Chapter 2
“I’M SO SORRY…” she began, and paused when a gloved hand on her elbow gently maneuvered her to the side.
“No need to apologize… if you’ll excuse me.” The soft sound of fabric rustled in the darkness as the man moved around the elevator car. He took out his cell phone and turned on the flashlight, revealing the panel covered by a burnished gold panel. “Miss, would you be so kind as to hold up the flashlight?”
Christine popped out of her panicked brain fog and hurried to take the phone. She pointed it to the panel and watched in fascination as his black-gloved hands worked to open the small flap. His suit was black as well—perhaps a tuxedo? The light from his cell phone caught the edge of his chin and lips. Whoever he was, he was already wearing his mask for the gala. This meant he was a guest. Staff members went unmasked to separate them from attendees. It was strange that a donor would be on the high levels of the opera house, but perhaps he was a board member.
And you swore like a sailor in front of him, you idiot!
There was no point obsessing about it right now. She needed to get out of this elevator and down to the main event floor. The gentleman managed to pry the panel open while Christine watched on, half grateful for his efforts and half mesmerized by the grace of his hands. Later-model elevators had emergency buttons, but as a historic landmark, the Gardner Opera House wasn’t required to make the update. In place of a panic button was an emergency phone.
But it was immediately apparent the phone line wasn’t working—the telltale buzz was silent. Their groans of frustration echoed in the small space. The man deftly took his phone from her hand, and she ignored the slight electric feel of his touch.
“No service on my phone either.” He frowned.
“This isn’t normal,” she said.
“Yes, I’m aware,” the man said dryly.
“No, I mean—” She knelt and dug through the fallen box for her cell phone. “I’m in this elevator daily. I’ve never dropped a single call. If there’s no service, it’s because there’s no service at all right now.”
“Are you about to suggest an apocalyptic event?”
She swore she could hear the smile in his acerbic remark.
“I’m thinking more of a blackout. Like the one in 2003? If it were just the building, our phones would work, but it feels like something larger since that isn’t the case.”
The August 2003 blackout affected the entire Eastern Seaboard north of DC and into Canada. Lightning struck the power grid, triggering a domino effect.
“I was about to start high school. I still remember my mother raging when the air conditioning failed,” he said, adding to her suspicion.
“I was four. My father and I finished all the ice cream in the apartment. It’s one of my earliest memories.” It was one of her favorite memories. She could still taste the black raspberry ice cream they devoured on their fire escape.
“Both sound more appealing than being stuck in a metal box.”
And both have bathrooms , Christine thought to herself, glad she had gone before she changed. She hoped the same was true of the man in black, or things could get awkward in a hurry. He shone the light toward the back of the elevator and his shoes—the only visible part of him—followed the illuminated path it had created. The man took off his jacket and sat down, one leg stretched out and the other bent at the knee. She tried not to admire their strong length and failed. The man in black was tall, and she’d always been a sucker for a tall man.
“Please sit down, Miss?”
“Christine,” she offered.
“Derring—the foundation assistant.” He took off one shoe and then the other.
“Have we met?”
“There is little at the opera with which I’m not intimately acquainted.” He indicated a spot next to him, and she hesitated momentarily before sitting. Sitting next to him, his height was even more noticeable. She was not petite at 5’5”, but this man clearly towered over her. He reached out a hand to her, and she took it, again feeling a slight jolt of awareness from a perfectly innocent handshake. “My name is Erik.”
“Erik Gardner?” she whispered. He was the chairperson of the Gardner Opera and the CEO of Gardner Industries, the one whose career had inspired her since her junior year of college.
“The same.” She definitely heard a smirk. Perhaps he was remembering her colorful words earlier.
“Well, the good news is we won’t be stuck here for long. I’m pretty sure I’m about to dig a hole into the floor of the elevator. Mr. Gardner, I am so sorry for my language earl— ”
“Don’t worry about it. Please. You thought you were alone, and your words and my thoughts aligned completely. Call me Erik.”
