Naked Hope

Inc.

Naked Hope

by

Rebecca E. Grant

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Naked Hope

COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Rebecca E. Grant

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Champagne Rose Edition, 2014

Print ISBN 978-1-62830-223-3

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-224-0

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For Elizabeth, Laura and Ilene

Praise for Rebecca E. Grant

From judges for the Romance Writers of America 2011 chapter contest, The Emily:

You have a GREAT start, a lovely storytelling voice, and a unique storyline. You've blended your expert knowledge to create a fascinating setting. I wish you the best for this manuscript.

You've hooked me. Excellent beginning to an intriguing manuscript. Dialogue, internalization, plot, pacing, descriptive scenes all work very well. I wish I could read the entire thing! Good luck!

Prologue

There is a moment before we are fully awake when truths known only to our unconscious mind brush over us like a mother’s kiss. These truths represent our dreams—our naked hopes that will go unrealized unless fate smiles, or the angels intervene, or a woman reaches for a man.

Chapter One

The oppressive late summer heat clung to Jillian Cole like shrink wrap and followed her as she pushed through the heavy-framed door of the Wilson Institute. Air conditioning must be out again. She peeled off her light shrug and headed down the shiny tiled hallway.

Just outside Dean Chapman’s office, Nona, the dean’s administrative assistant, blocked her path holding a tall glass of ice water. Take this in with you.

Jill glanced at her watch. He’s thirsty already? We haven’t even gotten started yet.

Nona shook her head, a smirk flirting on her lips. That’s for you.

For me? Jill’s serious demeanor warmed. Thanks, Nona. I noticed the air’s out again. Gratefully, she lifted the glass to drink.

Nona’s grin broadened. She inclined her head toward the dean’s office. Better save it for in there.

Jill offered a confident snort. No worries. After seven years, this meeting is practically routine. I act indignant and offended, Ross acts like he’s in charge, but in the end, we always manage a reasonable compromise.

Jill swung open Ross Chapman’s door.

Two men’s heads turned. One man stood and took several steps in her direction.

She faltered. Her ice water sloshed. Before any spilled, she steadied her glass and took a less-than-delicate swallow. Sweat broke out and beaded across the back of her neck just under her hairline. Gavin Fairfield! Here?

Fairfield’s energy saturated the room like some kind of exotic elixir. The years had been good to him despite the highly publicized tragedy. Tall and tanned with well-muscled arms, Gavin looked as rugged and as aristocratic as she remembered, with two exceptions. The hair at his temples displayed a hint of premature gray that he wore well. More noticeable, though, were his eyes, heavy-lidded and watchful, indicating a great deal of experience keeping the world at arm’s length. Tragedy certainly had a way of tearing at the spirit.

Ah, Dr. Cole, there you are! Come in, come in. Ross greeted, pointing to the leather sofa on which their guest sat. Maestro, I’d like you to meet Dr. Jillian Cole. Jill is in charge of our curricula for kids with traumatic brain injury. Ross’ smile widened. We’re very proud of our Dr. Cole. She’s this year’s American Psychological Association’s award recipient for Traumatic Brain Injury Research in Children. Jill, meet the maestro Gavin Fairfield. He is an eminent pianist, composer and conductor here with the Minneapolis Orchestra, and a member of the faculty at the University of Minnesota.

Would he remember her? Jill extended her hand. The sweat collecting on the back of her neck gave way and trickled down her spine. Her lips stuck as they split over her teeth in what she hoped was a gracious, professional smile.

He grasped her hand, held it a beat longer than necessary, and allowed his gaze to probe hers.

Commanding and cast against his face with the symmetry of a poem, his eyes were a fusion of blue and gray. But where was the heat—the fire she remembered so well? She revised her earlier assessment. Haunted, not distant. However he might try to hide it, Gavin Fairfield harbored a deep sadness.

Jill approached the sofa, eying the nonabsorbent leather surface. If she didn’t stop sweating, she’d leave a telltale puddle.

