Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (27 page)

“HEY,” I SAID around my straw. I was mastering the art of walking, drinking, and talking today, all while lugging both my violin and viola down Boylston Street. This was as close to an aerobic workout as I got. “The prepster wants me to meet his family. Explain to me why this won’t end in all sorts of disaster.”

Ellie groaned into the phone. “Lady, why are you calling me before dawn? This is obscene and you need to learn a thing or two about time zones.”

“I need your wisdom and guidance,” I said.

I heard the rustling of sheets and several irritable groans before she said, “All right. Lay it on me.”

Sipping my iced cappuccino, I darted across Hemenway Street. While the college was technically closed today, I knew the studio spaces would be accessible and I was desperate to get in some practice time. I needed to figure things out, and music helped me do that.

“Like I said, Sam invited me to meet his family. Today. For Thanksgiving.”

Ellie coughed and I heard her guzzling a drink. “And why is that a problem?”

“Because families hate me,” I yelled. “He’s The Beatles and I’m The Doors.”

“While that is a lovely comparison, I think it’s worth reminding yourself that your family is simply different. They’re butthurt about a lot of shit, and their reactions are extreme. Most families don’t operate that way, and plenty are very nice.”

“That doesn’t account for Dillon’s family,” I said. “They couldn’t stand me.”

“Ah, the one who shall not be named,” she sighed. “They’re also anomalous. If we want to trot down memory lane, let me say this—they were too busy setting him up to be the next Michael Bublé to let anything get in his way. That was about him, not you. Lightning doesn’t strike the same spot three times.”

“Okay, yeah, but . . .” I slurped the remains of my coffee and immediately wanted another. “But I’m not ‘meet the family’ girl. It’s too, I don’t know, involved.”

“You’re also not ‘freak out over little things’ girl. What is this really about?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not into big families, and Sam’s family is as big as they come.”

Ellie snorted. “That’s a lame non-excuse. You don’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks . . . unless you actually care whether they like you. Or maybe,” she said, “the prepster cares whether they like you, and you care about the prepster.”

My stomach rumbled as I let myself into the studio, and I knew I should have grabbed a bagel with that coffee. “Well,” I said, hedging, “that might be part of it.”

“Can I also mention that your interpretation of the variations between The Beatles and The Doors is based upon extensive analysis, and not necessarily the view shared by the majority? At their core, those are essentially both male-dominated, tradition-averse pop bands that capitalized on the late sixties social climate that embraced anything countercultural. Really,” she said, and I knew I was in for a patented Ellie Tsai random analogy, “they’re peanut butter and almond butter. Very different taste but same philosophy and application.”

“That’s helpful, Eleanorah. Really helpful,” I grumbled.

“Make one of those filo dough pumpkin pies that everyone loves—the one with the spice that I like—then have a drink, don’t let the prepster leave your side, and make them love you. Bring your awesome sauce and you’re good.” I grumbled, not sharing her confidence, and she continued. “The sex is respectable?”

“Yes,” I said, and it came out too quick, too certain for Ellie to miss the emphatic tenor of my voice.

She laughed. “Then meet his family. Just don’t get drunk and puke all over them. That would not be a good start.”

“Shut up,” I said. “I’m going into the studio. You go back to sleep.”

Here’s the problem with me: I knew how to roll with all the punches and I was exceedingly confident in most areas—put an instrument in my hands, and I’d rock your socks off—but my wobbly spots were about as strong as gravy.

When I was in that wobble, I wasn’t quite myself. I retreated, reverted, and put all of my personality in my back pocket. I was sweaty-nervous and sarcastic—not witty sarcastic, either; sharp, cutting sarcastic—and I couldn’t climb far enough out of my shell to have painless, civil conversations with anyone.

I landed in that wobble every time I went home to New Jersey, and now, standing beside Sam, pie in hand, in the elevator headed toward his brother’s loft.