“Thank you…Erik.” She took off her heels and studied her phone screen. Still no service. “I wonder what’s happening downstairs right now. The gala is supposed to start in a little over an hour.” She tried not to imagine Cynthia’s reaction to her disappearance. She wondered if her employment would make it through the blackout, but there could scarcely be a better alibi than the board chairman.
“Oh, I think it’s safe to say there won’t be a gala tonight.”He exhaled the words with a humored grumble.
“You don’t sound terribly disappointed.” In the dark, conversing with Erik Gardner was easy. This was unusual for any number of reasons, but foremost, Christine had anxiety around authority figures. It featured predominantly during speeches and presentations, but certainly wasn’t exclusive. Anytime she really wanted something, she tended to get tongue-tied. It was frankly a miracle that she had gotten through her job interview at the foundation. She was sure she had bungled it at least three times. She should be barely coherent in front of Erik Gardner, a man whose attention she had longed to engage.
Perhaps it was her colorful language that broke the tension?
No, she decided. In the dark, it was…different. Not seeing Erik Gardner and not looking in his eyes while he spoke somehow made the interaction more intimate. She decided she liked his voice. It was elegant and smoky. It reminded her of actors in movie musicals like Ewan McGregor and Hugh Jackman.
“Honestly, I’m not. The gala helps raise funds, but our endowment has been quite healthy the last few years, as supported by my family and Gardner Industries. We use the event to publicize the new opera season, keep the arts front and center in the city, and highlight our community youth outreach programs. If there was a gala tonight, it would be overshadowed by whatever’s happening in the city.” He hummed as if pondering the next steps. “We’ll reschedule—perhaps a New Year’s Eve event. That will make a splash, and every donor will be looking to donate before midnight to claim their contributions before the start of the new year.”
“Will it be a masquerade like tonight?” Each year’s gala was a masquerade with a different theme to honor the costume designers and their work at the Gardner Opera House. The designers auctioned off their services for the following year’s event, an item that was one of the favorites at the silent auction table.
“I don’t see why not. People will still want to show off their costumes. Fortunately, the venue won’t be a problem, one of the benefits of having the event at the opera house. This could work out well. Perhaps we’ll make it a new tradition.”
Christine was in awe. She’d been following Erik Gardner’s career since her undergraduate days. At twenty-four, he’d taken over his father’s mid-sized private equity firm and grown it to a publicly traded juggernaut. In school, she’d studied cases demonstrating his understanding of growth potential and market dynamics. He understood opportunity even in a local nonprofit gala, and his instinct for what would be successful further inspired her interest.
That Gardner Industries provided her with her college scholarship had only instigated her fascination. Her admiration of Erik Gardner had cemented it thoroughly.
She’d wanted to work for Gardner Industries ever since, but the company only hired graduates from Ivy League schools. As a foster kid and the daughter of a single musician father, she was lucky to have received her degree from SUNY Binghamton, and so she bided her time. She got straight As, even though graduating from a state school was unlikely to impress the HR team at Gardner. She worked as an executive assistant at another private equity firm, learning what she could while applying to grad school. When she got into Columbia’s part-time program, she decided to take the riskiest jump of her life, quitting her $70K a year job and taking a salary cut to work for the Gardner Opera House, hoping that the connections she made, and the name of her employer, would give her a leg up in May when she finished her degree.
Only Erik Gardner never showed up at the opera house. Not once in 11 months. She knew that board members didn’t exactly make on-site rounds on the regular—but she had hoped that she might make herself at least be slightly noticed in all that time.
Now she had an opportunity to impress her hero, and her first words in his presence were expletives. He seemed unconcerned, if not amused by her response, but small children amused people. She wanted to impress him. But it was hard to impress someone in total darkness. She could be sycophantic. That was always Cynthia’s play, flattery and flirtation. She had never admired that behavior, and she hoped Erik Gardner didn’t either.
