Naked Hope (35 page)

“And now, we’ll hear from Dr. Jillian Cole, the leading researcher in the field of traumatic brain injury. She has received worldwide recognition, and is this year’s American Psychological Association’s award recipient for Traumatic Brain Injury Research in Children. Her writings are published in several genres. Very recently, we learned she is a Golden Seal nominee for her children’s series which was originally developed for children with TBI, but has met with wide acclaim.”

Her mouth dry from a touch of stage fright, Jill stepped forward. “Thank you, Mrs. Fairfield. On behalf of the Institute and its Board, I too wish to thank each of you for joining us tonight for this very special event.” She continued the speech she’d rehearsed in the mirror several times. “And now,” a swell of warmth swept into her voice, “it’s my pleasure to introduce the maestro, Gavin Fairfield. Maestro, would you please stand?”

Gavin rose tall and dignified, bowing first to Jill, and then to the gathered guests. The ballroom reverberated with applause.

“Please enjoy your dinner,” Jill concluded. “Don't hesitate to ask, should you require anything at all. We hope you enjoy the performance later this evening. As Edith said, give generously, give with your heart, and let me just add, I hope you’ll dance like there’s no tomorrow. Thank you everyone.” She returned to the table, still a bit shaky.

Gavin squeezed her hand and whispered, “You don’t care for the spotlight much, do you?”

“I’m happy to leave the spotlight to you.” Jill touched the heart at her throat and edged her chair a little closer to Gavin’s. His arm shot around the back of her chair. She leaned into him and tipped the rim of her wine glass to his. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Gavin’s eyes smoldered like a fire that had been burning hot for a dangerously long time. “For what?”

“Many things.” She lifted her fingers to her lobes. “For instance, these.”

“My uncle gave you those.”

“Yes, but only because you gave me this.” With a gentle caress, she touched the heart at her throat. “And for trusting me with Olivia.”

Gavin’s right jerked.

“She is what you cherish most, and you trusted me with her.”

“But I made a mess of things

”

Jill took both his hands in hers. “You did, indeed. We both did.”

With a shake of his head, he squeezed her fingers. “You didn’t mess things up.”

“No?” She took his face between her hands. “I was the one who tried to strip you of your hope because I didn’t believe you could separate it from your expectations. But you taught me over and over that hope is what keeps us going when everything else falls apart. Human beings can’t survive without hope.” Suddenly aware of where they were, she released his face and folded her hands in her lap. “Your mother said recently that love isn’t something we award to someone when they’ve done well, and if we really love someone, we don’t stop because they are sensationally stubborn.”

His eyebrow shot up. “Stubborn.”

“Intractable, then.”

His jaw ticked. “I don’t see how that’s better.”

“And at times, a bit egotistical.”

He coughed. “So, now I’m an egomaniac?”

“Yes, love.” She slid her hand back into his. “It’s what makes you so artistically brilliant, and moody.”

His eyes darkened. “Are you quite finished?”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Not quite. All of this has made me realize that sometimes we get it right, and sometimes we get it wrong. I want you to know my love is not contingent on either.”

Gavin's eyes widened and the jerk of his elbow knocked his fork to the floor. As he bent down, his head bumped the edge of the table. He retrieved his errant fork, spiraled into a coughing fit, and came dangerously close to knocking the water pitcher out of a passing waiter's hands.

Suppressing a giggle, she handed him his water glass. “Drink.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

An hour later, the waiters began clearing plates and pouring coffee. Gavin brushed his lips against her temple. “I'm stepping out for some air. Come with me?”

Outside, the February wind whipped open his jacket and tugged at Jill's hair. She laughed. “My hair is at risk, I'm afraid.” Wiggling close, she burrowed into him for warmth.

Gavin's arms slid around her. “Far more than your hair is at risk.”

The wind spliced his words and froze them in mid-air. She shivered in his arms.

“So, Jillian, what did you mean in there?” he whispered, giving her jaw a light kiss.

A shaft of wind sent shivers through them both. Gavin removed his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. He grasped the lapels and brought her close, flattening the length of her body against his. His lips traced the crest of her hair downward until he reached her waiting lips. “Tell me what you meant.”

