Page 9

William

CHAPTER NINE

“You’re quite feisty.”

“A little,” she admits, surprising me.

Actually, surprising me seems to have become her specialty.

I still haven’t recovered from the sight of Taylor in the rain. I’m far from sentimental—maybe I’ve been truly affected by emotions half a dozen times in my entire life, like when my grandfather died or when Maryann was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.

Even so, watching Taylor savor something as ordinary as a rain shower left me speechless. I think I’ll keep that image in my memory whenever I think of what it means for someone to really ‘feel.’ Perhaps because it’s not something I handle well, witnessing the way her face conveyed emotion—joy but also some sadness—threw me for a loop.

“Tell me about the violin.” I’m driving, focusing on the road, but I notice she tenses up at my question.

“Are you giving me this ride as my employer’s grandson or as an ordinary guy?”

“I don’t like labels,” I reply, without fully committing, though I understand exactly what she means. “But feel free to say what’s on your mind.”

“It’s nothing major, just that you’re very direct. I might not want to talk about it.”

“Then just say so.”

“It’s that simple? You might think I’m being rude.”

I glance away from the traffic to look at her. “What people think of you doesn’t depend on how you treat them, Taylor. You can be the best human being in the world, do everything right, and still end up despised.”

“That’s a good philosophy for life.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“So you don’t care what people think of you, sir?”

“No sir.”

“I’m not sure if I should address you so informally.”

“I’m giving you permission to address me informally, Taylor. Don’t start a war over everything.”

“I will be calling you ‘sir’ in front of your grandmother.”

“As for your question, yeah, I don’t care what people think of me.”

“Yeah, I noticed, because if you did, you wouldn’t have offered me a ride. Sherie’s probably going to tell your mother.”

“I’m a grown man. I don’t need anyone’s permission to . . .” I trail off, which is unusual for me, but I’m not sure she’s ready to hear what I was about to say.

“To what?”

“Pursue a woman.”

“That’s what you’re doing?”

“It’s the first time I’ve offered a ride to an employee.”

“Why me?” she asks, then I see her shake her head as if regretting it. “Forget it. You don’t have to answer. I know why. You got interested because you saw me naked.”

“I’m not a hypocrite. You have a gorgeous body, but I’m not some hormone-crazed teenager. It’s not just because I want you naked in my bed that I’m going after you.”

She gasps, though she tries to hide it. “So why else, then?”

“I still haven’t figured it out, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I doubt it. You don’t look like the type to share information when it doesn’t suit you.”

“You’re very mature for your age. And wary, too.”

“I’m my father’s daughter.”

“What does that mean?”

“He was a police officer. He raised me to defend myself, physically and mentally.”

I know he passed away, because Maryann mentioned it. I don’t bring it up, though. As someone who doesn’t like to talk about loss, I also don’t push others to open up. “What about the violin?”

“I play . . .I used to play since I was six.”

“ Used to?”

“I had to sell my violin when my father got sick,” she answers, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“You could’ve invoked the Fifth.”

She turns in her seat to look at me. “Exercise my right to remain silent? Isn’t that only to avoid self-incrimination?”

“Your life, your rules. You could have said nothing. Or told me to go to hell.”

“I don’t want to tell you to go to hell. Despite the fact that you’re pursuing me, I like our conversations.”

“But you don’t like being pursued?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

“Your silence is incriminating.”

“Maybe, but not as much as a direct answer would be.”

I hide a smile, and at that exact moment, I realize why I’m insisting on something I know is a risky bet: there’s a lot beneath Taylor’s beautiful surface. She’s smart and also fun.

“You sold the violin to pay hospital bills?”

“How do you know?”

“I guessed. I’m a doctor. My grandmother said your father was ill for years.”

“Yeah, that’s what happened, but if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then tell me about your love of music.”

“My dad was really into classical music. He ended up passing that on to me.”

“He’s the one who gave you the violin?”

“Yes. We had a neighbor, Mrs. Ennis. She was a violinist when she was younger, but for a variety of reasons, she stopped playing. She started teaching me, and after a few lessons, she told my dad I ‘had a knack for it.’” She says this like she’s embarrassed; vanity doesn’t seem to be one of her flaws.

“And then?”

“I wasn’t too serious about it . . .I mean, I loved playing, but I didn’t know any musicians besides her. Everyone talks about becoming a doctor or a lawyer.”

“But it was what you loved?”

“It still is. Anyway, Mrs. Ennis arranged for me to be taught by an even better teacher. When I was twelve, I did a solo performance at school, and in the audience, by chance, was the director of the New York Philharmonic—he was the uncle of one of the students performing that night too. Imagine that. I’m from Goshen, a town of fewer than ten thousand people, and he ‘discovered’ me there.”

“Discovered?” I ask, glancing at her again.

“Manner of speaking,” she says a little too quickly, and now I’m certain she feels shy about it.

“And what happened?”

“He offered me a scholarship. I would’ve had to move. My dad got sick right after that. I was never going to leave him. But it was a nice dream.”

“Don’t you miss it?”

“If you could never practice your profession again, would you miss it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s your answer. But the doctor told us my dad didn’t have long. I wanted to spend all the time he had left with him.”

“Maryann said he only passed away about a year ago. You said you got that offer at twelve.”

“He lived a lot longer than anyone expected.”

“What did he have?”

“Liver cirrhosis.” The way she says it makes it clear she doesn’t like discussing it, especially when she adds, “He was the best father in the world.”

That defensive note means my hunch was right: he was probably an alcoholic. As if that settles it, she closes her eyes and leans back in the seat.

I don’t say anything else. Everyone has the right to be silent.

Half an hour later, I park in front of the bar where she works, unable to hide my distaste.

“I get good tips,” she says, as though reading my mind. “Thanks for the ride, sir . . .I mean, William.”

“I cut you some slack, Taylor, because our conversation wasn’t exactly light. But now the cards are on the table. You know what I want. I’m not giving up.”

Though she’s been quiet for most of the trip, she smiles. “We’ll see, William.”