“New Year’s Eve will be risky,” she cautioned. “People like to go out of town for the holidays, visit St. Barts, Hawaii…you’ll need a bigger draw than normal to ensure good attendance. Does Gardner still have an ownership stake in Borderline Records?”
“We do. You follow Gardner?”
Christine smiled, wanting to brag—or at least drop a hint or two about her aspirations. “Yes, I’ve read up on the organization as part of my strategy class…in grad school. It was interesting how they created new sources of revenue in the face of flagging record sales.” She continued, too nervous to stop. “I believe you recently signed Jessie Skies to your label. Do you think she’d be willing to perform at the event?” Christine’s eyes darted around as though putting together a complex puzzle, something she did when brainstorming, and she was thankful it would be unnoticeable in the darkness. “She’s a big fan of musical outreach in Nashville. Perhaps you could offer to split the proceeds of the event with the Nashville opera community. That might sway some donors from there to fill in while some local socialites are away on their winter travels.”
“I doubt anyone would skip a Jessie Skies concert. I’ll have to see the terms of her contract. It’s a good idea—I’ll give it some thought.”
This was a win. Christine wouldn’t push further. She wouldn’t even talk unless he spoke to her first. By some gift of heaven and the angels above, she was presented with the world’s most bizarre networking opportunity, and for once, she wasn’t choking on her words. She wasn’t about to ruin what could be a life-changing moment. She took out her cell phone to check for service and calmed herself by playing solitaire.
“You should be careful of draining the battery,” Erik cautioned. “We might be here for a few hours.”
“Oh, right,” she murmured, wondering what the world was like outside their steel cocoon.
Her screen went black, and Erik sighed in relief as he peeled away the mask from his skin—or what was left of it. His doctor strongly objected to prolonged mask use, but he refused to expose his face publicly. As a result, the masquerade was one of the few nights of the year that he left the confines of his tower. He had been visiting with his aunt, Marie Giry, to review the minutes from the board meeting earlier and to voice his opinion on what updates were needed. Next time, he would speak to her about the elevators .
Though always grateful for the darkness, Erik further appreciated that it helped to conceal his surprise at being stuck in an elevator with Christine Derring. He wasn’t lying when he told her there was little about the opera house beneath his notice. Erik didn’t share how much he’d been overseeing her position there. His physical presence at the opera house was rare. Typically, he oversaw everything with a deft hand from his Manhattan apartment, carried out by Marie, the organization’s executive director.
But Christine’s well-being was a mission he had taken on after her father’s death, a man he had greatly admired. He couldn’t, shouldn’t interact with her more than necessary, but he could be a guardian angel. The girl deserved that after all she’d been through. He hadn’t planned this close contact, but he’d be lying if he wasn’t intrigued at the prospect of getting to know her. Her studying his organization had him smiling wryly. They circled each other like some bizarre animal mating ritual—minus the mating.
“Do you live in Manhattan, Christine?” It was easy to whisper in the dark, and they were so close to each other. How long had it been since he’d been this close to a woman? In his mind, Christine was a young girl, barely more than a child, crying on her doorstep after the death of her father, but that was many years ago. She was about ten years his junior—twenty-five? Twenty-six? He couldn’t remember. Definitely not a child.
“Yes, I rent a small apartment on West Eighty-Fourth,” she responded, then waffled. “It’s more of a glorified coat closet.”
“Is your salary at Gardner so appallingly low you can only afford a coat closet?”
“Well, you have to admit, nonprofit organizations aren’t exactly known for their high salaries, but I’m also working my way through my MBA, and grad school is pretty spendy. I’m living lean until I graduate this May.”
“And then what? You leave Gardner for greener pastures?” Erik raised an eyebrow. When he realized she couldn’t see it and wasn’t answering, he prodded further, “What’s the focus of your MBA?”
He heard a slightly shuddering breath, as if she were steeling herself. “I always pictured myself in the corporate strategy space. I like the idea of supporting market disruptors, like what you do at Gardner Industries.”
Oh—she’s networking!
“You want to work for me?”
