12. In the Belly of the Beast
12
IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST
PRENTICE
Kimmy’s eyes were like saucers as she read my revised plan.
“Prentice,” she breathed. “What is—how did you—is this too much?”
I clapped my hands in excitement. “Not too much. Just right! He wants to do it. They all want to do it!”
“But . . . this is the paragraph that, um . . .” She circled her hands in the region of her stomach.
“Which one? Read it out loud to me!” Like I didn’t know every word by heart.
“ ‘Social media influencer Opinionated O’Connor,’ ” Kimmy read, “ ‘has already agreed to post a hint on her Reddit feed, YouTube channel, and blog to alert Caumsett High students that they won’t want to miss the assembly next Friday.’ Prentice, that’s . . . you’ve . . . she’s got followers all over the nation!”
“I know. Isn’t it awesome? She’s dating Mal’s bandmate, Archer. You know, the blond one.”
“Oh, I know which one Archer is, believe me. Every woman in America knows who Archer is. But Prentice, people are going to come out of the woodwork to see what’s going on. I seriously think you’re talking about a security issue here.”
“So did the school board. That’s why Aftermath’s agent, Phil, is working with the Caumsett security team to add off-duty cops, and the local police say they’ll be on call if things get out of hand.”
“You’ve been through all this? While I was out with a simple head cold?”
“We don’t have to do it. I don’t mean to railroad you. But if we want to get the word out, can you think of a better way?”
Kimmy blinked at me again. She looked back at her screen and then at me. “I’ll need to talk to the board of directors about this. It’s a little more than they were expecting.” She laughed, startled by her own understatement. “This one event is going to outstrip an entire year’s worth of effort.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“I have no idea. Jeez, girl. All right, I’ve got an email to write and a follow-up phone call to make. You’ve done your part. Go on, it’s Friday at six o’clock. Get out of here. What are your plans? Can I live vicariously through you and dream that I, too, am dating a rock star?”
I laughed, my mood so elevated that even the evening ahead couldn’t bring me down. “I told you, Mal and I have to go to a meeting about that sailing challenge.”
Kimmy threw her hands in the air. “The one that’s supposed to net us another fifty-thousand-dollar contribution? It was a good, good day when I hired you. Can you imagine that I actually forgot about the sailing-challenge donation in the face of this presentation concept?”
“It should be more than fifty thousand. Johnston is making every competitor put in another ten thousand as an entry fee, and there are twelve of us sailing.”
“Jesus Lord,” Kimmy said, fanning her face.
“But to be in the competition, Johnston Furneau is demanding every participant join him for a Friday evening planning-session–slash–cocktail-party at his place. Then the gala committee heard about it and decided that they needed to attend, too, and now we’re all supposed to meet at the Big House, which is where Mal’s mother works, and frankly, I can’t imagine a more uncomfortable evening.”
Kimmy’s eyes were getting a little glassy. She opted to focus on the last part. “But you’re going to this Big House shindig with Mal, right?”
I brightened. “Yes, I am. He’s meeting me at my place, and I’ll drive us over. I want to do everything I can short of making out on the sofa to make it very clear that I am not Johnston Furneau’s secret fiancée, and Mal is going to be so useful in that capacity.”
“Go use that big hunk of man. I can’t imagine he’s going to mind.”
“Make sure you let me know if anyone at The Arts Council needs more information about the change in strategy.”
“Get out!”
I made it home in time to change into jeans. I heard Mal’s van pull into the driveway and tried to meet him, but he bounded up the stairs and made it to my door before I was ready.
“Hey, Sapphire,” he said. He ducked his head to kiss me, and I filled my eager hands with the broad strength of his shoulders.
His kiss made me swoopy, my stomach flipping like the top of a roller coaster. “Come in,” I murmured against his mouth.
“There’s not enough time for me to do to you all the things I want to do.” He grinned. “Want to skip the sailing meeting?”
“Yes,” I said, abandoning the evening’s plans immediately.
He laughed, and then I heard the voice of doom from the driveway.
“Prentice,” my mother called, “we’re going to be late. Good evening, Mr. Becket.”
Mal tipped me a tiny wink and turned to call down to her. “Hello, Mrs. Luce. I’m going to get my name changed to Becket next week.”
