Page 20 of Share with Me

Chapter Eight

The musicof Wynton Marsalis was the king of the after-party, bursts of brass and percussion and New Orleans, with Zoe’s new husband off to one side, standing tall with the bass he seemed to be enjoying thwacking and thumping.

Jazz might’ve been Quincy’s thing, Brinley thought. Zoe was more into Béla Bartók and Antonín Dvorák. Not jazz.

On the platform were a couple of trumpet players, a man and a woman. Brinley didn’t recognize the man, but she’d seen the woman in the brass section of SISO this evening. Her eyes on the jazz band, Brinley strolled nonchalantly toward the front to get a closer look at the pianist in the fedora with his tuxedo jacket off and white oxford shadowing toned arms. His straight back, shoulder width, and that slight leaning forward told her that it was unmistakably Ivan McMillan.

Unmistakably?

Brinley caught herself. She’d only known Ivan for what? A year? And not even on familiar terms. How could she have spotted him in a crowd?

An empty table opened up in front of her, beckoning her to sit and stare. She shed her coat and piled it onto a seat. And sat down. And stared. Unabashedly. Ivan’s back was turned toward her, anyway, and he wouldn’t have known she was enjoying more than just the music. Besides, he seemed to be single, and so was she now.

Then again, so what? They were strangers.

Brinley’s iPhone pinged at the same time the jazz band finished the number. She checked her email. Helen Hu said the Stradivarius trail had gone cold. Brinley emailed back asking her to keep at it.

A wail and a shriek startled Brinley. Her head snapped up and she stared incredulously as Quincy McMillan began to sing something that sounded like a cross between a wolf howling and a rooster crowing. The piano bench was empty. Staggering up to the platform, Zoe nearly tripped on the steps.

Brinley watched Zoe and Quincy give karaoke a really bad name, slurring lyrics to indiscernible songs, transposing the tunes into what sounded like a five-car pileup on Interstate 285 back in Atlanta. And the baby—

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Ivan.

His voice caused Brinley’s heart to flutter a bit or she thought it did.

“You mean fetal alcohol syndrome?” Brinley offered.

“I’m thinking my brother is making a fool of himself.”

“So is my sister.”

“But we can’t babysit them.”

“They’re above the age of consent.”

“I concur.” He sat down on the chair and threw his tuxedo jacket over the back of another chair. “Glad you came back.”

“I don’t know why I did.”

“Hope you didn’t feel pressured.”

“I can still hearAirin my head. You really made that violin come alive.”

“I credit God for that.”

Brinley hesitated with what she was about to ask. She went back and forth in her mind and then she decided there was no harm asking. “You and Yun talk about God all the time.”

“God is very important to us.”

“I can see that.”

“If you love someone you keep talking about that person. Grandma and I love God, so we talk about Him all the time. What do you talk about all the time?”

“Work. Food. Work. Food.”

Ivan looked at her like he couldn’t believe how shallow she was.

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