Page 33 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
I raise my fist to bang on the door again.
“Miss Ivy, Master Tony has gone out,” Jonas says, emerging from Aunt Margot’s study.
“Where?” I ask.
“He didn’t say.”
Like you’d tell me if he did. But then I feel catty and rude. Jonas protects everyone’s privacy, not just Tony’s.
I go to my room and flop down on my bed. Los Angeles. Parties. Models.
Thankfully, I don’t get to stew in my frustration for long. A text from Yuna comes in. It has a video of her playing “La Campanella.”
Grab a Kleenex cuz it’s gonna make you weep with envy!
Yuna kills it in the video. My God. I stare at the fluid way her hands move, her entire body utterly relaxed and comfortable. She’s always been fabulous with Liszt, but this is the kind of performance that can make a career.
Beat this! Send me yours before the day’s over.
Okay, now I owe her a video of “La Campanella.” And there’s no way I’m sending her a less-than-stellar performance. I have my pride.
I work on “La Campanella.” I have the fingering, phrasing and interpretation down. But the speed is something else. I need to shave at least ten seconds from my playing time. Otherwise the piece won’t have the necessary energy and vibrancy.
After a couple hours of concentrated practice, I finally record myself playing it cleanly at tempo. I smile with satisfaction.
Someone behind me starts clapping. I turn and have to stop myself from groaning with annoyance. It’s Marty Peacher.
With slicked-back hair and hooded blue eyes, Marty could be considered classically handsome, except for two things. The bridge of his nose, which is uneven from having been broken and not set correctly. And those eyes. They always seem sullen and vaguely dissatisfied with the world. Twenty-two years old, he always acts like he’s so much more mature than me or Harry. But compared to Tony, Marty reminds me of an adolescent—too raw, always trying a little too hard.
He isn’t my favorite person. And for some reason, he’s decided I need his opinion on music, no matter how ignorant and condescending.
“Bravo,” he says.
“Thanks. I guess you’re visiting with Sam?”
“Yeah. Dad thought it’d be good to have some face time with Margot. He has some great business plans.”
Sam always has these great business plans. He insists on carrying a Dictaphone around, so he can record every brilliant idea that pops into his head. Then he puts it down on a piece of paper and comes over to get Aunt Margot to invest. Apparently it’s never crossed his mind that maybe she has no intention of ever giving him money. Or that she doesn’t respect him or his family.
“That was pretty good,” Marty says, his tone haughty and know-it-all. “But I think it’d be better if you didn’t rush through it like you’re desperate to go to the bathroom. It should feel like a…a waltz.”
Where did he get that inane idea? “There’s absolutely nothing waltz-y about this piece, and Liszt never meant anyone to dance to his work…unless your idea of waltzing is to move so fast you pass out from dizziness.”
“Still.”
“If you’re so sure of your interpretation, you’re welcome to show me.” I gesture at the piano. Marty can manage some simple jazz pieces, which he’s studied only because he thinks it looks cool to play them in front of girls. But he isn’t nearly good enough for Liszt. He doesn’t practice consistently, and his arms and fingers are stiff. He’s more interested in how people view his performance than the music itself.
He flushes. “You can be such a bitch. I don’t have to know how to play it to have an opinion.”
“Sure. But you know what they say about opinions. Some smell better than others.” It isn’t worth getting upset over the “bitch.” It’d be like getting mad at a three-legged dog that can’t win a race.
He walks closer, purposely invading my personal space. I tilt my head and look up at him, refusing to retreat.
“One day, you’re going to be sorry you’re so rude to me.” His voice is low, his mouth twisted into something between a smirk and sneer.
Ooh. I’m shaking in my shoes. “Right. Well, until then, I’ll just try to enjoy my life. And I think there’s something hanging out of your nose.”
After a moment of indecision, he turns and leaves. One hand surreptitiously goes to his nose as he passes through the door.
I gather my music and go upstairs. Once on the second floor, I stare at the door to Tony’s room.
I realize I never got to ask Harry about Mrs. Wentworth’s comment. Whether it’s true or not. My money’s on not, since Mrs. Wentworth was just pissed off that I outed her son as a would-be rapist in front of Aunt Margot.
But whatever. I don’t care. You can’t blame someone for a mistake they made when they were a twelve, no matter what it is. And especially not when it’s obvious they’re still remorseful about it nine years later.
