chapter FIFTEEN
Despite what Leah thinks, I do not, have not, and will not google Alexander Asher. Call it sheer will, call it strength, or call it the fear of falling off the wagon . . . whatever it is, after that one night in Capri, I refused to look him up.
I learned all I needed to know about him that night. He is insanely wealthy, from a family dynasty that spans generations, and he’s known as a playboy and ultimate bachelor.
What I didn’t read anywhere was his connection to the Juliette Academy. I could kick myself.
Let me see if I actually can.
Standing in my kitchen, I’m literally bending my knee and kicking myself in the ass over not even attempting to see a correlation between Asher and the Juliette Academy. He said his mom’s name was Juliette. And here I was thinking it was a pun on the school Julliard.
Argh.
My butt hurts now.
I walk over to the kitchen drawer, take out my tension ball and do some hand aerobics per my occupational therapist’s instructions.
Leaving Ohio meant stopping my therapy sessions.
Even though I don’t have someone telling me what to do, I make a point to spend ten minutes, two times a day doing my exercises.
Eating with my left hand is fine. Writing is a project. Thank God for computers or else everyone would have to read my chicken scratch.
I have this special pen that’s supposed to help me write but I don’t care for it.
It has the same shape of a hole puncher laying on its side.
The two arms sit by my thumb and middle finger while my pointer rests on the pen.
I use it sometimes but it’s uncomfortable.
My dad made his own design using a pen inserted through a rubber ball, fashioned so my hand doesn’t have to squeeze tight around it.
I don’t use that one either. It reminds me of when Asher had me rest my hand over his to play the cello.
I blow air out my lips, causing them to vibrate.
He thinks I knew who he was when we met—some gold-digging whore pretending to not know who he was in order to win his millions. Or billions: apparently he inherited the world.
Asher may not have said all those things, but I can read the writing on the wall. The guy has serious trust issues. But for him to insinuate that I wanted anything to do with his money is unfathomable.
It’s as if he was goading me all those days in Capri.
He could have just said his name was Alexander.
Instead, he said it was Asher—the name known for gluttonous wealth and power.
At least to everyone but me. I’m from a small town in Ohio and have been living in Pittsburgh.
Sorry, Alexander Asher, but the whole world doesn’t know who you are. Narcissistic jerk!
What am I doing here? Maybe Leah’s right. A part of me was intrigued by New York because I knew it’s where he is from. There is that small part of me that wanted to see him and, now that I have, I hate him more than I did the last time I saw him.
Maybe it’s time to go home.
I pick up the phone and call my parents. I need a reality check, fast. My mom picks up on the first ring.
“Emma? Emma? Are you okay? Did you get mugged?” I can picture her grabbing hold of the cross she wears, tugging it until the chain makes an indent in the back of her neck.
I let out a sigh at my very loving yet overly concerned mother. “Yes, mom. I’m okay.”
“Why are you calling? You never call. You can come home any time, honey. Daddy and I have your room ready. We won’t change it like we did when you went to college.”
I sink into the chesterfield. I’ll give it to the end of the week.
“Thank you, Miss Emma. See you next week.”
“See you next Friday, Madison.” I wave off the little girl who started flute lessons today. Fourteen and full of life, Madison is a girl whose parents can probably afford lessons on their own, but deserves to be here like everyone else.
Standing at the door, I watch as Madison and her mom walk to the corner. Her mom was a sweet woman who asked for a tour of the facility. Part of me is hoping the family will make a donation to the school. I cross my fingers and watch as the two get into a cab.
“Can I have a word?”
I turn my head to see Frank standing on the stairwell.
“Sure.” I say, wrapping my cardigan around me. The afternoon chill is coming in through the open door. I close it and walk over to Frank.
“Good first week?”
“Yeah.” I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh of relief.
“We had thirty no-shows, sixteen kids placed in the wrong class, forty-seven missing guitars that UPS claims are in Jersey City, and Crystal just got a gig for the winter playing Friday night weddings, which means she needs to give up her end-of-the-week class.”
“Sounds like a great first week to me!” Frank laughs and I find it refreshing.
The thirty kids who didn’t show up have another week to claim their spot or else they lose it.
