If You Only Knew Read online

  She's even more beautiful than last week. Long, straight eyelashes, elegant eyebrows, a tiny pink rosebud mouth. Her lips move as if blowing kisses.

  The ache in my chest is painful now.

  "Jenny, I'm sorry to interrupt," my sister says. "Owen. Ana." Her voice hardens, bless her. "Nice to see you. Your baby is just beautiful. Jenny, so sorry. Mrs. Brewster's here, and she's got a slight emergency with Jared's wedding. I told her you could help."

  "Look around, guys," I say. "And thank you so much for coming. It means a lot." As Rach leads me through the crowd, I whisper, "And thank you for rescuing me."

  "Why are they here?" Rachel whispers back. "Can't they leave you alone? Do they have to force-feed you their perfect life?" Nice to see some fire in her. Of course, it's always easier to be mad on behalf of someone you love, rather than deal with your own problems.

  "It's not like that," I tell her. "We're all friends."

  She gives me a cynical look. "Mrs. Brewster," she says, "you remember Jenny, don't you?"

  "I suppose I do. Yes."

  "Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Brewster. How are you?"

  "I've been better," she says.

  When we were kids, the Brewsters lived up the hill from us in this glorious old house where we were told not to run, not to eat and not to laugh. Mrs. Brewster is the president of the chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, the COH Garden Club, the Women's Committee (which seems to exist to sell pies), and the COH Lawn Club board of trustees. Her husband is the pastor of the Cambry-on-Hudson Congregational Church. He's actually quite nice.

  It would be a coup to make the wedding dress for Jared Brewster's wife. The ceremony will take place at Mr. Brewster's enormous and beautiful church, and with a venue like that, the dress is usually big and memorable--and expensive. The reception will be at the country club, and Mrs. Brewster says it will be featured in Town & Country and Hudson Bride, glossy magazines geared toward the 1 percent.

  I could use that kind of business. Up here, it's commonplace to rent a limo and head to the city, to Kleinfeld's and Vera Wang, to find the dress of dresses--and possibly appear on a TV show. I need those clients to come to me. Moving here was a risk, and the blessing of the blue-blooded Brewsters would go a long way. A lot of mothers of brides will urge their daughters to go where Eleanor Hale Brewster tells them to.

  "Excuse me, I need to help Charlotte. So nice to see you, Mrs. Brewster." My sister zips away, her girls always good for the perfect escape hatch.

  I notice that Ana-Sofia has knelt down so Grace can inspect her baby. My niece looks up at Owen. "Your baby is pretty, Uncle Owen," she pronounces solemnly.

  The title is like a shard of glass in my heart.

  "So what can I help you with, Mrs. Brewster?" I ask. "I know Jared is getting married this summer." Time to focus on business.

  "That woman picked out a ridiculous dress," she says. "We need something suitable."

  That woman, huh? An entire relationship explained in two words. "Well, my lead time is generally closer to a year, but for an old family friend, of course."

  She gives me a look as if she's trying to remember my name. Message received: Your people were never friends with my people. "Of course, we can afford a rush charge or any other extra fees you see fit to add." Message: You working-class types will do anything to pad your purses. She looks down her bony nose at me. "I don't think...Kimber...understands just what it means to be marrying into the Hale-Brewster family."

  You'd think that this type of snobbery would've died out a century or so ago. You'd be wrong. "Well, I'd love to work with her."

  "You'd be working with me."

  "I'd love that, too." I smile firmly. I'm used to the myriad emotions and egos involved in weddings, of course.

  My husband--ex-husband--is now holding Charlotte so she can see the baby, too. Mom has joined the circle of admirers, too. Sigh.

  Mrs. Brewster is still talking about Jared's fiancee, whom I haven't met. The words inappropriate, unsuitable and unbefitting are all used more than once. Not a surprise from the WASP Queen. Rachel's told me that Kimber is quite nice.

  Jared was more of Rachel's friend, being the same age, but he never minded me tagging along with them back in the day. Every time I've seen him over the years, he's always been warm and funny and nice. Kind of an all-around peach, that guy. I always appreciated how he stayed friends with Rachel.

  I wish she'd married someone like him.

  A hot knife of rage stabs me in the heart. I used to love Adam, and it's quite easy to say that at this moment, I hate him more than I've ever hated anyone.

