Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Nash
My duffel bag falls to the floor with a heavy thud as I cross the threshold into the manor.
The staff are nowhere to be seen, likely in the kitchen starting dinner preparations or tending to another task they were assigned for the day.
I don’t mind not having a bright, warm welcome home; no one will want to hear about what it was like in there, anyway.
Slinking through the building, I make my way to the large sitting room on the west end of the building and push through the heavy double doors.
I run my hand along the dark wood trim of the cabriole sofa, letting the pads of my fingers graze its cream-colored fabric.
I haven’t stepped foot in this room in three years, and nothing about it has changed.
The lamps are still placed perfectly on the freshly-polished end tables.
The same bowl of fresh fruit has been kept up on the coffee table with the same doily tucked beneath it.
The fireplace at the far end of the room will likely be lit after dinnertime, while the three of us sit and sip on coffee or tea.
I’ve missed this place, but I haven’t missed anything quite as much as I’ve missed…
“Oh, it’s good to see you again.”
My palm trails across the sleek mahogany lid of my grandfather’s Steinway.
I lift the fallboard to expose the keys and I drop onto the bench in front of them.
Rolling my head against my shoulders, I flex my fingers before gently tapping the first key, quickly leading into Beethoven’s Sonata No.
14. My eyes close and my head falls backward as muscle memory takes over and the notes of the music fill the room.
“I thought that was you.” My grandmother’s frail voice trails into the room, but I don’t pay her any mind.
She settles onto the bench next to me, listening while I play until I reach the end of the song.
As I start it up again, her wrinkled hand rests on top of mine.
In just three years, she’s gotten so much older.
Dark spots litter the skin on the back of her hands and the veins beneath protrude.
Her hand shakes as it pats mine. “Nashie, it’s good to have you home, sweetheart. ”
Home.
I don’t think I know what that is, other than a temporary thing.
The house that I shared with Mother and Father wasn’t my home.
My grandparents let me be sent away; this isn’t my home.
A cramped prison cell certainly didn’t feel like home.
I’m told that home can be a person, but I haven’t found one there, yet, either.
Maybe this piano is my home.
Or maybe when you lose your soul, you’re doomed to a life of temporary places, but never a home.
·
Present Day
Tink. Tink. Thonk. Pink.
My finger taps lazily against the keys of the piano, playing notes in no particular order while I look at the wall ahead of me.
I ignore the buzzing of my phone atop the piano’s frame the first few times, finally irritated enough after the fifth to acknowledge it.
“You,” I say, pointing to a uniformed young woman near the bar, “what’s your name? ”
“Oh— it’s— I’m Ciara, sir.”
“Ciara,” I echo, “do something about that phone, will you?”
“Yes, Mr. Montgomery, of course.” She reaches past me as if she expects me to bite her, grabbing my phone to open the screen. “It’s your assistant, sir. He— it seems that you’re needed at the office.”
“What did he say, Ciara?”
“He’s— very frustrated that you’ve not been in in four days.”
“You can tell him,” I growl, “that if he values his position in my company, he can handle a few more days without me.”
She hesitates for several moments before typing out a message, which she seems to hesitate yet again to send until I arch a brow at her, tensing my jaw.
She sets the phone back into its original place with a look as if she might piss herself, so I reach into my pocket for my wallet and pull out a hundred dollar bill, folding it between my index and middle finger as I hand it to her.
“Here. Buy yourself a fucking Prozac,” I tell her.
As she takes the bill, I pull my cigar from its ashtray and rest the end between my lips, taking a few generous puffs. The girl – Ciara – hovers near the door for a moment, fidgeting by smoothing her hair back against its sleek bun.
“Mr. Montgomery, if I may—”
“You may go buy a fucking Prozac,” I tell her.
“You seem sad, sir.”
“Oh, I seem sad?” I sneer, throwing a bitter smile in her direction. “Maybe I’m contemplating how one might hide a body should a maid not be available to do the cleanup.”
Her gaze drops from mine, her hands fiddling with the buttons at the front of her uniform. “I—” she stammers. “I’m sorry.” As she scurries out of the room looking somewhere between terrified and wounded, my fingers return to their plucking of the keys, begging for inspiration to hit.
I settle for one of my favorite Chopin pieces; it’s a simple piece, one that I could play in my sleep at this point, but a favorite nonetheless.
If I had to guess, I’d say that I’ve played it hundreds of times; always falling back on it as a way to soothe myself, to reflect upon, to clear my head of unwanted thoughts and memories.
Chopin was one of very few composers available to me in prison, and I think that I would have been willing to kill someone to keep my tapes safe.
I watch my hands as they drift across the keys, and I can feel his throat in my grip. The genuine hurt and confusion in his eyes flick through my mind in a painful flashback and I grind my molars against each other so roughly that I worry I may crack one of them.
With a sigh, I stand and close the lid of the piano, cover the keys with their fallboard, and step out of the room.
“Get me a scotch,” I order one of the staff members passing me. “And for fuck’s sake, put it on ice.”
I trek up the stairs and into my office, dropping into my leather chair with a sigh, and Moose settles next to me with a whine.
I reach down to scratch behind his ear as the man that I spoke with earlier steps into the room with a glass in one hand and a stack of envelopes in the other.
“Your scotch and your mail, sir,” he tells me.
Gesturing him forward, I take both from him, sipping on the scotch as I sort through the mail.
Junk here, an invitation there, a bill there.
Finally, a letter addressed to me from the home of Jefferson and Molly Montgomery.
I use my grandfather’s letter opener to slice through the top and I pull out the paper inside: another letter, once again asking me to visit with them.
They send the same letter, written in slightly different wording, at least twice per year.
Just like every other time since the first letter, I stand and toss the thing into the fireplace at the side of the room.
Moose lets out another whine as the fire crackles, taking their words with it. “It’s all for the best,” I tell him.
·
My assistant trails me in a way not unlike Moose as I march through the office building, keeping himself less than a foot away from me at all times. “Mr. Montgomery,” he pants as he tries to keep up with me, “Nash, you— are you okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”
I’m certain that he’s referring to my unkempt hair, devoid of product and style, and the loose sweater and dark wash jeans that I’ve dressed myself in today, in place of one of my white suits.
“I haven’t been feeling well,” I snap at him, “but you so desperately needed me back.” Reaching for a large binder on my desk, I toss it into his hands.
“So this is your task for today. We’re implementing these changes across all of our nightclubs.
See to it that they go into effect immediately and that all runs smoothly.
That should keep you busy enough to not bother me, yes? ”
“Nash—”
“I’m going home,” I tell him. “Should you need me, take the issue to someone fucking else.”
Like Vincent, my assistant is on the short list of those who don’t seem to be afraid of me. No matter which mask I wear or what I say, he stays dutifully by my side. His green eyes search mine as he stands in front of me, hefting the binder in his arms.
“What are you waiting for? You were given a job. Go do it.”
“Do you need to talk about something?” He asks, cocking his head to the side, wearing that stupid fucking pitying look on his face.
“We aren’t friends,” I tell him. “You do what I tell you to and I pay your bills.”
With that, I reach for my keys and shoulder past him out of the office, headed back to the quiet of my own house.
This isn’t a mask; as heavy as they’d gotten, one of my masks would be lighter than this. I am angry, mostly at myself. I am worried, mostly about him.
I think that for the first time in my life, it’s possible that I may actually feel properly lonely.