She heard the air-conditioning kick in, set down her water glass, and wrapped her shrug around her shoulders. As she sat, she withdrew a small leather-bound diary and pen from the pocket of her shrug, and cradled them in her lap.

The maestro’s daughter, Olivia, is ten years old, Ross explained. Fifteen months ago, she and her mother were in an automobile accident. Mrs. Fairfield died. Olivia sustained injuries to several areas of the brain. She’s a classic traumatic brain injury case but—

Jill leaned forward, smoothing the hem of her skirt. Mr. Fairfield, I’d like to hear directly from you about your daughter. In your own words.

The maestro nodded. Of course. As I understand it, there are three areas of concern. Liv’s physical injuries, which are coming along

Coming along?

Healing, he clarified. The second is her brain injury. I’ve taken her to a number of specialists who all say the same thing. His expression darkened and his mouth twisted closed.

Which is? Jill prodded.

To quote the most recent specialist, ‘she’ll likely return to a near normal functionality’.

So, physical injuries, an injury to the brain. And the third?

His mouth tightened. Liv has been diagnosed as emotionally unstable.

Jill tucked a stray hair behind her ear. And do you agree with this diagnosis?

Gray overtook blue as his gaze clouded. I’m not a medical doctor.

Jill wrote the words evasive maneuver. She flipped the diary closed and looked up. Of course, I should have been clearer. I wasn’t asking for a medical opinion. As her father, do you believe your daughter is emotionally unstable?

Gavin crossed one of his legs over the other and narrowed his stare. I don’t see how what I think, matters.

Jill frowned. On the contrary, Mr. Fairfield, your opinion matters very much.

He yanked at his tie and loosened the top button of his shirt. I see. May I ask why?

Because of the way human beings are wired. If we don’t believe in the diagnosis, committing to the prescribed treatment protocol is nearly impossible.

He sighed. Olivia doesn’t remember the accident, and didn’t remember that her mother died. I imagine anyone in her situation would suffer emotionally, but I’m not convinced that qualifies as unstable.

The sun angled through the wide windows. Jill squinted and motioned to Ross.

Ross twisted in his chair and adjusted the blinds.

Jill toyed with her pen. You say that as if perhaps she’s begun to remember.

Just within the last two weeks. Emotionally, the loss of her mother feels like yesterday to her. She hasn’t adjusted to anyone I’ve hired. I’ve had her in two schools since the accident but neither has worked out. She has wide mood swings, frequently hides, often cries herself to sleep…

This time, Jill didn’t prompt him but watched his jaw tick and his mouth tighten. She flipped open her diary and wrote, grappling with demons.

He dropped his gaze. I don’t believe she’s unstable, but she is suffering, and I have no idea how to save her.

Gavin rose and paced the room like a cougar on the prowl. Jill couldn’t help but notice the way his gray trousers retained their faultless lines.

That accident changed everything. Liv is more talented than I am. Until the accident, she was His voice cracked, and his fingers absently traced the leather books that lined the shelves in the dean’s office.

Like many of the wealthy she’d worked with over the years, Fairfield displayed an interesting blend of formal reserve and easy confidence. Elegant yet masculine, his language bore an air of entitlement that would have made most men appear stuffy, but not this man.

Liv and I are…were scheduled next April for a very special performance—a premiere of the piano concerto we’ve been composing together. We were just about to begin work on the final movement when the accident happened. Gavin swung his attention from the books, his gaze narrowing. They say Liv has lost all concept of music—that she’ll never be a musician again. I just can’t accept that.

Jill and Ross exchanged looks.

Mr. Fairfield, Jill probed, how would you describe Olivia’s behavior in general? Take us through a typical day. She watched Gavin struggle to conceal the perfect storm that played his face.

He eased himself into the seat across from her. His long body dwarfed the chair. Liv is uncommunicative—withdrawn, troubled. He raised his gaze and lowered his voice, enunciating his words. With special needs. Your program will help her get back on track. He dropped his gaze, straightened one of his cuffs, and continued, After that, we can begin to chart a course.