  Just then, a veritable rainbow of a woman comes in. Short black skirt, engineer boots, black fishnet stockings, denim jacket and a tattoo that circles her neck with roses. Her hair is pink. I like her immediately. She comes right up to us. "Hi. Sorry I'm late. Um, I'm Kimber Allegretti?" Her eyes bounce from me to Mrs. Brewster.

  "Don't say it like it's a question," Mrs. Brewster snaps. "Are you or are you not?"

  "Yeah. I am," Kimber says, flushing.

  "I'm Jenny, Rachel's sister," I say. Kimber looks about twenty-five. And Jared is forty, or close to it. "It's so good to meet you. Rachel's told me a lot about you. Said she liked you right away."

  "For reals?" Kimber beams.

  I swear, Mrs. Brewster growls. "Jennifer has agreed to throw together a dress that's more appropriate than that joke you showed me before. You can't really have planned to wear that in a house of worship."

  Kimber bites her very full bottom lip. "I guess I didn't really think it through," she murmurs.

  "I should say not."

  "Well, I'm sure we can come up with something stunning that you both like," I say. "It will be beautiful, Kimber. And I don't throw together anything, Mrs. Brewster." I smile firmly. "I have a master's degree from Parsons Institute of Design. It will be incredible, not to worry."

  "So long as it covers those tattoos," she says. "Honestly, young people today."

  I give Kimber a wink, and while I'd like to, oh, I don't know...duct tape Mrs. Brewster's mouth shut, I know it won't help the situation. Part of my job is to be a family therapist and teach the art of the compromise. A woman who wants a low-cut, supersexy wedding dress goes up against her mother, who tells her she'll look like a tramp. Hateful bridesmaids, who find fault with every aspect of the dress, seething with jealousy that they're not the ones standing on the pedestal in front of the mirror.

  And there are those brides who'd rather wear the ugliest dress on earth than upset a relative.

  My job is to make everyone happy, to have a bride who cries at her own reflection, a mother who says she can't believe her baby is all grown-up, a dad who bawls all the way down the aisle and a groom who can't contain his surprise and awe at that first glimpse of his soon-to-be wife.

  The dress symbolizes everything about the couple. Hope, love, beauty, promise, commitment.

  I glance over at the photo of Rachel.

  Shit.

  "Well," I say, clearing my throat, "let's find a time for a consultation."

  "Tomorrow at eleven," Mrs. Brewster says.

  "Let me check my calendar," I answer patiently. I know I'm free, but I don't want to be treated like an indentured servant, either. "Is there anyone else you'd like to have with you, Kimber? A bridesmaid or your mom, maybe?"

  "Um, no, just Mrs. Brewster," she says, picking at her thumbnail.

  "Sometimes the groom comes, too, you know," I suggest. This girl is going to need an ally.

  "Really?" Kimber's face brightens.

  "I hardly think Jared should be here," Mrs. Brewster says.

  "Mrs. Brewster, why don't you look around and see if there's anything that sparks your interest?" I suggest. "Have some champagne. Andreas? Would you show Mrs. Brewster around?"

  My lovely assistant comes over and ushers her away. "Mrs. Brewster! Such an honor to have you join us today!" He just earned a raise.

  "So how did
you and Jared meet?" I ask Kimber.

  "Well, I sing in a bar sometimes? Miller's, down by the river?"

  "Sure. I used to sneak in there when I was underage," I say with a smile.

  "Really? You seem so classy."

  "It's the shoes. Don't be fooled. So you were singing?"

  "Yeah, 'Son of a Preacher Man'? And Jared, he came over after and he said, 'You know, I actually am the son of a preacher man,' and he asked me out."

  "What a great story! He's such a nice guy. I've known him a long time."

  "I love him," she blurts, then grimaces. "I mean, duh, right?"

  "No, it's great! I'll see you tomorrow. Hey, bring the dress you already bought, okay? You can tell me what you liked about it, and maybe we can incorporate some of the same elements."

  "Mrs. Brewster had me return it."

  "Ah. Okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow, and we can start fresh."

  "Thanks, Jenny," she says with another wide smile. She may have a tongue piercing, since she has a little lisp. "It was nice to meet you."

  "You, too."