That stopped her. “I beg your pardon?”
“From Becker,” he explained, “although this might confuse my mother. But I hate to keep correcting you, so I’ll do what I must!”
Ballsy. Funny and ballsy. I slipped my hand into his.
Anything that got in the way of my marriage to the Furneau family distressed my mother, so she actually did quite well when she said, “Becker. Yes, of course. My apologies.”
“You could call me Mal,” he offered.
“Mal,” she repeated flatly.
“Or Malcolm. Whichever you’d like.”
“Malcolm. Prentice, are you riding with me to the Furneaus’?”
“No, Mal and I are going to dinner after, so I’ll drive us.”
“Hm. All right. We should leave, or we’ll be late.” The garage door below us rumbled up when she clicked her remote, and she passed from our sight to get into her car.
“I think she’s really starting to like me,” Mal said.
“Yeah.” I laughed. “I can tell. Come on.”
I followed her taillights through the small towns, tree-lined roads, posh communities. Bitsy Luce drove a sensible sedan. Yes, it was an S-class Mercedes, but it wasn’t showy or flashy.
We drove down the hill to start across the causeway to the Furneau estate, deep water on one side and unnavigable wetlands on the other.
“The original Furneau owned the entire peninsula,” Mal said quietly. “Johnston Furneau. Thirty-five hundred acres within an hour of Manhattan. Can you imagine owning all this?”
“I don’t think Johnston Furneau III is doing so badly on his hunk of land. Old Jack, master of the universe.” I shot a side-eye glance at Mal. He was quiet. Body language said withdrawn .
“Neither is Johnston Furneau IV, that fucker. You know I’ve never been in the house they built for him?”
I shook my head. “You didn’t see the email. Now that the whole committee is going, we’re meeting at the Big House.”
He didn’t move a muscle. There was no outward sign to explain why I knew a blanket of doom had fallen over him. “No, I didn’t know.”
We came to the end of the causeway and were faced with the gatehouse on its tiny triangle of flat land before the bluff. “What was it like growing up there?” I asked, hoping to lighten his mood.
He thought about it and didn’t answer until we’d made the turn to follow the peninsula. “It flooded a lot.”
“Wow. That must have been sort of fun for a young boy, huh?”
He turned to me with a changed energy. “You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled at the compliment and took his meaning. Don’t want to talk about it. That was fine.
I thought I knew all the shortcuts to the Big House, but Mal sent me up a road I’d always assumed was a driveway. I drove up the hill on a road uselessly and beautifully edged in gray cobbles. We traveled through dense green trees that blocked the fading light. It was a short stretch, but astonishingly beautiful, like groomed wilderness. We emerged at the top of the peninsula on the road I knew, which ran between fields. A double row of trees marched along the way.
We passed a cage set up off the road. “What’s that?” I wondered.
“Meadowlark restoration project,” Mal answered. “There’s an ecologist on staff now who’s working to reintroduce all the native species.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah.” The closer we got to the Big House, the quieter Mal got.
The road ended in the circular drive. An ancient, gnarled weeping tree filled almost the whole circle. I knew from personal experience that a young girl could slip between those hanging branches and find herself in a holy cathedral for fairies and brownies. And there were branches low enough for a small girl to climb, allowing her a great hiding place from the bully who came looking for her.
I felt my spirits dipping too. “Want to skip this?” I asked.
Mal shook his head. “Oh, hell no. We’re going.” Then he turned to check that I wasn’t having second thoughts. “Right? Do you want to skip?”
No more hiding in the trees. I was in. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to miss this. Let’s go.”
My Honda looked humble amid the thoroughbreds in the parking area. We met up with my mother, who spared Mal from her barbs in order to look with contempt upon the snarling Italian sports cars that Johnston’s cronies drove. She didn’t say a word, but as usual, her silence was enormous.
The Furneaus’ butler answered the massive doors. He did a double take when he saw Mal, but he masked his grin quickly. “Good evening, Mrs. Luce, Ms. Luce. Hello, Malcolm. It’s good to see you.”
Mom looked to Mal, surprised. “I grew up here,” he told her as he shook Oliver’s outstretched hand. “My mother is the estate manager. Oliver, how are you?”
“Very well, very well. We’re all so proud of your success. I’m sorry, please come in. I’ll show you to the music room.”
