code so I can come in and practice,” he said when she entered the room. “It’s not a bad setup considering what I left behind…”
She looked at him questioningly.
“Yeah, I guess I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday that I transferred here from Performing Arts in New York.”
He had been sitting in the far left corner, an acoustic guitar on his lap, absently strumming a couple of melancholy chords. He stood up, though, as soon as she walked in, a mark of chivalry in his favor. Portia made her way around the maze of instruments. Sitting down beside him, she looked up at him, her eyes asking him the questions that her mouth couldn’t.
“I live here with my aunt and uncle—my mom’s sister. My dad just couldn’t take care of me anymore—couldn’t take care of himself, either. Too many memories for him in The Big Apple, I guess…” his voice trailed off. He sat down again and adjusted the strings on the guitar.
Portia was afraid that her silence might be off-putting, but Max didn’t seem to mind. He used the quiet moment as an opportunity to study her face more closely.
“You’re very pretty.”
Somehow, it didn’t sound like a line, just a simple observation. Nonetheless, Portia avoided his gaze, embarrassed by the compliment.
Max cleared his throat and changed the subject. “You know, my dad is actually tight with the guy who endowed this place, but he still won’t tell me who it is. All I know is that it’s some retired musician that he’s done some legal work for in the past. He’s in, or was in I guess, entertainment law.”
Portia didn’t know where to go first. Performing Arts? New York? Too many memories? You’re very pretty?
She decided to tackle the personal stuff head on.
Behind her, a whiteboard hung around the perimeter of the room. “What kind of memories?” she scrawled out.
He stopped strumming and his face turned stony. She was fascinated to find that even veiled in ice, his looks were mesmerizing.
“My mom disappeared in New York. Vanished into thin air.” He attempted a light smile, but the pain in his eyes couldn’t be camouflaged. “My dad’s from London and had met her when he was doing a law internship in the States. He’s a romantic, to put it mildly. I think I inherited that gene from him,” he flashed her a flirtatious smile, though his eyes remained somber. “They met through business and apparently for both of them, it was love at first sight. London was a tough sell for her, though—she hated the rain. But he wore her down—flowers, poems, you know. The whole bit. They were married within a year, moved back to London, and I was born about a year after that.”
This was one of those moments when Portia’s handicap was especially frustrating. A moment that called for a subtle verbal encouragement to continue on with the story. She would have felt like an idiot writing “go on” on the whiteboard and chose, instead, to place her hand encouragingly on Max’s forearm.
He stopped strumming and looked at her full on. “Is it your eyes? I bet those eyes could get anyone talking, right? I mean, I have never once told this stuff to anyone. It feels good.” He glanced down at her hand resting on his arm.
Portia allowed her hand to linger. She could feel the veins in his arm tensing at her touch—it was exhilarating, too exhilarating. She stood up and began a slow pace, fingering some of the instruments.
“Yeah, so anyway, the rain drove my mom crazy but otherwise we were all really happy, you know? She traveled back and forth to do some consulting here and there. One day she went to New York on business, and we never saw or heard from her again. No phone call, no letter, no mysterious change in her behavior before she left. Nothing. The investigation went on for years, but they never turned anything up. Not even any leads. She was supposed to show up at Bonnie’s house—that’s my aunt—for dinner one night and just never did.”
He
She looked at him questioningly.
“Yeah, I guess I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday that I transferred here from Performing Arts in New York.”
He had been sitting in the far left corner, an acoustic guitar on his lap, absently strumming a couple of melancholy chords. He stood up, though, as soon as she walked in, a mark of chivalry in his favor. Portia made her way around the maze of instruments. Sitting down beside him, she looked up at him, her eyes asking him the questions that her mouth couldn’t.
“I live here with my aunt and uncle—my mom’s sister. My dad just couldn’t take care of me anymore—couldn’t take care of himself, either. Too many memories for him in The Big Apple, I guess…” his voice trailed off. He sat down again and adjusted the strings on the guitar.
Portia was afraid that her silence might be off-putting, but Max didn’t seem to mind. He used the quiet moment as an opportunity to study her face more closely.
“You’re very pretty.”
Somehow, it didn’t sound like a line, just a simple observation. Nonetheless, Portia avoided his gaze, embarrassed by the compliment.
Max cleared his throat and changed the subject. “You know, my dad is actually tight with the guy who endowed this place, but he still won’t tell me who it is. All I know is that it’s some retired musician that he’s done some legal work for in the past. He’s in, or was in I guess, entertainment law.”
Portia didn’t know where to go first. Performing Arts? New York? Too many memories? You’re very pretty?
She decided to tackle the personal stuff head on.
Behind her, a whiteboard hung around the perimeter of the room. “What kind of memories?” she scrawled out.
He stopped strumming and his face turned stony. She was fascinated to find that even veiled in ice, his looks were mesmerizing.
“My mom disappeared in New York. Vanished into thin air.” He attempted a light smile, but the pain in his eyes couldn’t be camouflaged. “My dad’s from London and had met her when he was doing a law internship in the States. He’s a romantic, to put it mildly. I think I inherited that gene from him,” he flashed her a flirtatious smile, though his eyes remained somber. “They met through business and apparently for both of them, it was love at first sight. London was a tough sell for her, though—she hated the rain. But he wore her down—flowers, poems, you know. The whole bit. They were married within a year, moved back to London, and I was born about a year after that.”
This was one of those moments when Portia’s handicap was especially frustrating. A moment that called for a subtle verbal encouragement to continue on with the story. She would have felt like an idiot writing “go on” on the whiteboard and chose, instead, to place her hand encouragingly on Max’s forearm.
He stopped strumming and looked at her full on. “Is it your eyes? I bet those eyes could get anyone talking, right? I mean, I have never once told this stuff to anyone. It feels good.” He glanced down at her hand resting on his arm.
Portia allowed her hand to linger. She could feel the veins in his arm tensing at her touch—it was exhilarating, too exhilarating. She stood up and began a slow pace, fingering some of the instruments.
“Yeah, so anyway, the rain drove my mom crazy but otherwise we were all really happy, you know? She traveled back and forth to do some consulting here and there. One day she went to New York on business, and we never saw or heard from her again. No phone call, no letter, no mysterious change in her behavior before she left. Nothing. The investigation went on for years, but they never turned anything up. Not even any leads. She was supposed to show up at Bonnie’s house—that’s my aunt—for dinner one night and just never did.”
He
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