  My eyes find Rachel again. She's got Charlotte on one hip and is tucking her daughter's hair behind her ear.

  I go over. "Lottie," I say, "Andreas can do a magic trick. Go see!" My niece wiggles out of Rachel's arms and bolts over to my child-fearing assistant.

  "I should get going," Rachel says.

  "Want me to come over later?" Not that I want to see my asshole brother-in-law, but Rachel might need the support. She looks exhausted. Then again, if I see Adam, I can accidentally stab him in an artery. Bet my sewing shears would snip right through his penis, come to think of it. "Or you can come to my place. I'm all unpacked. I have wine, and if you wanted to vent--"

  "No. I need to be with Adam."

  I wonder if he's sexting his mistress. If Rachel's afraid to leave him alone for long. If he's with Emmanuelle right now, having porno sex. "Okay," I say.

  "Don't judge, Jenny." Her voice is already resigned.

  "I'm not! Rachel, I'm not. I just want to help."

  "You can't." She sighs. "Look, I'm sorry. The shop is gorgeous. I'm proud of you." Her expression is shell-shocked, as if she just came out of the London Underground after the Blitz.

  "Can we have coffee tomorrow?" I ask.

  "I don't know."

  My eyes fill again, and my sister gives me a sad smile. "I'll talk to you later," she says. "Love you."

  "I love you, too. Thank you so, so much for coming."

  I help her herd the girls to the car, scooping up Grace, holding Rose's hand, and buckle them into their car seats. I give Rachel a hug, and she squeezes me back.

  "All I ever wanted was for Adam and me to have what Mom and Dad did," she whispers, then lets go of me and gets into the car. "Bye. Talk to you soon."

  There are tears in her eyes.

  I watch her drive away.

  She's got more in common with our parents than she knows.

  *

  When I get home that night, my feet are telling me that wearing four-inch heels all day long is a life skill with an expiration date, and mine is just around the corner. I start up the front steps, then freeze.

  I hear music.

  In the two weeks I've lived here, I haven't heard anything other than those horrendous, repetitive Teaching Little Fingers to Play songs. One would think that living above a Juilliard-trained pianist would at least get me a little free music, but Leo's usually just welded to that lawn chair when I come home, drinking a beer, his stinky, ill-tempered dog by his side.

  But right now, there's music. At first hesitant, and sad, and familiar. The melody rises gently, and my heart hurts, it's so sad and beautiful. Goose bumps break out on my arms.

  My God.

  In a little bit of a trance, I go through Leo's gate, tiptoeing so my heels won't tap on the slate, and sink down in his doorway, not wanting him to know I'm here. The music twines around me, a little faster now, less sad, but then changing, a hint of darkness and sorrow, then back to the wistful strains I first heard, and good Lord, if I could play like this, I'd never stop.

  Since I moved in, I've seen Leo almost every day. He's been up to not fix things three times so far, and ended up staying for more than an hour each time, drinking beer and insulting me. I've managed to pry some personal details from him--he doesn't have a steady girlfriend, he isn't gay, and his favorite food is Kentucky Fried Chicken, which is inexplicable. He seems to be the epitome of the happy slacker.

  To think that he has this inside him is breathtaking. I lean against the door and close my eyes.

  Then the door opens, and I fall backward.

  "Jenny," Leo says, stepping aside. The music continues.

  I scramble to my feet. "I thought you were playing."

  "That's one of my students. I'm not the only person on earth who can play, believe it or not. Come on in."

  A little boy is sitting at the upright piano. He stops when he sees me and folds his hands neatly in his lap.

  "Evander," Leo says, "this is my friend Jenny. Jenny, meet Evander James."

  "You're wonderful, sweetheart," I say.

  "Thank you," he answers, not looking at me.

  "What was that piece?"

  Evander looks at Leo. "Chopin's Etude Number Three in E Major, Opus Ten, better known as Tristesse, which means sadness in French," Leo says.

  "It was beautiful," I murmur, and my voice is husky. Leo's mouth tugs a little.

  "I can't play the hard part," the boy says.

  "Not yet," Leo says. "Give yourself a week."

  There's a knock on the door, and Evander scrambles off the bench and stands next to the piano, his hand on it as if he can't quite bring himself to leave it. "Thank you, Mr. Killian," he says. His gaze is on the floor.

