Chapter 9
ON THE SUNDAY BEFORE what should have been their next meeting, Christine came down with a nasty stomach bug. She supposed there were worse indignities than being curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, but she hadn’t experienced them. She didn’t get sick often, but when it happened, it was almost always related to her stomach, and this time it was terrible.
After a miserable ten hours of retching, she opened her bleary eyes to the early morning light breaking through the windows of her basement apartment and took stock of her body. Work was a no-go, but she hoped her symptoms were alleviated enough by evening to get to her standing appointment with Erik. When her stomach churned again and she barely reached the bathroom, she realized how unlikely that was. She shot out two emails on her phone. The one to work was easy—Marie was an empathetic boss. Cynthia would undoubtedly make some nasty comment, but Christine couldn’t be bothered to worry about that now.
What to write to Erik? That was another matter entirely. While he’d reached out a handful of times, she’d never initiated contact, and she’d rather the first time not be a discussion of the inner workings of her gut .
Maybe…
Good morning, Erik,
I hope this finds you well! I’m afraid I cannot make it this evening as I’m under the weather. I’ll continue to work on my breathing!
Christine
Were the exclamation points too much? She tried again.
Hey Erik,
I’m currently embracing the cold tile on my bathroom floor after spending last night praying to the porcelain God. I’m quarantining. See you next week.
Christine
Definitely not—but she was sure accidentally sending him that email would be the start of some preposterous romance novel. Best to stick to the bare facts.
Hi Erik,
I’m sorry to do this at the last minute, but I need to cancel our meeting for this week. I was sick last night and am recovering today. I look forward to seeing you next week.
Christine
Having absented herself from her day’s responsibilities, Christine took a nausea pill and plodded back to bed, hoping to feel better when she woke up.
When Christine next opened her eyes, she could have sworn she’d slept for only a few minutes, but her senses told her otherwise. Her body was drenched with sweat, and when she shifted, the stiffness in her joints emphasized it had been a while since her body position had changed. The light from her window was at a different angle—at least early afternoon. She wasn’t surprised when her phone showed the time to be 12:00 p.m. She’d slept for five hours, but felt like she could sleep for another ten.
A notification on her phone showed she had a missed message from a number she didn’t recognize.
Unknown: I hope you’re feeling better.—Erik
Erik was texting her? She blinked groggily and reread the message. Like most of his correspondence, it was succinct.
Christine: Yes, thank you. I just woke up.
Erik: It’s good you got some rest. How’s your stomach?
Christine: It seems to have settled. How did you know I have a stomach bug?
Erik: Marie mentioned it to me on the phone earlier.
Erik: Can you do me a favor? Can you come to your door?
Christine looked around her room. What was he playing at? Intrigued and only a bit annoyed, she put a fuzzy bathrobe and slippers over her well-worn, threadbare pajamas from college and did as he asked. Standing at her front door was Garret, who had an expression that could only be described as beleaguered. Clearly he’d been waiting a while.
“Mr. Dixon—what in the…?”
“Thank goodness you’re awake. Erik’s had me waiting outside for an hour now.” Mr. Dixon handed her a large basket. “Forgive me for leaving so quickly. I do not want to get a stomach virus.” He practically sprinted away .
“If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure it was grocery store sushi!” she called out, but he was already gone. Christine looked at the heavy wicker basket he’d left in her possession.
The contents brought a giant smile to her face. Two quarts of matzo ball soup and a loaf of challah from Veselka’s in the East Village. How did he know she liked Veselka’s? Ginger ale, Gatorade, and a small wrapped box. A card tied to the basket read Get well soon. —Erik.
She picked up her phone to text him.
Christine: Thank you—that was incredibly thoughtful of you. Please thank Mr. Dixon for me as well.
Erik: My pleasure. Did you open the box yet?
Christine turned the small cardboard box over in her hands. It was slender and about a foot in length. She opened it gingerly to find a small metronome inside.
Christine: I just did. Why did you send me a metronome?
Erik: I was going to give it to you tonight. For the next week, I want you to practice presenting while keeping time with the metronome and using your correct breathing. This is the next step in helping you—first breathing, now timing.
Christine: Thank you for the soup. How did you know I like Veselka’s?
Erik: I took a lucky guess—it’s on the edge of Alphabet City. I figured there was a decent chance you went there as a kid.
Christine was beyond pleased he’d made such an effort on her behalf. She couldn’t believe he remembered where she’d grown up and had sent his butler—valet, manservant, assistant, who knew?—to hunt down something that would make her feel better .
