S.V. Redkin – The Great Conductor (страница 15)

It was Christine’s day off, but she had been expecting the autopsy results from one of the cases she was working on. She didn’t want to think about how Laura would react if she were called into the office. The beads were meant to cushion the blow in case of a work emergency.

Christine knew that Laura would, as usual, be late because she was one of those people who started getting ready for a meeting when it was already time to be there. Christine had taken the liberty of ordering her first cup of coffee. She hoped to get all the work updates she needed before Laura arrived so she could fully embrace the old American tradition of brunching.

It felt nice to sit among the motley crew of carefree weekenders, whose only worry was what to do for the rest of the day after they ate—go for a walk or do a bit of shopping—before they would eat again in the evening. The place, Five and Dime Ale House, had been chosen by Laura for its healthy brunch options. She had been craving their South Cali Toast “for way too long.” Christine didn’t care much about food and rarely had time to think about it, but she tried to limit her fast food intake to two or three times a week whenever possible. She did, however, enjoy bustling spots like this one and, thanks to Laura, had the chance to join the foodie crowd once every two or three months.

“Am I late, hon?” came Laura’s voice through the noisy sound wall of the patrons.

“Just a smidge?” Cristine turned around and saw her friend whom, in fact, was twenty minutes late—almost on time by Laura’s standards.

Laura McKenzie was sporting a white hooded sweatshirt with a large print that read, “Have a Faerie Nice Day,” and a pair of blue harem pants that looked very comfortable. She plopped herself into the seat across from Christine with a loud sigh of relief and smiled.

“There. I’m here,” she said, taking the menu that Christine had asked a friendly waitress to bring about fifteen minutes earlier. “I heard they’re going to shut this place down soon.”

“This place?” Christine whirled her index finger in the air. “Can’t be true. Look how busy it is.”

“Yep. They can’t seem to rebound from the pandemic.”

Christine looked around and saw that the place was packed with happy customers.

“Are you sure?”

“Some company is buying them out, and they’re going to sell it. So, this might be the last time we’re here,” Laura said, scanning the menu. “I’m going to have—”

“—my first and last—”

“—where is that? Oh, yeah—avocado toast with an egg. You should try that, too, hon. It’s heavenly.” Laura signaled to a waitress to come over.

Christine knew it would be impossible to order anything else after that “recommendation,” which sounded more like an order. She didn’t bother looking at the menu and simply nodded in approval. If the place was going under, she might as well try their most popular dish before it disappeared.

“So, let’s hear it,” said Laura after placing the order for both of them. “The prince on the white horse, Sir Victor O’Brian—is that it? Can’t say I remember him well. Any relation to Conan O’Brien, by any chance? Because that could be . . .” She raised her hands to the level of her ears and rubbed her thumbs over the tips of her index and middle fingers, implying that such a connection could have been very lucrative for Christine.

“I don’t think so. He isn’t ginger, and he doesn’t tell too many jokes,” Christine said.

“Not everyone in the family has to be funny, but they could share the bank account,” Laura replied, followed by another money gesture.

“Stop,” Christine said, laughing. “He’s doing well on his own, even if he isn’t related to any celebrity.”

“Good for you, I say,” Laura replied with a smile, turning to the waitress who brought them two cups of coffee. “Thank you very much,” Laura said, taking a sip. “Ah, that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. I definitely needed that.”

“Working late again?” Christine asked, knowing that Laura preferred to work late at night when “the birds and humans couldn’t bother the muses.”

“Yep. But . . . let’s get back to Mr. O’Brian.”

Christine shrugged. “What can I tell you? He’s nice. I kind of like him, and—”

“You do? That’s . . . about freaking time, I say, m’lady. Hang on.” Laura raised her index finger. “He’s single, right?”

“Yes, he is. How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t know Eric wasn’t legally divorced?” Christine said, referring to one of her unsuccessful office romances that had almost ended in a big scandal a couple of years ago. “He told me he was single, and—”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it? Water under the bridge. Yesterday’s news. We’re talking about Mr. O’Brian—Conan’s possible nephew—who is a single, successful bachelor and is interested in this”—Laura pointed at Christine—“damsel in distress. Am I getting it right so far?”

