Chapter 11
The next morning, I met Neto at the concert hall a few minutes before the time DeShawn had agreed to meet us.
I’d cut my morning practice short by forty-five minutes so I could look extra cute when I saw Neto again, and his grin when he saw me suggested that he’d noticed.
Maybe he didn’t specifically notice my freshly painted nails or my new mascara or just how much softer and silkier my hair was after the hair mask I’d applied, but his pupils definitely dilated when our eyes met.
And I’m sure my pupils were dilating, too.
He looked way too hot to be investigating a murder in a tan coat with a black T-shirt underneath and jeans that looked like he’d done actual work in them but could still turn heads at the VMAs.
And his cheeks were scruffier, as though he had noticed how my fingers had lingered on his stubble and taken note.
Neto sauntered over and took me in his arms, kissing my forehead in greeting. “Hey.”
“Hey.” My cheeks heated as the memory of our kisses flashed before my eyes for the hundredth time. I may have turned from reliving the memories to creating new ones, but just then, DeShawn pulled up in a red pickup.
“Nice truck,” Neto said as DeShawn walked over to us.
“Thanks. Nice car,” he said, gesturing to where Neto’s black car was parked.
I felt around in my pockets, pretending to search for the key to the concert hall that I had deliberately left at home.
“I’ve got it,” DeShawn said. He pulled out his own keys, confirming to me that he did, in fact, have access to the building.
We walked inside and I tried to hone in on DeShawn rather than the echo of our shoes on the marble floor or the hum of the heater.
His posture was relaxed as he shrugged out of his navy-blue coat and draped it over a chair in the sound booth.
He was comfortable here, and he was comfortable around us.
I watched him closely as he and Neto geeked out about the state-of-the-art sound equipment to establish a baseline before I started questioning him.
I picked up his heartbeat, eighty beats per minute, and made a note that he occasionally ran a hand through his short black hair.
When I felt I had a good handle on his body language, I inserted myself into the conversation.
“Thank you for helping us today, DeShawn, I said.
“No problem. I’m happy to help and I’m glad that the concert is moving forward.”
I didn’t tell him that unless we were able to find the killer soon, my mother was going to shut it down.
“Me too. But I feel terrible about Paolo.”
He nodded. “He was a jerk, but he didn’t deserve to die.”
I watched his neck for his pulse as he spoke. No change so far. “I heard you two fighting that day. Was that your last interaction with him?”
He cast his eyes down to the ground. “It was. Things got kind of heated and I feel bad that we never got a chance to resolve our differences.” He looked back up and met my eyes, his expression open, honest.
His expressive eyebrows, his wide open and relaxed body language, and the steady rhythm of his heart—everything about him made me believe that he was telling the truth.
“Where did you go after you stormed out?” I asked.
“The Enchanted Teapot. I was mad enough to be tempted to head to the bar, but I wasn’t going to let a jerk like Paolo set back four years of sobriety.”
“Good for you. And thanks again for helping us.”
I exchanged a look with Neto and he shook his head slightly. He didn’t think DeShawn was guilty, either.
DeShawn left after setting up the equipment for us, and I texted Mrs. Ravenswood, the owner of The Enchanted Teapot, who confirmed that DeShawn really was there during the window when Paolo was killed.
We spent the next hour rehearsing. Even though we’d sung together before and I knew what to expect, I was still amazed at how good it felt to sing with him.
When we finished, we sat on the edge of the stage, feet dangling and our thighs touching.
“What’s our next step?” Neto asked.
“I need to confront Walter. He lied about being in the practice room and I need to know why.”
“Good idea. Let me know when and I’ll come with you.”
“I don’t know if he’ll be as likely to talk with someone else around.”
Neto frowned. “Could you make it someplace public then?”
“Absolutely. I’ll text him and see when he can meet.”
I sent the message and set down my phone next to me so my hand would be free to claim Neto’s, but picked it up again as Walter responded almost immediately.
“He’s busy this weekend, but he’s free on Monday night,” I said.
Neto frowned. “I have a game that night.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’ll just invite him to come to the game. It’s public, and I can fill you in afterward. Besides,” I said, cheeks heating, “I’ve been dying to watch you play.”
His sideways grin only lasted two seconds before I kissed it away.
We saw each other every day that weekend.
We skated again, attended a performance of The Nutcracker, listened to a Christmas bell-choir concert, and spent as much time together as possible.
He held my hand any chance he got and I kissed him all over town—at the skating rink, at the lighthouse, and under the huge Christmas tree in Regency Meadows Park.
One night as we were having dinner at an Italian restaurant, we ran into some of his hockey buddies.