Christine: Thank you, Erik. I really appreciate it.
Erik: You’re welcome. Get some rest. Let me know if you need anything else.
Christine decided to chance her stomach and immediately heated up a bowl of soup, dipping pieces of challah bread into the salty broth. It was amazing how the meal’s flavor nourished her, and Erik’s lovely gesture improved her outlook. How did he balance the cold stranger who dismissed her so abruptly last week with the friend who made her feel less alone when she was ill? His mood swings were giving her whiplash.
She looked at the dark brown metronome. It was standard, the kind she used during the piano lessons of her youth. Her fingers ran along the wooden surface when she discovered something etched along the back.
“Until we can manage time, we can manage nothing else.” —Peter F. Drucker
Christine let out an amused snort. Erik wouldn’t waste an opportunity to reframe her mindset, so he picked a quote from a world-famous Austrian business consultant to illustrate his point. Turning the device on, she got to work.
Erik justified his concerns for Christine’s well-being as he would for anyone in his circle who was ill. When Garret’s wife had shingles, he sent flowers. When Reza’s daughter was born, he provided their family with the services of a baby nurse. It felt good to be generous. What was the point of having as much money as he did if he couldn’t share it with the few people he cared about when they were in need ?
And, certainly, he cared about Christine Derring. It would be strange if he didn’t. He did not expect the violence of his reaction to her email that morning. His heart picked up pace when he read she was ill. She didn’t have anyone to care for her. She didn’t have the resources to get help. He’d have to be made of stone not to have compassion for a fellow human being in distress.
A forgotten memory from the days after he was released from the hospital emerged. Gus had shown up at Erik’s home in Princeton with bags from Veselka’s. It had been filled with soup, pierogies, potato latkes, and beef stroganoff. The smell wafted into his mother’s mansion, making Erik’s mouth water. It brought back his appetite after many months of apathy.
“This soup’s the only food my daughter eats when she gets sick,” Gus said with a smile as he dished portions to Erik and Reza. “The families in my neighborhood call it Jewish penicillin.”
It was surprising to recall a good memory from such a dark time in his life, but he was grateful. Thanks to Gus, he could provide Christine with some comfort.
It was 5:30 p.m., and even though she was sick, Erik’s nerves were on edge. He felt frayed and angry. When the elevator doors opened unexpectedly, he looked up with desperate hope. The hope was dashed when Garret entered carrying another bag from the restaurant. Their eyes met, and Garret gave him a wry grin.
“I thought you might be hungry.” Garret took the bag into the kitchen and began removing prepackaged foods from the bag. The smell was familiar and comforting. Erik sat down on a bar-height chair across from Garret while the other man portioned out servings.
“Garret, why do I get the feeling you’re handling me?”
“Handling you? Why would you say that?”
Erik indicated the food with a raised brow and a slight nod.
“I’ve never heard you as panicked as when you called me at 6:15 to send me to a restaurant that wouldn’t open for another two hours. Don’t get me wrong, after so long being one of your only friends, it’s nice to see your circle widen ever so slightly. I thought you might like a little company tonight since your regular ‘appointment’ is otherwise indisposed.
Erik held Garret’s gaze before looking down at the bowl of soup he was given. The overhead lights reflected off the translucent yellow surface, and Erik viewed a reflection of his face’s awful asymmetry. He never truly forgot his face, even if he avoided his reflection as much as possible. In those few moments earlier, when he conversed with Christine over text, he’d stopped thinking about the impossibility of anything happening between them.
“Are you saying I’m wasting my time?” he asked Garret, a miserable grimace on his face.
“Didn’t say that at all. Just didn’t want you to go dark again.”
Erik’s phone pinged as he ruminated on Garret’s words. It was Christine.
Christine: I wanted to thank you again for the soup. It’s incredible how much better I feel. ??
Erik tamped down on the unanticipated smile that came to his mouth. A cold dread filled him as the unknowable lingered before him. Garret cut off a piece of potato latke with his fork.
“Erik, for whatever my opinion is worth, I don’t think you’re wasting your time.”
Christine hated the metronome. It was amazing how a device that had been a regular presence in so many pleasant hours spent learning from her father was now the bane of her existence .
Erik: Most presentations are spoken at a cadence of 100 to 150 words a minute. Start slowly. Try to practice your presentation at a regular pace. Time yourself and see if you can replicate the run time. Come up with a rhythm to the story you’re trying to tell.
