Ms. Miller and the Midas Man (11 page)

“Her intentions were good?”

“Well, she picked them for me. To please me. I just didn’t...wouldn’t want her to think I was disappointed or unhappy with her gift.”

She’d moved to the railing and was looking out at the lights glowing softly in windows up and down the block. Shamefacedly, he admitted silently that he would have automatically reprimanded Chloe there on the spot, embarrassed her and spoiled her gift, if he hadn’t been stopped. She was pretty astute for a woman who had no children, he thought. Then again, maybe not having children made her more sensitive toward them.

“I owe you twice then,” he said, sensing he’d be running up his debt to her at a steady pace. She glanced over her shoulder, askance. “First the ladder, now the flowers.”

She laughed softly and turned back to the night.

“She liked the music you played for her,” he said, moving to sit on the rail beside her. “She said it sounded happy.”

She smiled. “ ‘Fiddle Head Reel’ it’s called. I liked it when I was a little girl too. My father played it for me.” A pause. “I haven’t come across many songs about little girls who paint their rooms red, I’m afraid. Think she’ll mind, if she ever finds out?”

He chuckled softly. “No, not at all,” he said. Silence wedged between them, like an unwanted third person. They both struggled with it, but Scotty was first to elbow it out of the way. “What was he like? Your father.”

“Quiet.” She shrugged and walked a few feet away to the top of the steps. Seconds ticked by before she added, “He never called himself a violinist. He would either say he played a violin or a fiddle, but he wouldn’t say he was a musician. He was self-taught. He played by ear but couldn’t read music, and there was some sort of distinction there for him. He played with a band, in Irish pubs mostly, sometimes Western bars. He played it all—jazz to sixties folk music.”

“But he wasn’t as good as you,” he assumed.

She turned to him and leaned against the big white pillar holding the roof up, shaking her head gently. “No. In many ways he was much better. I love the music and I respect my talent. He did, too, but he also loved the instrument. The violin. In my heart I think I could have just as easily picked up a flute or sat down at a piano, learned to play and loved the music just as well. For him, it was only the violin. The sound, the shape, the feel of it in his hands. His face would light up every time he picked it up, and he...” she hesitated, “...he went somewhere else when he was playing it. Heaven, maybe. You could see it in his expression and the way he moved and...” She laughed softly. “Sorry. That’s probably more than you really wanted to know.”

“No. I like people stories. They fascinate me. I’m a people person, remember?”

“You’ve no doubt noticed that I’m not, ah...a people person.”

“No. I hadn’t noticed that. People here like you, kids adore you. I hadn’t noticed.” He tipped his head to one side, curious. “So, what sort of person are you?”

It was a perfect night, clear and quiet. So clear the stars looked like diamonds spread out on black velvet, there for the taking. So quiet they didn’t have to raise their voices to be heard. She sighed.

“I’m not sure anymore.”

“All right, then, what sort of person
were
you?”

“Not a very deep one, I guess,” she said sadly.

“Otherwise, I might have been better prepared when my life turned upside down.”

“Prepared for what?”

“I don’t know. The rest of my life, I guess.”

There it was again, that lost and confused quality about her that was so at odds with the plucky, independent woman she personified. He crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching out to her, holding her near, then giving her a good shake to make her see what she had, what she’d accomplished, who she was to the people who cared about her. Like him.

“What is it that you think you want from the rest of your life?” he asked, hoping there was room for him in it. “I asked you before and you said you weren’t sure anymore.”

“I’m not. I just...” she said, then she went quiet for a long moment before she finished. She had to tell him the way things were for her. He needed to know. “I just don’t want to hurt or disappoint anyone ever again.”

He shut his mouth and tried not to stare so hard at her dark profile, it was making his eyes water.

“And who have you hurt or disappointed so far?” She might not appreciate his prying, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“The who hasn’t been list is shorter,” she said with a derisive snort. She walked slowly to the pillar on the other side of the steps, distancing herself on every level. She leaned back against it and spoke softly, half hoping he wouldn’t be able to hear her, and wouldn’t care enough to ask her to repeat it. “That’s what I do, Scotty. I disappoint people. I hurt them. I don’t mean to, but I do it. Regularly. I somehow convince people to invest their wisdom and expertise, their love and their hopes and huge portions of their lives in me, and then I let them down.”

