As this man stammered to try to find something to say to me, I felt a sense of the larger issues at hand: I was cursed, he was cursed, and my date may or may not be the devil. I did look good, at least, even though the heels of my Louboutins were sinking in the soft grass. I asked him where he was going to hang the Russo painting at the Hanover. To my surprise, Sara answered for them.
As I observed Roger’s movements, it seemed that this was a small reenactment of the Paris Opera scene. Had a bearded Roger been wearing a tuxedo, I would have sworn I’d just seen him in 1898 dressed as Auguste Marchant. The two men had never met in this lifetime and yet here was Luke ready to flee with me at a moment’s notice if I gave him the smallest signal. I’d witnessed all of Roger’s puzzled looks through the years and I knew enough to know that Sara was having trouble reading him tonight. I could tell from her demeanor that it bothered her.
Daylight was fading over the mansion, and the outdoor lights and candles had turned on and begun working overtime. Fortunately, I could hear the distant sounds of dinner chimes. Luke and I excused ourselves.
“Nothing?”
Luke gave me a puzzled look.
“I’m just waiting for the dig on how dull he was.”
“I was thinking how dull she was.”
And with that wonderful remark, I smiled.
“Seriously, I’m surprised she doesn’t have a cardigan on,” he said, taking my wineglass.
Luke had a definite way of calming me, whether it was a hand on the small of my back or a perfectly timed sarcastic comment to bring levity to what was an awkward situation. I moved through the sea of party guests with him at my side, shaking hands with a few congressmen’s wives, news anchors, restaurateurs, and art gallery owners.
We were seated at a long table with the director of the Washington Opera and his wife. Roger and Sara were on the other side of the room. Dinner began with a rocket lettuce and summer vegetable panzanella followed by porcini-crusted lamb chops and risotto, ending with a chocolate tiramisu for dessert. Wine began to flow.
Luke’s understanding of opera was deep, which shocked me. In fact, Luke’s knowledge of Mozart operas, Bach concertos, Renaissance painters, Madeira wine, Louis Armstrong, and the city of Oslo, Norway (where the opera director’s wife had grown up), was practically bottomless.
“Oslo?” I deadpanned.
“Fabulous city. Efficient airport.”
“Oslo?” I cocked my head again.
He shot me a look. But he was exactly the date I needed. By the end of the evening, he practically had three new dinner invitations and a few potential board positions. I found myself staring at him, as engaged as everyone else was. In fact, I nearly forgot Roger until I saw that he and Sara were excusing themselves and leaving early. Reading Roger, I could see that leaving was not his choice, either.
After dinner, Luke and I made our way around the house with its endless hallways and windows dressed in ornate cornices with silk draperies. The rugs and Italian tiles beneath us were all works of art in themselves. Luke led me down a dark hallway into what appeared to be a library, complete with some of Italy’s best writers. The room featured two long bisque-colored sofas and a mahogany grand piano.
He pulled out the piano seat. “Sit.”
I slid in next to him. “You play?”
“No,” he said. “You do.”
I laughed. “Don’t you get tired of this?”
He coughed and paused before answering. “Never.”
“Play me something.”
He glanced at me and turned to the keys. I heard the discordant sound of “Chopsticks” forming.
“Nice,” I said.
He stopped. “You try.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be in here.”
“Quit changing the subject. Try.”
“I don’t play the piano.”
“Your mother couldn’t afford a piano, even though you wanted lessons like your best friend. She bought you a flute when you were eleven.”
I remembered her, struggling to keep us afloat as a single mother. She’d been given an old Armstrong flute by someone at work and had it cleaned and refurbished. She apologized for the battered case. Always keenly aware of our financial struggles, I played the flute and never asked for a piano again. “Then you know I don’t play.”
“Helen Lambert doesn’t play.”
“Your point?”
“Juliet LaCompte does play.” He took my hand and placed it over the keys. It was a tender gesture and it only infuriated me more because of the feelings it unleashed in me. He aligned my right thumb over middle C. “I think you can handle the left hand.”
I shot him a nasty look. “Juliet loved you.” I was quick to clarify, “In Paris.”
“So that’s what this is about.” He sighed. “I loved you, too… in Paris. But I was afraid of what was brewing between us, I guess. I thought you were too young, too vulnerable.”
“You married someone else.” As I looked at the keys in front of me, they opened up to me, as if a secret had just been shared. I placed my fingertip on an ivory key and knew exactly how it would sound. With my forefinger, I hit the D, knowing what to expect in tone, but wondering about the action on this instrument. With a sideways glance, I could see Luke watching me intently. I rolled up my sleeves and slammed down on the first chords of Grieg like a girl who hadn’t played the piano in a hundred years. Juliet’s mind knew the keys intimately, but Helen’s muscles weren’t used to the delicate fingerwork required for the Clementi and Satie pieces that flowed. It was as though Juliet’s mind wanted to quickly work through her entire repertoire. I stopped suddenly. “You married someone else.”
“I know.” He reached out and touched my hand. “I thought Lisette would be a buffer between us. It was my first time as your administrator. As you saw, I fucked the whole thing up.”
“You let me down—I trusted you the most.” Last night, the pain that Juliet had felt was transferred to me. I swore I could taste the absinthe on my lips; it was that real. I can only describe it as something that resided in my memory alongside my own teenage years. It was as private and as intense as my own dumping at the Bethesda High School senior prom. Now I had Juliet’s teenage pain.
“I know what I did. And I can’t tell you how delightful it has been watching you marry someone else through our lifetimes together. Cut me some fucking slack, will you? We’re not normal.”
“Why doesn’t Roger remember his life as Auguste Marchant?”
“Well, neither of you are supposed to remember your lives,” he said. “You’re just supposed to play your parts in the curse, again and again. You’re the anomaly.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re special. I’ve told you that.” He seemed to change the subject. “You don’t know what the time is like without you… until you resurface, until you call me. And you always will call me. It’s the way the curse works. Until I know you are in this world again, I watch, waiting to see who you will become this time.”
“What do you mean, this time?”
“You change a little each time depending upon the environment you grew up in—and the times you live in. That’s a big part of it, but you’re still you.”