Blue Notes (31 page)

Another motif follows, slowing to an adagio, taking place of the first. In the days following our first argument, I layered in darker notes into the sonata:
Whoever Said We’re Dating?
It’s the sound of my near silent sobs and what it felt like to have my heart broken for the first time. Rather than cry myself, I put all that emotion into the press of key and pedal. I want the audience to feel that pain, to be moved by what changed me forever. It feels right as I play. It feels like the whole auditorium is breathing with me.

The third motif is brief.
Do I love him?
Of course I do. But that feeling, that bubbling sense of belonging to him, there in Chicago, or as simply as sleeping in his bedroom, is only a bridge to the finale. It’s an interlude, like the moments before jumping off a platform diving board.

The final draft—my finishing touches—drained more out of me than I thought possible. I dredged it up from the bottom of my heart while flying back from California, scared shitless, but no longer about my dad. The work had been powerful and hard to face, but it is also some of the most flawless music I’ve ever written. It came to me, flowing, a gushing waterfall of all I kept inside. The motif . . . That was obvious.

Can You Forgive Me?

I didn’t notice they were all questions until I launch into the final few measures. Then again, what is a relationship if not questions? They’re the blue notes that hover between yes and no, maybe and definitely, the present and the future. So many doubts. It took missing Jude so badly and facing the man who’d warped my life to realize I possess the power to answer those questions. I possess the power to shape my own life, and to inflict hurt on others. That’s pretty hard to admit.

I’ve said I’m sorry to the people I love. I give them another apology, this time using the instrument that was once my only voice. Now the piano is
part
of my voice. It’s part of me too, but it’s not all I am or all I have to offer.

The last note fades into silence.

I’m sweating and shaking, but I think it’s relief mingled with the triumph of hundreds of clapping hands. I touch Middle C and thank the piano. I’ve done enough apologizing. It’s time to start living and laughing again.

I straighten and fill my lungs with all I’ve accomplished. My knees are firm, my legs steady, as I stand and walk to the edge of the stage. I’m dead center now, not buffeted or hidden by the beautiful instrument at my back, not defined by anyone but myself. I’m the one they’re cheering for.

I bow, with my hand over my heart, where it’s full to bursting with pride and accomplishment.
I did it.

Somewhere deep inside, I always knew I could.

 Thirty-Nine 

A
fter another few bows I make my way backstage. My ears still ring and my pulse is through the roof. Already, a flautist is readying for her big moment. I don’t hear her, the poor thing. I wish for a moment that I could have been in the audience, listening impartially to so many great musicians, but I wouldn’t give up what I just did for anything.

Adelaide nearly attacks me with hugs—hysterically but nearly silent so as not to disturb the current performer. “Breathtaking,” she whispers over and over.

She takes my hand and drags me deeper back toward the dressing rooms, where we can talk with more freedom. I still haven’t caught my breath.

“Tell me how it felt.” Her grin is a mile wide, so effervescent.

“Indescribable. But I bet you felt something similar,” I say, clasping her hands.

With surprising acuity, she tips her head. “I don’t think so. I was performing—but screw the audience, like we practiced. I think you were speaking to everyone. And you knew it, didn’t you? You were there in every moment. I saw it. I
felt
it, honey.”

I sigh with the relief I didn’t know I needed. “We need to call this something different from a mentorship. You’ve taught me just as much in return.”

She grabs my upper arms and pulls me near. “It’s called friendship and trust.”

“I didn’t trust you with the truth.”

“No, but if fate had given me the chance to keep my pain a secret the way you did, I would’ve taken it, no questions asked.” We meet gazes filled with tears made from a whole host of emotions. “But you look free now, Keeley.”

“I feel free.”

“Hey, I forgot to give you something.” She hands me a newspaper—the same one that nauseated me so badly on the plane. “I didn’t know if you saw it when you left for California. But I think you should.”

“Addie, I can’t. You know . . . that whole freedom thing.”

“There’s being free, and there’s being happy.”

“She’s right about the paper,” comes a deep, masculine voice that makes me shiver all over.

I go cold.

I didn’t need to hear his voice to know Jude was backstage with us. My skin had already prickled with the static charge of being near a man so electric and vital that I’ll never know his like again. I turn because I’m bound to him in ways that transcend my five senses.

