The Extravagant Collection, page 47
“When I was younger, I was a concert violinist. I had a different last name. I’d played in St. Petersburg, Vienna, Tokyo, all by the age of seventeen. Stages all over the world. Child prodigy. And I was going to attend university on a music scholarship.” Her eyes widen as I speak, like she’s gobbling up all of the things that I’ve never told her. I’ve hardly told anyone but Cole about my life before, and where I’d been headed.
“But when I was eighteen, right before I left for university, I received some new information about my parents’ deaths.” That horrible day flashes before me, the cruelty of the memory slicing my flesh, cutting my heart once again, and I bite out, “And I punched a wall.”
She gasps, perhaps in horror. Perhaps knowing where this story is going.
I hold up my hand. “I suffered permanent nerve damage.”
She sighs sadly. “My God, Daniel.”
“My hand works fine. It works fine for everything. For typing. For making sandwiches. For sex,” I say, pushing out a laugh. “It even works fine for playing the violin in an above-average fashion.” I take a beat, and then say the hardest thing. “It works fine for everything except playing Beethoven and Brahms on the world’s greatest stages.”
“That was your dream,” she says.
“It was my only one.”
Her lips quiver. Twin tears slide down her cheeks. She sits up straighter, reaches for my right hand, takes it between hers, and brings it to her lips. Then she kisses my scar like a benediction, like it can erase everything that went wrong.
I close my eyes, melting into her touch, which almost feels like forgiveness. Like I’m forgiving myself for what I did stupidly, foolishly, violently in a fit of anger over something I haven’t fully revealed to her.
How I came to end the greatest thing I’ve ever known.
But then, so many things had already ended. So many things that were also my fault.
“Thank you for sharing that. It must hurt. It must have hurt so much,” she says, her tone kind and gentle. She doesn’t push for more details. She doesn’t ask questions.
For that, I fall a little harder.
That’s why I can’t bear to tell her more. I can’t bear to reveal all the details of my family.
I’ve spent nearly two decades building walls to protect myself from everything that hurts.
This admission will have to be enough.
21
DANIEL
After a short trip in Nice, we greet the blue skies, calm seas, and warm, salty air of Marseille the next morning.
It’s a new day. But it feels like so much more. Days used to be units of time that I was hell-bent on carpe diem-ing, seizing every second, biting into them like peaches, savoring their juices as they delivered pleasure, money, and material goods.
Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow you shall die.
That’s been my mantra. It’s served me well. But today feels a bit like a new start. Like a day can be more than a feast of the senses. Like it could open up possibilities, enable promises.
That’s a terrifying thought, but a strangely welcome one too.
Perhaps because I survived telling Scarlett my secret shame.
I opened up to her, and my world didn’t shatter. The opposite happened. We came together last night, softer than the night before, more tenderly. I was careful to leave no bruises, since she’d already been marked. I kissed all those bluish spots on her body, honored them with my lips.
Now here we are in a new town, bags dropped off, room surveyed, grounds toured, stairwells checked out, and views appraised.
Le Pavillon de Marseille is not only up to our corporate standards, but it’s exceeding them in all sorts of ways.
That includes its proximity to town, so we wander through it.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, we travel along the busy streets. Tourists dart in and out of shops, peer into windows, stop at cafés.
Scarlett stops in front of a stationery store that peddles old-fashioned parchment right alongside quirky cards with funny notes like a cat with a speech bubble saying, “You’re okay, I suppose.”
I regard the woman I’ve been spending the last few days with. Scarlett seems to be changing too, ruled less by clocks and to-do lists.
Vacation Scarlett is as enticing as Type-A Scarlett. The let-down-her-guard look suits her. I hope to see more of it.
I set a hand on her arm as she stares in the window. “There’s the lollygagger in you again,” I tease.
“Exactly. I told you I could linger, and you simply didn’t believe me.”
“Color me surprised, then.”
“Good. I’m glad I’m surprising you. Or maybe it’s just the endorphins talking,” she says, teasing me, tossing my words back at me.
“I like these endorphins. I’d like to keep taking them,” I say, before the meaning of my words truly registers.
Did I just tell her I wanted to keep seeing her like this, keep having her?
Her eyes pop for a brief second as if she noted the potential in my words, but she says nothing. That’s so very like her. She doesn’t press or push but takes her time. She gives time to figure out her wants.
That’s what I’ve been doing too. I’m figuring out things that I want, and what I’ll do to get them. To keep them.
But as soon as those thoughts flit through my head, I wholly dismiss them.
I have to.
It’s one thing to share an intensely personal story; it’s another to think I’m ready to live my life differently.
This tryst is ending. We agreed to that in Giverny. She wanted the expiration date too. It’s for the best for both of us.
And that means I’ll continue carpe diem-ing.
She nudges my arm. “Perhaps you’ve rubbed off on me. Made me a lollygagger.”
“I like to rub off on you.”
She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “Fine, I walked right into that.”
“You did, love. You definitely did.”
“Guilty as charged,” she says, sighing contentedly as we stroll, window-shopping, checking out wine stores, bookshops, and an ice-cream vendor.
