The Uneven Score (13 page)

“But I thought you brought Paddie to Orlando?”

“I did, curse my soul. Mother recommended her, but I got her.” He grinned down at her over the top of his glass. “I saw her conduct in Amsterdam, too. We were on a business trip, and I took Mother to the symphony.”

“What about Charles?”

“Father is not a fan of classical music.”

“He prefers Flatt and Scruggs?”

“Infinitely.”

“They must make an interesting pair.” Whitney polished off the last of her brandy and wondered if it was reacting with the enzymes. She felt downright giddy. She looked at Daniel and said, “What would your father say if he’d caught you kissing a French horn player?”

“My darlin’ Whitney, my father would hardly think of you as a horn player.”

“But I am.”

“Don’t remind me, love,” he teased. “You’ve already got enough strikes against you.”

She gazed up at him, unswayed by his taunt. “Such as?”

“You’re Victoria Paderevsky’s ‘one true friend’—”

“Yes, I can’t imagine why she said that.”

“I’ll bet you can’t. And you’re Harry Stagliatti’s student—”

“What’s wrong with Harry?” 

“He’s almost as cantankerous as Paddie.”

“True, but he’s an incredible virtuoso. So was his father.”

“I’m sure.”

“What other strikes do I have against me?” He leaned against the back of the chair and stretched his arm over Whitney’s shoulder, fingering her hair. The bounce was back in her curls. She leaned back, too, nestling herself in the inside curve of his chest and shoulder. “You’re a New York Yankee,” he said, a twinge of humor in his deep drawl. “My parents fancy me hooking up with another old Florida citrus family—the Walkers, for instance. They don’t own anywhere near as many acres as we do, but they’ve been in this area as many generations as the Grahams have.”

“I don’t like Thomas Walker.”

“He does have his prejudices, to be sure, but, as I say, he’s been around for a long time.”

“Matthew seems charming, though.”

“Yes,” Daniel said, “that’s always been one of his better qualities—and not always appreciated.”

“Are you two friends?”

“Matt and I? We go back a long ways—I’ve tried to help him along. He’s a natural as general manager, but I’m not sure it’s something he wants to do for the rest of his life. But I don’t know anyone else who could stand working that closely with our Victoria Paderevsky.”  

“The Walkers and the Grahams seem to have a lot at stake with the CFSO,” Whitney said softly, thinking how much Paddie had at stake.

“More than some other people on the board, perhaps, but the community support for the orchestra has been unbelievable—and we all want to make it work. Central Florida is getting national and international attention out of this. Naturally we want it to be favorable attention. And Matt’s the only one of us who actually works for the orchestra.”

“Did you get him the job? I can’t see Thomas pulling any strings for his son to work with Paddie.”

Daniel laughed, but said seriously, “Matt got the job on his own merits. However—as I was saying—he has a twenty-year-old sister at the University of Florida. .

“Uh-oh, there’s another strike against me. I’m twenty-nine.”

“A regular old lady.”

“I was never a cheerleader.”

“Played horn in a marching band?”

“Heaven forbid.”

Daniel laughed softly. “Father will never approve.” And when she looked up, surprise and fear in her expression, she saw that the laughter had reached his eyes: “Of course,” he went on in a languorous, seductive-voice, “one look at your big blue eyes and he’ll be hopelessly smitten … just like me. Well, not exactly.”

“Daniel, Daniel.” She polished off the last of her brandy and grinned up at him. “I can imagine what you must have been thinking about me all this time, but I—” She hesitated, then blurted out, “I never did believe you had Harry chained to a grapefruit tree or something.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I see. I thought, Whitney, that you believed his letter.” He finished his brandy and set the empty glass on the antique marble table at his side. “Don’t you?”

Whitney realized her mistake too late. “Yes, yes, I do.”

“But?”

“But I thought— Well, your questions have made me wonder. You don’t, do you?”

“Have Harry chained to a grapefruit tree? No.”

He gave Whitney a look that prompted her to wonder if she were more eccentric than she thought she was. Then he sighed heavily. And then he burst out laughing.

