clear.
“With both of them?”
She was sounding like Lana, she realized. Montserrat rewarded her with a condescending smile.
“Yes, Alice. Both of them. Particularly useful when one of them wants a moment captured on video. Or when the other prefers girls to her hairy overweight husband. Goodness. The tricks and positions I was taught that night. Can you imagine?” She flashed Alice a look of scorn. “Silly me. Of course you can’t. Anyway. I let them play their games. And the next morning, I felt so wasted, so hung over and full of misgivings, I wanted to die. But hey, not on the agenda. Because I had to perform my concerto that night. It was the Sibelius Violin Concerto, a marathon, even on the best of days.”
Here she seemed to lose her bravado.
“That final performance was nothing short of surreal. Who knows where I pulled all that energy from? It was like pure despair. Like I’d reached the end of my rope. Which, in truth, I had. If I’d lost the competition, an open door to professional freedom would have shut in my face. But even that would have been tolerable compared to losing my Vuillaume. That would have been like having a limb cut off.”
She glanced over at Alice. “Are you familiar with the Sibelius?”
“I’ve heard it. But I don’t know it well,” she admitted.
“The second movement is so haunting, so intense. You hear the brass from the orchestra slowly building, and there you are with your violin, desperately trying to… I don’t know. Stay alive. Survive against the odds. The pain of it—I felt like a bird in the dead of winter, knowing I would die, because the cold was just too much to overcome. But you know what? I’ll bet that bird keeps singing until the instant before it dies. Because what else can you do if you were born to sing?”
She laid her head against the pillow back of the chair. Alice, sickened by the story she’d just forced out of her friend, kept quiet. Silence hung over the room, opaque and cloying, until Montserrat spoke again.
“I don’t think my body, my psyche, could handle a repeat of that night. But it won me first place. And I kept my Vuillaume.”
They both turned to look at the Vuillaume, nestled in its case on the side table, the case opened to reveal Montserrat’s bows and a few tucked-in, fading photographs.
“Does he…” Alice began, and faltered. “Does that man own it still?”
Montserrat snorted. “God, no. I’m out of that prison, thank goodness.” She reached for the wine bottle and sloshed more wine into each of their glasses. “No, the West Coast Musicians’ Guild owns it now.”
“Who is that?”
“A consortium of three investors, one of them being the team of Carter and myself. We own thirty-four percent.”
“How did this come about?”
A smile crossed Montserrat’s face, the first one in a while.
“Actually Len did himself in. He got greedy. When Carter and I got engaged, he had the nerve to try and scare me again. There was a potential buyer, a very interested buyer, he told me. Maybe he was thinking he could blackmail me. No chance of that—I’d told Carter the whole story already. Carter was so incensed by the new threat, he immediately set to taking care of things. He got Matthew on board and together they devised this little plan. Carter and I publicly made an offer to Charles Beare in London, who was conducting the transaction. Len, of course, saw our names and rejected the offer. Then another investor with an infinitely more reputable name stepped in and offered two thousand over the Vuillaume’s asking price. Since there was no real buyer to begin with, Len leapt at the offer, certain he was destroying me. Even after he found out the buyer represented the West Coast Musicians’ Guild, which planned to loan the Vuillaume to me, he thought he’d gotten the upper hand.”
Montserrat chuckled, shaking her head. “Silly, fuckwit Len.”
“Wait.” Alice sat up. “So you’re saying the Guild is composed of three investors. You and Carter teamed up, Matthew, and who else?”
Montserrat regarded her expectantly. “Oh, come on Alice. You’re an intelligent woman. A West Coast musical instrument investor with a reputable name—you mean you can’t figure that part out?”
“No,” Alice replied, mystified.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why I was performing at Andy Redgrave’s house that night? Did you think it was some nice coincidence set up to please you?”
Alice was too stunned by the implication to take in the fact that Montserrat’s words had contained a barb directed at her.
“Andy Redgrave owns part of the Vuillaume,” Alice said slowly.
Montserrat nodded. “Thirty-three percent, as does Matthew. Which makes Carter and myself the majority shareholder, with the ability to overrule any decision to ever sell the violin. And any one shareholder’s decision to sell his shares must meet with a two-thirds majority vote. Carter and Matthew are lifelong friends; Matthew won’t ever turn on us. The Vuillaume is as safe with me as it will ever be, seeing as we’d never be able to buy it outright. Not after paying for its insurance and our own mortgage. A violinist has to decide, own a house or own a prestigious violin. Only a lucky few can afford to do both.”
Alice thought back to Andy’s words at his party, the “how do you like the Vuillaume?” comment. She’d replied, certain she knew more about the Vuillaume than Andy did. Instead, she’d been preaching to its part-owner.
“I can’t believe you never told me this,” she said to Montserrat.
“Why?” Montserrat retorted. “What makes you so entitled, that you should have been privy to that information?”
This time the barb was more evident. The two of them regarded each other uneasily, aware that some shift had occurred in their friendship, an opened Pandora’s box that allowed ill feelings and hidden resentments to come creeping into the room.
