Love the One You Hate

I don’t work up the nerve by the time we reach the threshold of the drawing room, and then the moment passes as I’m forced to turn right toward the piano and he veers left to refill his glass.

Everyone starts to take their seats around the room as I adjust the bench in front of the piano. There’s plenty of sheet music for me to choose from. Cornelia insisted she wanted to order a new batch of books from the local music store for the kids from St. Michael’s to use, so I went and picked them out myself.

I choose a song called “Maribel” by Oskar Schuster, a contemporary composer I discovered thanks to the recommendation from the manager at the store.

I give everyone a chance to get comfortable while I arrange the sheets on the rack above the keys, but what I’m really doing is waiting for Nicholas to take his seat, annoyed when he chooses a chair in my line of sight, slightly apart from the rest of the group. In my periphery, I see him bring his glass to his lips, and I lift my hands and hover my fingers delicately above the keys.

The song starts out slow and sweet, a melody from a child’s lullaby. As I continue to play, the song takes shape, growing into something complex and harder to untangle. My fingers fly, and even in the moment, I know I’m playing for him. I resent it. To be laid bare in front of a grand piano—I doubt there’s anything more intimate than performing a piece of music to a quiet audience, all eyes locked on me. They watch unblinking, and their attention could be on my hands as they flutter across the black and white keys, or maybe on the back of my neck…my profile…my lips. I’m lost in the music and am therefore exposed, utterly. Like a doe in the woods standing within range of a hunter’s arrow.

That’s how I feel playing for Nicholas.13NicholasI’ve learned a lot about Maren this evening. She’s a classically trained pianist, enthusiastic conversationalist, and wonderful addition to a dinner party. I find every detail about her to be more mysterious and confusing than the last. I’ve seen my friends, peers who grew up in the same life I did, sit at Cornelia’s table and become shrinking violets under the steely gaze of my grandmother, but not “our dear” Maren. No, she rose to the occasion.

Even while bombarded by questions that seemed overly personal and rude, she kept her composure and won everyone to her side handily.

I trust her intentions even less now than I did before.

She sits there at my grandmother’s piano, so stunning it would hurt to look away, and she reminds me of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

She begins to play a third song, and I glance over to see Cornelia dab at the corner of her eyes with her handkerchief. She’s always been heavily influenced by music. A beautiful song played well has always softened her heart, and not for the first time, I worry how much she’s coming to care for Maren.

I tried to speak with her again this week about letting Maren go. This time, she wouldn’t even entertain the idea. I was halfway through pleading my case when she abruptly cut me off, told me she looked forward to seeing me at dinner on Saturday, and hung up the phone.

Maren plays on, and I stand to deposit my empty glass on a side table. I can’t resist the call of my grandfather’s antique cigar box, so I lift the lid. I haven’t requested them in a while, but Collins keeps it fully stocked. I reach in to retrieve one and grab my grandfather’s old lighter, carrying both to the French doors on the other side of the piano.

My footsteps accompany Maren’s melody as I cross in front of her. She fumbles a note then quickly recovers and plays on. I doubt anyone else noticed, but I did.

So then I affect her like she affects me?

The thought makes my stomach churn. I’m sure she thinks I’m horrible after our exchange last weekend, but I’m not sure what she expects me to do.

I’m acting on behalf of my family, and I won’t apologize for it.

I open one of the doors and stand on the threshold, inhaling the ocean air on impulse before I reach up and light my cigar, taking short puffs until the end glows dark orange in the night.

Standing here makes me think of the night of my eighteenth birthday, when my grandfather first showed me how to light a cigar. I can envision him clear as day, regal and sharp. Everyone knew him as the Commodore, and his legacy lives all around me. I see him in the trophy cases at the yacht club and the portrait gallery upstairs. I see him in the way I practice law, following in his footsteps. He was the one who taught me the difference between right and wrong, between acting for one’s own personal gain and acting for the betterment of everyone. He was generous with his time and with his practice of the law but unyielding when it came to his beliefs. I think it’s why so many people mistook him as severe, but no one who really knew him thought that. Under the surface, he was the embodiment of warmth.