Naked Hope (2 page)

“No way, you didn’t draw
The Beast
for your student advisor!”

Jill stared into her beer. The jukebox played
Bad Luck Blues
loudly in the background, a perfect match for her morose mood. “I did.”

After a long pause, her roommate, Lucy said, “Well, then I guess we’ll find out whether what they say about him is true.”

“Sure, at my expense.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe he’s not as bad as they say. Even if he is, he’s the hottest thing on campus. And young—they say he’s barely twenty-four. That’s doable, you know.” She winked.

“He’s
married
, Luce.”

Lucy grinned. “I’m just sayin’ he’s hot, young, comes from one of the wealthiest families this side of the Atlantic, and did I mention hot?”

“Sure. Go ahead and laugh. But this year, Professor Fairfield’s changed the requirements. He’s turned the midterm for all the new music majors into an audition for a seat in the concert orchestra. Anyone who doesn’t make it is out.”

Lucy chugged her beer. “Well, I know it’s important to you but if you don’t make it, you can always declare another major.”

Jill took a half-hearted slug of her beer. “Come on, Luce, you know I’m here on a music scholarship. If I don’t make it, I’m not just out of the program, I’m out. Period. If that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. All I’ve ever dreamed about is being a concert cellist.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Okay, Yo Yo. I’ll be watching for you at Carnegie Hall.”

Jill swung her head. “Not if I don’t make it into the concert orchestra, you won’t. He didn’t even show up for our first advising session.”

“He bailed on you?”

Jill dropped her gaze.

The waitress delivered a basket of chili fries and two more beers.

Lucy sucked in her breath. “Not good. You should

Ouch
! These are hot!” She blew on her fingers. “You should try to switch advisors.”

Jill stabbed the steaming fries with her fork and fished them onto her plate. “I wish, but there isn’t anyone else. Professor Fairfield’s it.”

Fairfield didn’t show for her second advising session. Jill headed for the dean’s office to appeal for a different advisor. Outside the auditorium, beguiling strains of soft music lured her inside the darkened theater. A finger of light lit the stage. Gavin Fairfield sat at a grand piano, playing. She slipped in and took a seat near the back. He played with his eyes closed. Periodically he’d stop, take up his pencil, and make a notation, then again lose himself to the music. Both master and servant, watching him stroke the instrument into submission changed her perception of music forever.

“Who’s there?” He demanded, shading his eyes and squinting into the dark.

She jumped and considered diving under one of the seats where he’d never see her. Instead, she stood, heart racing. Her voice quavered as she called out, “I am.”

“Whoever you are, I have this auditorium for several more hours. Go away.”

Jill took a deep breath. “Professor Fairfield, I don’t mean to disturb you, but this is the second time you’ve missed our appointment. I need you to sign off on classes and approve my work-study schedule.”

He frowned and ran his hand through his hair. “We had an appointment? What time is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

“And I missed it, you say?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“I’d like to reschedule. Does tomorrow

”

“What’s wrong with right now? You’ve already interrupted me. I presume you have what you want me to sign?”

She climbed the steps to the stage, handed him the form and dug in her purse for a pen. When she finally found one, she looked up to see that he’d already signed it with his own pen and was waiting, his face unreadable.

“What do you play?”

He sounded so bored, she couldn’t imagine why he even bothered to ask. “Cello.”

His expression relaxed. “Are you any good?”

Jill straightened. “I guess you’ll tell me.”

He hesitated and then chuckled under his breath. “Yes, I guess I will. You may stay and listen if you wish, but try not to disturb me again.”

He never did keep an appointment, but she always knew where to find him. Before long, she adopted the daily practice of slipping into the back of the auditorium, exhilarated about yet another opportunity to observe him doing what he loved—and what she loved—most.

Then one day, he stopped and stared into the empty auditorium until he found her. “You there. Why do you always sit in the back?”

“Me?” Jill’s hairline crawled.

“I don’t see anyone else.”

