Dissonance (2 page)

“Uncle. So good to hear from—”

“I’m late to a meeting,” Duncan Sherrington said with obvious irritation. “You asked for an update.”

The clipped response stung. Since Cam’s father’s death, Duncan had been like a father to him, and Cam had tried to make the man happy. Make him proud. But no matter what he did, he never met Duncan’s expectations. He was never good enough, never smart enough, never dedicated enough. He was yet another annoying gnat his uncle was forced to deal with, and lately it seemed an entire swarm of gnats dogged Duncan’s every move.

“Calling with good news, then?” Cam said.

“If nothing new is good news.” In many respects, Cam appreciated Duncan’s forthrightness. Blunt was always better than bullshit. Still, the only interactions he had with Duncan were in the form of verbal swats. Cam stifled his disappointment and bucked up.

“Might be.” Cam waved at the doorman and strode into the bright sunlight.

“I’ve had Henry contact his friend. Nothing more about rumors of an investigation here. Seems Revenue and Customs has better things to do with its time.”

Cam figured as much. He could handle rumors, or ignore them, if he chose to. “Glad to hear it.”

“Are you staying in New York until the end of the month?” Duncan asked.

Cam got the distinct impression that Duncan would be pleased if he stayed.
One less irritation.
He’d originally planned on staying a week, maybe two. He’d used the excuse that he’d pay a visit to their US subsidiary, Raice Corp., headquartered in New Brunswick, New Jersey, when he’d actually come for Aiden’s Metropolitan Opera debut. He supposed he’d need to make an appearance at Raice’s offices before he headed home. Not that he was in a hurry to return to England—Duncan was more than capable of running Sherrington Holdings. Best damn decision his father had ever made, to appoint Duncan CEO of the company should anything happen to him. And there was no better time to be in New York City than late September. The days were warm and the evenings cool and breezy. Cam had been for a run in Central Park that morning, and the trees were a riot of color. Perfect.

“Possibly,” he answered at last. “Next board meeting isn’t until October. Unless you think you might need me to—”

“We have things under control here. Take your time.”

“Thank you. I will.” Fine. If that was how Duncan felt, he’d stay. Duncan clearly didn’t need him. He tried to brush off the deepening insecurity. What did it matter if Duncan or anyone else at Sherrington Holdings didn’t need him? He liked the idea of staying in New York a few more weeks. Maybe by the time he got back to London, his mother would have fled to warmer climes and he’d spend a peaceful few weeks at his family’s estate in Surrey before the board meeting. Time spent with Lady Vanessa Baines Sherrington anywhere, especially at the estate, which his ex, Aiden, had affectionately referred to as “the castle,” was downright grueling.

Cam heard the sound of rustling paper through the phone and a woman’s voice in the background.

“Good. We’ll speak later, then,” Duncan said curtly.

Duncan disconnected the call before Cam could respond.

Happy bloody birthday to me.
Had he really thought Duncan would remember?
Fuck him.
When had his life become a fucking cliché?
Poor little rich boy—no one remembers his birthday
. No doubt his mother would forget as well. She usually did. He’d enjoy himself more without a lecture about what he should be doing with his life, anyhow. Maybe turning thirty wouldn’t be so bad. He would rather have celebrated with Aiden, of course, but he’d spend the evening at an impromptu party at a friend’s instead, and he hoped he wouldn’t be going home alone. Aiden would be spending time with Sam.
As it should be.
After cheating on Aiden—on several occasions—Cam couldn’t expect Aiden to stick around, could he?

A quick glance at his watch told him he had time to take the subway to the restaurant. He loved the subway. He’d ridden it for the first time when he’d visited New York City with his mother twenty years ago, on a school holiday. Not that his mother had known about it. He’d managed to escape his mother’s grasp (which wasn’t all that tight since she preferred to spend as little time with him as possible) and he’d slipped under a turnstile and ridden the Lexington Avenue subway for hours by himself. Before then, he’d ridden the London Tube with his father a few times. His father had preferred it to negotiating London traffic when he stayed in the city. He’d enjoyed that, but riding alone had been far more exciting.

As it always was this time of day, the 42nd Street subway station was filled with people headed in a dozen different directions. Cam had always thought of this station as the heart of New York. The first time he’d come here, he’d gotten lost in one of the underground passages and ended up on a train to Brooklyn. Since then, he’d learned his way around the twisting tunnels so well he could navigate them in his sleep.

He headed for the Uptown platform, mixing in with the stream of people coming from Grand Central and managing not to get jostled. The woman ahead of him wasn’t as fortunate. She pivoted to avoid a couple of schoolchildren and fell, dropping her shopping bags on the dirty concrete floor right in front of him.

Cam didn’t have time for this. He looked around, hoping someone would come to her aid. No one did.
Bloody hell
. “Are you all right?” He offered the woman his hand.

She smiled at him with blue eyes and a face full of wrinkles, took his hand, and got to her feet. “Thank you,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. Cam helped her straighten her coat, which was open and had fallen off one shoulder. “I’m not much of a ballerina.”

“Not a problem.” He gathered up a few stray grocery items that had fallen out of the bag when she’d taken her tumble, waited until she dusted herself off, and handed the bags back to her. “It’s a bit like entering a race course,” he said as he reciprocated her smile.

“You’re English, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Indeed, I am.” He glanced at his watch. He’d be late for lunch at this rate.

“I visited London a few years ago with my husband.” Her expression grew wistful. “Before he died. We always said we’d make the trip.”