“Well…technically, I already work for you, but yes, I hope to transition to Gardner Industries—if I’m offered an interview.”
Erik chuckled audibly. He would’ve gladly given her money from his pocket, as he felt he owed her so much. A job interview was next to nothing, as was a job on the ground floor at Gardner.
“I’m sorry—that was forward of me.” He could hear her broken voice reacting to his laugh and realized his mistake.
“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to offend. Of course I’ll consider hiring you after you complete your degree. I laughed because I think this is the oddest job interview I’ve ever had with a potential candidate. Anyone so passionate about working for my company that they took a low-paying job in the hopes of interviewing for me is someone I’d be foolish to turn away.”
“Thank you, Erik. I promise I’ll show you how much I can do for the opera until I graduate.”
“I look forward to seeing what you bring to the table. I like the idea of the concert. I mean it when I say I’ll investigate the idea. If we ever get out of here, that is.”
They sat silently for some minutes, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable.
“It’s so quiet,” Christine whispered beside him, and Erik couldn’t help but agree .
“Yes, that gives further credence to the blackout theory. Back in 2003, they say the city was eerily quiet with so many power systems failing. With the lights gone, the sky didn’t have to compete with light pollution. I heard you could see the Perseid meteor shower from Central Park.”
“Were you in New York at the time?”
“No, I was living in Princeton. I was fourteen years old. What about you?” He realized he was avoiding using her first name. In the dark, it felt too intimate.
“East Village—my father was a musician. We lived in Alphabet City back when it was dodgy.”
“Isn’t it still dodgy?” He chuckled, thrilled when she huffed a laugh with him.
“Hardly. It’s all independent boutiques with jeans for five hundred dollars and fifteen twenty-somethings shoved into three-bedroom apartments paid for by their parents while they take unpaid internships and drink every night.”
“That’s harsh talk from a fellow twenty-something,” Erik commented. “Aren’t you one of them? Young and dumb and enjoying your youth?”
“Maybe it’s jealousy? Between school and work, I don’t think I’ll get to be a real twenty-five-year-old. Maybe I’ll get to be twenty-five when I’m thirty-five.”
“As someone who was twenty-five when I was seventeen, I don’t recommend it.” He let his head fall back to the wall of the elevator, and Christine’s shoulder butted up against his. She took a sharp, quick breath in response, and he moved an inch away so they were no longer touching.
Erik had to remind himself that her reticence to touch him likely stemmed from a desire to remain professional and not out of disgust for him personally. There were days in his youth when he would’ve been at ease throwing an arm around her shoulder, a casual attempt at flirtation and affection.
Christine’s unintentional touch brought back a desire for intimacy he’d suppressed for so long. The shape of her in that red dress sent his heart pumping audibly. He swallowed and gave himself a slight mental head shake. This wasn’t just a young woman under his employ; she was also the child of Gus Derring, a man he had greatly cared for and respected.
“How long do you think we will be in here?” Christine asked.
Erik enjoyed the sound of her voice. It was low-pitched and quiet, as if respecting the peaceful sanctity of their temporary metal prison. He considered her question. “I have no idea. I suppose it depends on how long until they realize we’re missing or how long it takes for the city power grid to come back online.”
“They’ll likely notice your absence before anything else,” she said, and Erik agreed. Garret would already be searching for him.
“You’re undoubtedly right. I’m extremely important,” he responded blithely, and when she burst into delighted laughter, he felt about ten feet tall. He was several years out of practice with strangers, and managing to charm Christine Derring felt like winning a marathon he didn’t know he was running.
“Well, then, rescue should be coming any minute,” she said decidedly.
However, any minute was not one of the next 240 or so minutes. Erik set an alarm on his phone to go off every half hour to keep track of the time without draining the battery. He and Christine alternately sat sedately before randomly jumping up to stretch or pace to stave off boredom and pins and needles.
“Do you like opera?” Erik asked her at length.
