Love You So Special

by Tara Lain

  In front of him stood a guy, and he had to say, holy shit, what a guy. A little shorter than Artie’s six two, so slim he looked like one of those fashion models, and with hair so white he had to be related to Madame, aka Ice Queen silver. The hair wasn’t exactly long or short; it just looked ignored, like maybe he ran his hands through it occasionally and forgot it otherwise. That went ditto for his fashion choices. He was wearing dark blue sweats that swam on him, but Artie could make out the lanky body underneath. There was a hole in one knee and the neck was stretched out like maybe he tugged on it. Most of all, at the moment he stared at Artie with laughter kind of bubbling out of his eyes. This guy’s eyes were a deeper blue than the woman’s Artie assumed must be his relative. Actually they had a lot of green that reminded him of pictures Artie had seen of the Caribbean Sea, a place he dreamed of going.

  Artie crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head with an exaggerated frown. “Funny?”

  “Yes. Very funny, actually.” His voice was light, as pretty as he was, and had a little bit of an accent, which was kind of funny because his words sounded like a cool California kid, but there was this dash of foreignness.

  “Okay, I imagine it was pretty dumb-looking.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Thanks. Now you ask.” But Artie grinned.

  “Who are you, by the way?” He cocked his pretty head.

  “Sorry. My name’s Artie. I’m a plumber and carpenter, and I’ll be working on this building. That was pretty obvious, right?”

  “Unless you were stealing the copper plumbing.”

  “Ah, right. I’ll bet you get that a lot in this neighborhood.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps, then, you are a mooner.”

  “Um-hm. A butt-crack mooner.”

  The guy snorted, which was unexpected in such a refined-looking face. He said, “Do you know what you’re getting into on this job?”

  “Well, I know that the lady, uh, Madame, is really picky.”

  “You call her Madame?”

  Artie’s turn to shrug. “I guess that’s what she likes.”

  He laughed, but it didn’t sound too funny. “You don’t remember her name, do you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Her name is Juliette Desmarais.”

  “De-mar-ay.”

  “It will do.”

  “Is your name Desmarais too?”

  Suddenly he got totally French and spread his hands like something out of an old movie. “But of course.”

  “Should I call you De?” He suppressed his smile. “Mar? Ay?”

  “Okay, you can call me François.”

  “Fran—swah?”

  “Obviously you don’t speak French, but it will be satisfactory.”

  Artie gave him a sideways look. Is he kidding? It was hard to tell. “So, do you live here?”

  A crease flickered between his light eyebrows so fast it was like a small glitch in an otherwise perfect film. Up till then, he’d been slouching and looking comfortable. Now he straightened, tensed, set his jaw, nodded, and said, “Good to meet you.” Just like that, he turned abruptly and walked back across the grass with a straight, flat back—reminding Artie of Madame.

  Okay, that was strange as all shit. For a second there, he’d thought that pretty guy, Fran-swah, had kind of liked him, which had been a thrill—and really stupid. What would that guy like about a person as ordinary as Artie? Shit, dumbass.

  Trying to ignore his mental picture of a very tight ass moving inside those baggy sweatpants, Artie went back to work.

  FRANÇOIS STARED from behind the curtains in his study. What an interesting man. Most of the people who came and went through their backyard felt stressed and cowering. Not this person—Artie. What kind of name was that? So oddly plebian for such a unique man.

  How do I know he’s unique? François shrugged and sighed.

  “Shouldn’t you be practicing?”

  François jumped. “I’m quite prepared, Madame, merci.” No matter how many years he told himself he was now a man who could think and act for himself, she still had the power to make his insides shrivel. Although sadly, she wasn’t the only one. He glanced unbidden toward the window. But that man, Artie, hadn’t been cowed. François had watched him smile and thrust out his hand like her equal in every way.

  “What are you looking at?”