I’d pushed this off all day, first devoting the entire morning to the studio and then mixing up some gingery pumpkin pies. I didn’t ignore Sam’s texts throughout the day, not entirely, but I didn’t offer any indication that I was looking forward to this exercise. I’d spent a ridiculous amount of time selecting the navy-and-poppies dress with the wide, red sash and dark leggings, and I even considered wearing heels for a split second. That was how I knew I’d really fallen in deep.

His hand traveled from my waist down my hip and under the hem of my dress. “Have I told you how gorgeous you are today?”

I let out a tense laugh and shook my head. “I don’t believe you have.”

“Well then,” he said, squeezing my ass. “You are completely fucking gorgeous, and these leggings are making me incapable of speaking coherently. I’m going to enjoy peeling those off later.”

Bunching the tail of his shirt in my hand, I drew Sam closer to me. “Don’t abandon me, okay?”

The elevator doors opened, but we didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere if you’re not,” he said.

Sam’s brother and sister-in-law lived in one of the most posh waterfront buildings in town, and their loft was an eclectic blend of modern and vintage. It didn’t make a ton of sense, but it was awesome. I loved the funky velvet settee in front of the sleek marble fireplace, and the colorful artwork flanking the long wall of ocean-side windows.

We found everyone gathered around a long table off the kitchen, take-out cartons and wine bottles spread between them. I counted six heads—one more than I expected—but saw the threads of resemblance between them quickly.

Talk about good-looking men.

They weren’t carbon copies of each other, but I knew they belonged together. Tall and strong with glints of auburn in their hair. Sam was shorter, leaner, but he was definitely one of them.

They were laughing hysterically and didn’t notice us until Sam cleared his throat.

A little blonde popped up from her seat and scrambled over to us. “Hi,” she squealed. “You must be Tiel. I’m Lauren, and I’m so happy to meet you. Come on, sit down.”

Lauren cooed over the pie I handed her, squeezing my shoulders and insisting I didn’t need to bring anything but that she adored every variety of Thanksgiving dessert. She steered me toward a seat and loaded up my glass with white wine.

“So you’ve met Patrick and Andy,” she said, gesturing to the opposite end of the table.

I glanced at them, forcing a smile. Andy was one of those ageless women who could be anywhere between twenty-two and forty-four, and would look that pristine her entire life. Sure, she might earn some silver hairs along the way, but she’d always be beautiful and unshakably cool.

“This is Matthew.” Lauren dropped her hands on his shoulders. “He belongs to me.” He tugged her onto his lap while she giggled, but that didn’t stop the introductions. “That’s Riley,” she said, pointing to the man on my left. “And Nick.”

“I’ve met you before,” Nick said, rising to shake my hand from across the table. “Where have I met you?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

Don’t be awful,
I reminded myself.
Talk normal. Smile.

I’d remember eyes like those. Nick was darker than Sam’s siblings, but he was equally drool-worthy. It was rather laughable how many attractive men were packed around this one table.

Smile. Stop glaring at them.

“It’ll come to me,” Nick said.

“I thought you weren’t with us today,” Sam said from the kitchen.

Nick grabbed a container and stuck his fork inside. “Technically, I’m on call,” he said. “Until midnight. Then, you know, it’s time to rage. Or whatever people who have lives do these days.”

“And by
rage,
you mean you’ll be hanging out at the hospital?” Sam said. Nick laughed and grunted in agreement. Sam returned with a glass of water, and settled beside me with his hand on my thigh. “Is this tapas?”

“Yes,” Matt said, nodding resolutely. “With the Black Widow in New Mexico, no one reminded Tom to pick up the turkey. So, we called Toro last night.”

“Who’s Tom?” I asked. I knew all about the nicknames—Shannon as the Black Widow, Patrick as Optimus Prime, Matt as Juggernaut, Lauren as Miss Honey, Riley as RISD, and Andy as Princess Jasmine—but hadn’t wormed Sam’s out of him yet. I was hoping it wasn’t Tom.