He couldn’t stand it any longer. Approaching her slowly, he reached out and put a hand on both sides of her face, angling her head into what little light there was to see it.

“I tried to warn you,” she said, hoping he could at least see her sincerity. “I’m not good with people. I put on a good show but...but the people closest to me always... He was going to kiss her. He was strumming her cheeks with his thumbs. Her skin prickled and tickled back to her ears and down her neck, across her shoulders. “I’ll disappoint you too. Eventually. I will.”

“How could you possibly disappoint anyone? You’re talented. You’re smart. Beautiful. You’re sweet and compassionate when you want to be. You’re funny. Clever. Strong. I don’t understand.”

“Please don’t touch me,” she said, ducking out of his reach, her heart beating so hard it ached. “I’m trying to explain so you will understand. I...” She took a deep breath. “Every teacher I ever had thought I could be a world-class violinist, that I had something special. For hours, months, years they worked with me. Day after day,” she said, holding her hands out to show the vastness of the time involved. “They taught me everything they knew. They sacrificed their time and energy for me, and I was never...I was never anything but good. Not great. Not phenomenal. I frustrated the hell out of them,” she said, her voice going low and flat with her own defeat. “Every time one of them would finally admit that there was nothing more they could teach me, they’d pass me on to someone else, thinking they’d let me down somehow. Disappointed that they weren’t the one with the key to open up that special something in me. My father got out early, knowing what it would be like. But my mother never gave up. She hired an agent and a publicist.” She put both hands behind her. “But I wasn’t a ten-year-old savant or a legendary virtuoso. I was just a really good violinist. Really good and really ordinary. She had to settle for Carnegie Hall and first chair with the Philharmonic. And I worked my butt off to keep it because—surprise, surprise—I wasn’t the only really good violinist in town.”

“But that’s nothing to spit at. That alone is an accomplishment very few—”

“No no. Stay away. I want to finish. It gets better,” she said, staying just out of his reach. “See, after a couple of years I gained some respect with my peers. I was one of the youngest people ever to join the orchestra. I was never late, never missed a rehearsal or a performance. I worked hard, I wasn’t temperamental. After a while some of the pressure eased away, and I found five minutes to fall in love with this really cool saxophone player, Nelson Forge, who believed in freedom of expression and taught me that being a classical snob was beneath me. He showed me how to have fun with my violin and explore different types of music. We were on tour in Europe and he took me to all sorts of little pubs and taverns where saxophones and violins made totally different kinds of music than what I was used to...” she hesitated, “...made my father’s kind of music, actually. Everything was so romantic. My first trip to Europe. My first love affair.”

He didn’t like that she’d gone suddenly silent thinking of this saxophone player, didn’t like it at all.

“What happened?”

“We came home. My five minutes were up. The tour was over. Europe was gone. I tried to keep up with him. I really did. But we were out most nights, all night, and my wrist was starting to hurt...It was September already and our season lasted from October to May—until August if you include the stadium concerts. I couldn’t...I was a huge disappointment to him.” A short, harsh laugh. “I played with the pain in my wrist for as long as I could, until the slightest movement made me want to cry.” This was the hard part, the part that involved him. She had to tell him she couldn’t satisfy a man, he needed to know. She took a deep breath and blurted it out. “And let’s face it, you sometimes have to move around when you’re having...you know, an affair. I...I couldn’t keep him happy, I couldn’t satisfy him, I couldn’t...I...I caught him with another woman.” She went silent, waiting for the vivid mental pictures, the heartache, the tears to overwhelm her. But they didn’t. She felt nothing, and she sighed with relief.

“I wasn’t even surprised,” she said when he made no comment. “Hurt, but not surprised. It was just part of the pattern. He wasn’t the first person I’d failed, and as I was soon to find out, he wasn’t going to be the last.” She hesitated. “My mother wept the morning I had surgery. I heard her. She told the doctor my whole life story and cried when he told her that with some effort I’d eventually play as well as I ever did.”