“I know the way, Oliver, thank you.”
I smiled at the man. He’d always been kind to me.
“Of course.”
Mal hung back. “Is my mother?—”
“I think she’s in her office.”
“I’ll just step over to say hi. Do you mind, Prentice?”
I waved him on. “I’ll save you a seat.”
“Thanks.” He kissed my cheek and then disappeared into the maze of the house with the ease of long familiarity.
“That’s an interesting young man,” my mother said as she and I crossed the impressive foyer to the sound of cocktail-party chatter from the room beyond.
“He is interesting. I think you might even like him if you gave him a chance.”
She stopped, forcing me to stop too. “Look at this house,” she said quietly. “Tell me honestly. Are you even slightly interested?”
I laughed and kissed her cheek. “I’ve told you and told you. Johnston bullies me. He always has. I hate him. There’s not enough money in the world to make that attractive. You and Daddy gave me enough, and you made the mistake of proving a woman can have a happy marriage. Silly you. I promise, I don’t need this.”
She studied me, and I felt as though she was actually seeing me for the first time since I was a child. “You’re an interesting person too,” she said. “Are you happy?”
“I’m happy with Mal.”
She looked like she was doing high-level mental math. “Then you’d better bring him to dinner this weekend. We’ll set a time. He’s going to need proper dress shoes. Those zebra things won’t do.”
She continued on our path, leaving me goggle-eyed and hopeful in her wake.
But the easing of tension did not improve once we entered the room.
“Bitsy!” a woman’s voice screamed.
“Oh god,” my mother whispered. Then she plastered on her social smile and reached out to take the outstretched hands of Johnston’s mother, Gigi.
“My dear,” she said, preventing Gigi from hugging her by insisting on an air kiss that came nowhere near Gigi’s cheek. “I had no idea you’d be here this evening. I thought the divorce . . .”
“Well, it’s almost final, but until my lovely boy marries”—she stopped to grin hopefully at me—“I’m still his hostess. When I heard you were coming—well, all of the committee, naturally—I just banished Jack. I told him, Jack? This is Johnston’s night, and I am his devoted mama. You just take yourself off to your study and let me have the house! Wasn’t that naughty of me? Come in. Rachel? Rachel! Champagne for Mrs. Luce!”
“No, thank you. Do you have a cup of decaf?”
“No, not coffee, Bitsy, surely?” Gigi’s face fell. “This is a party! It’s Friday night! Let’s celebrate the weekend!”
“Just the coffee,” mother said to the maid, who nodded and scurried away.
“Don’t forget the cream and sugar, Rachel! Darling Bitsy, come say hello to Johnston. He’ll be so pleased to see you. You, too, lovely Prentice!”
I was exhausted already, and Mother didn’t look much better.
Johnston was in full voice, lording his arrogance over the assembled masses. There were twelve sailing competitors, and most of us had brought our seconds. The women of the planning committee had naturally clustered into two camps: the dowagers circled my mother when they could break through Gigi’s defensive line, and the young ones stood by the bar.
Mal appeared at my side. “That’s Liz, Liz, Liz, and—and Melissa,” he said.
I turned, already more relaxed now that he was beside me. “Close. That’s Elizabeth, Liz, Wizzy, and Melissa.”
“Right. Why not a Beth? Or Betsy?” He thought about it. “Or Eliza. Or . . . Ellie? Could Ellie be short for Elizabeth?”
I took his arm and led him to one of the chairs set up near the window. “Johnston is going to gavel this nuthouse to order soon. Come sit with me.”
We perched on the delicate chairs set up in a half-moon around the semicircular projection on two steps, where the coloratura soprano could render arias from Turandot , accompanied by the two massive pianos. Except today, Johnston stood on the stage with an annoying air of entitlement.
“Let’s get started, shall we? Sailors! Please take your seats so we can figure some—” He caught sight of Mal at my side. His head cocked to the side, and his eyes narrowed. “We need to figure out some logistics. Right, Macklin, then just take the bottle with you, you big alkie!”
Macklin, one of Johnston’s cronies, waved a bottle of champagne over his head like a jock at a frat party. From her seat at the side, my mother looked away pointedly.
“So, has anyone done a count? Melissa, did you count people?”