  He turned. “Just wondering how many more months it will take to get that eternal project finished.” He threw his hands in the air as he knew she wanted him to do. “I try to practice and people are hammering and laughing and yelling. How am I supposed to concentrate? And yet you fire every person so that new ones constantly have to take over and redo what was done. For God’s sake, Mother, let the people be and get on with it.”

  She bustled over to him, all concerned and fretting. Good. She fussed, “I know, I know. I’m so sorry, mon trésor. Who knew that these workers would be so incompetent? I only want a place of perfection for mon ange, so you can grow in both skill and independence.”

  He sighed deeply, and only half of it was put-on. She’d persuaded herself that if she built him his own apartment in the backyard that he’d never want to move out. Of course, she might be right. Just thinking of navigating a lease or all the responsibilities of property of his own made his stomach turn. Every time he wanted to prove he was strong and independent, his nerves exploded and only showed just how horribly right she was. I should get therapy. But the mere thought of the weapon that would give her over him made him shrink back from the plan. I could hide it. But it was hard to go anywhere without her knowing.

  He swallowed hard. Too much to think about. Too much.

  Her hands pressed against his shoulders in her steadying way. He didn’t like to admit it helped him. She murmured, “You don’t need to be stressing about anything. Let me do the worrying. You just create, mon ange. The world is waiting, holding its breath just to hear you play.”

  It never made him feel better when she said that. He wanted to scream Let them wait the fuck for someone else, but he knew that wasn’t fair. She worked so hard for him and without him, her life would be much different, much less. As for him, he wouldn’t mind having a bit less of her—but he never told her.

  He straightened his shoulders under her hands, took a breath, and walked to the piano, one of three grand pianos he kept in the house. He slid onto the bench, put his feet on the pedals, closed his eyes, and let it flow.

  ARTIE RAISED his head like a deer scenting the air. Wow. Was Madame playing a recording? Or the guy, François? Beautiful.

  The music stopped. A short stab of disappointment tightened Artie’s gut.

  It started again. Then stopped.

  What the hell? He wanted to run over to the house and peek through the windows to see what was going on, but that would go over like a whore in church with Madame.

  He grabbed his wrenches and slid between the studs to continue the copper piping where the last plumber—the fired plumber—had left off.

  All through the late morning, the same weird music thing kept happening. This gorgeous tune would start playing, then suddenly stop, then start sometimes somewhere else, then stop and kind of play the same thing over again, then do it all again. Artie lived for the moments when the music just played through. He’d never heard anything like it. Even that night at Sanderson Hall, when he’d eavesdropped on the ghost at the piano, it hadn’t sounded like this when it really got going. That had been more—pretty. Like the prettiest music Artie’d ever heard. This was pretty too, but also kind of like those words they used on the dating sites. It’s complicated.

  He made a lot of progress on the piping. When lunchtime came, he walked to his truck, grabbed the thermos bag of sandwiches and soup he’d made that morning, and walked back under the trees to sit and eat. It really was a nice backyard.

  When he got back to the structure, Madame stood inside with her arms crossed, staring at the pipe.

  Artie smiled. “H
i.”

  She looked at him with that crease between her almost invisible eyebrows. The kid had more color in his. He actually had more color in his face too. She said, “You seem to have achieved some progress.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Coming along nicely. The installation that was there isn’t really bad at all. Just not quite as efficient as it could be, but quite serviceable. I’ve been able to leave most of it in place.”

  Now she really frowned. “It wasn’t the previous workers skills I objected to. Rather his waste of time chitchatting and the fact that he smoked.” Her brows dipped even lower. “You don’t, do you?”

  “Nope. I’m happy to say I quit and have not fallen off the wagon.” He flashed the dimples.

  “I’m happy to hear that. It not only kills you, it’s terrible for all around you.”

  “Yes, well, I grew up with smokers, which kind of sets a guy off on the wrong foot. But I figured I’m not too old to change.”

  “You don’t seem old at all.” Her serious face made that seem like she might be accusing him of being young.