“Shannon’s assistant,” he said. “Has anyone determined whether she’s actually in New Mexico?”

“We are not talking about this. She’s entitled to a little space,” Lauren said. “Instead of dragging all that drama out like a prize pig at the county fair, why don’t you two tell us how you met?”

“It certainly wasn’t the way Sam usually meets women,” I said, and
shit,
I sounded so antagonistic. He turned to me, his eyes searching my face for some explanation. Everyone else laughed and it was obvious they were comfortable busting each other’s balls, but I saw how much my comment hurt him.

“We met over Labor Day weekend,” Sam said, his gaze focused on me. “Tiel introduced me to bluegrass, and a few other things.”

“Andy said you’re a professor,” Lauren prompted.

They were harmless, well-intentioned questions, but I hated them. I didn’t want to be fodder for their rumor mill. I’d seen enough of it with my mother and aunts. They criticized everything about the women my uncles and male cousins brought to family dinners. Either they didn’t help in the kitchen enough or they had too many new ideas about roasting lamb, or they were too nice, and that was clearly an indication they were fake bitches. It was always something.

“Adjunct,” I said. “I teach music therapy classes at Berklee.”

Don’t be a bitch. Say more than the utter minimum.

“That sounds fascinating,” she said. “I’d love to pick your brain some day. I run an independent school, and getting a music program going is one of my priorities for next year.”

“Like, your own little Barbie dream school?”

For real: stop being a bitch.

To her credit, Lauren laughed off my comment as if it was the best thing she’d heard all night, but Sam continued staring me, his eyes narrowed as he tried to understand my freakish behavior.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“Nothing.” I shook my head, and his expression turned doubtful.

“Is this area home for you? Do you have any pets? What’s your last name? Have you ever seen
Dexter?
What’s your position on the Celtics’ best year, and full disclosure, Pierce, Allen, and Garnett outshine Bird, Parish, and McHale any day of the week,” Riley asked. “Come on, we need details. This boy’s turned into a steel trap.”

Nick snapped his fingers and pumped his fist in the air. “You did the seminar on the comparison of music therapy and pharmacological sedation using chloral hydrate in pediatric EEG captures.”

“What were you doing there?”

Just don’t be bitchy. These are nice people. Don’t be bitchy.

I thought back to that presentation at the children’s hospital. I’d only stumbled into that research because one of my buddies couldn’t stomach the drugs used to put him under for certain tests, and I was convinced he didn’t need them in the first place.

“I cut brains,” he said. “You know, for medical purposes. I had eight first-year pediatric neuro-surgical interns with me.” He shrugged and looked at his palm, tapping his finger there as if he was counting something. “I don’t let them sedate toddlers anymore unless they’ve already tried and failed non-pharma measures, and I can only think of a few cases.”

“I’m glad it’s working,” I said.

I dedicated two years of my life to that project. I should be able to punch up the enthusiasm for real-world application.

Nick asked, “You’re at Berklee?” I nodded. Nodding prevented more douchery from spilling out of my mouth. “What else are you working on? I have plenty of residents who need to publish, and enslaving them brings a lot of joy to my life.”

“Well,” I murmured.

Don’t. Be. Bitchy.

My current research could be summarized on a small sticky note, and there was no way in hell I was getting in front of the dissertation defense committee this year.

I wanted to leave so desperately. Just get up and
go.
Nick meant well, that was plain to see, but I required more breathing room than this family allowed. They were all so
much.
“I’ve been applying some new therapeutic approaches with children on the autism spectrum. Too early to draw any correlations.”

“All right,” Patrick said. He leaned forward and gestured toward me with his wineglass. “You’re obviously very intelligent. What the hell do you see in the runt?”

At first, I didn’t understand who Patrick was referring to, but then I heard Sam chuckling beside me.
The runt.