When Max Hunter walked into Café on the Ridge, he thought of horses. Well, one horse, in particular. His mother’s American Saddlebred, Juliette. When he was a kid, they used to go out and ride “Juju” until mare and boy couldn’t catch their wind. And then one day he heard his parents talking about the horse’s anhidrosis.
“Horses can’t sweat like people, sweetie,” his mother had explained when he asked her about the new word that sounded like some fatal disease.
He never rode Juliette again. How could he put that poor creature through her paces with no release? No exit for her own buildup of heat?
That was pretty much how he felt tonight. These past few days with his father had sparked a raging heat within him, and his only release was music. If he couldn’t perform, couldn’t get lost in a world of chords and runs, there was no doubt he would overheat.
When he had arrived at the hospital his father had been completely delusional.
“I saw her, Max. She was here. I told you we would find her. She was here, and she asked for you.”
Max had tried easing his father back into reality. “Pop, listen. She’s gone. She wasn’t here. She’s never going to be here…”
But that just furthered the hysteria. His father had grabbed him by the collar. “Don’t you ever say that, you ignorant little shit. I’m telling you, I know what I saw. She was here!”
The nurses had had to restrain him, and by the time Max left, his father was so doped up that he doubted he would have been able to differentiate between his son and the Havenhurst custodian.
Max made his way over to the stage area and watched as Lily Wilson, the owner of the café, moved the last of the sofas off to the side, clearing more space for a dance floor. He considered offering to help but was impressed at how deftly Lily unlocked the casters and rolled the heavy piece of furniture away.
“It’s all rigged that way,” she said to him. Her voice had a smoker’s rasp. “I could have this place cleared out in less than 5 minutes if I needed to. So what are you planning on singing tonight, Mr. Hunter?”
Looking over at the Kawasaki upright, Max decided that tonight didn’t feel like a six string kind of night. Right now he was all about the ebony and ivory.
“Thinking about giving that upright a proper workout.”
“I like the way that sounds, honey.”
He granted her a quick flex of his dimples and then politely begged off the flirtation, walking over to the piano. Gently touching the cool keys, he could feel the pressure swell inside him, the sweat rising to the surface.
He glanced at his watch, a Breitling that his dad had given him when they had moved to New York. “To keep track of the time until we find her. Then you can throw it away, Max. Once we find her, time won’t matter…”
He played out a few chords, closing his eyes, introducing himself to the instrument that would be his artillery for the evening. His mind flooded with mental snapshots of his mother. She had been so encouraging of his musical pursuits.
“Your great-grandfather used to tell me a wonderful story, Max. Do you want to hear it?”
He had lived for her stories, so often crawling into the safety of her lap.
“Once upon a time there lived a God named Marsyas. Marsyas had music running through his veins just like you, Max…”
He couldn’t remember the rest of the story and, as always, his memories always came to an abrupt halt with a conjured image of his mother’s lifeless body lying in a pool of her own blood.
When he opened his eyes again, Max scanned the room. Patrons were starting to trickle in, ordering all manner of yuppified coffees and cappuccinos.
God, he missed his mother. At Performing Arts he had skipped from girl to girl, always looking for that one that would make him feel whole again. When his dad flipped out, he had sworn off any relationship that could ever potentially wound him again.
And then came Portia.
What was it about this damned girl that had him so unhinged? He couldn’t stop thinking about her, replaying every gesture between them, conjuring her aroma, the feel of her skin.
He’d been a little hurt that she didn’t show more concern while he was off with his dad. But then again, a phone conversation was not within her scope, and she had probably had too many questions to text.
Well, there was plenty of time for him to explain things to her.
He played out a few more chords on the piano, the pedals a welcome obstacle underfoot. Yes, it was definitely an ebony and ivory kind of a night.
Now, where in the bloody hell was Portia Griffin…
♪
Banging out the last of his chemistry homework, Felix considered blowing off the whole night. He could always use more studying, right?
He knew he was acting like a baby but just didn’t feel like seeing a bunch of women swooning over the gorgeous musical prodigy Max Hunter.
