Wildalone (20 page)

He must have heard our steps but remained still—so still it could pass for sleep. Our voices didn't startle him either, and the deliberate calm with which his body unfolded from the chair made it clear that he had sat in silence, waiting.

“Hi, Thea.”

My name out of his lips again. I remembered being with him in another room, just the two of us, when he had said it for the first time.

“Now you know who plays on the second piano.” Rhys patted his brother's back. “The undisputed talent in the family. I'm his envious sidekick.”

Jake looked more still than the piano itself.

We often hold competitions.
I imagined the two of them playing. If my sister had been alive, she and I would probably be doing the same.

“That's my brother for you: not a single word.” Rhys shrugged, sensing the odd vibe and having no idea what was causing it. “Thank God dinner is ready; otherwise it might take us hours to break the ice.”

A table was set right there, in the living room—most likely for added intimacy, as the house was certainly big enough to have a separate dining area. Three candles quivered in the middle, refracting shadows from the potted plants over the walls and ceiling, transforming the room into a monochrome jungle very much alive. There were three wineglasses, already filled. Three place settings. I recognized the porcelain set Rhys had brought to the willow field and it reminded me that he and I had secrets too, moments Jake was not a part of.

We sat down. Rhys made a toast—to my first dinner at Pebbles—but the sip of red wine choked my throat. I tried to picture dating him from now on. Coming to the house. Running into Jake. Having casual chats with him, pretending not to care. And more dinners. Music evenings. Maybe even double dates . . .

I had to force myself to begin eating. My mind glided through the food without registering any taste, until it occurred to me that the dishes were strangely familiar: cold cucumber soup, feta cheese pie, stuffed peppers.

“Where did you find Bulgarian food?”

Rhys laughed. “I was starting to think that you wouldn't notice.”

“Sorry, everything is a bit overwhelming.”

“I can imagine!” He pointed at my plate. “Is it any good? I asked Ferry to work his magic on the chef.”

“Yes, it's perfect. But you didn't have to.”

“Of course I did. You are too far from home, that's the least I could do.”

Jake looked up from his own plate. “I hear Bulgaria is beautiful. Haven't been there myself, but my brother has.”

I stared at Rhys in disbelief. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“You didn't?” Jake pretended not to notice the frown on his brother's face.

Rhys put his fork down—carefully, as if aligning it perfectly along the plate could change the outcome of the entire evening. “I don't believe I've mentioned it to Thea, no. Why? Is that a problem?”

They locked eyes across the table. I sat there, speechless. Something was charging up between them, and from the sound of it, their animosity had nothing to do with me.

“Right, didn't think so.” Rhys softened back into a smile and turned to me: “I traveled to Bulgaria years ago. A gem of a country.”

“When were you there?”

“When it would have been still too early to meet you.” He lifted my hand and kissed it, the way he had done by the willow. “More wine?”

Obviously, the subject of Bulgaria was closed for now. He filled my glass. “Looks like we have an important decision to make.”

My body stiffened up. “What decision?”

“Whether to have you play before dessert, or after.”

I warned him that it would be neither.

“I'm afraid ‘neither' is not on the menu tonight. I am dying to hear you play. And so is Jake.”

How could I tell him? I knew I should have. But it wasn't the kind of thing you threw in someone's face, out of nowhere:

Actually, your brother has already heard me play. He just doesn't have the courage to say it, so both he and I have been lying to you the entire time.

“I am not playing tonight, Rhys.”

“Why not? Just one piece, even if it has to be Chopin! Besides, you owe me for the other night, remember?”

He tried to kiss me but I pulled away just in time. Jake's face had turned whiter than the porcelain.

“I must head out.” Nothing in his voice gave away an emotion, but his eyes avoided both of us.

“Head out? Ferry told me you'd be here for the week!”

“Not really.” He stood up as he said this. “I promised to be back in New York tonight.”

“Promised . . . to whom? Anyone I don't yet know about?”

The question was ignored.

“Jake, come on. At least stay the night!”

“It will have to be some other time.”

Now Rhys looked baffled. “He's killing me, Thea! I swear, this is so unlike my brother . . .”

Jake walked around the table to give Rhys a hug, then turned to me. I froze, terrified that he was about to hug me too. That for one impossibly short instant, I would finally be in his arms. But he reached out only with his hand. Waited for mine. Took it carefully, as if touching an object made of glass, and just held it, briefly, while his eyes held mine.

“It was nice to meet you, Thea Slavin.”

The rest happened quickly. Rhys must have detected something in Jake's voice, or on Jake's face, or in the nervous posture of Jake's body on the way out, and the casual “nice to meet you” didn't fool him. Looking infuriated, he ran after his brother. When he came back, he didn't say a word about what had happened outside. But it wasn't hard to guess: he had probably confronted Jake and found out the truth.

In a final nod to his good manners, he drove me back to Forbes—in silence. Dropped me off in silence. Wouldn't even say good night.

“Rhys, I am so sorry . . .”

“Sorry for what? You have nothing to apologize for.”

The last sound I heard was that of screeching tires, as his car turned the corner and disappeared.

“I DON'T UNDERSTAND, THEA.” DONNELLY'S
face gathered up its storm in the familiar frown, except this time the catalyst wasn't my choice of majors.
In more than a week, I had learned only half of the Albéniz. And that, to her, was a personal insult. “You know what Carnegie means for a musician's career, right?”

Of course I did: the ultimate jackpot. But I had other things on my mind too. My entire weekend had felt surreal. The guy I was seeing had split into two different people, then I had lost both of them.

“We are walking a very tight rope and I can't let you waste any more time. What's distracting you? Is it school?”

“Partially.”