“I

I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought that if I sat in the back

”

“You wouldn’t disturb me.” Fairfield pushed away from the piano and stood, his legs slightly apart. “Well, you have. You’re where you don’t belong, so muster the courage to sit where you can learn something.”

After that, she sat in the front row where she observed the way his jeans hugged his thighs and emphasized the roll of muscles as he worked the pedals, or the way the black t-shirt he typically wore defined his shoulders and cut away from his biceps. Sometimes he even acknowledged her.

The morning of her midterm, Jill awakened with a deep sense of dread. She told herself that although the date was Friday the thirteenth, she wasn’t superstitious. Nothing could stop her from playing well, today of all days. As she had so many times, she sat in the auditorium—but nothing was magical about the man today. Demanding and impatient, he expressed himself with frank insensitivity.

Students fled from their auditions in tears.

When they called her number, apprehension stalked her like a shadow as she walked to center stage, her breathing so shallow, she had to fight the urge to flee. He looked beyond bored.

He stifled a yawn. “Ah, Ms. Cole. At last, the time has come. Let’s see what you’ve learned.” He sighed and turned away. “You may begin. Watch for my cues.”

Jill played the opening strains of a well-known piece by Shostakovich from memory. She could feel every fiber of her bow as it scraped the A string, cut across the D and G strings, resting heavily on the C string. Even some of the most elementary chords were stilted and sloppy.

Fairfield silenced her after a few bars with a careless flick of his wrist. “Yes, yes, almost every hopeful cellist chooses that piece. But how often have you heard it performed? Almost never! Of what use is it?” He waved his hand. “Play something else.
Anything
else. Be creative, genuine. Don't just show me what you've learned, show me
who you are
.”

Jill’s hands began to sweat. Her back creaked from the familiar strain so many cellists suffered sitting at a ninety-degree angle. In an effort to please him, she lurched into the first piece that flew into her mind. The cello squawked, making her hands sweat even more. Two miserable measures later, her bow suddenly sprang free and arced across the room, narrowly missing Fairfield. When the baton landed, it spun around and around on the floor as if the baton had a mind of its own.

Humiliated beyond words, Jill sat motionless in her straight-backed chair, unable to think what to do next.

With a graceful, sweeping motion, Fairfield retrieved the errant bow, walked it over to Jill, and gave another understated flick to indicate she should start again.

Despite her determination, her nerves got the better of her ability and she played raggedly, as if the strings hurt her fingers.

He waved his hands. “Stop, stop, not another note. Ms. Cole, where are you from? Farm country?”

She bobbed her head and sputtered, “I—I’m from a little farm near Hope, North Dakota.”

He sighed, examining the palms of his hands.

Jill swallowed hard and fought against the sinking sensation of failure that settled in her throat.

He had jabbed a finger at her cello. “Well, Ms. Cole, rather than cling to the unfounded belief that one day you’ll be a musician, the only
hope
for you is your farm in North Dakota—which is where you belong. I suggest you go back there.”

Nona buzzed, breaking into Jill’s reverie. She glanced at her watch. “Yes?”

“Ross just called. Says they’re about halfway through the tour. Wants to know how you’re coming along.”

“Tell him not a minute before eleven thirty.”

“What about that tall drink of water?”

Jill shivered. “A little too much ice for my taste.”

Nona chuckled. “Ice melts, honey.”

Chapter Two

Engrossed in Olivia’s file, Jill devoured every detail. While she wanted to avoid labels, Olivia had been, by any measure, a musical virtuoso. From the web articles and news clippings in the file, Jill learned that at age three Olivia played several instruments, at five she began composing, and at eight, just before the accident, she’d earned a reputation as a renowned concert pianist. From the various photos Jill observed that Olivia had developed quite a public persona.

Olivia’s medical prognosis indicated a full recovery with the exception of her musical ability. No matter how much Olivia’s brain might adapt and regenerate over time, she would never again take abstract musical concepts and create patterns. Her career as a musician, her life as a musically gifted virtuoso, was over.

Gavin’s words drifted back.
Music is what she loves most. What if all she needs is for someone to believe in her? I can’t possibly accept defeat. Not when it comes to Liv’s music.