She bobbed up, giggling. “I’ll do it right now!”
He shook his head. “I gave you a list, remember? See if everyone on that list is here. That’s all. Can you handle it? Because I know Elizabeth can if you can’t.”
Elizabeth rose smoothly. “I have the list. I’ll do it. Sit down, Liss.”
These were the people who were supposed to be my friends. Where was Kimmy?
“All right. We’ll assume everyone is here, yes? Yes. Everyone’s here.” He received Elizabeth’s serious nod and then ignored her. She sat, cool as ice. “Then welcome. Welcome to my father’s home. Sorry, Mom. Welcome to my mother’s home for the next three or four more weeks, right, Mom? Then you can visit her in Boca and the Hamptons and the island in Bali, but not here.”
“Stop, Johnston!” Gigi looked pained. Probably because my mother was learning that Gigi wasn’t going to be around the Long Island social scene too much longer.
“Sorry. My point is, welcome to you all.” His gaze sharpened as he looked to Mal. “Especially those who are more used to the servants’ quarters. Nice to be out here in the real rooms, huh, Mal?”
I winced. Mal wore a small, confident smile and never moved a muscle. The Johnston trio—Trip, Steff, and Macklin—waved their champagne bottles and hooted.
“That reminds me.” Johnston turned to the maid waiting by the door. “Rachel, get Gerta for me, will you?”
Mal cocked his head but didn’t otherwise react, which must have annoyed Johnston.
“We need to pick a date for the sailing challenge,” he said, addressing the group as a whole. “I am not going to fuck around with trying to find a weekend day when we can all get together. I know you people. We won’t be able to settle on a date until December. So, I’m declaring that we’re going to have the race on a Wednesday. Wednesdays work well for me, and if you can’t be away from the office for one day, then you’re not high enough up the ladder to enter this race. Any objections?”
I had objections. I had a real job and was not far up the corporate ladder, but I’d beg Kimmy for the day off. With enough warning, she’d let me.
“I’m retired anyway,” Pete Montgomery said. Lots of the other white hairs nodded. Johnston was going to get away with this heavy-handedness.
“Good. Someone tell me why we can’t do this coming Wednesday, the thirtieth. And it better be a damned good reason.”
“The thirtieth?” I was surprised to hear Mal’s deep voice. “I can’t do the thirtieth.”
Johnston laughed. “Like you’re instrumental to this race. Oh, Gerta, there you are.” A trim, blonde woman crossed the room confidently. “This is Gerta, our housekeeper. And Mal’s mother. Say hi to Mal, Gerta.”
She cocked her head to the side and did not look away from Johnston. “We’ve spoken already, thank you, Mr. Johnston. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes.” He gestured with his glass. “I’m out of champagne. Fill this.”
My hiss of surprise was not the only one. Johnston was watching Mal, who again did not react. His mother went to the bar and retrieved a bottle. She filled his flute even when he said “Oops” and pulled the flute from under the pour.
“There you are, sir. Shall I stand here until you want some more?”
Her delivery was perfect, completely lacking in emotion. Her servility was so arrogant in its own way that Johnston blinked and flapped his hand to send her on her way.
I scanned the room and saw signs of tension. My mother’s nostrils were flared in a warning sign my brother and I had always taken seriously.
“So, pardon that little interruption. I believe we were just about to hear what life-changing, exciting reason Mal has for being unable to race next Wednesday. So, what is it, Mal? A meeting with the World Bank? Maybe the president? Do you have to bang your little drums on Wednesday?”
I felt like I was sitting next to a dormant volcano. “The last one, actually. I have a gig.”
“A gig!” Johnston was giddy with mockery. His posse howled too. “The Paramount again? I caught your show. It was cute. Is that where you’re going to be ‘gigging,’ Mal?”
“We’re flying to California for the Milt McAllister Show .”
That stopped the hooting. I hadn’t heard that news, either, and found it hard to suppress my grin. The best and funniest talk show in the nation? All right!
“You’re going to be on Milt McAllister ?” Melissa called. “That’s so awesome!”
“Seriously, dude,” Trip said. He was always the slowest of Johnston’s friends. “That’s the coolest ever. Congratulations!”
“Thank you.” Mal acknowledged the praise but didn’t look away from Johnston.