“And the other part?”

I used the campus job as an excuse, yet the frown stayed.

“As I told you, the Financial Aid Office insists on this work nonsense. The earliest I can get you out is January.”

Getting me out of Procter Hall wasn't the point. I needed Donnelly to get me
in
it.

“They keep a piano there that no one seems to be playing. If I could practice on it after work . . .”

“Why can't you?”

“The place is locked at night.”

She reached for her phone. “When are you working next?”

“This evening.”

“Excellent. Give me a minute.”

A minute was all it took. She dialed a number, exchanged a few words, then hung up looking triumphant. “Someone will bring you a key by the end of the shift.”

And so finally I had it—my own piano, in a space so beautiful it infused the mind with music!

While thanking her, I wondered whether this “someone” might turn out to be the janitor (or, as he had called himself,
keykeeper
) who had once unlocked Procter Hall for me. I found him oddly fascinating and hoped to run into him again. Chat him up some more. Figure out why he talked so poetically about music. And, above all, get him to open up about those Princeton suicides he had mentioned the last time. Not that I could picture
my sister jumping from Cleveland Tower. But maybe he had heard of other incidents too? A dead girl found by a hiking trail, for example. Or a funeral home scandal involving the most morbid of thefts.

Unfortunately, no one brought the key. It waited in an envelope when I went to work, and once everyone had left after the shift, I resumed my struggle with Albéniz.

The beginning was deceptively simple, with the right index finger pecking the tempo on a single key while the left hand circled around it in staccato patterns. It was a joke, a child could play it. Until the music erupted. Octaves, slammed at the opposite ends of the piano as if, all of a sudden, you were expected to grow a third hand, then a fourth, and cover the entire keyboard without any disruption to the melody.

I was going to need weeks just to get the notes right. Wylie had called this “a basic read,” while my piano instructor, years back, had referred to it as “teaching instinct to your fingers.” Either way, I hated grappling with new music. Feeling crippled. Hitting wrong keys. Dissecting the piece down to its bare bones and cramming it into so many mechanical repetitions that, yes, the fingers did go on autopilot. But so did the brain. While the ear, washed out from hearing the same sounds over and over, simply stopped registering them.

I forced myself to play it to the end once, then turned off the lights and became absorbed in different music—music I knew by heart. The last time I had played it on this same piano, I had imagined someone listening. Hidden, invisible in the dark.

I thought of you and your Chopin every single minute—

A hinge squeaked and made me jump from the bench. I could have sworn I shut the door. Fully shut, so that no one would hear.
Sounds don't escape walls like these.
Maybe Silen had lied?

The bright triangle began to stretch across the floor: a hand was pulling on the doorknob, this time all the way.

“Hi. Sorry if I interrupted your music.”

I recognized the voice even before my eyes had adjusted to the backlight framing him. “Jake . . . what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“I see that. But how did you . . .”

“Know where you'd be?” He smiled—I still hadn't figured out that when he wanted to find me, he knew where and how. “Tracking you down isn't a problem. The problem is that I seem to get there only when it's too late.”

His eyes were turned to the closed scores, but we both knew he meant something else.

“You didn't go back to New York last night.” It wasn't a question. The real question was why.

“I had to see you and apologize.”

“For what?”

“For the way things happened.”

“What happened was simple. You promised to find me, but instead the one who found me was your brother.”

“Why did you pick him, Thea?”

It struck me for the first time: He didn't know. He thought I had chosen Rhys over him on purpose.

“I'd seen you only in the dark. When I ran into Rhys, I assumed it was you.”

“You did? We don't even look that much alike.”

“Apparently you do. Or . . . maybe I just wished it was you, until I actually believed it.”

“It should have been me.” He said it so quietly I could barely distinguish the words.

“Then why did you disappear?”

He hesitated.

“Why, Jake?”

“I had my reasons.”

“That's all? You had
reasons
?”

We were only steps away from each other. I looked at him. Waited.

“I didn't disappear. I had to get Rhys to move to New York first.”

“Why?”

“Because being with you wasn't an option. Not with him still around.”

“What does Rhys have to do with anything?”

While he agonized over the answer, I tried to follow this new twist: Jake's sudden decision to move to Manhattan only days after my concert, then the two of them ending up there.

“Are you saying that you can't date a girl who lives in the same town as your brother?” The words made it sound plausible but I refused to believe it. Jake—threatened by Rhys. Weak and insecure. “Sorry, that's ridiculous.”

“You don't know my brother.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don't. You don't know the full impact he has on women.” As soon as he said it, he must have realized that Rhys's impact on women was exactly the part I already knew.

“Do you ever think about the full impact
you
have on women?”

“I don't care about other women.”

“I am not talking about other women, Jake. Why did you . . .” Now I was the one afraid to finish a sentence. “Why do you always leave?”

“You don't understand. I have to force myself to stay away from you.” He lifted his fingers to my face but ran them down a safe distance from it, brushing my hair with the back of his hand only briefly, by accident. “I have to force myself to not touch you.”

“Why?”

“Because I love my brother.”

What could I say to this? I turned to walk away but he caught my elbow. “Wait . . .”

“What, Jake?” I tried not to look up at him, at whatever it was about this guy that made me forget my anger. “What else do you want?”

“I can't have you upset with me.”

All I heard was
I can't have you.
“Why not?”

For a moment he looked confused.

“No, I mean it. What difference does it make?”

“I'll be running into you on campus, that's for sure.”

“You will?”

“I go to school here, Thea.”

The thought hadn't crossed my mind. After Rhys said his brother was twenty-seven, I assumed they were both done with studying and only lived in Princeton because it was their home.

“You seem surprised.”