I reach for her hand, clasp it, and bring her close. With her body flush against mine, I draw her in for a kiss.
That’s what she needs. That’s what I want to give her.
Even if this fling is ending, we can enjoy each moment. I can give her the best of me and still save her from the worst of me—my other side.
I kiss her, making it a promise that I’ll cherish her, treat her well, give her all the respect and adoration she deserves, and that I won’t break her heart by exposing too much of it to mine.
The kiss ends, and we walk across the street hand in hand.
Sure, we’re lingering in town, but we’re technically still working, making sure that these inn locations are ideal in every way, near to all the shops, close to the cafés, accessible to tourist activities.
Ah, hell.
Who fucking cares?
I’m not working. I’m living, soaking in the Mediterranean as it stretches to the horizon like the sea is reaching into the next day.
Maybe tomorrow will be as good a day as today.
At the end of the street, an antique shop comes into view. The window display boasts a bureau, a rolltop desk, and an old-fashioned accordion.
When we reach the store, Scarlett slows her steps, drawn to a violin in the corner of the window.
My heart lunges at it, wanting to grab it, clutch it, pick it up.
Scarlett turns to me, her eyes locking with mine. For a flash of a second, I see pity in them.
But is that truly pity? Or is pity only what I reflect back to myself?
Tension mounts in me, since I’m not sure I want to talk about my music if she’s going to ask. She didn’t poke or prod yesterday, and that helped. I’d said my piece; I didn’t have more to say.
But perhaps she does.
She tips her forehead to the window. “What was your favorite piece to play?”
That is a question I can answer.
More so, I want to.
22
DANIEL
All the tension in my bones releases, since I get to talk about something wonderful. Something I don’t normally discuss with anyone.
“Barber’s Adagio for Strings,” I say, knowing the answer instantly.
She knits her brow, like she’s reaching into her mind to see if she knows the tune.
I hum a few notes to cue her. Her face lights up. She snaps her fingers, grinning. “Yes, I can hear it now.”
I hum a few more notes of one of the saddest, most plaintive pieces of music ever. “It’s so solemn. It seems to speak only of somber moments, of the passing of life, but in the intensity, there’s such beauty,” I say, and I can hear the music in my head. I can remember the last time I played it, when I was only seventeen. The memory fills me, flooding my veins, flowing into my cells. “I played it in Vienna. With the philharmonic. It was magic.”
“That sounds magical. What else? What were other pieces that were magic to you?” she asks, bouncing on her toes, eagerness etched in her features.
“I could go on,” I say, since talking about music is almost like remembering old friends who passed away too soon, making sure their deaths weren’t in vain. “Bach’s Chaconne from Partita No. 2. It’s spiritually powerful, and sublime. But it’s also dramatic, intense, and incredibly difficult to master,” I say, my pitch rising, excitement building in me as I hear the complicated notes in my mind. “It took me years.”
“When were you first able to play it the way you wanted to play it?”
“I was ten.” I bring my hands to my forehead and rub my temples, calling up the memory. “I played it for my parents. I said I was going to do a concert for them after dinner.” I laugh as something like happiness surges over me at the images of my home flickering before my eyes.
“Were they thrilled to hear it?”
“Yes, but they wanted me to eat first. Patience, I suppose. That’s what they were teaching me.”
“Did it work?”
With a grin that can’t be contained, I shake my head. “I could barely last through dinner. I gobbled down the chicken, left the rest of my plate on the table, and ran to the living room, tugging them along. Made them sit down. Then I raised my violin, and I played it,” I say, my voice distant as I linger in that faraway memory.
When I meet Scarlett’s gaze, her green eyes are simply enrapt. Like I’m a storyteller, and I’m enchanting her with a tale.
Well, hell, bloody fucking hell, I’m enchanting myself with these memories that I haven’t let see the light of day in my own mind.
“They must have been so delighted. They must have been beside themselves with pride,” she says, like there’s a lump in her throat.
I don’t mind the emotion in her tone. It’s not pity. It’s not judgment. It’s appreciation.
Somehow that’s the permission I need to keep going. “I also loved Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9,” I say, then I hum a few notes of that. “Another complicated one. I played that in London when I was seventeen.”
“Amazing,” she says, then makes a rolling gesture with her hands. “More, more. Tell me more.”
The ball is rolling, the avalanche building. Notes and chords swell in my mind, racing to reach the front of it, to earn her attention. “Brahms’s Violin Sonata No. 3. So melancholy, but full of sweetness too. God, so much sweetness,” I say, and this time I raise my hands as I hum, picking up an imaginary instrument, slowly, languidly stroking an unseen bow across the strings. My eyes fall shut as I imagine playing that sonata for this woman.
Maybe I’m the one enrapt.
No. There is no maybe about it. I am enrapt. I’m back in time, but I’m also here in this moment, telling her this story while reliving it too.
“That’s beautiful,” she says in a reverent whisper.
“I’ll play it for you.”
She blinks, her expression shifting to shock.