Who was unable to think of a way to mock Mal. “What about the following Wednesday? Can you fit us into your celebrity-laced schedule?”
“We’ll be in the studio recording our next album, but I can get Laser to work around that.”
“Laser?!” Steff forgot he was supposed to hate Mal on Johnston’s behalf. “You got Laser? Shit, man!”
Annoyed, Johnston clapped his hands. “Let’s focus, people. We’ll do it on Wednesday, May 7. Any objections? And I’m warning you, your conflicts will have to be better than an appearance on Milt McAllister , if that’s even true.”
While he was glaring at the group, I whispered to Mal, “Is it true?”
“Yeah.” He offered me a tiny smile, which was a relief to see. “Phil told us today. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“I’m totally excited for you.” I took his hand, and he wrapped his fingers around mine.
“Thanks.”
Maybe Johnston noticed us looking too happy. He raised his voice. “Your boats have to be at my dock by 9:00 a.m. You can leave them the night before if you want.”
Right. Like I’d trust Johnston to have access to my boat before a race.
“You know Prentice’s rules. Nothing more than twenty feet. One mast. What else, Prentice?”
“No engines,” I said, “although that ought to go without saying.”
“What about drums?” Macklin shouted. “Can we bring a drum kit? I bet that’s how Mal would be the best possible sailor!”
Johnston enjoyed that sally. “No drum kits,” he said happily, “although I think that should go without saying too. Can you sail without your drums, Mal?”
Much hooting and catcalling from his idiots. “Yeah!” Trip shouted. “You should play something right now, Mal! Want us to get some pots and pans from the kitchen?”
“We could get your mom to bring them,” Steff added.
I heard grunts of disgust, but no one spoke up. Just like no one had spoken up for me when Johnston would bully me—except Mal.
No one would speak up? I would.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You’re being jerks. Knock it off.”
“Ooh,” Macklin called. “Does she need to protect you, Mal? What’s the story? Don’t you want to play something for us? Come on, rock star! Let’s hear something!”
God, I hated these people. Oddly, Johnston himself was waving off his boys, but they hadn’t noticed.
I turned to make sure Mal was okay, but he wasn’t even looking at them. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the musicians’ balcony.
I followed his gaze and saw a figure silhouetted against the last rays of the sun. Who was up there?
Mal’s hands were clenched. Then he stood abruptly, so strong and tall that the jeering monkeys were startled into silence. “You want me to play something? I’m fine with that. I would like to play something.” He edged gently past me and then strode up the two steps, coming right at Johnston, who backed up instinctively. “Don’t trip, Johnston,” Mal said, shooting out an arm to stop Johnston from falling off the step. “Pardon me.”
Mal walked to one of the twinned pianos and sat. He opened the cover and shook out his hands.
Then he spoke again. “Sit, Johnston. This piece will take me a little less than five minutes to play, and I’m inclined to play the whole thing, so you all can sit there and shut up for that long.”
Having seen Mal in concert—having watched his great muscles slamming his drums with a pulse that changed the rhythm of my heart—I had no idea what to expect.
It began so slowly: an odd combination of notes, atonal enough that I worried he was making it up.
Then it developed. Broadened. Still quiet, still simple. He rarely played two keys at once.
Until there was a shift of mood. Of tone. The piece was lovely. Haunting. Desperately sad, and then filled with runs of notes that left my mouth hanging open.
“Chopin,” Pete Montgomery whispered.
Mal’s touch was as light as feathers, and then strong and sure. It was as if the music was pouring from his heart, not his fingers. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t even breathe.
He’d spoken to me about the difference that had happened for Aftermath. First, they’d practiced the music. And then they’d become the music.
Mal was demonstrating the second condition. He played without sheet music. He played by touch and by feeling, exhibiting the control and delicacy of a master pianist. That this man should devote his life to playing drums in a rock band—for a moment, I mourned what might have been.
The music ended with a gentle pulse. And again. And again.
He relaxed, and the room exploded with applause. The evening light had stars in it, and I realized I was crying.
“Chopin’s études,” he said when the applause died. “Opus 25, number 7. In G-sharp minor, if you care. Now, if there’s nothing more, I’d like to walk my mother to the gatehouse. Prentice, would you like to join us?”