He’s leaning against a pillar, so unfairly regal and wearing an immaculate tuxedo. I have to think it’s because of Adelaide, but I want to think it’s for me. His luxuriously dark hair is swept back from his forehead, which accentuates the sharp beauty of his features. Who says there’s no such thing as royalty in America? He’s a prince among men.

Adelaide gives us both a quick, hopeful smile before she shoves the paper in my hands and bids us a quick “Catch ya later, right? Dinner after the show?”

“Yeah,” I say with more calm. “Clair and John insist. Gather everybody up and meet in the lobby.”

“By the will call window or we’ll never find each other.”

I look her ’80s prom dress up and down. “I doubt that,” I say, smiling.

She dashes off, met only ten feet later by another musician she hugs and congratulates. The girl knows everyone. No matter how far I poke out of my shell—or, like tonight, stand exposed and good because of it—I’ll never be the butterfly Addie is. I don’t need to be.

But I need to apologize to Jude. He’s the only person I haven’t spoken to since getting back from California.

I want him back. I
need
him back. I’m jittery and numb, like I thought I’d feel onstage. That didn’t happen when I was in my new, liberating element. Now I stand before the man I have so much to give. So much to make up for. And so much to lose.

“Hi,” I say, completely lame. I force myself to keep my eyes on him, this overwhelmingly handsome stranger, rather than seek out some distraction.

“Read it.” Nothing more by way of greeting. No change to his impassive expression. “Aloud, please.”

My heart, lungs, and every other organ crush into my throat. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to cling to this joyous success for the rest of my life and be content with it. That wasn’t going to happen, knowing things are unfinished between Jude and me. I’m ready to go down on hands and knees and beg, but . . . no.

Not like that.

He never wanted me fragile.

He only wants me to read the paper, which is hard to do through pending tears and the fake eyelashes Opal meticulously applied. I give him one more glance. My heart pinches. He’s so damn beautiful. I want him. I
miss
him.

Hands shaking, I open the paper I’ve unconsciously crumpled and I recite details about me, from my worst days on through my current studies at Tulane. They sound so stark and soulless in print.
That’s not me
, I want to scream. I’m not just a few paragraphs of grim details.

There are details about Jude, too—a summary of the worst, and a subtle judgment about his obstinate behavior ever since. There’s a quote from some member of the board of directors, rehashing Jude’s decision to keep the headquarters of Villars International in New Orleans. “He has a history of putting personal relationships above his obligations to his family legacy. It’s further proof of his youth and inexperience.”

As if Adelaide and Jude himself aren’t the most important parts of his parents’ legacy. Don’t they know what he did, and how hard it was? How much of that weight he still carries? My heart burns with indignation.

About his flat refusal to step down as CEO, Jude is further tarnished by people he must see and work with on a regular basis. How many turned on him when given this chance? One is quoted as saying, “Mr. Villars made us aware of his romantic relationship with a college-aged woman. Her obvious personal issues have turned concern into genuine distress. I don’t speak for the entire board, but I fear this may affect his ability to make the best decisions on behalf of our shareholders.”

That’s when I come to the scary soul of the article: Jude’s official statement. That crunching knot in my stomach? All those vital organs choking off my air? I didn’t think they could get any worse until I read what he issued to the press.

“ ‘Keeley Chambers and I have been involved in a serious relationship for nearly three months, and I made that relationship clear to the Board when the time came.’ ” I stop and try to swallow. “They’ve known for months,” I whisper.

“Yes.”

How long has he struggled to prove himself in the face of so many doubts, even mine? Mine above all. He’d given his heart into my safekeeping, but I haven’t kept it very safe.

Me, the girl who’s always wanted to be safe.

His face is so damn impassive.
Give me something? Please?

No. It’s not his turn to give. It’s mine.

I dare to approach him. Both of us flinch with the first click of my heels. I smell his cologne and the warm richness of skin wrapped in that spectacular tuxedo. My voice is shaking when I keep reading, although the words twist a knife between my ribs.

“ ‘My sister and I intend to support her however we can during this difficult time. Her biological father has already been convicted of one heinous crime. I’m sure that with Keeley’s aid, the prosecutors in California will ensure that justice is served yet again. In the meantime, I ask that she be left to continue her studies at Tulane as she recovers from what will be a trying time.’ ”

It’s supportive but . . . impersonal. It’s lawyer speak. He had to come up with something ambiguous and calm. What did I expect? Some declaration of his love to the
Times-Picayune
?