“Do you always stave off stage fright by kissing the girls? That’s why you wanted to come out here,” she murmured.

Gavin smiled down at her. “I can’t get anything by you, can I?”

Jill reveled in the tremors that coiled deep in her abdomen. “Does this happen before every performance?”

“Almost always.” His hands rode low on her hips.

“I’m freezing, Maestro, and I think it’s about time we go back in.” She sprinted toward the door. “You'll catch your death if you stay out here.”

Gavin caught her at the door. “Later, you will tell me what you meant.” He gave her fingers a meaningful squeeze.

****

In the lobby, a tall man in need of a shave strode toward them. “Maestro, I'd like a word with you.”

Gavin stiffened. “Hello, Sam, you know I always have a minute for you. But I’m about to go onstage. We could talk after. Will that do?”

Jill watched as the mysterious Sam ducked his head. “Okay, but there's something you should know.”

Sam’s shirt collar could have used a pressing. His ID badge identified him as a member of the National Press Group, formerly a top-grade news organization, that like so many of the giants, had suffered in the face of the omnipresent Internet. Today, they were little more than an obscure weekly publication people picked up on their way out of the grocery or gas check-out line.

Gavin straightened his bow tie. “What's that, Sam?”

Sam scuffed the carpet with his shoe. “You and I go back a long way, Maestro.”

“That's right.”

“So, you know I'm on the level when I tell you this.”

“Tell me what?” An unmistakable edge crept back into Gavin’s voice.

Sam’s gaze darted around the lobby. “I got a call from your agent, Adrienne Rush about an hour ago. My family—we’ve had hard times. I—I almost couldn't turn her down. I sort of thought,” he ducked his head, “I could come here and do what she suggested. But, like I said, you and I go back a long way. When times were better, you know?”

“I know, Sam.”

“Look, here it is.” He ran his fingers inside his collar and yanked at the knot of his tie. “She told me you’d deliberately excluded my paper from your performance tonight. She said I could catch you before-hand, and be ready to pop a few pictures when I asked you a certain question.” He paused.

“What question, Sam?”

Something about the way Gavin kept using Sam’s name chases shivers up and down Jill’s spine.

Sam’s gaze shot back and forth between Jill and Gavin. “Whether Olivia will be performing with you tonight.”

The reporter spoke so low, Jill had a hard time hearing him.

“And that I should ask you if the reason you suffer from stage fright is because these days, since the accident, I mean, you're back to performing solo?” he shifted feet rocking back and forth as if he couldn’t quite keep his balance.

Gavin placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “But you knew better.”

The reporter nodded, his eyes like twin ghosts.

“Well, for the record, and because of our long-standing friendship,” Gavin glanced at his watch, “I'll take a moment with you now.”

Sam gulped. “Thanks, Maestro.”

“First, Adrienne Rush is no longer my agent. She doesn’t represent me or any of my interests. With regard to Adrienne's question, the answer is no.” His head shook. “My daughter will never again perform musically. Nor compose. However,” his voice grew strong, “I’m confident she’ll find other ways to express her creativity.” A long silence followed. “That it, Sam?”

The reporter shoved his hands into his trousers. “Yeah. Thanks, Maestro.”

“Do you have a photographer around here somewhere?”

Sam nodded. “At the bar.”

“Well, call him over.” Gavin slid his arm around Jill. “Dr. Cole, give Sam your best smile.” He turned back to the reporter, digging in his pocket with his free hand. “Here. Enjoy the concert. Give the school some good press, will you?”

The grizzly-headed Sam bobbed his head. “You know I will.”

The fine lines around Gavin’s eyes smoothed as he watched Sam’s receding back.

Jill traced the slight frown etched between his eyes with her finger. “I'll answer your question now,” she told him softly. “When I thought about the possibility of you never returning home, of never seeing you again, of never being in your arms, I understood for the first time how empty it would be to live without hope. That’s when I realized that without hope, there’s no space or energy for nurturing love or joy, and life becomes meaningless.”

