Reckless Abandon(58)
Halfway through the door, I stop short at the sight of an exotic-looking woman standing in the middle of the room.
I fall back and straighten myself, trying to emulate the composure of the woman standing in front of me. She is tall, with jet-black hair and matching eyes, wearing a blood-red wrap-around dress. Her shoulders are back, and she has a stance so fierce I want to ask how she does it.
Her irises enlarge when she sees me. “You.”
“May I help you?” I say, straightening out my cardigan.
She offers me a wicked smile and assesses me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. “You work here?”
I hold out my hand in greeting. “I’m Emma Paige, the assistant director.” There are many beautiful women in New York so it shouldn’t surprise me there is something familiar about her. “Have we met?”
She doesn’t shake my hand. Instead, she looks me up and down with a knowing look. “I’m looking for Alexander Asher.”
Of course she is. I narrow my eyes at her. “May I ask what this is about?” I may not like the man but, apparently, he is somewhat important to this city. She could be a deranged fan or a scorned ex-girlfriend. On second thought, maybe I should send her his way.
“His office told me I’d find him here . . . teaching.” She says the word teaching in mockery.
With my shoulders pushed back, I answer her as honestly as I can. “His class ended thirty minutes ago.”
The dark-haired woman looks at me again the way a feline looks at catnip the moment before it pounces. Her eyes linger on the scar on my right hand.
I turn in my injured hand, hiding the scar. Something about the way she is looking at it—at me—makes me feel like she knows more about me than I’d like. Though I know it’s impossible.
“Did Asher bring you on board or did you make your way here on your own?”
It is not any of her business but I feel compelled to let this woman know I am not at the beck and call of Alexander Asher.
“Frank Leon contacted me.” I pause a beat and then add, “How do you know Mr. Asher?”
The tip of her tongue is riding along the underside of her teeth. “Interesting. Hundreds of people applied and you get a phone call.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. “I’m sorry but I didn’t get your name.”
“If Asher comes back, tell him Malory Dean was here.” Her heels click on the hardwood floors as she walks to the doorway.
“I will,” I say, even though it’s a complete lie.
Over the next three Fridays, I sit in my office and listen in on three more of Asher’s sessions. He continues his lesson on listening to the music. They listened to “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele, a popular song about giving your heart to someone and having it “played, to the beat” and the week after it was “Apologize” by One Republic. The man has a tone for the melodramatic.
Today, they’re listing to “Wonderwall” by Oasis and I’m bemused he chose a song about a man needing saving.
I don’t tell anyone Asher’s class is my favorite and while there are other things I should be doing, I find a way to make sure I’m in my office so I can mock participate from the small space in the back.
When Asher’s classes are done, he hangs back for a few minutes, doing God knows what. I sit in my office practically holding my breath listening to the stillness of the adjacent room until he decides to pack up and head back to wherever it is he comes from. If I were a dreamer I’d hope he were standing there, conjuring up the courage to walk into my office and apologize, even profess his love to me. But I am a realist and I know what happens when you start dreaming: you get your heart broken. The reality is he never enters my office and I’m grateful for that. Feigning indifference is exhausting enough without having to be in direct contact with him.
Today, after Asher’s class is complete and he has left the vicinity, I make my way down to the first floor to accept a shipment we are expecting.
When the shipment arrives, I open every box and make sure they are all filled with the exact books I requested and the precise quantity is here. When I am satisfied with the delivery, I tell the man from UPS he can leave and I bring the boxes into the supply room, myself, to ensure they are where they are supposed to be.
I lock the door to the supply closet and walk the hallway back toward the stairwell when I hear my name said from inside one of the offices. No one is calling my name. Instead, it’s being said in conversation.
“We played Heinz Hall together. They gave her a solo that would have blown you away. It was incredible.”
That is Frank. If I didn’t know his voice, I know he is the only person here who played in the Pittsburgh symphony with me. It is against my better judgment and everything I stand for but for some reason I feel compelled to stop, step closer, and listen in.
“I saw a few clips on YouTube. She was very good.” Asher’s distinct masculine voice echoes through the wall. Why isn’t he back on his merry way to his dark fortress ruling the city? And “very good”? I was magnificent! The term good shouldn’t even be an adjective allowed to describe how well I played. “How is she doing as assistant director?”
“She is possibly the one person who cares about this place more than you do,” Frank replies and is followed by silence. Damn Asher really knows how to take his dramatic pauses. He’s the kind of person who makes you want to say something just to fill in the void. “I’m glad you informed me of her accident.”