Cam stifled his rising impatience with the woman. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much so. We saw the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and spent a few afternoons at the British Museum. We took a train to—” She stopped herself. “I do babble on sometimes.”

He offered her a false smile. “It’s quite all right.”

“Thank you, young man,” she said. “My son says I should take the bus, but I like the subway. There’s music too.”

“Music?”

She nodded. “Listen.” She inhaled, pressed her lips together, and began to hum “Ain’t No Sunshine.” For the first time, Cam heard the sound of a trumpet through the noise of the passengers and squealing brakes of an incoming train. He vaguely remembered seeing someone playing for loose change not far from the passage to the S train.

“Oh, but I shouldn’t keep you,” the woman was saying as Cam came back to himself. “I’m sure you have somewhere you need to be.” She patted him on the arm. “You’ve been very kind to an old woman.”

“It was my pleasure.” He wanted to make his escape. He’d wasted enough time with the woman, but she’d piqued his curiosity. Instead of rushing to catch his train, he walked over to where the musician was playing and stopped to listen.

A
ROUND
NOON
,
Galen Rusk finally found a parking spot after circling for nearly twenty minutes. He didn’t mind—he was used to parking in New York on a weekday. On the weekend, he’d have taken the train into the city, but on Fridays the commuter lot near his house required permits, so it made more sense to drive.

He reached into the backseat of his beloved 1991 Honda Civic and pulled out his trumpet. Some of the music he’d stacked next to the case had shifted as he drove, so he straightened the piles, making sure none of the edges were bent. He’d considered buying some sort of file for the car, but each time he went to the office supply store, he seemed to forget he needed it. A stray bit of fur caught his eye, white against the black interior. He plucked the offending fuzz from the pristine vinyl with thumb and forefinger and flicked it into the street. He’d need to vacuum the interior again; Max’s hair had migrated from the front seat.

No. Let it go.
He remembered years ago how his therapist had told him that it was okay to let things go sometimes. Ignore a bit of dust here; leave something a bit askew there. He still struggled, though.

He sighed and zipped his leather jacket before picking his trumpet up. Until a few days before, the weather had been mild. Now he felt autumn in the air. He’d need to rake leaves over the weekend. The thought made him smile—he loved this time of year and took great pleasure in perfecting the appearance of his front yard. Tomorrow morning he’d get outside and do his fall trimming of the bushes and trees around his house.

He walked to the 42nd Street subway station, reaching it a half an hour later. He waved at the attendant in the ticket booth. He and Tyra often chatted when she finished her shift. Sometimes she’d even bring him tea when it got cold.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered MetroCard, swiped it to open the turnstile, and walked through. After taking a moment first to watch the blur of activity as riders climbed steps and headed down the various tunnels that snaked around Grand Central Station, he walked to the alcove just short of the entrance to the S train. This time of day, he preferred to play here. Even though the area was cleaner and the acoustics better near the ticket booth, he liked to people-watch. Later, when the evening commute died down and the weekend took hold of the city, he’d move to his favorite spot by the turnstiles.

He inspected the concrete at length. He’d worked hard to keep his favorite areas clean, and was annoyed when someone carelessly littered. He picked up a bubblegum wrapper, a cigar band, and a used napkin and placed them in a nearby trash can. He set his trumpet case down on the concrete, shrugged off his jacket, then opened the case and pulled out his instrument. The metal felt cold against his fingers, so he pressed the keys to warm them, cycling through each in a rhythm reminiscent of someone drumming fingers over a desk. Over and again, he moved his fingers until they too warmed. Only then did he pull the silver mouthpiece out of the case and insert it into the end of the instrument. He played scales and arpeggios at first, then variations on those until his lips vibrated of their own accord.

As always, these preparatory gestures caused his body to tense. Whether from the memory of years past or from the excitement of playing in public, he never knew. He’d long ago realized it didn’t matter why he felt nervous. The only thing that mattered was awareness of his fear. He’d been living with it for years. It was a part of him. A part of him that he’d mastered with determined effort, his tranquility hard earned.

Breathe. Relax.

He had no particular plan, no order of pieces in mind. He played what his heart told him to, and he allowed his emotions to guide him. Today he felt the mellow, slightly melancholic calm that seemed to accompany the changing of the seasons. Something soft and sensual. “Night and Day” by Cole Porter. One of his favorites. The trumpet became the voice—his voice—singing the words.
Night and day, you are the one…. Only you beneath the moon and under the sun….

A bevy of high school girls walked by, giggling and whispering to each other as they passed. He caught the word “cute” before they vanished down the stairs. He’d gotten used to that over the years he’d been teaching. Students of both sexes flirted with him from time to time, despite the fact that he never denied he was anything but gay. He watched them as he watched most people: from a distance. It was safer for him. He’d learned that the hard way. He mentally pushed the disturbing memories away and remastered his focus.

At the entrance to the area where he played, a man entered and glanced at his watch. Light brown hair fell in soft curls around his face. Full pink lips and pale skin. Well-dressed in clothes that fit his lean, almost feminine body as though they’d been custom-made for it. Galen had noticed him before. He might not be interested in relationships, but he couldn’t deny he wanted this man. Galen had seen many men who tried to appear as though their looks were casual and natural and failed miserably. This man was gorgeous.

Galen tried to remember the last time he’d spent the night with someone. Had it been more than a year? It had been far longer since he’d been in a relationship. Again, he pushed away the memories and focused on the music.
Let it go.
He took a slow breath, imagined his body relaxing, and the tension abated. He’d become quite good at that. His life was good now. Simple and worth living.

He began to play the next piece.
“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone… and she’s always gone too long any time she goes away.”