Crime & Counterpoint (16 page)

Standing at the top of the cellar stairs, Shelley cringed at the bottle’s resounding crash.

Her skin prickled with apprehension; she’d heard the whole unsavory episode.

Discreetly, she peeked into the kitchen and saw Zach cradling his head, still erect, but hunched over the island like he couldn’t stand anymore.

She watched as he knelt down to start picking up the broken glass. Against her better judgment, her heart ached, and she wanted to comfort him. But, she wasn’t stupid enough to do so.

With two wine bottles in her hands, she squared her shoulders and pretended like she’d heard nothing as she reentered the kitchen, her heels clapping out a medium tempo against the marble.

He looked up from his crouched position, defensive and feral, and she reconsidered approaching him. But upon sighting her, his anger simmered ‘til she could clearly see the pain. He dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Telling herself to breathe, she set the wine on the island and proceeded to get some rags and a bucket to clean up the spilled amber. Looked like he’d finished more than five or six shots worth judging by how much was on the marble. She bent down, hiking up her dress, and started mopping it up. As she wrung out the alcohol into the shallow bucket, she said, “You should wear gloves.”

He grabbed a piece of sharp glass. “I’m fine.” But in the next instant, he cut himself. Blood glistened.

Sighing, she handed him a clean rag for his injury, suppressed any reproach, and continued cleaning. “Step over here,” she said, gesturing to him.

He looked down and realized he was standing in the tidepool. Moving outside the mess, he relocated to a clear spot, and to his surprise, she wiped off the whiskey from his dress shoes.

Her gesture renewed his acute guilt. “I’ll pay for that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Zach.”

When the liquid was all sopped up, she stood, dumped the bucket out in the sink, and beckoned to him. “Wash your hands,” she said in a manner that was neither authoritative nor inviting disobedience.

Still applying pressure with the rag, he found himself complying without thought. While the cold water cleaned out the shallow gash, she used a dustpan to brush up any bits of glass.

Trashing them, she returned to him, took his injured paw, and inspected. The cut wasn’t bleeding anymore; just looked like a water-logged fish gill. Satisfied, she took his hand in hers and led him to the dry goods pantry and closed the door behind them. Fully curious as to what she had in mind, he almost questioned her when at the back of the long storeroom, they came to another door.

She opened it, revealing, to his surprise, a dark, hidden staircase.

“This is how my brothers used to sneak out at night,” she said in a hushed tone.

“What about you?” he asked just as quietly, following her up.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Never.”

He almost smirked, somehow knowing that she’d been the model daughter.

At the top of the landing, they ended up in a dark room with little in it except a step ladder. A narrow strip of light told him where the door was. But it was locked.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I hid a key up here. Erik, Ben, and Clint were forever locking me out.”

He smiled in the dark. “I think I remember that, actually. I was with James one time when he saved you.”

“He always did,” she said with a happy inflection. “He’s been my defense attorney since I was two.”

He had to work not to laugh and was thankful she couldn’t see him, couldn’t tell that she was scaling his walls commendably.

When next she spoke, her voice had changed altitude, surprising him. She was on that step ladder.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“No, I got it.”

Nevertheless, he had his hands out, ready to catch her.

“Ah ha!” she exclaimed exultantly. “It’s still here. You know, I’ve had no reason to check in years. I thought maybe the maids might have found it by now.” She started back down, carefully, and encountered Zach’s hands on her waist. “Thank you,” she said, a measure of uncertainty in her gratitude.

He let go quickly enough, and she unlocked the door after only a bit of trouble. As the door swung open, light flooded them along with the chorus of distant voices. They both looked away for a moment while their pupils adjusted to the early evening sun flooding bright orange from nondescript locations. She returned the key to its hiding spot, which Zach felt oddly privileged to know, and then caught up his hand again, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. She put her finger to her lips, indicating that silence was of absolute necessity.

He went along with her, hopelessly drawn in by her innocent seduction and intrigue.

She led him down the railing-lined, curved upstairs hall, decorated tastefully in summery beige and burgundy trim. Sconces and a bright arch-top window provided ample light during the day. They could see the vestibule, kitchen entrance, staircases, and grand foyer down below. Zach’s keen hearing picked out his father’s voice – still arguing in the formal dining. Bitter, he looked away.

Shelley stopped at the end of the hall. Discreetly, she opened the lilac door and flicked on the light switch.

Releasing his hand, she bustled into what was clearly her old room. It was done in hues of deep purple and royal blue. An interesting but dark combination. There were stenciled music note flourishes on the lavender accent wall and a giant painting of a little girl at a grand piano with the sun streaming through giant windows; her feet didn’t even touch the pedals.

He looked around while she went straight to her cream puff of a bed and starting removing decorative pillow after decorative pillow, stuffed toy after stuffed toy. She had a trove of treasures on her dresser which looked untouched yet dust-free.

Atop an armoire sat an assortment of pictures, trophies, and awards. He was shocked to find she’d received so many notable music recognitions. On another wall hung a framed certificate presented to her by the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition about seven years ago. His brows elevated. “You were a Van Cliburn finalist?”

Her hands stilled in the middle of turning back the bedspread. “I’m surprised you know what that is.”

He turned to her, but he couldn’t see her face. “You must’ve been what? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen,” she answered.

“That’s amazing.”

Her throat clogged tight. “Would you still think it was amazing if I told you I completely fell apart in front of thousands of people?” She smoothed the covers like a bookmark and patted down the pillow. Then, she straightened, finding nothing left to do. She kept her back to him and fought breathing.