“No one understands you,” I say softly. “You’re a public figure, but such a private person. That you’ve invited me into your life without reservation . . . Jude . . .” I’m fighting for my life here. Feeling more daring with each second, I look up to meet eyes made unrelentingly blue in the backstage shadows. “You’ve given me everything, when I’ve only given you half a person.”

“And lies. Even by omission.”

I cringe, but there’s no denying it. “I have,” I say simply. “I regret each one of them.”

“Did you do what you needed to in California?” I could melt into his accent, so rough now. His stare is intense—searching, yet still distant.

“What I could, yeah. He goes to trial in February. But me . . . I’m done with him. Done with a lot of things.”

Jude stiffens. “Is that so?”

I force my stubborn, refusing-to-do-its-job mouth to open. “I sent you a text.”

“I got it.”

“Oh.” I take a deep breath, made dizzy all over again by the masculine perfume of him and how much I want to sink into his embrace. Instead, I’m grounded by the pain of what it is to stand before this man and not have him. “I had another text in mind, but I didn’t send it.”

“Why not?”

“Because some things need to be said in person. What I wanted to type was,
Will you forgive that I’ve been a coward? That I’ve had no stomach for what it takes to love and be loved. Will you trust that I’m as brave as you’ve always said I am? ”
I try to reach out for him, just the crisp fabric of his white shirt cuff, but I pull my hands back. He’s not mine to touch. “You’ve been brave for both of us. I thought I was running to catch up. I just didn’t know it was about the emotional stuff too. I’m young and naïve and you were right to think that was a big difference between us.”

His assessing gaze narrows. The set of his shoulders is defensive, which doesn’t suit him at all. “And now?”

“I let go of everything up there. Were you there? Did you hear me?” I deliberately echo what he asked in his rain-lashed ballroom. “Do you
see
who I really am?”

“I haven’t always.” For the first time, he looks away. His Adam’s apple bobs. “But you were . . .” He not only returns his magnetic gaze to me, but he takes my face in his assured hands. “You took my breath away. I could feel it, Keeley. You were playing for yourself and completely in control for the first time.”

“I was. I was free of my father and—this is the part that surprised me—I was free of you. I’ve been thinking my strength over the last few months, and even the strength to risk losing you by going to California, was because I love you.” I angled my head back toward the stage. “Up there, I had nothing left to depend on but myself.”

“How did it feel?”

“Like conquering the world.” I
do
touch him then, just where I imagined. I slide my finger over his shirt cuff. “I never need to see my father again. But I remember what you told me in Chicago. You made me smile until my cheeks hurt.”

“What was that?”

“ ‘You’re going to play piano, make a hundred people fall in love with you, and walk off the stage into my arms.’ I didn’t believe it. And I’ve screwed up so badly that I don’t dare believe it now.”

Looking down at where I’m tentatively stroking his sleeve, I see a lock of hair loosen across his forehead. I want to push it back in place. “Why keep it from me? All of it?”

“Scared,” I choke out.

“I’m gonna need more than that, sugar.”

“I love being who I’ve become over the last six years, but I only really believed it tonight. I did that for myself, just like I went to California.
For myself
. To get rid of all the shit that made me so blind to what you mean to me. It’s time I grew up. It’s time I deserve you—and I believe that I do.” I tip my chin to find him staring. In his eyes, I see my same yearning: for all of this to be over, for all of this to be good again.

Please, let that be what I’m seeing.

“I can be strong and fight battles on my own,” I say, “but I can’t really conquer the world without you. I’m so sorry I didn’t give you the trust you deserve. I’m sorry I hid so much, when I had nothing to fear from you. And if you give me the chance, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you can trust me for as long as we’re together.”

“How long do you want that to be?” His voice is surprisingly tight and thick.

“Forever,” I whisper. Then, with more force, I repeat myself. “I want forever. I have for a long time. Because, Jude, I love you so much.”

Before my eyes, his tense posture loosens. He inhales and extends a hand toward me. “Hi, I’m Jude Villars. You may have heard of me, but I’m more than what you’ve read in the papers. I’m flawed and I make mistakes and I want someone to love me for who I am.”