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She pauses and turns to face me, her beautiful light brown eyes locking with mine. One hand is on her glass, and the other is affectionately on my arm.
“I just want you to know, regardless of our deal, I’m really happy to be here with you tonight.”
“Thank you,” she replies, and then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, she pushes up on her toes and kisses me. This kiss eases the pressure in my chest after that first interaction. My family is unique in how they speak to me, but no one would dare talk condescendingly to me like he did to her. Certainly not a staff member.
Emma lets out a tiny squeal, but outside of her and Clay, once Goldie pulls away, the people around us are now openly gawking, and I’m not sure why. I don’t even feel like I can ask her without causing a scene or stirring up gossip. So we just carry on like it was no big deal.
“Well, well, well, it seems you and I do have a few more things to talk about,” Emma says as she loops her arm through Goldie’s, and they walk farther into the room.
“Come on, Briggs, let me show you around,” Goldie tosses over her shoulder. Clay and I follow.
Room by room, we stop into the library, the billiard room, the board room, the wine cellar—now I see where she gets her love of wine from—a formal sitting room, a formal dining room, and even a solarium. This penthouse is truly a mansion in the sky, and we’re about to head up to the roof. She assures me it’s covered and we won’t get wet when a man a few years older than us approaches her. He’s frowning at her like he’s been sent to deal with an errant child.
“Cora,” he says in a clipped way that has me reaching to put my hand on her back.
“Winston,” she returns, pulling up to her full height. In her heels, she’s taller than him.
“I was wondering when you were going to show up.”
What is wrong with these people? It is a party. People can come and go as they please.
“As you can see, we’ve been here for a bit.”
His nostrils flare. “Then it’s time.”
“Winston, I’d like for you to meet my boyfriend, Briggs Warren. Briggs, this is my brother, Winston.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say as I hold my hand out. He looks down at it, and his nostrils flare again. Reluctantly, he slips his hand into mine.
“Thank you for coming,” he says instead of, “It’s nice to meet you too.”
“And you remember my friend Emma. This is her fiancé, Clay Johnson.”
Winston nods at the two of them and then turns his sharp gaze back on Goldie. Without saying another word, he turns on his heel and strides away.
Her shoulders deflate, and I don’t understand why. Instead, she follows.
I glance over at Emma, and she just shakes her head, silently telling me not to say anything. The three of us trail them as we’re led back to the library. It occurs to me then that someone never approached us to say hello. As this is her family’s home, which makes her a host by default, one would think that proper decorum alone would force their hands. And where are her parents?
In the library, she walks to the middle of the room, where there is a lone chair and a cello. While I did see this the first time we passed through, I thought it odd. Who was I to question it as their daughter is world famous, and maybe it is there as a shrine to her, but apparently not?
“What are you doing?” I ask her as she takes a seat, picks up the cello, and moves the endpin into an anchor attached to the chair.
“What I always do.” She looks at me sadly but resignedly.
At my brother’s party, her dress was classy and sexy, and she dripped in wealth from her diamonds, but as I take her in now, this black dress has a flowing skirt, and she’s wearing pearls. I thought it was an elegant thing, but I’m realizing now that she’s in concert attire.
Is she just playing one song? Is she expected to play the whole night?
Taking a step back, I move out of the way so people can see her. Emma and Clay have come to stand next to me as a few of the guests gather around. Goldie drags the bow across the strings, and a deep timbre echoes throughout the room. It’s the first time I’ve seen her play in person, and that sound reverberates through my soul. It’s at this moment that I know I am forever changed. With that one long chord, she’s rewritten my very being, stitched her way into my DNA, and as I watch her play song after song, I feel each of my individual muscles tightening, my entire body tensing, and my anger climbing.
One song becomes two, and then three, and then four, and so on.
“Does she always perform like this at their parties?” I whisper to Emma.
“Yes. It’s not only expected of her. It’s one of the few times a year when they actually acknowledge her.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Why?”