Why hadn’t she seen all this coming? Why hadn’t she just let everything be?
There was a jingle of keys at the front door and a moment later Carter stepped into the entryway. Montserrat leapt up and scurried over to fling her arms around him. Carter slid his arms around her waist, puzzled but pleased.
“And to what do I owe this burst of affection?”
“I just want to show you how much I love and appreciate you,” Montserrat murmured into his neck.
“Um, have you ladies been consuming a little too much wine, perhaps?”
Montserrat and Alice both laughed, a little too loudly, too cheerfully, as if to convince each other that they were done with the heavy stuff, that life was about laughter and good company and good wine.
Alice rose from her seat. “I should get going.”
“No, no, don’t leave yet. But let me go get Carter a glass so he can join us.” Montserrat hurried off to the kitchen. Carter remained standing in the living room, shuffling through the day’s mail. He smiled over at her.
“How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” she lied. “How about you?”
“Good, good.”
She knew she should steer away from the subject, but like a semi-reformed alcoholic who’d accidentally stumbled into a bar, the temptation proved too great.
“Niles in country still?” she inquired lightly, to which Carter shook his head.
“He left yesterday afternoon for Taiwan.”
“Did you see him before he left?”
“For a few minutes on Mo
nday evening, when I brought over my adapter kit. It was late, he was still working.”
The questions flew through her head. Was he happy? Did he look tired? Did he mention my name? Did I blow it with him? She wanted to reach out and pluck at Carter’s sleeve, touch his arm, as if that somehow might impart the essence of the missing member of their party of four.
“Did he say anything?”
“Like what?” Carter looked puzzled, then guarded. “Should I have been trying to find out something?”
“No, no. Of course not. Don’t be silly. It’s just, oh, nothing.”
“He was in that zone of his,” Carter said by way of explanation.
“Oh, sure. That’s why I told him the two of us should just hold off on things, as well.”
“Good call.”
The red wine in her stomach gave a great lurch. Before she could speculate about the possible meanings behind Carter’s two-word reply, Montserrat returned, bearing a glass and a plate of cheese and crackers.
Montserrat was in a good mood now, her high spirits infectious. She persuaded Carter to sit with them, and for Alice to have one more glass of wine. Conversation grew light, entertaining, as they argued about what constituted a good beef bourguignon and whether it was truly necessary, as Montserrat was insisting, to boil beef bones for eight hours to produce a good stock.
Finally Alice excused herself to use the bathroom. On her return, she spied Montserrat and Carter, now in the kitchen, standing close. Carter’s hands were on Montserrat’s hips, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Montserrat’s hands were moving up and down Carter’s back, having slipped under his shirt. Carter raised his head and the loving look he and Montserrat exchanged, the palpable aura of their affection, made a lump form in Alice’s throat. It was so intimate, so exclusionary. She felt a recognition somewhere inside her, an “ah, so that’s what true love, enduring love looks like.” It made her feel both happy for her friends and more achingly alone.
She slipped into the living room, finished the last of her wine and called out in a loud voice, “Well, I’ll be going now!”
A whisper from the kitchen, a chuckle. A moment later Montserrat and Carter appeared in the archway, dazed smiles on their faces. Alice knew the minute she left they’d make a beeline for the bedroom.
Montserrat pried herself from Carter’s side and gave Alice a hug. “Thanks for coming over,” she said.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
“Any time. When Niles comes back we’ll have a beef bourguignon cook-off.”
Neither of them made reference to the earlier conversation.
Enough damage had been done already.
Chapter 14 – Lana Needs Coaching
Lana was vacuuming Alice’s living room floor and enumerating the reasons why it was a good thing, or at least a productive thing, that Gil had left town for the weekend. She’d be able to catch up with sleep, with tasks. Come down from the week’s hard work and ramp up for next week’s opening night. And it wasn’t Andy Redgrave he’d left town with, after all. It was Julia, the lesser of the two evils.
“It’s only for two nights,” Gil had told Lana over the phone. “I’m sorry, love. It was a last-minute decision, Julia being capricious. She wasn’t ready to go to New York just yet, and suddenly Los Angeles and the Beverly Wilshire seemed like the perfect solution for her. Only, with an escort.”
Gil sounded gloomy about not being able to stay in San Francisco with Lana on her last free weekend, but duty called, he admitted. Once he began to describe the hotel, however—did Lana know that this was the hotel Pretty Woman was filmed in?—and the suite Julia always insisted on, she could hear his undercurrent of excitement. Whether or not he wanted to be there, she sensed, he was going to enjoy it.
But Lana would never be far from his thoughts, he told her. Not after this week together.
They’d made love finally, a dizzying, thrilling experience that had kept them up long past midnight the first night, touching each other, reveling in the closeness, the deep satisfaction of bare skin against skin, body parts clicking into place just right. Afterward, lying there next to him, stroking the length of his bare backside as he slept, she’d wondered how she could have ever let Mom persuade her this was wrong. They’d used protection. Gil had been wonderful and caring, before and after. She’d never felt so sheltered, so nurtured by one person before. The next day when she saw him in the café, they’d acted breezy and casual around each other, as they’d agreed was best, but when he met her gaze and held it, she knew he was taking this as seriously as she was. That night when he came over, and the following night, he proved it all over again.
