Unfinished Business

  Once she said them, he wouldn’t let go again. However much he had mellowed over the years, however responsible he had become, there was still enough of that wild and willful boy in him to have him tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her off. While that fantasy might have its appeal, a daydream appeal, she was too sensible a woman to tolerate it in reality.

  The past was done, she thought. Mistakes had been made. She wouldn’t risk the future.

  She didn’t want to think about tomorrow. Not yet. She wanted only to think of, and enjoy, today.

  As she started toward the music room, the phone rang. She debated just letting it ring—a habit she’d developed in hotel rooms when she hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. On the fifth ring, she gave in and answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Vanessa? Is that you?”

  “Yes. Frank?” She recognized the voice of her father’s nervous and devoted assistant.

  “Yes. It’s me—I,” he corrected.

  Vanessa could all but see him running a soothing hand over the wide bald spot on top of his head. “How are you, Frank?”

  “Fine. Fine. Oh—how are you?”

  “I’m fine, too.” She had to smile. Though she knew her father had tolerated Frank Margoni only because the man would work an eighty-hour week without complaint, Vanessa was fond of him. “How’s the new protégé?”

  “Protégé—? Oh, you mean Francesco. He’s brilliant, really brilliant. Temperamental, of course. Throws things. But then, he’s an artist. He’s going to be playing at the benefit in Cordina.”

  “Princess Gabriella’s benefit? The Aid to Handicapped Children?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be wonderful.”

  “Oh, of course. No doubt. Certainly. But, you see, the princess…she’s terribly disappointed that you won’t perform. She asked me—” there was an audible gulp “—personally, if I would persuade you to reconsider.”

  “Frank—”

  “You’d stay at the palace, of course. Incredible place.”

  “Yes, I know. Frank, I haven’t decided if I’m going to perform again.”

  “You know you don’t mean that, Vanessa. With your gift—”

  “Yes, my gift,” she said impatiently. “Isn’t it about time I realized it is mine?”

  He was silent a moment. “I know your father was often insensitive to your personal needs, but that was only because he was so aware of the depth of your talent.”

  “You don’t have to explain him to me, Frank.”

  “No…no, of course I don’t.”

  She let out a long sigh. It wasn’t fair to take out her frustrations on the hapless Frank Margoni, as her father always had. “I understand the position you’re in, Frank, but I’ve already sent my regrets, and a donation, to Princess Gabriella.”

  “I know. That’s why she contacted me. She couldn’t get ahold of you. Of course, I’m not officially your manager, but the princess knew our connection, so…”

  “If I decide to tour again, Frank, I’ll depend on you to manage me.”

  “I appreciate that, Vanessa.” His glum voice brightened perceptibly. “And I realize that you’ve needed some time for yourself. The last few years—grueling, I know. But this benefit is important.” He cleared his throat with three distinct clicks. “And the princess is very stubborn.”

  Reluctantly Vanessa smiled. “Yes, I know.”

  “It’s only one performance,” he continued, sensing a weak spot. “Not even a full concert. You’ll have carte blanche on the material. They’d like you to play two pieces, but even one would make such a tremendous difference. Your name on the program would add so much.” He paused only long enough to suck in a breath. “It’s a very worthy cause.”

  “When is the benefit?”

  “Next month.”

  She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Next month. It’s practically next month already, Frank.”

  “The third Saturday in June.”

  “Three weeks.” She let out a long breath. “All right, I’ll do it. For you, and for Princess Gabriella.”

  “Vanessa, I can’t tell you how much I—”

  “Please don’t.” She softened the order with a laugh. “It’s only one night.”

  “You can stay in Cordina as long as you like.”

  “One night,” she repeated. “Send me the particulars here. And give my best to Her Highness.”

  “I will, of course. She’ll be thrilled. Everyone will be thrilled. Thank you, Vanessa.”

  “It’s all right, Frank. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  She hung up and stood silent and still. Odd, but she didn’t feel tensed and keyed up at the thought of a performance. And a huge one, she considered. The theater complex in Cordina was exquisite and enormous.

  What would happen if she clutched in the wings this time? She would get through it somehow. She always had. Perhaps it was fate that she had been called now, when she was teetering on some invisible line. To go forward, or backward, or to stay.

