Naked Hope (36 page)

She had a recording of that night?
His back stiffened. “How long have you had this?” he demanded.

“Well, since the day of the tornado, of course. But I only discovered the recording yesterday. Like I said, with the power went out, I never thought anything had been recorded. You were inspired that night, Gavin. Watch the recording. You’ll hear some of your best work, my dear. It’s new. Fresh.”

“The night of the storm? I didn’t play for more than a few minutes—the composition was nothing—just a few minutes of drivel.” Gavin made a brushing motion with his hand.

“You played for a full twenty minutes. Did you know that? I can honestly say they were some of the best twenty minutes I’ve had since the accident. If you wonder whether you can still compose, just watch the recording, darling.”

His mother handed him the remote and left the room. Gavin stared at the screen, his hand flexing around the remote, unable to face yet another disappointment. Indecision rooted him in place. Finally, he put down the remote and turned resolutely toward the door. Today was Christmas and Jillian was waiting. The recording could wait a few more days. Besides, his gut told him how futile listening was likely to be.

January closed in around him bitter and cold. Unable to sleep and desperate for something to take his mind off Jill, he found himself reaching for the remote in the media room well after midnight one sleepless, angry night. He didn’t emerge until noon the next day. Later, while he and Olivia were in Whitesands Bay, he scored an arrangement that satisfied him. His mother was right. He’d created some of his best work, so achingly melancholy and yet, hopeful.

“…and so, without further delay, Maestro Fairfield will present…”

The sound of Jill’s voice drew him back into the present.

****

Jill rushed through the rest of her introduction, anxious to step away from the spotlight, happy to turn things over to Gavin. “…and so, without further delay, Maestro Fairfield will present two of the movements from his latest piano concerto. This evening, you have the exclusive honor of being the first to hear this piece.”

When her voice threatened to break, she took a breath, her mouth drier than sand. “Following the performance, you’ll have the opportunity to make your pledges. Please feel free to go to any of the pledge booths. You can make additional, one-time contributions by playing the slots, or participating in the silent auction. And, of course, the gift baskets are available for purchase—refer to your programs for specific locations. There will be dessert and dancing in the main ballroom after the performance, and of course, the cash bar is open until one.” She waved a hand toward Gavin. “Maestro?”

The audience clapped as Gavin bounded up the steps of the stage, taking them two at a time. When he reached Jill, he took her hands and kissed them. Instead of seating himself at the piano, he stood in front of the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve taken the liberty of changing my selection for tonight. Instead of the concerto, I am playing a new piece. I call it
Every Time You Breathe
.”

Jill caught her breath.
Every Time You Breathe
was the title of the poem he’d written to her. Were they connected?

“The lights, if you please.” Gavin seated himself at the piano. He flexed his arms, stretched his fingers, and adjusted his shirt cuffs so they wouldn’t in any way restrict his movement.

The moment he began, Jill recognized the music, losing herself in the memory of the storm and all that followed. Every note, every nuance, every dark note invaded her. When at last she tore her attention away from Gavin long enough to observe the audience, she saw they were just as enthralled with his melodic momentum.

The music modulated as the anguish, hopelessness, and poignant sorrow changed to acceptance, followed by restorative, peaceful cadences she’d never heard before. When she thought the piece was over, the music swelled with joy, finally concluding on what could only be described as a nakedly hopeful note.

Almost as one, the audience leaped to their feet, rocking the hall with deafening applause.

One hand resting on the piano, Gavin offered a deep bow.

By Jill’s count, they called him back seventeen times. He played three encores and after that, no matter how many times they called him back, he simply rewarded the audience with a deep bow.

Gavin raised his hand, indicating he wished to speak. “I’d like to take a moment before you fill out your pledges.”

The applause fell away.

“He's such a showman,” Edith whispered.

Hands gripping the podium, Gavin continued, his jaw taut. “Tonight is a very important night. As you know, my daughter Olivia was injured two years ago, and she’s no longer able to pursue her musical interests. You see, Olivia has traumatic brain injury.”

