Want (13 page)

“You said
smashing,
so I did my best. You think it’s okay?” I twirl to show him the back of my dress.

“More than okay.” He grins. “You take my breath away. You remind me of a Southern Greek goddess.”

I convinced Daddy I needed a new ball gown that I could also wear for Mardi
Gras
. I chose a dark navy floor-length dress with sheer fabric draped from each shoulder to just above the elbow. I haven’t scraped since August, so it’s okay to show my arms. The skirt has a ruche overlay gathered at the left side just below my waist. It hugs the right places and drapes perfectly. The color goes well with my fair skin, and the saleslady said it made my blue eyes sparkle.

I swept back the sides of my hair, twisted and pinned them in place. The rest cascades down my bare back in loose curls. I lean forward to give Mr. Cline a peck on the cheek when Daddy comes up behind me.

“Robert, always good to see you. You doing okay?”

“Better than ever, thank you. I even got myself a cane.” He hoists it in the air. “My sister says it makes me look distinguished. I’m inclined to think ‘old and gimpy,’ but I like ‘distinguished’ better.”

“Have a nice time tonight. That was generous of your nephew to give Juli a ticket. Please tell him I said thank you.”

“Of course. Julianne, are you ready, dear?”

“Yes, I’ll just get my bag.” I grab it off the hall table and leave Daddy in the doorway. Mama lurks in the shadows of the foyer.

Mr. Cline offers me his arm and his tuxedo tails flap. I giggle.

“Costume de rigueur, you know.”

I beam at him but feel a twinge of sadness when I realize I’m not holding his arm as much as he’s holding mine, the rest of his weight on his cane. Still, he opens the car door for me and closes it behind. He hobbles over to his side, angles in and tucks his tails underneath. I realize then how much I’ve missed him—his easy conversation, impeccable manners, and the special talent he has of putting me at ease.

“So tell me, Julianne, how are you? I haven’t been able to talk with you much.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry, Mr. Cline.”

“Whatever for, dear? You have a life to live. I’m just curious about it.”

“You mean with lessons? They’re still going well.”

We pass a city bus, and I think of the little girl with the Red Bull. I look down at my expensive dress, and the cold finger of shame pokes me in the middle.

“At least I think they’re going well. It’s sometimes hard to tell with Isaac. He’s not big on positive feedback. Though we just finished my recording two weeks ago and sent it in.”

“Wonderful.”

I don’t tell him about the printed e-mail in my handbag.

“Tell me more.” He fidgets in his seat. “About Isaac.”

“What about him? You said before that I was good for him. Gave him a challenge. What did you mean?”

“Only that he needs someone like you to shake him up. Snap him out of his gloom. He’s had a tough road. It’s not my place to tell you the details—you can ask him yourself—but you both have…” He purses his lips. “You are both very stubborn. And sensitive. You each remind me of the other.” He takes a hand off the steering wheel to wag a finger at me. “You are the student he needs, and he is the teacher you need.”

He’s quiet after that pronouncement. I let his words sink in for the next few blocks.

When we arrive, Mr. Cline hangs up his handicapped tag so we can park close to the theater. He insists it’s so I won’t have to walk far in high heels. The evening is cool, and a few leaves skitter across the sidewalk in front of us. It reminds me of the images I see when I play Rachmaninoff.

A panhandler across the street turns the corner and disappears behind an empty storefront. I notice some of the bulbs on the theater’s marquee are burned out. It isn’t the most lavish venue, but it’s ours.

We push through the lobby doors and immediately bump into many of Mr. Cline’s acquaintances and colleagues, as well as some of his former students. I wave to a few girls I know from school, though none come over to talk. That’s what happens when your mama scares your classmates.

As I study the mural painted above the entrance, the lights dim—the signal that it’s time to take our seats. An usher escorts us to the front of the theatre, and I realize with pleasure that when Isaac said we had front-row seats, he really meant it. We are front and center next to Isaac’s mother, his two sisters and their husbands.

The curtain is a deep rose and soaks up the soft glow from the cream-colored walls and gilded trim. Cherubic trumpeters grin down from above the stage. I’ve been here countless times and played a few sets, but never a full program like Isaac will tonight. It includes the Mozart I helped him with, and Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 1 in F# Minor. I assume this is why he invited me.

The musicians complete their final warm-ups, and the audience applauds as the maestro strolls onto the stage. After an eternity of bows and introductions, Isaac appears at stage left and briskly takes his place at the grand piano.
But not before another round of bows to the maestro, the musicians, and the audience.
His eyes search past the footlights to the front row. Our eyes lock, and his widen for a second before he nods and sits at the bench. I blush from my bare toes to the tops of my ears. Mr. Cline even glances at me, a small look of amusement lighting his features. Isaac’s mother doesn’t look quite so amused.

I know her from church and Mystics functions. She was my Sunday
School
teacher, but I never knew Isaac or any of her daughters because they were so far ahead of me. She’s a pleasant woman. Tonight she looks much older. I guess I haven’t paid much attention to her in the last
few years. Her chestnut hair is grayer, the lines around her eyes deeper. She’s tall and sturdy like Isaac, but carries it well.

She beams up at Isaac, and the stage lights reflect off her dewy eyes. I wonder what it’s like to have a mother so proud of you. How wonderful to have her sit in the front row as love radiates in the air so it shimmers like an aura.

Before I realize it, the first half of the performance is over, and the house lights come up. I help Mr. Cline stand and we both stretch, trying to be inconspicuous about it. Mrs. Laroche and her daughters slip off, and their husbands debate the Crimson Tide’s as-yet-undefeated record.

Mr. Cline is the first to break the silence. “Julianne, tell me, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Shouldn’t I be? Do I look sick?”