The sixteen kids were properly placed in the right classes and those instruments better be here Monday morning or else I’m taking the ferry to New Jersey and bringing them here myself.
As for the teaching position I have to fill . . . “I placed a few calls yesterday to the candidates we passed on to see if they’re still available. It’s not easy finding a cello teacher for an after-school music program that pays as little as we do.”
“Don’t worry. I took care of it.” Frank says, his feet next to mine as the two of us ascend the stairwell.
“Oh, thank God.”
Frank shakes his head and smiles out the corner of his mouth. “I’m not usually called God, so a simple Thanks Frank will do.”
“Thanks, Frank,” I say, and he laughs again. I head up the stairs, Frank right behind me. “Whatever can I do to repay you?”
“Glad you asked.” Frank opens his padfolio and takes out a few papers and holds them out toward me. “I’d like you to make a speech at the fundraiser next month?”
The fundraiser. I didn’t forget about it.
I just wasn’t planning on going. Before the school opened, a party had been planned.
I can’t really call it a party. It’s a soiree at the Waldorf Astoria in honor of the Juliette Academy.
I was planning on going until I realized Alexander Asher was attached to the school and most likely would be there.
Seeing him at a party with a gorgeous woman draped around his arm?
It’s the exact reason I won’t google him. I don’t think I can deal.
I hold up my hand and ignore the papers. “I’m not going.” My voice is matter-of-fact.
“What do you mean you’re not going? You’re part of the reason these doors even opened.
Before you came we were a mess. You got our schedules in order, the instruments placed properly and hired the best teachers.
Emma, your knowledge and passion for this school is why we are here.
We had the funding but you had the heart. ”
I reach the third floor landing and turn around to look at Frank. I had no idea he felt that way. It actually makes me want to tear up. I don’t, of course, but I feel like I should.
“Um, thank you, Frank. That is really—it’s really kind of you to say.” I swallow. How do I reply to that? Thanks for the kind words but I’m still not going because Alexander Asher is a cad? “I have prior arrangements.” Liar.
Frank’s face looks forlorn. “That’s unfortunate. I was really hoping you’d do this.”
My shoulders fall with lament. I hate letting people down. I’ve been doing a lot of that this year. First with all the worrying I put my family through. Now with Frank.
Insert dramatic sigh of defeat. “I’ll see what I can do. What kind of speech did you have in mind?” Frank hands me some notes he has. I listen as he tells me what he’d like me to say.
Just one pass over his copy, and I know it is in need of major changes.
Taking the papers in hand, I bid Frank good-bye as he exits on the third floor, and I continue my walk upstairs.
If there is a new cello instructor, I will have to sit in on the class.
I’ve been sitting in on many classes, seeing what works and what does not.
Next week, I’ll have a one-on-one meeting with all the teachers and go over the points I have for each of them.
My feet carry me up the stairs to the fourth floor. I swing open the heavy wooden door and am instantly hit with the melody of a cello, obviously Crystal’s. The rooms are soundproof so the door to her classroom must be open.
I take a few steps toward Crystal’s room and see the door is, in fact, open. There are people standing in the entrance, longingly looking toward the front of the classroom, entranced in the melody that is being played.
Tapping someone on the shoulder, I ask if I can squeeze in past him. He moves to the left so I can walk into the room, but there are more people than I thought standing in here, coupled with the chairs filled with students and their instruments. I hope this isn’t against fire code.
Dancing through the people to get to my office, I get to the middle of the crowd and am surprised to see Crystal standing in the back. She catches my puzzled expression and looks back at me as if asking “What?” I look back at her in confusion. If she’s not playing, than who is?
Then I see what everyone is staring at. Asher. He is wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt. The sleeves are rolled up. The tie and suit jacket rest on a folding chair beside him.
His strong thighs are wrapped around the cello. The neck of the instrument is in his left hand as his right strokes the strings with a bow. And it’s not just the beautiful man who is playing that causes you to stop and stare. It’s the way he plays.
His eyes are hooded, feeling every note his delicate hands are eliciting from the heavy wooden instrument. His body is strong yet moves ever so slightly in a beautiful dance.