Chapter 5 Passive-Aggressive Diplomacy
Passive-Aggressive Diplomacy
Catherine
Catherine stood in front of the mirror and dismissed the first outfit immediately. The second was better. A charcoal pencil skirt, white blouse, French cuffs that never went on without a fight, and never failed to be worth one.
She leaned closer to the mirror, lipstick hovering at her mouth, and drew it across her lower lip with more focus than it really needed.
Stepping back, she stared at her reflection.
She looked...good. Put-together. Professional.
Not that it had anything to do with the note she planned to leave on Theodora’s door, or the possibility of running into her in the hallway.
That certainly wasn’t why she’d changed outfits twice, or spent an extra three minutes on her hair.
The knock interrupted her thoughts: two quick raps followed by a softer one. So, definitely not Theodora.
Catherine opened the door to find Noah, his curls damp with melting snow, keyboard case banging against his knee as he tried to keep his overstuffed tote bag from spilling more sheet music onto her doormat.
"Hi, Miss Matthews," he chirped, voice caught between childhood and whatever came next.
"Noah." She stepped aside. "You’re early. Again."
"Mom always says it’s better to be early than sorry." He shuffled past her. "Plus, she threatens extra math worksheets if I'm late to things."
"Ah, I see. An effective deterrent."
He dropped his belongings with a clatter that made her wince. "Yeah, she's basically a professional torturer."
"We all have our gifts," Catherine replied, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.
She was about to close the door when she caught sight of Theodora in the hallway, heading toward the elevators.
A faded navy sweater and black jeans hung loosely on her frame beneath a hospital fleece that had seen better days. The stethoscope around her neck seemed to drag at her, and Catherine's lips tightened in a flicker of concern she couldn't quite hide.
Theodora froze the moment their eyes met across the hallway.
Her eyes flicked up in quick recognition, then lingered as they took in the crisp white collar and the clean line of the pencil skirt.
The look lasted a second too long before she seemed to realize it.
Her mouth tightened in immediate self-annoyance, and Catherine felt a small, triumphant satisfaction settle under her ribs.
Noah pivoted in the doorway, catching the direction of Catherine’s gaze. "Hi. Do you live in fourteen-C?"
"Uh, yeah," Theodora said, looking from Catherine to her student, "I'm Theo."
Noah stuck out his hand. "I'm Noah Alvarez. Are you the lady who doesn't like Miss Matthews' piano?"
The corner of Theodora’s mouth lifted as she shook his small hand, her eyes flicking toward Catherine with obvious amusement.
Catherine gave a small shrug, the movement so unlike her normal self, it caught even her off guard. “He saw one of your more colorful complaints on my door when he came in for his lesson last week.”
“Oh.” Theodora gave a sheepish smile before turning to Noah. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I just need a solid stretch of sleep before I go to work, and the piano has a bad habit of keeping me up.”
Noah's forehead wrinkled like the idea was absurd. "But Miss Matthews is amazing. She played solo at Carnegie Hall like eleven times."
"Twelve," Catherine corrected.
Theodora rolled her eyes. "And clearly she never lets anyone forget it."
“Consider yourself lucky I don’t charge you admission, Theodora. Front-row seats to my recitals usually cost a small fortune.”
Theodora let out a short laugh, and Catherine could hear the start of a sharper retort in it.
Then Theodora glanced at Noah, watching them with bright, expectant interest, and her tone softened almost immediately.
“Right. I suppose I should be grateful you don’t play something more obnoxious, like the bagpipes. ”
"My uncle plays the tuba!” Noah said. “Last Christmas, he practiced so loud that the water in our fish tank rippled like in Jurassic Park. Mom said he was being obnoxious."
"But I bet he only plays during the day, though, huh?" Theodora said, giving Catherine a pointed look.
Catherine's lips curved into the thinnest of smiles. "If you like, I can compose a schedule and submit it to the HOA for approval."
Theodora braced a shoulder against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “Or you could give me your number so I can text you when I’m on my way home. It will give you a chance to get it out of your system before I arrive.”
"Or," Catherine said, "you could soundproof your bedroom wall so I can work in peace."
"And miss our little exchanges?" A smile tugged briefly at her lips. "Where's the fun in that?"
Noah bounced on his toes, eyes darting between them. "You guys sound like those news people who argue on the morning shows."
Catherine’s spine stiffened. She’d nearly forgotten Noah was standing there, witnessing…whatever this was. It wasn’t her fault; she was a brilliant teacher. Really. But Theodora had a way of knocking her off balance, and Noah’s presence only highlighted how unprofessional she suddenly sounded.
"News anchors," she corrected, not meeting Theodora's eyes.
“News people sounds better, though,” Theodora said. She nodded toward the keyboard case. “So Catherine’s teaching you piano?”
“Yeah.” Noah scuffed his sneaker against the carpet. She’d have to vacuum that later—thank you, Noah. “I’m not anywhere near Miss Matthews’ level, though.”
Whatever mild irritation she'd had dissolved on the spot. Catherine rested a hand on his shoulder. "Noah has remarkable potential."
Noah lit up at the praise. “Miss Matthews says if I practice every day, I’ll be able to play Rachmaninoff in a year. She’s making me do scales in three keys, though.” He made a face. “It’s kind of brutal.”
"She's right about the practice, trust me," Theodora said. "My med school professor made me place five hundred sutures on oranges before I could touch a single patient. I hated every second of it." She looked at Noah directly. "But it was worth it."