  She would have to make a decision soon, she thought as she walked to the piano. She prayed it would be the right one.

  She was playing when Brady returned. He could hear the music, romantic and unfamiliar, flowing through the open windows. There was the hum of bees in the flowers, the purr of a lawn mower, and the music. The magic of it. He saw a woman and a young child standing on the sidewalk, listening.

  She had left the door open for him. He had only to push the screen to be inside. He moved quietly. It seemed he was stepping through the liquid notes.

  She didn’t see him. Her eyes were half-closed. There was a smile on her face, a secret smile. As if whatever images she held in her mind were pouring out through her fingers and onto the keys.

  The music was slow, dreamy, enriched by an underlying passion. He felt his throat tighten.

  When she finished, she opened her eyes and looked at him. Somehow she had known he would be there when the last note died away.

  “Hello.”

  He wasn’t sure he could speak. He crossed to her and lifted her hands. “There’s magic here. It astonishes me.”

  “Musician’s hands,” she said. “Yours are magic. They heal.”

  “There was a woman standing on the sidewalk with her little boy. I saw them when I drove up. She was listening to you play, and there were tears on her cheeks.”

  “There’s no higher compliment. Did you like it?”

  “Very much. What was it called?”

  “I don’t know. It’s something I’ve been working on for a while. It never seemed right until today.”

  “You wrote it?” He looked at the music on the piano and saw the neatly written notes on the staff paper. “I didn’t know you composed.”

  “I’m hoping to do more of it.” She drew him down to sit beside her. “Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?”

  “At least.” His lips were warm and firm on hers. “How long have you been writing?”

  “For several years—when I’ve managed to sneak the time. Between traveling, rehearsals, practice and performances, it hasn’t been much.”

  “But you’ve never recorded anything of your own.”

  “None of it’s really finished. I—” She stopped, tilted her head. “How do you know?”

  “I have everything you’ve ever recorded.” At her smug smile, he continued. “Not that I actually play any of them.” He gave an exaggerated yelp when her elbow connected with his ribs. “I suppose that’s the sign of a temperamental artist.”

  “That’s artiste to you, philistine.”

  “Why don’t you tell this philistine about your composing?”

  “What’s to tell?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it. It’s what I like best.”

  He was playing with her fingers. “Then why haven’t you finished anything?” He felt the tension the moment it entered her.

  “I told you. There hasn’t been time. Tourin
g isn’t all champagne and caviar, you know.”

  “Come on.” Keeping her hands in his, he pulled her to her feet.

  “Where are we going?”

  “In here, where there’s a comfortable couch. Sit.” He eased her down, then put his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were dark and searching on her face. “Talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “I wanted to wait until you were recovered.” He felt her stiffen, and shook his head. “Don’t do that. As your friend, as a doctor, and as the man who loves you, I want to know what made you ill. I want to make sure it never happens again.”

  “You’ve already said I’ve recovered.”

  “Ulcers can reoccur.”

  “I didn’t have an ulcer.”

  “Can it. You can deny it all you want—it won’t change the facts. I want you to tell me what’s been going on the last few years.”

  “I’ve been touring. Performing.” Flustered, she shook her head. “How did we move from composing to all this?”

  “Because one leads to the other, Van. Ulcers are often caused by emotion. By frustrations, angers, resentments that are bottled up to fester instead of being aired out.”

  “I’m not frustrated.” She set her chin. “And you, of all people, should know I don’t bottle things up. Ask around, Brady. My temper is renowned on three continents.”

  He nodded, slowly. “I don’t doubt it. But I never once remember you arguing with your father.”

  She fell silent at that. It was nothing more than the truth.

  “Did you want to compose, or did you want to perform?”

  “It’s possible to do both. It’s simply a matter of discipline and priorities.”

  “And what was your priority?”

  Uncomfortable, she shifted. “I think it’s obvious it was performing.”

  “You said something to me before. You said you hated it.”

  “Hated what?”

  “You tell me.”

  She pulled away to rise and pace the room. It hardly mattered now, she told herself. But he was sitting here, watching her, waiting. Past experience told her he would dig and dig until he uncovered whatever feelings she wanted to hide.

  “All right. I was never happy performing.”

  “You didn’t want to play?”