Whitney realized she probably shouldn’t have mentioned Harry, but he was on her mind. She had to find out what he was up to! If only he’d called and told her before he’d made his exit. And she wished she understood why Paddie hadn’t just come right out and asked about Daniel being in Harry’s hotel room. Did that mean Paddie still believed him somehow responsible for Harry’s exit—or was she just trying to protect her reputation? She’d jumped to enough bizarre conclusions as it was. Still, it made no sense. Paddie had to know Daniel was on their side! But, of course, they were dealing with a woman who memorized entire symphonic scores. Paddie simply didn’t think like other people.

Whitney started to tell Daniel about Bradley’s and Yoshifumi’s visit, but there was a knock at the back door And then another! The place began filling up with people. First Thomas Walker arrived, immediately alienating Whitney by suggesting that Daniel should have fired that “fat ugly witch” instead of accommodating her. Apparently he felt he could speak his mind in front of Daniel. He also muttered to Whitney, as though she would quite naturally agree with him, that he didn’t trust people of Paddie’s “national origin.” Whitney calmly pointed out that her national origin was Brooklyn, New York. Thomas nodded in agreement as though Brooklyn was in Outer Mongolia.

Bradley, Yoshifumi, and Matthew Walker arrived next. Matthew greeted Whitney graciously, but didn’t look too pleased to see his father. She could hardly blame him. Matthew was charming. Thomas was odious. Then Angelina Carter and the lanky black man, who was indeed cellist Lucas Washington, joined the group. Whitney managed to keep from smirking when Lucas sat next to Thomas on the sofa, slapped his knees, and said, “Hey, how’re you doing, Tom?” Lucas was obviously well aware of the older Walker’s prejudices.

Everyone wanted to know what Daniel had said and done to Paddie for her to cancel a rehearsal and rearrange her schedule, which, for all intents and purposes, she had carved in stone. Was this another sign of her cracking up?

No, Daniel said; he and Paddie—he referred to her as Dr. Paderevsky in front of everyone else—had had a long, frank talk. He maintained she had been worried about the orchestra’s reaction to Harry Stagliatti’s insensitivity and unprofessional behavior, and the strain they’d all been under. She’d been working-them hard. Yes, she did admit she hadn’t been herself the past few days because of Harry and because of her concerns for the mental well-being of her orchestra.  Daniel said he had suggested canceling that afternoon’s rehearsal, and Paddie agreed; then went a step further and recommended a permanent change in the rehearsal schedule. And they all bought every word of it.  Whitney was amazed. They’d been working with the woman for weeks and they didn’t realize she would never let her work be affected by mere worry and certainly wouldn’t admit it if she had. Daniel Graham, she realized, was that slick. Even Matthew Walker and Bradley Fredericks, who were supposed to be so angry, didn’t argue.

“I wish I’d been informed sooner,” Matthew said, rather magnanimously, Whitney thought, “but maybe this will do the trick.”

There were numerous murmurings of “I hope so.”

Angelina peered at Whitney. “You look pretty tired, Whit.”

“It’s been a long day,” she said in a glorious understatement.

“Don’t worry,” Thomas Walker said heartily. “A few days in the Florida sun will cure those Rust Belt miseries of yours.”

Whitney gritted her teeth.

“You’d better rest up,” Angelina suggested seriously. “Harry’s been playing his ass off for Paddie. Don’t think she won’t expect the same from you.”

“Is there any resentment among the other horns about me coming in like this?”

“Are you kidding?” This was from Lucas. “They figure you’re Joan of Arc come to save them. They’re smart enough not to want to launch the CFSO with that bitch of a solo.”

Whitney knew he was referring to
Till Eulenspiegel
. “I guess I’m not that smart,” Whitney said dryly.

“No,” Lucas said, “you’re that good.”

“Trust us, Whitney,” Matthew Walker reassured her. “Dr. Paderevsky wouldn’t have hired you if you couldn’t measure up to Harry.”

“I hope I won’t have to,” she said. “I’m counting on him being back by opening night.”

“If Dr. Paderevsky will have him,” Matthew said.

Whitney decided she liked Matthew Walker and Lucas Washington. She had always liked Yoshifumi and Angelina. She despised Thomas Walker, who seemed to have no respect for anyone, including his own son. The jury was still out on Bradley. He didn’t say much. Then they all started talking music, and Bradley joined right in. He absolutely rhapsodized about the orchestra—not about Paddie, although he wasn’t as openly critical as the others, but about the CFSO itself. It was going to be world-class, he said; there was no doubt about it.  Whitney decided she liked him, too.