  “Twenty-five, Madame.”

  “There, you see? Only a little older than—” She stopped. “Quite young.” She stared at his thermos. “Your lunch?”

  “Yes. This is such a nice spot, I thought I’d eat here if you don’t mind. I’ll clean up.”

  “See that you do.” She nodded. “I’m glad you like the spot.” She turned toward the house.

  “Madame?”

  “Yes?” She looked back.

  “I’ve been hearing some unusual music. I wondered what it was.” He held up his hands. “Don’t mean to be chatting, but it’s lunchtime.” He grinned and hoped she got the harmless intent. But still he held his breath to see if she’d answer.

  She just stared at him for a second. “My son is a composer.”

  “That means he writes music, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “Why he was stopping and starting and stuff.”

  “Yes, that explains it.” She turned to go.

  “I’ve gotta say, when he got going, it was sure amazing.”

  “Well, of course. He’s a genius. One of the greatest composers of symphonic music in the world today. He’s been playing since he was three, giving concerts and composing since he was seven.”

  Artie smiled and looked at her a little sideways. “So I guess that means I’ve got good taste, right?”

  She barked a laugh. “Yes, I guess it does.” She walked real efficiently back to the house.

  Artie settled under the tree, opened his cheese, avo, and chicken sandwich, and took a bite. Composer? No shit. That kid in the sweats. Yeah, well, he had seemed different. I wonder what it’s like to make up brand-new stuff, not just make something already here better? The veggie soup he’d warmed up tasted good, even though the day was pretty hot. Wish he’d play some more. Man, I’d love to see him do that.

  Oh well.

  After a half hour break during which he consumed the PB on celery and left his second sandwich for dinner, then carefully cleaned up his little bit of trash, Artie went back to the interesting puzzle of the piping installation. By the time he got to the area that would be the kitchen, the sun was dipping lower and the heat of the day was fighting to hang on against the big evening drop in temperature southern California usually experienced.

  Artie glanced at his watch. Son of a gun. Three o’clock, official quitting time for most construction, had sailed past and it was sneaking up on four. He did love working alone and figuring out the optimum solutions for the best flow of water and waste. Of course, he had to follow the architectural plans, but it still left him some leeway. He half grinned. Somebody like that François would think he was cracked, getting all thrilled about pipes that carried shit.

  He gathered his tools, put them in his bag, took his trash and refuse to the dumpster, then started toward his truck. Suddenly, music flooded out of the house like spring water. Not the complicated pretty music. It was the amazing, flowing, haunting stuff he’d heard that night at Sanderson Hall. Artie stopped in the middle of the yard and held his breath. His heart beat against his chest so hard it made his T-shirt shake, and little zips of electricity lit up his groin and his balls. Like someone was plugging in lights inside him.

  Just as fast, the music stopped, and something about it sounded final. Artie sucked in disappointment with the air. His feet dragging, he walked to the truck, started it, and drove down the driveway. As he drew even with the front door, it opened and out walked Madame in a really fancy dress. Behind her came the guy, the composer, François, and Artie couldn’t make his foot press the accelerator. Wow. Just Wow. He was wearing a black tuxedo, all smooth and fancy like George Clooney at the Oscars, and François did the near-impossible—he put Clooney in the shade. That wild light hair had been slicked back from his face and hung onto his neck. He looked beautiful, but shit, did that guy looked stressed. It almost hurt to see him.

  François raised his head, spied Artie in the truck, and just stared at him. Madame followed his line of sight and gave Artie a scowl that got his foot moving.

  He pulled to the gate, waited for it to open, then drove through and headed toward home. Yeah, Artie, the most ordinary guy alive, got to go home to his fish and maybe a movie, while Mr. Best in the World looked like he was headed for an execution—his own.

  Weird how Artie felt sorry for him.