“Honestly?” she asked. “I appreciate it more since beginning to work here. I struggled to understand it. I don’t think it will ever be my ‘thing,’ but there are moments I find beautiful. I have a hard time when I don’t understand something literally, and so much opera is…”
“Much.”
“Yes.” She paused. “Don’t be offended. I was never into Dad’s jazz music, and he had me listening to Charlie Parker in utero.”
“Do you like music at all?”
“Oh, yes. I enjoy classical music—especially anything with Tchaikovsky. I enjoy rock and roll, pop, and some musical theater. I listen to what I enjoy because I don’t have time to cultivate a deeper appreciation. I don’t have much time for hobbies, and opera is a hobby. It’s not an art for the casual user. Anyone who says they’re a casual opera fan is full of it.”
“You’re brave to confess these feelings to the, for lack of a better word, owner of an opera house.” He tried to make his voice stern and failed. Even if he disagreed, he understood her feelings about opera.
“I’m too tired to be fawning or insincere.”
Erik smiled genuinely. He somehow doubted Christine struggled with insincerity. “But now you appreciate it? What changed?”
“Marie plays videos of Gardner productions in the offices. Knowing what goes into the behind-the-scenes, from costumes to rehearsal to set design and interpretation, the need to appeal to the audience… It gave color to my understanding of the enjoyment of opera itself.”
He reflected on her words. “It sounds as though you appreciate the music from a business perspective.”
“No—well—yes—but I grew up in a world where music was part art and part commodity. If my father didn’t perform for one week, it might mean we couldn’t afford my school field trip. If there was a snowstorm and the city shut down…if schools were closed for a holiday and he couldn’t get childcare… You can’t eat music, but music was our way to eat. My father would spend hours learning a gorgeous complex piece, but it was all for naught if the crowd didn’t like it and it didn’t score tips. He fell back on the favorites because that was how we made rent. When my father died and I was on my own, I became skilled at looking at things in my life from a perspective of profit and cost. The enjoyment of music was usually a cost. Here, it’s the opposite, and unlike my father, who often had to shift gears at a moment’s notice, everything is planned and strategized. I appreciate that.”
“One would think being the daughter of a celebrated pianist would mean an inherent love of the art.” He paused. “Did your father ever try to teach you to play?”
“Oh, sure. As a child, he gave me lessons twice a week—Mondays evenings and Wednesdays after school. I’m…fine, I guess. I played well until he passed when I was twelve, but I lost the desire for it. It brings back too many memories.” She paused. “Wait, I didn’t tell you my dad was a pianist!”
Shit. Erik thought quickly and decided to stay as close to the truth as possible.
“In college, I used to go to the Blue Note on weekends. I saw him there a few times. He was outstanding.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed his music,” she said. “I preferred it when he played Billy Joel songs.”
Erik laughed softly. “Billy Joel is pretty good too.”
“Hmm…after my father died, I couldn’t bear to listen to any Billy Joel. ‘Uptown Girl’ or ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ would come on the radio at the grocery store, and I’d break out into sobs.”
“Those songs are terrible,” Erik couldn’t help but add.
“I know. But one day in foster care, I was miserable missing him—it was around Christmas. ‘Vienna’ came on the radio. It was our favorite song. My foster mother, Val, said it was a sign he was sending me his love. ”
“Now that’s a great song. I read somewhere Billy Joel was inspired by his own father to write that song.” Erik remembered Gus playing him the melody early on in their friendship. “It sounds like you and your dad were close.”
“He was the only family I had, and I was lucky to be his daughter.”
Erik knew her statement wasn’t made as a deliberate gut punch. Nonetheless, her comment caused him pain. If Gus hadn’t been on his way to see Erik…maybe he’d still be alive today. Moments Gus might have spent with Christine were instead spent with him. If Gus’s days had been limited, Erik had been a thief of some of those. Hearing her blunt assessment of her lack of family was a reminder of just how selfish he’d been.
“I never knew my father. I’m a little jealous you had such a close relationship with yours.”
“I never knew my mother. Are you close with yours?”
