Page 74 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Thirty-Two
Iris
The next morning, a call wakes me up at seven. I roll onto my stomach and grab my phone. Sam. Must’ve gotten tired of me not answering his texts.
I don’t really want to talk to him, but he’s probably no longer in a rage about the video or the fact that I came back to L.A. Ideally, he’ll have sort of fizzled out to just peeved. “Hello?”
“Iris. You’re a difficult child to reach.”
“Sorry. The battery died,” I lie.
He harrumphs, but doesn’t pursue it. “Listen, I need you to play at the Peacher & Son spring reception tomorrow.”
“What?” I thought he was calling to give me another around-the-world ticket or complain about the video, not ask me to play. In public. And at an annual business event I’ve never, ever been invited to before.
“The quartet Marty’s assistant hired can’t come.” Sam’s tone makes it clear what he thinks of the poor woman’s professional capacity. “And we can’t find a replacement. Too last minute.”
Wow.
“You can probably swing something. I like this song in particular.” He hums the main melody from “Claire de lune.” Off-key, of course. “Chopin, if you don’t know.”
“Mmm.” Debussy must be rolling in his grave that one of his most recognizable works is being attributed to Chopin. “Can you just have the venue play recordings? I have some MP3 files that are pretty good.”
“No! That’s what poor people do to cut costs! I’ve never, ever not had live music at a reception. It’s simply too important.” He takes a breath. “Iris, receptions are where we mingle with our best clients and investors. The music’s there to make them feel relaxed, appreciated…and generous with their money.”
I bite my lip. I haven’t had any coffee yet, but my mind starts whirring slowly. “You know I get panic attacks when I have to perform in front of an audience, right?”
“It isn’t like a recital. Nobody’s going to be watching you. You’ll be more like pleasant background music to elevate the event. Not the focus of attention.”
I purse my mouth. Perversely, it actually bugs me that I won’t be the center of attention. Maybe it’s a remnant of my old ambition to be a concert pianist. No concert pianist would want to perform, only to be more or less ignored by everyone. Still… This is my opportunity to assert two points I want to make. “I thought you hate it when I ‘show off.’ As a matter of fact, you didn’t even want me back in Los Angeles.”
“This is business—what feeds our family and provides for us.” There’s enough emphasis on provides and us to signal he’s really talking about me. Although my parents had a sizable life insurance policy, it wasn’t enough to pay for all my medical care while I was in the coma…and subsequent therapy once I woke up. Sam stepped up and took charge, so I didn’t have to worry about anything except healing.
“You’re right; business is important. But this means I can stay, right? I can help in all kinds of ways. And please don’t yell at Byron about the video because he didn’t mean to upset you, and I didn’t realize he was going to post it. Pleeeeease?” I add cajolingly, so it doesn’t feel like a negotiation…even though it totally is. He always responds better if his pride isn’t too hurt.
“Well… I suppose you can stay in L.A. Although I don’t know how you plan to get a job and all that. It’s going to be terribly stressful,” Sam says, suddenly radiating paternal concern. “The economy is atrocious, and employers are really picky these days.” He’s phrasing it kindly, but what he really means is that nobody’s going to want to hire me.
Thanks for the confidence booster. “I promise I’ll let you know if I need anything,” I say, although I’d rather eat a cardboard casserole. Sam will always indulge me…so long as I do as I’m told. But I’m doing this one my way—to not only live my life but to recover my lost memories.
“As for Byron…” He sighs. “How can I be upset with him? He’s like an unleashed wild dog.”
Whaaaaaaaaaaaa?I almost sputter at the ludicrous comparison. At least Sam’s consistent. He used to call Byron a bumbling bear, and he uses whatever animal that pops into his head to label my other friends as well. He calls Julie “that flighty fox.”
“Anyway, I knew you’d come through for me,” Sam says, rather pleased with himself. “You should also add some other nice, easy songs by Chopin. Mozart isn’t too bad, either.”
For someone who knows nothing about music, he tosses out those composers pretty carelessly. “Leave the selection to me, Sam. I know what you want.”
“Fantastic. Perfect.”
I’m unable to figure out my precise reaction to his exuberance. Annoyance isn’t right, but uneasy isn’t quite right either. It’s a mix of uncomfortable feelings that makes me want to squirm and shower. But I decide not to dwell on it. I got what I wanted—for Sam to back off on my living in L.A. and not comment on the video.
“By the way, where are you staying now?” he asks.
“With a friend.”
“Who?” There’s an unyielding edge to his tone. He won’t give up until he knows.
“Byron.”