“The damsel isn’t in distress.”

“Not yet, but it could be if she continues to avoid men—no cap.” Laura took a long breath, as if preparing for another wave of “motivational” criticism. “So, what about your job and that ‘cleaning Charm City of scumbags’ twenty-four-seven routine you enjoy so much? How does he fit into all that?” Laura took another sip of coffee.

“It’s a . . . um . . . well, I kind of wanted to run it by you.”

“Oh God!” Laura put down her coffee mug and gazed at Christine. “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

“You need to have sex to get pregnant, so no,” Christine said with a smile. “I’ve been sort of thinking lately . . . you know, those therapy sessions I have to attend, and . . . I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting older.”

“Can we please get to the point?” Laura put her palms together as if pleading for some revelation.

“Well, I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’ve been thinking about the possibility of having a normal life.”

“You want to have sex with Victor O’Brian,” Laura concluded with a serious nod.

“What? No. I mean, that could definitely be on the table, provided we get along and—”

“How long are you going to wait for this ‘getting along’ part? Until you’re sixty and introducing him to your cats?”

Christine laughed.

“I mean . . .” Laura continued. “When was the last time someone properly banged your brains out so that you could forget about your . . . what do you call it . . . ?” She snapped her fingers, trying to remember the correct word. “When you examine the dead bodies?”

“The autopsy reports? That’s funny, ’cause—”

“That and ‘ongoing investigations.’ You were the prettiest girl in class and are still a knockout. A freaking ten. Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans, you know. John Lennon said that. You’ve been making plans for too long, hon. Ah, there it is,” she said to the waitress who brought them two orders of South Cali Toasts. “Thank you.” She took her fork and stabbed a strawberry with it. “I think you’re moving in the right direction,” she said and popped the fruit into her mouth. “It’s about time to think about—what did you call it? A ‘normal life,’” she added, chewing.

The rest of the brunch consisted of a list of things Christine would have to do in her future relationship with Victor, based on Laura’s personal experience with her husband and things she had read online. By the time the food was gone, Laura was describing the schools Christine’s future children would have to attend to get the best education in the country. Christine didn’t even notice when she joined the discussion, comparing the pros and cons of different educational approaches for children—despite her extremely limited knowledge on the subject.

The jolly discussion was interrupted by the aforementioned autopsy report, which reminded Christine about the beads she had brought for Laura. The two women left the soon-to-be-closed rustic-chic spot in good spirits—Laura showing off her new beads to almost every passerby on the street, and Christine wondering how much of what they had just been talking about could possibly happen in the future.

Christine drove to her office after promising to meet with Laura again soon and spent two hours going over the report, adding details to her investigation, and outlining her work plans for the next week. As she was getting ready to call it a day and head to the shooting range for an hour of practice, she received a message from Victor. He asked if she had time for dinner tonight and offered to pick her up from wherever she was. She liked the spontaneity of the message, which felt like a step toward future closeness and, perhaps, even intimacy. She sent him a reply, telling him to pick her up from her home at 8:00 p.m.—she would have enough time to shoot a few rounds at the range, drive home, jump into the shower, and be ready for another date.

Chapter 15

After touring for a few weeks with the orchestra, Paul returned with some interesting news about a highly talented Chinese violinist named Li Mei, who had helped out the band during the Chinese leg of the tour—she had substituted for a sick musician during a few performances. According to Paul, she had done so quite successfully.

She was twenty-five years old, came from a wealthy family in Shanghai, and dreamed of playing in the United States and Europe to “gain some experience and provenance” before pursuing serious solo work back in China. Paul, who had had a few conversations with Li Mei after their performances, was eager to put in a good word for her with some of the influential musicians he had established a professional rapport with. However, it seemed unnecessary, as the conductor of the orchestra himself—Maestro Fabiano Giulini—had already noticed her skills and, more likely, her striking appearance.