Jill gave an involuntary shudder. As she read further, she discovered that various assessments completed by psychologists at three-month intervals over the last fifteen months confirmed Olivia’s loss of memory. Her inability to engage in any form of musical appreciation had left her frightened, resentful and angry. One of the reports hinted Olivia didn’t have the appropriate emotional nurturing from her family to make a healthy recovery, but didn’t indicate a reason.

So that’s that. Even if I could make room, she’s not eligible.
No child could be admitted into her program without strong empathic support from family members grounded in a realistic outlook, and realistic expectations consistent with medical fact. Gavin Fairfield was far from realistic and she had no reason to believe he would follow anyone’s protocol but his own.

About to close the file, her gaze landed on a single sentence nearly obscured by a post-it note. “The father’s refusal to accept the patient’s musical limitations is damaging to the well-being of the patient.”

When the two men settled themselves in her office, Jill began, “Olivia’s application indicates you’ve selected the institute’s advanced program. We have many programs here for children with TBI. Why have you chosen this particular program?”

“Because it’s the one you designed.”

“I design them all.”

“But this is the one whose clinical trial results were recently published?”

More than a little flattered that he knew about the early success of her program, she clarified, “Those were preliminary results. The trial is ongoing. This year’s results will be crucial to the future of the program.”

Fairfield flicked his hand. “Yes, yes. I’m aware of that. Liv needs your program. No one else can claim your results.”

“I see. You understand that particular program is reserved for students who demonstrate high levels of intelligence

”

“Yes.”

“—creative ability

”

“Yes.”

“—and where brain injuries have resulted in a minimal degree of permanent impairment—”

“Which makes Liv the perfect candidate,” Gavin insisted.

Jill scrutinized the maestro’s handsome face, all too aware of how used he was to getting his own way. “Mr. Fairfield, what do you hope this program will do for Olivia?”

His eyes widened and he spread his arms. “What else? Save her!”

Silence reigned.

Jill hesitated, careful to keep her body language in check, despite her rising frustration. With quiet determination, she said, “We aren’t in the business of saving children

”

“No? What would you call it? My daughter is lost. We’ve tried

”

“We?”

“Her grandparents and I. We’ve tried to help her but we’re as lost as she is. I’m convinced that you can help her find her way back.”

“Back to what, specifically?”

“To herself.”

Ross shifted.

Jill jotted a few notes while she chose her next words. “The students who do well in my program have strong emotional support from family members and caregivers who have realistic expectations. There are strict guidelines—an exacting protocol—boundaries. They can be challenging, even frustrating for family members, but they exist so that everyone can adapt to the many personality changes that accompany traumatic brain injury. My protocol allows the child access to what he or she needs without the pressure of expectation.”

“Again, yes!” Gavin inclined his head.

Jill leaned forward. “For example, you have an expectation of Olivia that medical evidence indicates she can no longer meet. You expect Olivia to think, act and perform as a musician. My program would require you to change that expectation. Olivia would not pursue any form of music because we would never reinforce what she can’t do. Instead, our focus is to help her discover what she can do, and find new interests. But I can’t imagine this being something you can support since earlier you stated you would never accept defeat regarding your daughter’s music.”

Gavin’s blue-gray eyes flashed. “I believe in your program. I’m confident you know what you’re doing.”

J
ill smoothed nonexistent wrinkles out of her skirt and looked to Ross for support.

Ross avoided her gaze.

“And I believe in my daughter,” Gavin stated in a quiet tone.

After a long moment, she said, “The program you’re interested in is full.”

Gavin gripped the chair arms and opened his mouth.

Jill held up her hand. “We employ a meticulous process when we select our students to ensure the greatest likelihood of success for the student, and for the program. The success of one depends on the success of the other. The information in Olivia’s file is a start. We’d never make an admission decision without conducting interviews and assessments—I would need to administer tests—observe Olivia in her home environment, none of which I have time for.” Jill smoothed more nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. “The deadline for admission was four months ago. What reason can you give me for taking on an eleventh-hour effort like this?”