The audience listened to him in rapt silence, their eyes rounded, and heads nodding.

“Of the one point four million who sustain TBI each year in the United States, fifty thousand will die, and two hundred-thirty-five thousand are hospitalized. Twenty-seven hundred will be children who live right here, in Minnesota. I don't know how many of you are familiar with the difficulties children with TBI face.” He paused to glance at his family’s table. “They become strangers to themselves, and only with the help of schools like this one, and their specially trained, dedicated faculty, are they able to make a healthy adjustment and live full, meaningful lives. I urge each of you to carefully consider what would happen if your child was the victim of traumatic brain injury and no such facilities existed.”

He paused, searching the crowd. “Many of you have asked about Olivia. Since attending this institute, she’s making excellent progress. And while she will never perform again

” his voice cracked and a shadow of sadness crept across his face. With effort, he smiled. The shadows evaporated. “

I can report she is on her way to being a happy, well-adjusted child in whose charms and many gifts, her grandparents and I, delight.”

When the audience clapped, he stopped them. “But please don’t make tonight about me, or Olivia, or even the others who are learning and being treated here at the Wilson Institute. Because tonight is about you.” His wave encompassed the entire room. “
You
are the unsung heroes, and tonight you can turn hope into reality.
You
can do that. You’ve already done that for Olivia, and for me.

A deafening applause filled the room.

“Just two other quick announcements before we continue,” Gavin added. A mischievous grin split his handsome face.

“First, there’s someone I'd like to introduce. As you know, over the next couple of hours, you’ll be filling out your pledges. Many events are offered tonight to inspire you to give generously. In this ballroom, I'll be doing my best to entertain you. Just give your requests to my new agent, Jim Calmenson, and he’ll get them to me. Jim, will you stand so that these good people will know who you are?”

After more applause, Gavin continued, “Finally, you may have noticed the press are here tonight. Their influence is far-reaching. It’s my hope they were inspired tonight to write favorably not only about the Wilson institute, but that they will use their influence to educate the public, and contribute to a world-wide effort to help us find a way to overcome TBI.”

Releasing a sigh, he bowed to the audience. “Thanks, everyone. I’ll hold a brief press conference in the Boundary Waters room and join you back here in fifteen minutes.”

****

The Boundary Waters reverberated with members of the press teeming about. Jill marveled at the way Gavin kept an even keel as he expertly navigated the colicky sea of reporters and photographers.

“Maestro, you said the piece you played tonight was new. Why did you play that piece, instead of the concerto movements as planned?”

Several other reporters tossed out questions.

Gavin rested his hands lightly on the podium and offered a relaxed smile, addressing the first reporter. “Hello, Jack. It’s been awhile. Good to see you. Did you listen to the piece?”

Jack nodded. “Of course, but

”

“And you’re familiar with my work, as you’ve so often stated in your column.”

The reporter drew himself up. “Very.”

“How would you compare
Every Time You Breathe
to my other work?” When the reporter didn’t answer, Gavin prompted, “Did you like the piece?”

Unaccustomed to holding back, the press rushed in, some with expressions of support, others with questions. Although Gavin had asked them to hold their photos to the end, occasional flashes drove more questions.

Gavin held up a hand. “I played
Every Time You Breathe
tonight because an artist is only as good as his inspiration. That piece inspires me most right now—far more than my latest concerto, which I’m confident you can understand represents the past, rather than the present.”

Jack looked as though he might be less than satisfied with Gavin’s answer, and Jill silently willed the rollicking wind-surfer in her belly to settle down. But Gavin continued valorous, yet calm.

“Let me save you all some time. The reason I planned to play only the first two movements of the concerto tonight is because the final movement isn’t finished. I don’t believe that’s a secret to anyone here.”