  “No,” she corrected. “I didn’t want to perform. I have to play, just as I have to breathe, but…” She let her words trail off, feeling like an imbecile. “It’s stage fright,” she snapped. “It’s stupid, it’s childish, but I’ve never been able to overcome it.”

  “It’s not stupid or childish.” He rose, and would have gone to her, but she was already backing away. “If you hated performing, why did you keep going on? Of course,” he said, before she could answer.

  “It was important to him.” She sat on the arm of a chair, then stood again, unable to settle. “He didn’t understand. He’d put his whole life into my career. The idea that I couldn’t perform, that it frightened me—”

  “That it made you ill.”

  “I was never ill. I never missed one performance because of health.”

  “No, you performed despite your health. Damn it, Van, he had no right.”

  “He was my father. I know he was a difficult man, but I owed him something.”

  He was a selfish son of a bitch, Brady thought. But he kept his silence. “Did you ever consider therapy?”

  Vanessa lifted her hands. “He opposed it. He was very intolerant of weakness. I suppose that was his weakness.” She closed her eyes a moment. “You have to understand him, Brady. He was the kind of man who would refuse to believe what was inconvenient for him. And, as far as he was concerned, it just ceased to exist.” Like my mother, she thought with a weary sigh. “I could never find the way to make him accept or even understand the degree of the phobia.”

  “I’d like to understand.”

  She cupped her hands over her mouth a moment, then let them fall. “Every time I would go to the theater, I would tell myself that this time, this time, it wouldn’t happen. This time I wouldn’t be afraid. Then I would stand in the wings, shaking and sick and miserable. My skin would be clammy, and the nausea would make me dizzy. Once I started playing, it would ease off. By the end I’d be fine, so I would tell myself that the next time…” She shrugged.

  He understood, too well. And he hated the idea of her, of anyone, suffering time after time, year after year. “Did you ever stop to think that he was living his life through you?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was dull. “He was all I had left. And, right or wrong, I was all he had. The last year, he was so ill, but he never let me stop, never let me care for him. In the end, because he had refused to listen, refused the treatments, he was in monstrous pain. You’re a doctor—you know how horrible terminal cancer is. Those last weeks in the hospital were the worst. There was nothing they could do for him that time. So he died a little every day. I went on performing, because he insisted, then flying back to the hospital in Geneva every chance I had. I wasn’t there when he died. I was in Madrid. I got a standing ovation.”

  “Can you blame yourself for that?”

  “No. But I can regret.” Her eyes were awash with it.

  “What do you intend to do now?”

  She looked down at her hands, spread her fingers, curled them into her palms. “When I came back here, I was tired. Just worn out, Brady. I needed time—I still do—to understand what I feel, what I want, where I’m going.” She stepped toward him and lifted her hands to his face. “I didn’t want to become involved with you, because I knew you’d be one more huge complication.” Her lip curved a little. “And I was right. But when I woke up this morning in your bed, I was happy. I don’t want to lose that.”

  He took her wrists. “I love you, Vanessa.”

  “Then let me work through this.” She went easily into his arms. “And just be with me.”

  He pressed a kiss to her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Chapter 10

  “That was the last patient, Dr. Tucker.”

  Distracted, Brady looked up from the file on his desk and focused on his nurse. “What?”

  “That was the last patient.” She was already swinging her purse over her shoulder and thinking about putting her feet up. “Do you want me to lock up?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. See you tomorrow.” He listened with half an ear to the clink of locks and the rattle of file drawers. The twelve-hour day was almost at an end. The fourth twelve-hour day of the week. Hyattown was a long way from New York, but as far as time served was concerned, Brady had found practicing general medicine in a small town as demanding as being chief resident in a major hospital. Along with the usual stream of patients, hospital rounds and paperwork, an outbreak of chicken pox and strep throat had kept him tied to his stethoscope for over a week.

  Half the town was either scratching or croaking, he thought as he settled down to his paperwork. The waiting room had been packed since the end of the holiday weekend. As the only doctor in residence, he’d been taking office appointments, making house calls, doing rounds. And missing meals, he thought ruefully, wishing they still stocked lollipops, rather than balloons and plastic cars, for their younger patients.

  He could get by with frozen microwave meals and coffee for a