They were discussing current orchestral recordings when the brakes of a car screeched in the driveway. Daniel, who had been looking bored, leaped up.

But he was too late to cut Paddie off at the kitchen. She came storming into the elegant living room. Her hair was sticking out everywhere. Her eyes were wild. Her black stretch knit pants had holes in the knees. She was carrying a long stick.

And on the end of it was a rattlesnake.

“I have had enough!”
she shrieked.

Then she dumped the thing on the floor. Angelina screamed. Yoshifumi started babbling in Japanese. Matthew and Bradley turned white. Thomas assured them all the snake was dead; Lucas stretched out his interminable legs and started to laugh.

Daniel snatched the stick out of Paddie’s hand. “For the love of Jesus, Paddie,” he snarled, and removed the snake from both the polite and the impolite company.

Whitney just stared at Paddie. Her shoulders were heaving. Her face was purple. In the chair beside Whitney, Angelina suggested someone call a doctor. No one moved.

 Paddie sucked in a deep breath and pointed a finger at the group. “A head doctor, is that what you think I need?” she bellowed. “Ha! What would you do if you found a snake in your living room? You all— I promise you, I will find out who is doing this to me.” She paused, her breathing labored; everyone stared. “This time you have gone too far.”

It was Thomas Walker who got up and led Paddie to a chair. “Now you listen to me, Dr Paderevsky,” he said, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder. “This wasn’t anyone’s doing. Florida is full of rattlesnakes; and your cottage is in the country. A snake could easily get into your living room. Did you kill it yourself?”

“Who else do you think would? I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can.”

Thomas cajoled her as if she were a five-year-old. Whitney started to like him better, but then she realized that Paddie had just become something familiar to him: a woman afraid of snakes. He hadn’t noticed at all that Paddie wasn’t afraid or even particularly distraught. She was seething, so angry she was very nearly inarticulate.

Daniel returned and curtly ordered everyone out. Thomas didn’t think that included him, but Daniel made it clear it did. So he left with the others.

Whitney went and sat on the sofa next to Paddie. Daniel loomed above them, pacing furiously. Whitney scowled up at him. “You could show a little more compassion, you know.”

But he just glared at Paddie. “All right, Dr. Paderevsky,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

She sniffed, suddenly in control of herself. “The snake you mean?”

“Yes, damn it, I mean the snake!”

Whitney leaped to Paddie’s defense. “Daniel, you’re hardly being fair—”

“I’m not, am I?” Now he glared at Whitney, too. “Well, Paddie, shall you tell her or shall I?”

 Paddie sat up straight and said in her fake Lithuanian accent, “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“I am talking about your goddamn snake that’s been dead over a week!”

Chapter Eight

Paddie didn’t look the least bit chastened by Daniel’s fury. “How could you tell?” she asked curiously.

“I’m not stupid.”

Reluctantly, Whitney began to realize what had happened. She glanced up at Daniel. Clearly he was in a black mood. He paced across the Oriental carpet, occasionally raking his fingers through his hair and growling. And he had been so genial through dinner, Whitney thought. They had discussed Graham Citrus—it was a bigger corporation than she had imagined—and the effects of central Florida’s phenomenal growth on the citrus industry. He had told her hair-raising stories about alligators, but promised there were none in his lake. By a mutual but unspoken agreement they hadn’t discussed Paddie’s plight.

Whitney glanced over at Paddie. Clearly she didn’t care if Daniel was in a black mood. She was looking sanctimonious.

“Victoria,” Whitney said reprovingly, “you didn’t.”

Paddie folded her arms over her ample chest. “It was necessary.”

“To what end?” Daniel demanded.

“We were at a stalemate, this filth and I.” Paddie was using her Lithuanian accent again: expostulating. “I wanted to draw him out. I came upon the snake on my night walk in the grove and chose to make him the centerpiece of my plan.”

Daniel regarded her with profound disbelief. “Your plan,” he repeated in a dangerous monotone.

“Yes,” Paddie said placidly.

Whitney wanted to take Daniel’s hand and calm him down, but he looked as unapproachable as a rhinoceros on a rampage. She was suitably impressed, but Paddie was not. She asked Whitney for a drink of water; all that trembling had dried her throat.

This was too much for Daniel. He spun around and bellowed,
“Get your own goddamn drink of water!”