  "You're welcome, buddy. And call me Leo." He answers the door, and a woman about my age comes into the room. "Mrs. James," he says, "I'd love to teach Evander. He's very talented."

  "Thank you. I'm afraid we really don't have money for that. But I appreciate today." She's dressed in scrubs and wears Crocs. Seeing me standing there, she gives a little nod.

  "There's a grant that lets me offer lessons to promising students," Leo says. "I'd like to use it for Evander. No cost to you."

  She hesitates. "His father works the night shift, and I'm on days. I don't know if I can get him here."

  "Can he take the school bus here on Thursdays?"

  "Well, yes, but I don't know how he'd get home."

  "He can stay here until you can pick him up. Or I could put him in a cab. There's plenty of money in the grant, and someone with Evander's talent only comes along once in a while."

  I have to say, I'm a little surprised. While I've seen Leo here and there with his students, he's always pretty casual. This hard sell seems like a different side of his teacher persona.

  "Really?" she says.

  Leo nods. "Juilliard can give my references. So can Elmsbrook School--they did a background check on me before I played there this past February. And I can give you the names of the parents of my other students."

  "Um...well, let me talk to my husband," Mrs. James says.

  "Please, Mom," Evander whispers.

  "We'll see, sweetheart. Thank you, Mr. Killian."

  "Leo. You did great, kid." He winks at Evander, who gives a sweetly shy smile back. "I'll check in with you in a couple of days, how's that?"

  "That's very nice of you. Thank you." The mom looks at me and smiles.

  "Your son is very gifted," I say, like I know anything.

  "He is," she says, smiling down on the boy. "He's been blessed." Loki's stumpy tail wags as they leave; the dog seems to hate only me.

  When the door closes behind him, I sit on Leo's couch. "So that's what you call a prodigy, huh?" I ask.

  "Yep."

  "And this grant of yours... Does it exist?"

  "Nope." He smiles. "Want some wine, irritating tenant?"

  "I would love some, grossly under
-qualified super. By the way, thanks for coming by today."

  "Coming by where?"

  "To the grand opening of my store. I invited you, remember?"

  "I'm not in the market for wedding cakes, Jenny."

  "Dresses."

  "Those, either. So how was it?"

  "Well, let's see. My mom told at least nine people how wretched she's been since my father died twenty-two years ago, my ex-husband, his beautiful wife and perfect baby showed up, and my sister's husband confirmed that he's having amazing sex with someone else."

  "Shit. Now I wish I'd gone." He sits down in the chair across from me. "I'm sorry about Rachel."

  "Me, too." Not wanting to think about my sister and all the ugly thoughts her situation inspires, I ask, "How did you find a kid like Evander?"

  "The music teacher at Elmsbrook gave me a call. Evander's been playing piano since he was three, all by ear, and the teacher taught him to read music, but she's kind of out of her depth. He plays better than she does."

  "Wow." I take a sip of wine. "So you're new to Cambry-on-Hudson, but you have all these students. How did that happen?"

  "I gave a concert at the elementary school. When the straight mothers and gay fathers saw how good-looking I am, not to mention how incredibly talented, they stampeded to my door."

  "And still I haven't heard you play. I thought that was you, when Evander was playing."

  "I'm a better teacher than performer."

  "So you say. And yet you also claim to be incredibly talented."

  "All Juilliard students are incredibly talented, my dear. But we're not all Emmanuel Ax, either."

  "Who's that?"

  "Get out." He gives me that killer smile, and my heart moves in my chest.

  "So what makes a kid like Evander so special, aside from clever fingers?"

  Leo tilts his head and looks at me, and there it is, that irritating and wonderful tug of attraction. "Women sit in doorways to listen." He grins. "There's technical ability, which is easy enough to learn. Virtually anyone can become proficient if they're dedicated enough. What you can't teach is interpretation. How to express the notes, not just which keys to hit."

  "So when you were at Juilliard, did the great ones really stand out?"

  "God, yes. All of us in the performance program grew up playing and listening. Being able to play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata is no big deal. But someone playing it so that it feels like you've never heard it before, so that great, overplayed warhorse fills you up with light... That's greatness."

  "Ah. How poetic you are tonight."