He slammed his book shut and threw it into his bag.
Why was he so goddamned angry?
Admittedly he had been treating Portia unfairly. So they had had a moment a few months ago—big deal. He should have manned up at the time and told her that he was feeling something. He wasn’t sure what exactly
it
was, but he was definitely feeling something. Instead he had said nothing, pretended everything was status quo.
And now it was too late. Of course some guy was gonna come along and snatch her up. Felix was deaf, but he sure as hell wasn’t blind. In the looks department, his best friend had basically become something of an overnight sensation. He wondered, though, if she knew that he loved her before all that. That he had always thought her to be the most beautiful girl in existence.
No, she doesn’t know—because you are too much of a wuss to tell her.
So he’d have to settle for friendship. But Felix was just not a settler. He couldn’t settle for not being able to speak as clearly as a hearing person. He couldn’t settle for not being able to hold his own on a dance floor. How the hell was he supposed to settle for ‘just friends’ with the only girl who had the ability to make him feel whole?
His thoughts turned to Gabrielle. “
I might actually pick Gabrielle up on the way?”
Why did he have to say that to Portia? He hadn’t even mentioned Open Mic Night to Gabrielle and found himself hoping that she wouldn’t actually be there. Gabrielle was pretty and sweet but so…one-dimensional.
He just couldn’t think straight around Portia anymore. There was something different about her. He suddenly felt like he didn’t know her like he used to. And he couldn’t rid himself of that persistent nagging feeling that Portia and Charlotte were keeping something from him. He was probably just being paranoid. It was strange, though, the way all of a sudden the once-silent Charlotte was now so enamored of Portia. Something must have prompted the sudden friendship.
When Felix had questioned Portia about it, she had offered him a vague, “Oh—I guess she was just ready to come out of her shell.”
Stop it! You sound like a freaking schoolgirl!
He pushed himself away from his desk, accepting the inevitability that tonight would be happening. He would just have to suck it up, the same way he had been doing these past weeks.
Opening his closet to throw on a clean change of clothes, Felix was not surprised to find a note from his sister Wendy that said: “Wear This!” His self-appointed stylist had stuck a Post-it onto a navy and white gingham Abercrombie shirt, super slim. An identical note rested on a pair of faded jeans.
“And these!” said another note at the bottom of the closet, stuck to a pair of loafers that Wendy had made him buy before he had gone to Canada.
Gotta admire her persistence
.
He threw on the outfit and took a long look in the mirror.
“
OK, OK, not too bad,” he said the words aloud.
He went into his bathroom to take a quick shave and when he opened up his medicine cabinet, there were two more notes in his sister’s manic handwriting.
OK,
this is getting ridiculous
.
“Don’t do it—the five o’clock shadow thing is very George Clooney.” The note was stuck to his can of shaving cream.
And then there was an unfamiliar small jar of styling wax, which she must have snuck in on the down-low. “And use some of this!”
He conceded on the no shaving but refused to do the hair styling thing.
He went back to his room to retrieve his wallet from his night table, where he found one final note from his sister “If she doesn’t want you, she’s a fool.”
Jesus, Wendy
.
Felix hurried back into his bathroom and indulged his sister by threading a miniscule amount of wax into his mess of hair. Knowing he had done her proud, he headed out the door to face the night head-on.
♪
Leucosia still had trouble acclimating to modern styles. She had been so happy in years past to just while away her days in white robes of linens and silks. Now it was all about belly shirts and True Religion, a name she found most laughable. Rifling through her closet, she settled on an embroidered green peasant shirt and a pair of black trousers.
Do people still use the word trousers?
She had to admit she felt a bit of a thrill when she put on the high Louboutin black heels, an indulgence she had allowed herself a few months ago.
Spotting an ancient pair of gladiator sandals in the corner of her closet, she remembered back to when gladiators had come back into fashion last year. Leucosia had been delighted to dig out the handmade relic. A few of the girls at school had even commented on them and wanted to know where she had bought them.