What the heck did that mean? The first run-through took her thirty-seven minutes. The second, forty-five. The third, twenty-six minutes. By Monday, she was about to throw the metronome out the window in Erik’s apartment, much to his bemusement.
“I hate this thing, Erik. I feel more tied up in knots than ever.”
Erik sat in one of his armchairs. Tonight, he wore a black leather half-mask, cut down the middle so she could see how handsome he had been once upon a time. His fingers tapped his chin as he took in her consternation.
“Show me what you’re doing.” Erik put the metronome on.
Christine took a deep breath—through her nose—and began. He kept his face impartial as she walked through the introductory slides. As she continued through her agenda, his lips quirked.
“You’re laughing at me!” she accused. “No, don’t deny it.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—you’re right.” Erik rubbed his temple through the material of his mask. “You sound like one of those tape recordings starting at a normal pace only to speed-up-like-a-chipmunk-before…going…very…slow….” He punctuated his description with a comical interpretation of her attempt.
“I’m glad you’re so amused.” But she was smiling too. “Fine. What am I doing wrong?”
“Come on.” He gestured her to follow him to his recording studio. There were two chairs there now. “I asked you to talk at a cadence of 100-150 words per minute, but that doesn’t mean talking robotically. It’s an average overall to ensure you don’t get anxious and speed up unnecessarily. When you go fast, your heart rate ramps up, and your anxiety gets worse. The metronome is a reminder to be deliberate.” He sat down and handed her a pair of headphones. “It’s an art, not a science. Can you hear me?”
She nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.
“You took piano lessons, so you understand the flow of music, so let’s start there. Do you know George Gershwin’s song, ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’?”
“Yes.”
“When Gershwin first wrote this song, it was for a musical, and it was designed to be sung at a faster pace. As time has passed, the arrangements have been made slower and more deliberate, depending on the singer. Tonight, we’re going to sing it at about 110 beats per minute—which is on the slower side of where you’ll be when you present.”
He started playing the notes loosely with one hand, the melody coming through on the high side. “Remember how this song starts? ‘There’s a saying old, says that love is blind, still we’re often told, seek and ye shall find.’ The song is giving you a thesis statement. The singer is discussing how she’s setting forth finding her lover. As she progresses to the chorus, the song becomes more fluid.” Erik progressed from playing notes to chords, deep and resonant, representing the heart of the song.
“You want me to sing?” She looked at him incredulously. Erik was practically a professional musician, and she would be laughable by comparison. “I can’t imagine that’ll be pleasant for either of us.”
“I thought we’d moved past your doubts in my methods,” he chided her gently. “I want you to sing something you’re familiar with. We trained your body to be calm, and now we’re training it to deliver content while maintaining your calm. I want you to pay special attention to how the song flows. And heaven help you if I see you breathe through your mouth.” He gave her a stern look, and Christine shook her head softly, but she was fighting a smile.
“You asked for it, Erik. ”
Erik began playing in earnest, and Christine was so transfixed by his playing she nearly missed her prompt. His fingers caressed the keys with an assurance and knowledge that made her blush about other places those fingers might be otherwise employed. It was too much input for her to take. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and began.
“‘There’s a saying old, says that love is blind, still we’re often told, seek and ye shall find. So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind.’”
She’d always loved this song. Her father made George Gershwin a regular presence in their home, whether played by him on his piano or sung by Etta James on her dad’s ancient record player. It was so easy to slide into the melody. The training she’d done for breath control clicked on automatically. At that moment, she understood what Erik was trying to teach her. She could keep with the song’s beat but still influence how the words were expressed. There was artistry in how she could play with the language; the same was true for presenting her work to others.
It’s not that her stage fright was gone, but now she understood his method for overcoming it. She had a strategy, and that felt so much like a victory that the joy of it rang through the rest of the song. When Erik played the outro, she turned to him with a grin. He was staring at her with an emotion that looked very much like awe.
“You have a beautiful voice, Christine,” he said quietly, swallowing the praise as if it scared him to say it. He flicked off the equipment.
“Erik, thank you. I…think I understand now. I get it—what you’ve been trying to teach me.” She threw herself at him and hugged him from behind. “I can do this. For the first time, I feel like I can do this. Thank you so much!” Without thinking, she kissed the unmasked side of his face. She was still hu gging him as she did so and was shocked when Erik tensed and stood so abruptly that she fell back and bumped against the desk holding most of the room’s equipment.
