Chapter 5
WHEN SHE WAS TEN YEARS OLD, Christine’s father, Gus, decided she had learned enough piano to show off her skills to his friends, so he set up a recital at his regular club. It was 3:00 p.m. on a Saturday in late May, and Christine had been assigned to play “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” Dutifully, she practiced daily. It wasn’t her favorite activity. She liked piano lessons with her dad, but that was because they got to spend time together. The piano was his passion, not hers.
She wasn’t the only performer that day. Gus had a handful of other students performing for their parents. Some of these children were shoehorned into lessons much as she had been. They were competent, if not exactly passionate, players. Others had the spark of inspiration and played as if they were born to the art. A six-year-old girl got up and played “Für Elise” with a nuanced interpretation that suggested she enjoyed every part of the activity.
Her father had always lavished Christine with praise, and she felt safe and secure in his affection. It’d never occurred to her that her playing was subpar. The little girl playing closed her eyes as if caught up in the music. The smile on her face was genuine and unguarded. Christine thought of her listless, rote efforts and felt cold inside .
She loved her father and wanted him to be happy. She stared at the other kids as they made their way through the process until she was called onstage. She looked out into the crowd as her father introduced her, far prouder than he should have been. The eyes of the other parents and students were picking her apart. She would be judged against her father and against the other kids, and there was no doubt they’d find her lacking. She’d surely disappoint her father. That was her biggest fear of all.
Her heart began to race. Her palms grew slick. A bead of sweat trailed between her shoulder blades to rest on the small of her back. Her father looked at her and gestured that she should begin.
She looked at him, a pleading glance on her face. She shook her head.
“Christine…”
She could hear him calling her, his voice concerned, but it was far away. Her fingers were nerveless and numb. She looked at the keys. She couldn’t remember anything. All that practice—for nothing.
She shook her head again and covered her eyes with her hands. Before she knew it, she’d backed up, the bench roughly scraping the wooden stage as she ran off and hid in the bathroom until everyone in attendance had left.
Fifteen years later, Christine could look back with a clearer understanding. Logically, she knew her read on the situation was a massive overreaction. She was ten years old, and this had hardly been an audition for Juilliard. But in that panicked scramble from the stage was born a lifelong fear of public performance. Anytime she was in front of a crowd, she was transported back in time to that day, feeling unprepared and unworthy. She had stage fright, and in approximately seven months, she would need to present and defend her thesis in front of a Columbia faculty committee .
She was screwed.
Christine’s focus in grad school had been on strategy and operations, and she’d done reasonably well in all the classes where she didn’t have to present. When group projects were handed out, she always offered to compile slide decks and write essays—she begged off any presentation of findings. The one time she couldn’t avoid speaking in front of a group, she was handed her first and only C. Fricking communications class.
Her thesis seminar began this semester, and she was lucky to have Professor Larry Dryer as her adviser. She’d always liked Prof. Dryer’s sense of humor, which went in the face of his name and field of study —accounting! He made the boring topic interesting enough that she’d taken two more of his classes and would be graduating with a minor concentration in the subject.
Her topic related to large-scale businesses turning cost centers into profit centers. She was fascinated by the idea of taking something that led to a cash outlay and turning it into a way for the business to grow revenue. Sometimes, it meant doing things in-house, and sometimes it meant the right strategic partnership. Her thesis was an analysis of the conditions necessary to make the transition. As an accountant, Professor Dryer was uniquely positioned to analyze her breakdown of the numbers involved.
“Christine, it’s good to see you again.” Professor Dryer broke her from her reverie. He was medium-tall and balding, with hair around his temples that had faded to bronzish brown and glasses that frequently slid to the end of his nose. He was in his mid-fifties and had done this gig for at least a decade, if not more.
“Thank you for agreeing to be my adviser, Professor Dryer. I’m looking forward to working with you this year.”
“Likewise. I’ve started looking over your initial research. Unlike many students at this university, you know how to write a coherent sentence. That’s good.”
“The bar must be low.” Christine smiled despite her bleak mood.
“Well, for writing, it is.” He looked at her with a sardonic eye. “But make no mistake, the committee reviewing your presentation will make the bar very high. Research and writing are important, but they want to know you can defend your theories and respond to their questions. I’m not worried about you putting the work in, but that C in communications worries me.” He looked at her, not unkindly.
“I get…” She paused. “I have terrible stage fright. I freeze up in front of a crowd when I have to present.”
“You never had that problem in your classes with me. You couldn’t keep your hand down when you had a question…or an answer, for that matter.”
“That first semester, I was nervous, but then you made the joke about Beyoncé and debits going to the left… Can’t be scared of a professor who makes dad jokes.”