“No.” Erik didn’t elaborate, certain if he did so that she would be able to hear the venom in his voice. He didn’t want to ruin the intimacy of the moment with his vitriol.
His comment hung in the air between them. Erik was wondering if Christine thought his terse answer was rude when her small hand took his. She didn’t pry. She didn’t dig. She simply held the hand of a man she barely knew because she somehow sensed a lifetime of bitterness in his two-letter response. Without thinking about it, his fingers intertwined with hers. He could hear a slight catch in her breath. It was a mark of how long it had been since he’d had any physical intimacy, that even this slight touch aroused him. He shouldn’t be doing this for many reasons, but the dark had cast its spell. He was a man, she was a woman, and there was nothing wrong with holding her hand. He’d removed his gloves long ago, and the skin on his hand felt exquisitely sensitive as her thumb curled lightly into the skin of his palm.
He wanted, he needed, to help make her dreams come true. She’d been vulnerable with him, and he’d reciprocated, if only slightly. It surprised him how much he missed the exchange of trust that came with opening oneself up to another. He hadn’t known he could still be a human looking as he did. He wished he could be human with her. He wished for a lot of things.
He wished he could kiss her.
Lost in a swirl of unspoken longings, Erik pulled his hand away and held his face, the texture of the scars reminding him of what could never be. Christine stood up next to him, her foot inadvertently kicking his mask about a foot from its position near his hand, and he noticed a blinking light on the panel. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the click and hiss and the white noise of power returning.
“Look!” She pressed the button, and the lights turned on. She spun to Erik with a relieved smile.
Christine’s mind couldn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing. Hadn’t Erik taken off his mask? What was she looking at? The eyes staring back were dark blue but set into a face that defied explanation. Erik Gardner had been the victim of a horrifying ordeal, as evidenced by a nose that no longer existed. The gaping cavity was bordered on its right side by melted red-and-pink flesh. It petered out toward his forehead and lower cheek in a faint web of scar tissue. The left side of his face was relatively unscathed —handsome even—making the lack of symmetry even more unsettling.
What had happened to him? Her jaw dropped and moved up and down stupidly while she tried to think of a response .
The look on his face went from shocked to horrified to furious in short bursts. Before Christine could react, Erik had wrapped one arm around his face.
“Where is it? Where is it ?” he growled, the gentle voice in the dark replaced by an ugly fury that terrified her. What was he looking for? “Where is my mask? What have you done with it?” She didn’t know how he could see with his face blocked, but she found the mask wrapped around the heel of her shoe, and quickly picked it up and handed it to him. Grabbing the fabric, he turned toward the corner and immediately affixed it in place.
“Erik—I…” She reached toward him tentatively. Wanting to comfort? She wasn’t sure. But she liked him and didn’t want him to feel embarrassed. When he turned, cold and imperious, his stare filled her with dread.
“That’s Mr. Gardner.” He walked to the panel with military precision. With the power on, he could request a floor again, and soon, the elevator hummed to life. He turned to Christine, the wrath in his demeanor petrifying her. “Miss Derring, let me make myself perfectly clear. If you tell anyone what you saw tonight, I will make it my mission to ruin your career prospects, not just in this city but in the entire industry. You’ll be lucky to be a bank teller in Bumblefuck, Arkansas. Do you understand?”
He bent down and stared her in the eyes, forcing her to stare back. She couldn’t breathe. Why was the mask scarier than the destruction beneath it?
“Do you understand, Miss Derring?” Erik growled again.
“Yes,” she finally spoke, no more than an exhalation. “Y—yes, I understand.” She swallowed, tongue-tied and stiff. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.” The last word was swallowed and inaudible.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened to the bright lights of the lobby. Erik stalked out and grabbed his phone. “ Garret,” his voice ground out. “Yes, I’m fine. Stuck in a fucking elevator—come get me…”
As his voice faded, Christine picked up her box of items without looking at them. She dragged them into the lobby before collapsing into a pile of wrinkled red silk.
Shit.