She realized belatedly her touch was too forward, and she tried to figure out how to apologize.
Erik stood at the piano, his fingers clenched. “Forgive me…I do not like to be touched.” He wouldn’t look at her, and his shoulders rose and fell, belying a tension that ran through his body.
Christine rubbed her bottom where it’d hit the desk. “No, it was my fault. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hugged you. I was just so pleased and grateful.” She wanted to touch his shoulder and reached out a hand to do just that before thinking twice. Quickly, she pulled it back to her side, her other hand wrapped around her bicep as if to keep her arm still. “Can we go practice the presentation now?”
Erik’s head turned so that she saw the masked side of his face. She suspected he did so on purpose to hide whatever he was feeling.
“No—no.” He took a deep breath and turned away from her. “I think we’ve done enough for this evening. I hope you’ll forgive me if we end early tonight. You’ve made great progress. I’m proud of you.”
Christine glowed at his quiet praise while mourning their appointment was so quickly over. She wanted to ask if she could stay. Perhaps they could share dinner? But she knew this was the limit of their relationship.
“Thank you. Will I see you next week?”
He turned fully now, his eyes widened with surprise. “Why wouldn’t we?” he asked, panic laced in his voice. “We aren’t done yet.”
“Very well then, I’ll see you next week.” She looked around and picked up her purse from the studio floor. “I’ll see myself out. Good night, Erik.” She looked at him, sad she couldn’t press a hand to his broad shoulder. She was locked out again, and each door slam hurt more than the previous one.
Erik would never willingly let her in. Now she realized how much she wanted him to do so.
After she left, Erik sat down on the bench. He absently rubbed at his face where her lips had pressed. He didn’t think she realized how much her touch had affected him. That slight affection, a hug and a kiss, hit his body like an electric shock, paralyzing him and exciting him at the same time. The press of her breasts against his back made him hard, and it took all his willpower not to wrap her in his arms and bring his lips to hers. He could almost hear her voice breathless with pleasure while thoroughly exploring her body with his hands and mouth. He would turn down the lights and make love to her in the dark, devoid of his mask, thinking only of how loud he could make her come with his mouth…on his cock…
She looked so disappointed when he ended their meeting. She no doubt thought him cruel, when, in fact, he was struggling to stave off a panic attack. Her voice brought a passion to his music he hadn’t realized was missing. As she sang, he pressed the keys under his fingertips with a new energy. A solo exercise became a mutual give-and-take—a craving expressed in music that had been gone in his life for so long.
It was going awry—all his plans to keep her in a small box of his life. He’d known he desired her. For weeks, the erotic image of her naked and wrapped around him had haunted his dreams. Still, as long as they’d maintained their limited interactions, he’d felt safe. Tonight, she’d broken those boundaries with her small affections, and he didn’t know if he could go back.
But what was the way forward? The idea of her disappearing from his life altogether had his heart racing, his body and mind warring against the possibility.
Absentmindedly, he clicked his recording equipment back on. He should have told her he was recording her, but he worried she’d become self-conscious. Clicking the necessary file had their voices carrying through the room as though he were a ghost watching their interactions from behind a mirror. He basked in the moment she opened her mouth, and that glorious voice sounded—golden as honey and just as sweet. He closed his eyes and let it sweep over him.
“There’s a somebody I’m longing to see… I hope that he turns out to be, someone who’ll watch over me.”
She should be in front of a crowd, crooning with the scotch and soda set. He could see her now, wearing a sequined gown and elbow-length gloves like something from a 1940s noir film. She’d be a hit at Fedora.
His eyes opened as inspiration struck.
Christine had barely walked into her apartment door when her phone rang. Fishing it out of her purse, she was surprised to see Erik’s number, and she panicked momentarily before answering.
“Hello,” she said tentatively, half expecting a pocket dial. Erik had never called her before. He texted and emailed, but it always seemed he chose those methods of communication to keep her at a distance .
“You’re home safe, good.” Erik’s hesitant voice endeared him to her. How was he able to do that—close and open the door to her feelings with just a few words?
“It’s only a twenty-four-block walk. Was that why you called?”
Had he been so concerned, surely he would have offered her a ride with Mr. Dixon.
“No. I had an idea I wanted to run by you. Something to help you with your stage fright.”
Christine put down her purse and sat on her bed. “I’m listening.”
“Christine, what are your plans for Halloween?”