She brushed an imaginary stray hair from his forehead. “As a scientist, I’ve spent a lifetime bringing together just the right elements that will eventually produce a perfect result—a perfect outcome. And that works for science, but I think life is about learning to live in the present, and allowing it to be the perfect thing that it already is. After all,
right now
is all anyone ever has. So I want to fill my life with what I want, what makes me happy, what makes me strive to be a better person. You make me want to be a better person.”

His arms cinched around her.

“And that’s how I know I don’t want you in my future,” she whispered.

He stiffened and set her at arm’s length, his brow furrowed. “What?”

She brushed her lips against his jaw. “I mean the future will always be something that’s not here yet. But now

” she tapped his heart, “and now—and again just now—those were all moments we shared together. I don’t want to spend any more moments looking forward to being with you. I want my moments to be
with
you.” Her throat tight, she looked deep into his eyes. “Any questions?”

He locked his fingers into the long dark hair at the nape of her neck and bent his face over hers as if memorizing every line, every curve.

His lips closed over hers kneading them until she gasped for breath.

“Not a one,” he answered.

****

“Sam gave me an early break,” Gavin explained as they walked toward the main ballroom. “I was a no-name about to give my first performance. Sam held an influential position at the time and wrote a favorable review—the first of many. The review helped tremendously. I owe him plenty. In recent years, he's had a rough go—substance abuse, a failing news career. I guess you could say he's a fallen giant.”

Edith stood watch in the doorway, her gaze anxious, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I thought the two of you would never get back here. Jillian, it's time to say a few words. And, Gavin darling, straighten your tie,” she added, a smile tugging at her mouth.

Gavin watched his mother and Jill walk toward the podium, remembering the last time he’d seen his mother smile in that proud, yet secretive, way of hers seven weeks earlier.

“I have something for you, darling,” Edith had said, approaching her son with a smile.

“You have that meddling look,” he commented, suddenly suspicious.

“Come into the media room for a moment, won’t you?” she said, not really asking.

Gavin held up his keys. “It’ll have to wait. I’m off to pick up Jillian. I don’t want her to miss a moment of Christmas.”

Edith took her son’s hand. “No, dear. Now.”

Gavin frowned and followed her into the media room.

“Have a seat, dear.”

When Gavin refused, she said, “This will go much more quickly if you stop objecting to everything. Now sit like the good boy you can sometimes be,” she told him, brushing the hair back from his temple.

Gavin sighed and sat. “Five minutes, Mother.”

“I won’t need more than that. Darling, do you remember the night of the tornado when I asked you to play? When I didn’t think you would?”

Impatient to be on his way, Gavin started to rise.

“Sit, Gavin. This is about more than me telling you how proud I am, although I am practically bursting with pride. You see, darling, I know performing for the institute’s fund-raiser won’t be easy because it will be the first time you’ve allowed yourself to be public about Olivia’s need to be in a special program. There are bound to be questions and speculation, yet despite this, you’ve agreed to be the entertainment.”

Gavin shifted, a near scowl on his face.

She reached for his hand. “I also know you still haven’t made progress on your concerto. I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that you’ve convinced yourself those ugly rumors are true—that you’ve lost your ability to compose.”

Gavin opened his mouth to stop her, his gut churning at her words.

Edith squeezed his hand to quiet him and continued. “It’s not true, darling. Your ability to compose is an integral part of who you are—it’s a gift that can never leave you. You may think you’ve forgotten how to hear the music, but you haven’t. Look at this.” She picked up a remote and clicked.

The media room came alive with Gavin at the piano, his eyes closed, composing as he played the haunting, halting, sorrowful notes that reminded him of a bell tolling in an empty church for souls eternally lost. “You recorded it?” he asked.

After a nod, Edith paused the recording. “I got the idea when the three of you ran out into the kitchen to make popcorn. The equipment was just sitting there, dusty from lack of use. Only took me a moment to get things ready, but when the power went out I just assumed it had shut off. I didn’t realize it would shift to battery power, or that the recorder even had a battery. It’s all there, darling. Every note you played that night. See for yourself.”