“That one always kills.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. “Unfortunately, the committee isn’t about to make tortured puns to comfort you, and frankly, neither will the people you meet in the corporate world after you graduate. You have to climb this hill. I’ll help you as much as possible, and my new TA says he knows you and will be happy to help.”
“Your new TA?”
“Rafe Cantor. He mentioned he grew up with you.”
Christine’s eyes widened in surprise. Rafe Cantor had been a fleeting presence in Christine’s early childhood. One summer, when Christine was eight years old, Gus had been hired to perform at a series of parties in the Hamptons as part of the Starlight Orchestra when the regular pianist went on maternity leave. It was a steady paycheck for the summer months when most of the city was deserted, and Christine was able to join and spend her days at the beach.
One day, she was playing in the sand while her father read nearby. As she played, a breeze picked up her favorite red sunhat and flung it into the ocean. Christine was near to tears when a sandy-haired older boy plowed in to retrieve it and emerged covered in seaweed and salt water.
Rafe Cantor was fourteen years old to Christine’s eight and not an appropriate playmate, but he was kind and gentle with her in an older-brother way. When his parents found out who Gus was, they hired him to entertain at a series of summer fetes they were throwing, a paycheck that ensured their rent was paid until the new year. Christine watched movies in the guest room, and Rafe snuck her plates of goodies from the dessert table and put on Disney films for her. When Rafe expressed an interest in piano lessons, Christine sat at the coffee table listening to his failed attempts while coloring and reading his old comic books. It wasn’t a bad way to spend the summer, and her memories of Rafe and his family were fond ones.
“I know Rafe well, though we fell out of touch some years ago. It’ll be nice to see him again.” Christine didn’t have to feign excitement. She didn’t have many friends from her childhood—the consequence of losing her parents early on and growing up in foster care.
“He’s scheduling follow-up sessions in the front office. You’ll see him when you leave. Hopefully having two people you know well will help you get past some of your performance issues.”
Christine nodded but she knew she needed to be comfortable whether the audience was friendly or not. That said, it would be a pleasant surprise to see Rafe again. As she approached his desk, he stood to welcome her.
“Christine!” You could hear the smile in his voice, much like she remembered from her childhood. Rafe was always happy. It came easy to him, having been raised with love and security. In the years since, she’d never met someone so naturally talented at finding joy in everything, including his dreadful musical talent and what must have been the annoying attentions of an eight-year-old girl. “I was floored to see your name on Dryer’s list of students!”
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s so good to see you!” She thought for a moment that Rafe meant to hug her, and she took a half step back to avoid it before giving him a thorough once-over. He’d grown several inches and was easily six feet. The gangly legs and arms had been replaced by lean muscle. He still dressed well—being a child of wealthy parents likely meant he didn’t shop at the thrift store. His warm smile hadn’t changed. She decided he was good-looking without thinking about whether she was attracted to him, which probably meant she wasn’t.
“I’m working on my doctorate in business administration with a focus on accounting. I’m Professor Dryer’s teaching assistant this semester. I’m excited we’ll have a chance to work together.” Rafe laughed warmly. “It’s great to see you—it’s been a decade!”
“More than that.”
“How’s Gus doing? Are his ears still hurting from his failed attempts at teaching me how to play?”
“My dad died thirteen years ago. Heart attack,” she said quietly. “I assumed you heard.” She watched as Rafe’s face etched into an expression of shock and grief. Over a decade later, it still burned, the burden of sharing her grief with others.
“Christine, I’m so sorry.” Rafe didn’t hold back this time as he wrapped her into a bear hug. It felt good to be held and to share the pain with someone who also cared about her father. After several moments, she stepped back and watched as Rafe hastily wiped at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. It touched her that her father’s death so moved him. He coughed to cover up the tears, perhaps, and schooled his features.
“You’ve come a long way, looks like. Getting your MBA.”
“Yeah—as long as I manage to defend my thesis.” Christine rolled her eyes, confirming her stress about the presentation.
“Hey, don’t sweat it—Dryer’s a great adviser, and I’m happy to help too. I host office hours every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday at 4 p.m.”
“Shoot, that’s a bit tough. I work full-time at the Gardner Opera House. But maybe I can get out early once or twice for extra help. Can I get your email?”
“Sure, let me text you.” She gave him her number and saw the instant text with his contact information. “I’m happy to help after hours too, if you can’t get out of the office. You’re not alone in having to work. Many of the other students do too. You work for Gardner?”
“Well, yes, the opera house, but Gardner Industries is its primary donor.”