“This must be your violin player,” a teammate had said.
And Neto had grinned, pulling me closer and kissing me on the cheek.
“This is Anne,” he’d said, his tone giving my name a weight and an importance that they all heard as they smiled knowingly.
But afterward, while we were walking back to his car, we passed my mother on the street and I dropped his hand, hurriedly fixing my hair to cover up my action.
He tried to hide it, but I saw the hurt in his eyes.
That night, when I walked in, my mother was waiting for me in the kitchen, nursing a cup of dark coffee.
“Anne. I’d like a word.” My mother’s tone left no room for argument, so I followed her as she turned and walked down the hall.
Uh oh. If she wanted to speak to me in her study, then it was going to be one of those kinds of talks. A talk where she was going to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. And I had a pretty good idea it was going to be about Neto.
I followed her in silence, past gold-framed portraits of de Bourghs of the past, all of them eyeing me in silent judgment.
When we reached the study, we sat in two chairs angled toward one another in front of the fireplace. At least she wasn’t sitting behind her desk.
She steepled her hands. “I know that you’ve been forming an attachment to that young man, Ernesto.”
Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach. “We’ve become friends.”
She hummed, calling my bluff. “I can’t comprehend how you could even be attracted to the young man. He isn’t even fae.”
“I don’t care about that.” I practically growled the words.
“You can’t be serious, Anne. He has none of the qualifications requisite in forming an attachment with a de Bourgh.”
“And what would those be?” Some of my exasperation slipped through in my tone and she raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even and calm. “What I mean is, in what areas does Ernesto fall short? In your opinion?”
She stiffened at the challenge in my question. “For one thing, his career choice is lacking.”
At least she conceded that his music was a career. “The band has a number of singles on the top one hundred chart this year, and they’re even receiving an award for—”
“I am aware that he is popular. And I am aware that this can be a method of generating income.” She twisted her mouth as she spoke, as though the words were distasteful, that any money that hadn’t been in your family’s possession for centuries was somehow less valuable.
“Setting aside the claim you will no doubt try to make about his talent, you must agree that a man who is touring the world performing shows is hardly in a position to support you, let alone a family.” That was her favorite tactic, anticipating my points and dismissing them before I had a chance to make them.
“You’d spend your days driving around in a sour-smelling tour bus and standing in sweaty crowds. You call that a quality life?”
Stillness settled over me. I was crazy about Neto, but I hadn’t let myself look too far into the future and what it might hold for us. What being with him would mean for my life.
A heavy feeling of obligation rested on me and my mother’s voice sharpened.
“You are a de Bourgh and when I am gone, this vast estate will be entrusted to you. This family has built a legacy of leadership, philanthropy, and community involvement for hundreds of years, Anne. Hundreds. You have a responsibility for all the privilege you have enjoyed. As a cousin to the future king, you have a responsibility to him, and to your people. Have you considered how it might affect Fitzwilliam if you were to run off with some musician?”
My heart constricted as I thought about how I’d inadvertently dashed Darcy’s chances with Elizabeth, and it fell further as I remembered how he’d warned Charles away from the Bennets.
My breaths were coming too quickly, too shallowly.
I did have a duty to Darcy, to support him when he took the throne.
My mother clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Maybe I’ve been too indulgent, letting you spend hours devoted to the arts and self-improvement rather than to fulfilling your obligations. I certainly regret that now. To think that I have raised such a selfish child.”
I steadied myself, but I had no words, my mind a vast, empty space.
She clicked her tongue. “No need to let the mistakes of yesterday become the mistakes of tomorrow. As the orchestra has clearly been taking away too much of your time and turning your focus to yourself rather than to others, my only course of action is to shut it down. Its fate was already in question after the arrest of the conductor, and this is the final straw.”
Adrenaline coursed through my body and I found my voice again.
“Mamá, please. The arts uplift a community, and the orchestra is part of the rich culture of Austen Heights. I’m sorry I’ve neglected my role and I promise I’ll do more to live up to the de Bourgh name.
” My next words were so low they were almost a whisper. “Please don’t shut it down.”
She eyed me shrewdly, a bird considering its prey. “And the young man?”
My heart pounded painfully in my chest. “I’ll end it,” I said quietly.
I headed to my room, pulled out my violin, and poured myself into the music, heedless of tone or technique, my bow racing along the stings.
I played Mendelssohn, reveling in the speed, the violence of it, from allegro molto appassionato to allegretto non troppo.
Time flew as I vented my rage and it slowly turned to sorrow, tears blurring my eyes.
But I didn’t need to see, I knew this piece from memory.
So I let the tears fall, my chest aching.