He came up behind her. Gently, he turned her towards him and encouraged her to look into his eyes. She thought she would find detached pity. But instead, she beheld heartfelt understanding. She felt the shift in him – a moving of tectonic plates.

However, she was all too aware that there was a bed next to them. Backing away, hoping he would get the hint, she gestured to the bed. “You’re welcome to lie down. I’ll cover for you.”

He couldn’t believe she was going to walk out, but at the same time, relief filled him. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why she was being nice to him, but he was pretty sure he already knew
.

As Shelley reentered the dining room, an ocean of compliments and applause hit her all at once. Shocked, she stood rooted for a moment before a smile lit her face and she made her way around the extra-long table.

Her brother James kissed her hand, the “growing” 22-year-old twins were too busy stuffing their faces but mumbled something that sounded like ‘really awesome’, and Erik gave her a “yeah, it’s great” before returning to his Victoria’s Secret delicacy. Shelley cringed at her nasally voice but kept smiling.

Abigail patted her cheek with grandmotherly affection and declared the food was “marvelous”.

Bill rose to give her a hug. “It was delicious, hon. Should’ve gotten you to cater the wedding.”

Even Barbara had no subtle stabs with which to pinprick her praise, which was in and of itself the highest compliment Shelley could receive from the woman. Her own mother had something to say. “
Mi hija
, don’t you think the chilli on the sweet potato is a little
bold
?”

To which Shelley’s father, seated adjacent to her at the head of the table, countered, “I rather like it. Reminds me of you.” He winked lovingly at Carol as he picked up his coffee. He took a sip of the black brew.

Standing by her father’s chair, Shelley studied David Ericson in the middle of the table. Impulsively, she put her arms around her father’s broad shoulders, thankfulness burgeoning inside her. Her hair waterfalled down his sleeve as she gave his clean-shaven cheek a kiss. “Love you,” she said.

He smirked, lifting his hand to cup her head. “And how much is this love going to set me back?”

She dropped her gaze for a moment, thinking, and then she looked at him. “I’ll play for you.” Then, added uncertainly, “If you want.”

With a glance that said he wanted nothing more, he deposited his napkin on the table and stood. Shelley straightened and waited as he dropped a kiss to her mother’s hair, and said, “Excuse me, dear.”

Taking Shelley’s hand, he walked her out of the dining room, happy. Until he noticed Zach was absent.

In the library, Henri poured himself some bourbon – neat – while Shelley situated herself at the piano. It was dusky outside, and the front lawn’s lights had come on.

He turned in time to notice her take off her heels. The corner of his mouth tipped. “Do they let you play without shoes at The Purple Gazelle?”

Worriedly, she glanced at him, trying to gauge if he was joking or not-so-subtly alluding to her current job. “No.” She looked back at the black and white keys and settled her hands on them. They were cold. “What would you like to hear?”

He took a sip and just admired the profile of his baby girl. “I want to hear you sing.”

Afraid and regretting the offer, she demurred, “Oh, but Daddy, I really don’t think I can.”

“
Ma chère? Vous chantez pour les hommes étranges, mais pour votre père vous ne pouvez pas.
”

You sing and play for strange men, and yet for me you cannot. She cringed with guilt. Instead of saying anything in response, she began the intro to “Autumn Leaves”. Her chest lifted in the required breath before she started to sing, but her vocals lacked the sultry luster and expression. Henri knew she was holding herself back.

“
The autumn leaves… drift by my window… the autumn leaves… of red and gold…
” Breath. “
I see your lips, the summer kisses… The sunburned hands I used to hold…
” With each word, her voice began to stabilize and the quiver died away.

His cleft chin dipped a little, and he moved around the body of the grand so he could see and hear her.

“
Since you went away the days grow long… And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song… But still I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall.
”

She played a short solo, vibrating the long-unused strings, exploiting the full range of the instrument. Her passion began to come through, strong and virulent. Henri relaxed, then, enjoying his drink. When she began to sing again, but this time in French, his pleasure only grew.

“
C’est une chanson… qui nous ressemble
…
Toi tu m’aimais… et je t’aimai
s…
Nous vivions tous, les deux ensemble…Toi que m’aimais moi qui t’aimais…
”

He closed his eyes and envisioned her on stage as a seventeen-year-old, captivating thousands. A smile curved his mouth as pride and melancholia burst in his chest.

“
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment… Tout doucement sans faire de bruit… Et la mer efface sur le sable les pas des amants désunis.
” She finished the piece with an outro and flourished the last sad, mystical chord.

When she removed her hands, letting the notes die away, she wouldn’t look at her father. She kept her eyes on her lap, inwardly telling herself that he must hate it, berating and scolding herself for the horrible performance. Her intonation was sketchy. Her hands had barely functioned. The vibrato – oh my God! – the vibrato.

But then her father came to sit down next to her, bourbon discarded. He put an arm around her and said, “That was beautiful. Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but all of a sudden tears fell rapid-fire, and she couldn’t stop them. Embarrassed, she blubbered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lying to you.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked. He pulled her to him and cradled her like he used to, uncaring if she got her briny tears on his suit. She clung to him, and he was more than happy to hold her – his pride and joy. Over her head, he looked out onto the darkening lawn, twinkled by the lampposts, and his face dimmed. He would do whatever it took to protect her from getting hurt again. Regardless of the cost.