Quickly, I dispel the idea that I might play it. I don’t play for anyone. “I meant on your phone. We’ll find a recording. It’s an incredible piece,” I say, then I hum a few more notes.
“I hardly know any classical music, but now I want to,” she says.
“Then you should start with the Brahms. It reminds me of you,” I say.
She tilts her chin in curiosity. “Why’s that?”
Stepping closer, I run my knuckles over her cheek. “Because even when it’s sad, it’s sweet.”
“Is that me?”
I dust a kiss to her forehead. “Yes. You’re as sweet as Brahms, and as complicated.”
She sighs wistfully, but contentedly. When I pull back, she tosses another question at me. “What was it like? To possess that talent? How did it make you feel? I can’t even imagine having an ability like that.”
Her questions don’t pierce me like I’d expect. Instead, it’s as if she has a key, turns it easily in a lock, and swings a door inside me wide open. The chance to talk about music is blissful relief. I feel unlocked. Freed. “It was like life; it was like love. It was . . .” I reach for another word, but there aren’t words to do it justice. I set my hands on her shoulders, curling them tightly around her. “It was like a possession.”
“The music possessed you,” she says, her voice full of wonder. “And a part of your soul.”
I nod, feeling understood. “I was compelled,” I say, then I laugh. “Can you picture me? Six years old, obsessed with the violin?”
“I can’t see you as six, Daniel.” She laughs.
“Ten?”
She shakes her head again. “It’s hard for me to see you as anyone but who you are now.”
“How about fifteen? Can you see me as a fifteen-year-old, driven to play the violin at all hours? Standing in my room in my pajamas, staring out the window at the stars, playing Bach?”
“Now I can see it, because you’re painting the picture vividly. How old were you when you played in St. Petersburg?”
“Sixteen. I played with the symphony orchestra. I was the guest solo violinist,” I say, thrilled to share these stories at last, grateful she’s indulging me.
“Were you ever scared? Playing in front of crowds like that?”
That night in St. Petersburg flashes in my mind, clear and bright. The looming concert hall, the bright lights, the stage. “My parents were there,” I say, the memory rising up in full force like Poseidon plunging out of the sea. “They sat in the front row. I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t. I did it without fear.”
“Maybe that’s another reason why you were so good at it. You were fearless. You played fearlessly,” she says, her tone intense and full of understanding. Like she’s absorbing all my stories, seeing them, holding them in her hands, feeling the weight.
“Yes. I think I was. That’s one of the things I had going for me. I played fearlessly. And when I went onstage, I had no notion of stage fright. It felt like where I was supposed to be. Maybe because it was my whole life.”
“You still are fearless, Daniel. Even if you don’t play like you used to.” She reaches for my arm, slides her hand down it, and squeezes my forearm. “You go after deals fearlessly. You go after business that way. You approach life that way.”
I huff. “But do I? I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure that’s true, Scarlett,” I say, like I’m baring part of my soul. I don’t know that I would have said this to her a few days ago. I don’t know that I would have let down my guard to this degree. Because I don’t know if I’m truly living a fearless life like I did when I was younger, when everything was possible, when everything was love.
“You were fearless for your friend,” she says, gripping my arm harder, like she’s giving me some of her own courage. “Don’t you remember? You were fearless for Cole. You knew Sage would be right for him. So you engineered it. You brought them together. You made their romance happen. You were determined because you knew it would be good for him.”
I raise a hand, brush it along her hair, grateful that she’s not wearing a wig today. She’s simply Scarlett here with me, her chestnut-brown hair glinting gold in the sun, her clothes the simple but sexy ones she wears, the shoes on her feet silver flats. “You helped,” I say. “Don’t go all revisionist and claim you aren’t a matchmaker too.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I was involved. Yes, I gave my seal of approval. Yes, I had a feeling it was what Cole needed. But you came to me with it. You had the idea. I was simply your biggest cheerleader. Because I loved what you wanted to do for your friend.” She taps my chest. “But you made it happen.”
I grab her hand, bring her fingers to my lips, and kiss them. When I let go, I ask a question that tugs at my mind now and then. “Does it bother you that I was part of that? Part of a threesome with them?”
She tosses her head back and laughs. “No. Not in the least. I don’t care. I understand exactly why you did it then, and why you and Cole engaged in them. Why would I be bothered?”
I give a shrug, a little unsure. “Maybe it makes me seem like a hedonist. Maybe you don’t like that.”
She laughs, a confident sound. “You are a bit of a hedonist. But there’s nothing wrong with that. It was something you and Cole did, and now he’s with her.” She pauses, then narrows her brow. “Wait. This isn’t where you change your mind and tell me you want to have a threesome with me after all?”
I laugh, deep in my body, far into my heart. “I still don’t want to share you with anyone. Not a man. Not a woman. I want all of you for all of me. And I can’t stand the thought of another person touching you,” I say, jealousy flaring in my chest in a nanosecond. “So riddle me that. I’ve certainly never felt that way about anyone else.”
Her smile lights her face. Seems to light the whole damn city. Pretty sure I just told her that I’m falling for her.
But I also know that falling is dangerous.