Gavin paused to smile at Jill. “The piece isn’t finished because my daughter and I were composing it together. Now that she can no longer compose, I find my heart

” He tapped a strong finger to his heart, “—is no longer in the piece. I have no desire to finish the concerto without her.
Every Time You Breathe
is the first piece I’ve completed since Olivia’s accident.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “After Liv’s accident, we both went to very dark places. But at the Wilson Institute, we found our way back to the light.” Gavin leaned forward on the podium. “There are so many who will benefit from this science of Dr. Cole’s. I urge you all to spread the word. This is your chance to perform one of the most decent acts of your reporting career.”

The room fell silent, except for the sound of pens scribbling against paper.

Jill wondered if everyone could hear the beat of her heart—if they could see the love in her eyes.

Gavin rapped his knuckles on the podium. “And now, I’ll wrap by saying that if you accept this as an opportunity to underscore Wilson’s efforts to help children who suffer from TBI, you will have my undying gratitude. Plus you will have done the world a great service, indeed.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jill rocked up and down on her toes, stretching her tired legs, and looked around at the remains of the evening. The guests had left. The pledges were counted. The gala had been a staggering success, bringing in more than three times their original projection. Now the hotel rooms had emptied, the buzz replaced by a restorative quiet. She gazed at Gavin standing across the room. Their gazes caught.

He smiled and beckoned.

Forgetting her tired feet, Jill glided toward him.

“The driver called. He’s waiting.” Gavin took her hand.

“Maestro, are you tired?” When cocked his head to the side in apparent confusion she explained, “I ask because

” she broke off and bit her lip.

Gavin’s grip on her hand tightened.

“It’s just that, I know it’s very, very late, and that you’re a bit of an old man but—”

“Old man.” His eyebrows shot high.

“Yes, love—old man—but, there’s a great deal of snow out there. Well, I am still wearing the same shoes that you were so concerned about earlier this evening—”

Gavin swung her up into his arms. “I’ll show you who’s an old man.”

Once they were seated in the limo, to the driver, he said, “Take a couple of turns around the block, will you?”

The driver nodded and rolled his eyes as if to say,
this again?

“It’s a long drive back to Shadow Hills,” Gavin murmured.

Jill nodded. Her fingers played with the heart at her throat.

“Very long,” he reiterated.

“And lonely,” Jill added, trying not to smile.

“Ah yes, lonely,” Gavin agreed. “Possibly even dangerous.”

Jill cocked an eyebrow in her best imitation of Gavin. “Dangerous?”

“Well, you were so ecstatic to be in my arms just now, you failed to notice how tipsy our driver is.”

Jill examined their driver’s profile and concluded he was sober as a judge. “Yes,” she agreed. “Quite tipsy.”

“And it’s nearly two-thirty in the morning.”

“Ah, yes. Late.”

“Those are the solemn facts. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Nicely presented, but you know, there is a problem with facts,” she said, smoothing the hair back from his temple.

“And that is?”

“They don’t always lead to a conclusion. It’s a scientific conundrum.”

“Fortunately for us, I'm a creative type. We always look at things differently than you intellectual types. And I see an obvious conclusion. Come here, you. Let me explain it this way. My place,” he said, drawing her face close to his, “is an hour away. And it's crowded. Your place—” he closed the distance between them and kissed her hair, “—is only five minutes away. And no one’s there. See my point?”

Jill shook her head, the rollicking wind-surfer riding a giant wave deep in her abdomen. “Sometimes, I have trouble understanding you artistic types.”

“Let me try it another way.” He brought his mouth in a slow descent over hers as his hand found its way under the silky length of her gown. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers as he spoke, igniting flames everywhere he touched her.

Blood pounded in her ears, and she twisted in his arms impatient for more.

He drew back. “Tell me what you want.”

When she didn’t respond, he moved his hand up her leg. His thumb hooked the side of her thong. He smiled. “Your move.”

Jill leaned forward and rapped on the glass. “Back to the hotel, please.”

The driver nodded.

“The hotel?” Gavin’s eyes darkened in confusion.

She smiled upward. “Did you think I would let you leave me yet again?”