Scotty was astounded by her thinking. He felt crushed inside, not by her story, but by the weight of the guilt she’d inflicted upon herself. He didn’t know where to begin. From the beginning, he supposed, when she first took on the responsibility of fulfilling other people’s dreams and wishes instead of her own.

“The rest you know,” she said quietly, the tone of her voice as empty as her jar of self-worth. She walked to the railing, keeping her back to him. “I’ve told you all this to save us both a lot of time and pain. Obviously, we’re...attracted to each other.”

“Obviously,” he said, able to agree with her at last.

“If we don’t act on our impulses, these feelings will eventually go away.”

“Gus,” he said, undaunted.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Scotty. I think I could fall in love with you, but knowing that I’d hurt you, too, is...”

“Augusta.”

“So, you see, it’s really much wiser not to start anything that’s doomed from the beginning.”

“Ms. Augusta Miller,” he said, loud enough to get her to turn around.

“What?”

“Come here.”

S
COTT HAMMOND WAS SUCH
a stupid man. An idiot. A fool.

Hadn’t she just told him what a mistake it would be to get involved with her? Hadn’t she just explained why she didn’t want to get involved with him? Hadn’t he heard a word she’d said?

The darkness between them was thick with desire—hers as well as his. But if he wasn’t going to listen to reason, then it fell to her to save them.

“Come here,” he said again, his voice low and soft, sure and alluring.

“Scotty...”

“Come.”

She swallowed hard and took a step forward. It was easy.

“This is a huge mistake.”

“A little closer.”

“We’re going to regret this.” Once started, she took step after step. She had no will to stop herself. She didn’t
want
to stop.

“Closer.”

She could actually feel it when she broke into his personal space. It was warmer and charged with excitement, undercurrents of passion and consuming greed. She felt a hand on her waist, pulling her nearer. He palmed her cheek, his fingers at the back of her neck drawing her toward him.

“You’re a very stupid man,” she said with her last normal breath, before the air caught in her throat, behind her heart.

“Don’t you believe it,” he said, taking a firm hold about her waist, breathing in the sweet scent of her, enjoying the warm, soft texture of her skin. “I’m a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

He skimmed his mouth over hers, teasing, coaxing. Defying fate. She started melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West.

“This is so wrong,” she murmured, trembling as she brushed her lips against his.

“Then why does it feel so good?” He kissed her. “So right?”

Good question. But she’d have to think about it later, when the earth wasn’t spinning so fast and her senses weren’t screaming to touch him, to taste him, to feel him.

No, he wasn’t a stupid man. He drugged her hard and fast with long, deep kisses, depressing her thought processes, stimulating her nervous system, transporting her to a world where only he was real and only she could touch him. He got high as the feel of her, soft and firm, smooth and curvy, coursed through him, filled him, devoured him. He hungered for her. Got lost in the tiny impotent noises she made, in her unsteady breathing, in the fluttering of her heart beneath her breast.

He kissed like a French whore’s tutor. Hot, deep, devouring. Then slow, erotic, demolishing. His hands fisted in the folds of her skirt, bunching the material, exposing a long shaft of shapely leg and softly round buttock. His skin was so warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. Her fingers were frantic to get at it. He pressed her pelvis tight against his, bent over her to touch the soft, smooth skin of her inner thigh from behind. He turned her abruptly, to prop her weakening weight against the house. His hand tangled itself in her panties, pulling the fine, silky material snug against her throbbing desire. The pressure was an excruciating delight.

A muffled cry in her throat had him moaning with his own need. He’d found a whole new world in her mouth and didn’t want to leave, despite his temptations to wander far and wide into other unknown territories. God knew he wanted to, needed to, but he kept coming back to her mouth like a kid to a candy store, never pacified, unable to secure it all in one visit, enraptured by the endless diversity.

Weak and barely able to stand, she was suddenly aware of being led gently by the hand, across the porch to the door. If more kissing was all he had in mind, the darkness would have provided them plenty of privacy. If he needed to sit down, there was always the swing...