The flip side was that he was gone for the whole weekend. She decided that nothing felt quite so empty as the emptiness that had temporarily been filled by something perfect. She could rationalize all she wanted, but in the end, her body missed him with an ache she would have found impossible to imagine, only two, three weeks earlier.
A tap on the shoulder sent her airborne with shock and fright. She swiveled around to see Alice there behind her, hands on her hips, regarding Lana in amusement. Lana switched off the vacuum cleaner.
“Boy,” Alice said. “You were in your own world. I was practically shouting your name.”
“I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I was lost in thought. Vacuuming always puts me in a sort of trance.”
“So I see. Tequila might do the same thing, with considerably less effort involved.” She surveyed the room. “How did you ever find the vacuum cleaner?”
“I didn’t mean to go snooping around in your storage closet or anything. It’s just that I was feeling sort of restless and wanted to put my energy to good use, and I saw the vacuum there.”
“Oh. Well, thanks for cleaning. But really, stuff like that isn’t necessary.”
“It’s no problem. My mom would always tell me, be a good guest and keep your host happy.” She prepared to turn the vacuum back on but Alice held up a hand.
“Lana,” she said, and hesitated. “I’m not expecting a ‘clean in exchange for rent’ kind of setup here. I want to make sure you know that.”
The cleaning lady thing. Lana felt a blush rise up her neck and stain her face.
Alice looked uncomfortable as well. “Excuse me. I’m going to go start my dinner prep,” she said, and headed to the kitchen.
Lana finished the vacuuming and put away the cleaner as quietly as she could, before going into the kitchen. Alice was there, chopping vegetables for a salad, a glass of wine beside the lettuce bag. She surveyed Lana and took a sip of wine before speaking.
“Gil abandoned you this weekend, it sounded like.”
“Yes. L.A. The Beverly Wilshire with Julia. I guess she didn’t want to go there alone so she begged him to join her.”
Alice grimaced. “Is that what he told you?”
Lana thought back to the conversation. “Well, I don’t know if those were his exact words. Just that she wanted to go and he was going along to keep her company, to be nice.”
“Nice,” Alice repeated. “Yes, it was ‘nice’ of him. Particularly since he was the one who persuaded her not to go back to New York so soon. And since he was the one to suggest the Beverly Wilshire and make the arrangements.”
Lana regarded Alice, appalled. “But he made it sound like she was dragging him out.”
In response, Alice only shrugged.
“How do you know this?” Lana asked.
“Because the wall that separates our offices is thin and I heard him make both calls.”
It felt like someone had driven a fist into her stomach. “But why?”
Alice’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Really, it didn’t sound like some sneaky business, anything for you to get worried about. It was just Gil being Gil. But, I have to say, sometimes I get tired of listening to the way he works people. He puts so much energy into positioning them right where he wants them, making sure he’s on their good sid
e at all times.”
“You mean like Julia? I thought the two of them were fine with how things were. That it was a convenience thing. Why would he feel the need to invite her away for a weekend?”
“Preventative maintenance, if I had to guess. I’ve got a hunch she’s caught on to you two.”
“How would she know? He says she never asks when he comes and goes.”
“Lana, he’s come over here three out of the past four nights and stayed long past socializing hours. Don’t you think that’s maybe just a tiny clue?” She shook her head. “He’s got to be careful here. He likes his free rent, his pretty little car, but she’s not stupid, nor is she that desperate. But if he invests a few nights into making her feel special, important, he can continue to play both sides.”
Alice gave an irritable wave of her hand. “Can we drop the subject of Gil’s behavior? It’s going to make me lose my appetite.”
“Sure. Sorry.” Lana tiptoed over to the counter adjacent to the sink. There were a few scattered items from her own meal that she quickly popped into the dishwasher. While she was at it, she picked up the soaking saucepan Alice had used earlier for morning oatmeal and began scrubbing it clean. Alice’s voice cut into her activity.
“I’ll get to that.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. I’m right here, I’ll take care of it.” Lana continued scrubbing. “My mom always tells me, when I’m in a cleaning groove, I shouldn’t stop, I should just keep powering on. Of course, she profits from that, huh? That part is a little annoying. I’ll bet your mom wasn’t like that.”
“Stop it!”
Lana shut off the water and turned to regard Alice in confusion. Alice didn’t look grateful for the help. She looked angry.
“Stop cleaning my house,” Alice said. “And Stop. Bringing. Up. Our moms.” The last sentence was exaggerated, bit out.
The awkwardness was terrible. Lana didn’t know what to say.
Alice shoved away the knife and cutting board, ignoring the chopped carrot circles that rolled off and tumbled to the floor. “Look. I don’t mean to be rude. But I just want to prepare my food in peace. Alone. Can you give me that?”
Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) Page 18