  Chapter Four

  FRANÇOIS FIDGETED in the back seat as his driver pulled up to the stage entrance of Sanderson Hall. Oh Lord, he hated performing so much. Composing was like life and breath, but performing mixed terror and horror in equal amounts. Yes, he knew he was a good pianist. Probably great. Some critics said like Chopin and Liszt in a single package. But all the eyes, staring, prying, assessing, weighing—and finding him wanting. One comment screamed Why doesn’t he ever cut his hair? Another said His wild hair is so artistic and unpretentious. What business did any of them have commenting on his hair at all? He wasn’t a fucking barber. But as his publicist always said, if he wanted to be a public person, then the public owned him. He didn’t want a publicist or to be a public person. He wanted to sit under a tree and write music. Well, not literally, since pianos seldom existed under trees, but still. And the judgment paled next to the fear. Every set of eyes threatened. Even when he hadn’t been terrified, back before… even then he hadn’t loved performing. He’d never been an attention seeker. And now, after—he shuddered.

  That, of course, prompted his mother’s tight hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be brilliant, mon ange. These people”—she waved a hand dismissively toward the building—“are so fortunate to have you as their guest star. The performances have been sold out for weeks. They begged me for more shows, but as I promised, I refused. Two only. Mon ange must focus on his latest composition. I told them.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  The chauffeur opened the door and his mother stepped out, looked around as if checking for snipers, and then moved aside and gestured for him to exit the car. Shy of a magic carpet arriving to whisk him to Neverland, he didn’t have much choice.

  Pulling in oxygen, he climbed out and moved rapidly to the door. The chauffeur, Joseph, was already there to hold it for him, and he swept through, passed the guard as if he wasn’t there, and headed for his dressing room. He’d apologize later for being rude. Right now, he just needed to hide.

  Inside the private room, he closed the door behind him. His mother knew that his desire for no visitors before a performance included her, so she always requested a private sitting area nearby where she could wait until he went on the stage. Wait and watch. She knew that once he was at the piano, he wasn’t likely to bolt. Up to that point, panic could set in. He’d had a few embarrassing incidents of canceled performances and returned tickets that he regretted as much as his mother did, so hiding in his dressing room was a compromise they’d work
ed out.

  He paced back and forth, letting the pieces he was about to play take over his mind and shove out all the fear and anxiety. When the tap came on the door, he jumped.

  “Five minutes, Mr. Desmarais.”

  He didn’t reply, but no one expected him to. Pacing the length of the narrow room again, his fingers automatically pressing imaginary keys, he let a couple of minutes slip away, then opened his door and struck out on the route he’d practiced the night he’d sneaked in to play. Straight from the dressing room to the stage, looking neither left nor right, he plunged into the spotlight, ignoring the thunder of applause. Seated, he turned to the conductor, who waited several seconds for the clapping to stop, then nodded.

  François ran his hands across the keys lovingly, but his fingers shook. He took a deep breath. Oddly, an image of the man in his backyard, Artie, flashed in his mind. That steady certainty he’d shown meeting François’s mother, the grin, the humor, the yummy butt crack. François found himself smiling, his fingers descended to the keys, and Chopin’s Piano Concerto in E poured from his hands, which had a direct line to his soul.

  TWO HOURS later, after a quick curtain call, he hid himself in his dressing room for a few deep breaths, then opened the door and headed toward the exit. His mother stood ahead of him and one of the stage managers was on the other side, making a path for him. He started walking fast toward the door.

  “Oh my Gawwwwd. François, I love you!” A woman leaped in front of him and threw her arms around his neck.

  His body turned to ice. A piece of his brain told him she was harmless, that he should laugh, but his insides roiled and he started to shake. Her arms gripped like they could crush the life from him, and her embrace might as well have been a snake, it was so terrifying.

  “No, please, get away. Get away from me. Jesus, get her off me. Somebody!”

  The stage manager and some other guy leaped forward and grabbed the woman. As they pulled her away, her fingernails raked François’s jaw.