“I actually got them a long time ago from the cobbler,” the school nurse had responded.
“Oh, is that that new boutique on Upper Madison?” Jacqueline Rainier had asked her.
Glancing in the mirror, Leucosia was satisfied that her appearance was au courant. The green of the blouse highlighted her eyes, and the neckline was cut high enough so as not to reveal the scar from her weighty wings.
She grabbed a small clutch bag from her closet, a Judith Leiber in the shape of a Persian cat. It had been an impulse purchase, but the jeweled bag had reminded her so much of her beloved Hermes that she had simply been unable to pass it up.
Just admit it, Leucosia. You love modern-day shopping!
She smiled at the lighthearted realization, which was such a welcome departure from the constant fear that had been hovering over her since Portia’s dream.
Portia’s last office visit had been a terrifying wake-up call for the weary Leucosia. The sight of her sisters’ faces and the sounds of their laughter had overwhelmed her in more ways than one. Not to mention the knowledge that Portia had almost killed Harold Trotter.
With that dream, the full magnitude of her responsibilities was suddenly upon her. And she wasn’t sure how to proceed. She didn’t want to overwhelm Portia with too much information at once, but she also couldn’t take a chance that the young Goddess might abuse the powers of her voice unknowingly.
The night after Portia’s last visit, she had texted Morpheus angrily, admonishing him for not forewarning her about the turmoil of Portia’s sleep.
He had texted back:
“Leucosia—when I was gifted by the Almighty Zeus with the power to visit the dreams of Gods and models—”
Models?
The Siren did a double take at her phone.
“I meant ‘mortals,’ my dear. Autocorrect be damned. Anyway, I was warned that any abuse of my power could result in my gift being taken away.”
Leucosia understood the divine Hippocratic oath that bound the Gods to maintain the privacy of mortals.
“My apologies, Morpheus. I am not angry with you. I just fear for the well-being of the young Siren. Tell me, what exactly are the dangers of these dreaded dreams?”
“The venom of the dream depends on the snake who takes the bite, Leucosia. I fear that your sisters are the most poisonous of snakes…”
With that Morpheus had begged off—he had to go visit a mortal who was struggling to wake up from a month-long coma.
As Leucosia put on her makeup, she replayed his words. Her sisters were indeed snakes of the worst kind, but how exactly were Parthenope and Ligeia planning on exacting their revenge?
They’ve got something up their sleeve.
Her cat sat at her feet, looking up at her with his copper eyes.
“Yes, I know, Hermes. I am over three thousand years old and am trying to walk in a pair of six-inch platforms…”
She leaned down to give the cat a quick rub.
“I’m getting too old for this…” she whispered to her whiskered confidante.
♪
Since Helena and Joshua were having their standing dinner date with the Feins, Janie Trotter gave the girls a lift to the café. Embarrassed at being chauffeured by her mom, Charlotte insisted on being dropped off a block away. Mrs. Trotter didn’t seem to take offense, though, as she handed Charlotte some extra money, despite her daughter’s insistence that she had enough. Charlotte planted a kiss on her mom’s cheek and allowed herself to be pulled in for a prolonged hug.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” she said. “I’ll be fine, and if you need me, just call me on my cell.”
“I won’t need you,” assured Janie Trotter. “I only need for you to have fun.”
With that the girls hopped out and started walking in the direction of the café.
Though she tried maintaining a carefree pace, Portia felt like an idling engine on the racetrack, knowing that Max might be just a few yards away.
What, so now you’re a car enthusiast?
When they walked in a little bit before 8:00, the room was already full. Portia caught a glimpse of Wendy Fein out of the corner of her eye. She waved to Felix’s sister, who returned the greeting with a cold nod.
Et tu, Wendy?
But she ignored the gesture for now, scanning the crowd for the one person she wanted—no, make that
needed
—to see most. A smile came to her face when she glimpsed Max sitting in a corner, leafing through some sheet music.
She gestured to Charlotte, a slight tip of her head in Max’s direction.