“No, I mean, how are
things
?”

Ah, he means things at home.

He’s the only person outside our family to know something’s been going on. He’s seen the signs the last few years, and while he can’t really do anything to stop it—short of confronting my parents—he’s always done his best to be there for me. He’s seen the scrape marks more than once, too. I don’t think he knows what they are, but he knows something is seriously wrong.

He tried more than once to get me to talk to someone about it, but I refused. He even threatened to call the police or social services, but I went into hysterics and he backed down. I was fifteen when that happened. He never brought it up again.

“Just know that I’m here for you, dear. Anything you need.
A place to stay, someone to talk to.
Just call.”

I love him for that. I know he’s sincere.

“Tell me about your audition repertoire. Isaac said you squeezed in Rachmaninoff?”

We talk about the recording, but I leave out the part that happened afterward.

Then I tell him my really big news, the news I can’t keep secret one moment longer. I haven’t even told Isaac. I didn’t want to call him this afternoon—that’s sacred performance preparation time. And I didn’t want to tell Mr. Cline before now, because this is Isaac’s night. But I have to tell someone, so I cave. The performance is half over, right? Besides, I know I was right to spill the details when I see Mr. Cline’s face. He lost some of his spark after the stroke, but tonight, I see some of that
joie de vivre
shine through again.

The lights flicker and we settle back into our seats. Mr. Cline takes my hand and doesn’t let go. Between Isaac’s performance and Mr. Cline’s obvious pride, I could burst from happiness.

Is this how Isaac feels when he sees his mother’s face?

I can’t wait to tell him.

The second half of the performance takes my breath away in its liveliness.
Mozart, of course.
Like the first half, it flies by. My advice on that run helped, because I don’t notice any mistakes. Isaac earns two standing ovations and placates the audience with a short encore.

I gasp when he strikes the first roll of Rachmaninoff’s Etude-Tableau No. 5 in D Minor, the piece he played for me in August when I first lost my temper with him.

When he let me touch him.

Mr. Cline hears me and glances over. Tears well up and spill over before I can stop them. Mr. Cline discreetly hands me a handkerchief. He knows better than to ask what’s wrong. Actually, there’s nothing wrong. It’s very right. The music hits in just the right place, and there’s nothing I can do but let it take me under.

Isaac lightly presses the last few chords, and I breathe again. I tuck the handkerchief in my handbag and jump to my feet with everyone else to applaud Isaac’s unparalleled performance. Isaac’s sisters and their husbands say their goodbyes, mumbling about babysitters. That leaves Mrs. Laroche, Mr. Cline, and me to head backstage to congratulate Isaac.

Mrs. Laroche bustles through the crowd ahead of us, but I hang back with Mr. Cline to help him navigate the steps. To my left, I see a familiar flash of blonde bob. She’s too far ahead to holler at, but it’s definitely Mrs. Swann, and she’s got a younger version of herself in tow that must be Heather.

When we catch up to Isaac, his mother’s lipstick decorates his face. She beams at the orchestra musicians as they pass, chatting while they pack up. Lucky for me, she turns to talk to the conductor when Mr. Cline and I approach. Isaac looks me up and down.

“Uncle Robert, I thought you were bringing Julianne with you tonight. Who’s your hot date?”

“I saw her first!” Mr. Cline declares. They laugh and shake hands,
then
Isaac turns to me.

After a slight pause, we settle on a light, awkward hug. He whispers a single word in my ear: “Stunning.”

His breath tickles the small hairs curled around my neck and makes me shiver. I’m pleased at the compliment, but also surprised.

Must be the post-performance high.

“So was your performance,” I say. “Why don’t you ever play like that for me?”

“Isaac, have you been holding out on her?” Mr. Cline asks in mock horror.

“No, she’s heard part of that before. The encore.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Cline points his cane at me. “That explains it.”

Isaac looks confused. “Explains what?”

“Nothing, Isaac. I just really liked it, that’s all, and I told Mr. Cline.” I send a mental message to Mr. Cline to drop the subject, which he does. I’ll die if Isaac finds out he moved me to tears.

Mrs. Laroche rejoins our group and announces she’ll turn into a pumpkin if she doesn’t get home soon.

“Robert, I’ll ride with Isaac so you can take Julianne home.”

“Actually, Mama, I wanted to discuss something with Juli. Could you wait?”

She gives him an exasperated look but stops when the percussionists walk by.

“Then why don’t you and I just go home, Robert, and let the two young ones talk? You’ll drop her off safe and sound, won’t you, dear?” There’s an odd tone in her voice, almost like a threat.

“Of course, Mama.” He smiles and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

Mr. Cline turns to me. “Is that all right, Julianne? I feel like a bad date, tuckering out so early. Excuse an old man’s bad manners?”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Cline. Good night.” I hug him and he places a hand on the back of my neck to hold me in place.

“Be sure to tell him your news. He’ll want to know.”

I smile. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mr. Cline. You’re the best date I ever had.”

He puts his hands over his heart and rolls his eyes. He offers his arm to his sister and they shuffle off together, bantering back and forth like only siblings can.

I turn to Isaac, and he stares at me, hands in his pockets.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“You said you wanted to discuss something with me?” I prompt him and he laughs.

“Yeah, I said that, didn’t I?”

“Are you okay? You’re acting goofy, which is cool, but definitely not your usual MO.”

“Sorry. Just distracted. Yeah, let me get my things and we’ll get out of here.”

He disappears for a few minutes, and I say hello to some of the musicians milling around.

“Hey there, Miss Juli. You doin’ okay?” Curtis Moore, who plays third-chair viola, is a skinny, pale, middle-aged man with a wild mop of red hair.