Catherine caught the shadow that passed over Theodora's face; it was the same bone-deep weariness she'd confronted in her own reflection countless times after marathon rehearsals left her fingers unable to uncurl.
Noah wedged himself between their silent exchange, struggling with his keyboard case. "Miss Matthews, can I play my piece for Theo before we start?"
Catherine cleared her throat as she checked her watch, "I'm sure Dr. Brennan has a shift to get to."
"Please?" He turned to Theodora. "It's only ninety seconds."
"I can spare ninety seconds," Theodora said, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Just don't practice it outside my door at two a.m., deal?"
“Deal!” He beamed and darted inside toward the music room.
Theodora raised a teasing eyebrow at Catherine. "Well, do I need a formal invitation inside, Miss Matthews?"
Catherine stepped aside with an eyeroll and exaggerated sweep of her arm.
The music room hadn’t changed. It was still immaculate, the Steinway taking up most of the space. But seeing Theodora there made Catherine’s skin prickle, like something had been moved without permission.
Noah hauled his thrifted Casio to the stand by the window and arranged it with the care of a concert grand.
Catherine had reminded him more than once that her piano was at his disposal, but sentiment always won out over sense.
The Casio had been a birthday gift from his mother, which meant the plastic keyboard was treated like a Stradivarius.
He took a moment to settle himself, fingers hovering over the keys like he was bracing for something, then he straightened and began to play. It was a simple piece, a student’s étude, nothing too challenging, but he played it with a fragile sincerity Catherine rarely heard in her other students.
The notes filled the room, soft at first, then steadier, and somewhere in it, Catherine felt her focus begin to shift.
Her attention drifted to her neighbor. Theodora’s face had softened, the familiar glare gone, replaced by something quieter, the look of someone who knew exactly what it meant to master something and exactly what it cost to lose it.
When the final note faded, Theodora's hands came together in quick applause. "That was awesome."
Noah's eyes darted to Catherine, seeking her verdict. She gave a single, measured nod. "It was good."
"But—" Noah's face split into a grin. "You told me never to say 'good' unless it was perfect."
A grin tugged briefly at Catherine’s lips. "I know."
Theodora smiled knowingly at Catherine as she backed toward the door.
"I should get going." She gave Noah's keyboard case a light tap with her knuckles.
"That was seriously impressive. Keep up the good work and don’t let her wear you out.
Between you and me," her eyes flicked to Catherine, then back to Noah as she leaned in, voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “she’s not as scary as she wants you to think.”
Then, to Catherine, with something like mischief in her eyes: "I’ll talk to you later, Miss Matthews. I've got a fresh pack of neon orange sticky notes waiting at home. I thought the color might complement your warm and fuzzy disposition.
Noah watched her go, and when the front door clicked shut, he looked up at Catherine. “She’s funny. I like her.”
Catherine ran her hands down the front of her skirt, leaving damp fingerprints on the fabric.
"I see your judgment remains as undeveloped as your arpeggios," she said, though her mouth betrayed her with a slight curve at the thought of the neon orange that would appear on her door that night.
“Since you were fifteen minutes early and played well for Theodora, what would you say to a Pop-Tart before we start the lesson?”
“Do you have strawberry?”
“I think so.”
Catherine knew perfectly well she did. It was the only flavor she had.
The box sat on the third shelf of her pantry, purchased a month ago after Noah had mentioned that strawberry Pop-Tarts were his favorite snack when his mother worked late shifts.
Catherine never touched them herself; she bought them for him, and they were his and his alone.
* * *
The evening settled in, cold and windless, the city oddly quiet beneath a low ceiling of cloud. Catherine had finished her last lesson at eight and now sat at her desk, staring down a blank neon sticky note with the same level of focus she brought to Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6
The lamp washed the note nearly white, the edges clinging to an ugly green she immediately disliked.
She glanced at the time. 11:46 p.m.
On a normal night, she would have been at the piano, coaxing out the Ravel she had been reconstructing from muscle memory since her hands learned the pattern at twelve.
But tonight, her neighbor’s voice from earlier in the day echoed in her mind.
Theodora Brennan telling her to text her a playing schedule.
The nerve. The presumption. And, most irritating of all, the fact that Catherine could still hear the exact tone she’d used.
Catherine let her pen hover over the bright square. She rehearsed, silently, then wrote:
Congratulations, you have annoyed me into modern communication.
Since you insist on policing my practice hours, here is your hotline. Use sparingly.
- 14D
She considered the effect. Brief, cool, factual. She added her phone number, each digit sharp, as though she were inscribing coordinates on a war map.
She read it once, twice, then stood and drifted through her apartment without a sound. The nightgown and robe were her habitual nighttime uniform, but tonight she felt their silkiness as armor, silly, perhaps, but she was crossing into enemy territory, and she meant to look prepared.
Catherine padded across the hallway carpet, left hand trailing the wall as she counted her steps.
At 14C, she paused. She pressed her palm to the door, feeling the faintest warmth from inside. Theodora was home.
Catherine could have knocked, but the sticky note was the prescribed protocol. She peeled off the backing, then pressed it to the center of the peephole.
She retraced her steps, resisting the urge to look back or knock and dash back to her own apartment, god, what an embarrassing thought.
At her own door, she hesitated, fingers on the handle. Her heart was beating faster than she liked. It was just a note, just another round in the long game, and yet…
She closed the door behind her, stood in the entryway, eyes closed, listening for any sound from down the hall.
She didn’t hear the note being taken. But she knew, when morning came, that it would be gone and she’d have a text message from an unknown number waiting for her.