“That’s so bizarre. You know, I went to college with Erik Gardner at Penn. He was a senior during my freshman year. We were in the same frat and occasionally crossed paths.”
“Really?” Christine felt like an addict about to get a fix. She tried to play it off casually. “What was he like?”
“Honestly, he was kind of a blowhard. Seemed to think he could do no wrong. He was smart as all heck and worked his ass off in school, but he’d also be the first one to get in trouble for partying too much or breaking the rules. I get it. He didn’t have anyone. He said his dad died when he was a kid. His mom never came around, even when he was made president of our chapter. He invited her to our annual formal banquet, but she didn’t show.”
Christine stood transfixed at the idea of the poor little rich boy Erik was being painted as.
“After the car accident, I didn’t see him again.”
“Car accident?”
“Yeah, it was March of senior year. He got into a big wreck. He got pretty banged up—had to finish school from a hospital bed.” Rafe shook his head. “Didn’t get to walk for graduation. Damn shame.”
Rafe’s words echoed in Christine’s brain on her long walk home from Columbia. She could’ve just as easily taken a bus like she had on the way from work. Still, her mind always operated better on movement, and it just wasn’t satisfying pacing in a 250-square-foot apartment. Since she couldn’t afford a gym membership, pounding the pavement was her only solution.
Something had happened to Erik in college that likely led to his current state. It shouldn’t have surprised her he had a life prior to his incarceration behind that mask. From what Rafe said, it was a life that had been, at least in part, one of hedonism.
Damn frat boys.
She shook her head and scoffed. She’d always hated the type.
What must it be like for Erik Gardner—to go from a life of popularity and privilege to his current state of isolation? Privilege was still his dominion—Gardner Industries was a thriving enterprise, and as its CEO and majority shareholder, Erik was exceedingly wealthy. But with all that wealth, he still lived in the shadows. What a comedown from the youth Rafe described!
What had Erik said?
“As someone who was twenty-five when I was seventeen, I don’t recommend it.”
She remembered that clipped ‘no’ he had offered when she asked about his mother. In a moment of madness and empathy, that ‘no’ had inspired her to reach for his hand. Had he had an abbreviated childhood? Had he any childhood at all? Poor little rich boy, indeed.
Christine had been doing everything she could to put the NDA out of her mind, but she couldn’t fight it anymore. Reza Khan hadn’t contacted her about it, and she’d procrastinated deciding. Erik was offering her an easy way out. One million dollars was a lot of money. Whether or not she passed her thesis seminar, she’d have money in the bank and a job at a pedigreed firm that would open the door to other opportunities. And she wouldn’t even have to face her fear of speaking on stage.
She tried to imagine what her father would think of her predicament. He’d been an artist, but he was also a pragmatist. Perhaps in his youth, there was a romantic appeal to the idea of sacrificing financial security to be a great musician, but after Christine was born and her mother had died, he did what he could to ensure they had food on the table even if that meant sacrificing to the altar of wealthy patrons. It hadn’t been a bad life, but there were many times her father went without so she could have. She knew he wouldn’t judge her if she decided to sign for the sake of her own financial well-being.
But there was something about taking advantage of the offer that disgusted her. Erik Gardner had already given her so much. Not only had the Gardner Industries scholarship ensured she graduated college debt-free, his very existence had inspired her goals. Unintentionally, the man had given her a purpose. This was all before she’d met him. Yes, he’d been cruel to her, but he’d also been kind. She understood his viciousness was born of fear.
Taking advantage of his wealth felt like a betrayal of all he meant to her. By doing so, she’d be proving all he was worth was his money now that he looked the way he did. She wanted to show him compassion even though he’d behaved so abominably to her. It was the least she could do for him.
Oh, but the money was a temptation!
When she made it home, she collapsed into bed, still in her work clothes. She’d been running on little sleep for so long, and her body craved a full night of rest. She was rewarded with odd dreams of her father sitting in the conference room at the offices of the Gardner Opera in front of Reza Khan, signing a giant stack of papers with a rueful smile on his face.
“Dad?” she asked with a quirked eyebrow. What was he doing at the opera, of all places? He wore a rumpled suit like he used for gigs with the Starlight Orchestra when he played for society weddings. He looked much the same as he had in life, and reflexively, she smiled at his appearance until she was distracted by a bag attached to his arm, slowly draining blood from his body.
“That’s this year’s groceries taken care of, kid!”
Christine shot up in bed, her arm stretched outward as if trying to grab her father’s shoulder. Her breath came in shallow pants as she mulled over her dream.
Her father sacrificed almost everything for her. What would she have to sacrifice to make her aspirations a reality?