And that is?

We’re scheduled for a number of tours—and we have a concerto to finish.

So, although medical experts have said otherwise, you still think it’s possible for your daughter to return to her music.

Gavin edged forward in his chair, his long fingers gripping the armrest. How can I stand by and let her slip away? All right, so she can’t handle the music now. It’s what she loves most. What if all she needs is for someone to believe in her? I’m not ready to accept defeat. Not on the subject of Liv’s music.

Let me make a suggestion, Ross interjected, adjusting his glasses. Dr. Cole needs time to review Olivia’s file, and I know you’re interested in resolving things quickly since the fall term is about to begin. Why don’t you and I take that tour of the facilities we talked about? That will give Dr. Cole an opportunity to review Olivia’s file.

Jill stared at Ross and crossed her arms. I couldn’t possibly review Olivia’s file in such a short amount of time.

Nothing in-depth. Just an overview for now while I show the maestro our facilities. Ross got to his feet and dropped Olivia’s file into her lap.

Jill eyed the two men, startled by their contrast of expression. The dean’s was cagey and full of corporate expectation. But the vulnerability which lay naked across Gavin Fairfield’s face compelled her to stand and tuck Olivia’s file under her arm. Meet me in my office. I’ll need at least two hours.

You’ll look at it? For the first time that morning, the tic in Fairfield’s jaw relaxed.

She tapped Olivia’s file. I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises. Jill walked with them down the corridor as far as her office, glanced at her watch and swiveled toward Ross. I don’t expect to see or hear from you before eleven-thirty. She closed the door behind her and wandered over to the window, cradling Olivia’s file tight against her chest beneath crossed arms. Memories crashed around her like an undertow, pulling her fourteen years into the past.

"No way, you didn’t draw The Beast for your student advisor!"

Jill stared into her beer. The jukebox played Bad Luck Blues loudly in the background, a perfect match for her morose mood. I did.

After a long pause, her roommate, Lucy said, Well, then I guess we’ll find out whether what they say about him is true.

Sure, at my expense.

You don’t know that. Maybe he’s not as bad as they say. Even if he is, he’s the hottest thing on campus. And young—they say he’s barely twenty-four. That’s doable, you know. She winked.

"He’s married, Luce."

Lucy grinned. I’m just sayin’ he’s hot, young, comes from one of the wealthiest families this side of the Atlantic, and did I mention hot?

Sure. Go ahead and laugh. But this year, Professor Fairfield’s changed the requirements. He’s turned the midterm for all the new music majors into an audition for a seat in the concert orchestra. Anyone who doesn’t make it is out.

Lucy chugged her beer. Well, I know it’s important to you but if you don’t make it, you can always declare another major.

Jill took a half-hearted slug of her beer. Come on, Luce, you know I’m here on a music scholarship. If I don’t make it, I’m not just out of the program, I’m out. Period. If that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. All I’ve ever dreamed about is being a concert cellist.

Lucy rolled her eyes. Okay, Yo Yo. I’ll be watching for you at Carnegie Hall.

Jill swung her head. Not if I don’t make it into the concert orchestra, you won’t. He didn’t even show up for our first advising session.

He bailed on you?

Jill dropped her gaze.

The waitress delivered a basket of chili fries and two more beers.

Lucy sucked in her breath. "Not good. You should Ouch! These are hot! She blew on her fingers. You should try to switch advisors."

Jill stabbed the steaming fries with her fork and fished them onto her plate. I wish, but there isn’t anyone else. Professor Fairfield’s it.

Fairfield didn’t show for her second advising session. Jill headed for the dean’s office to appeal for a different advisor. Outside the auditorium, beguiling strains of soft music lured her inside the darkened theater. A finger of light lit the stage. Gavin Fairfield sat at a grand piano, playing. She slipped in and took a seat near the back. He played with his eyes closed. Periodically he’d stop, take up his pencil, and make a notation, then again lose himself to the music. Both master and servant, watching him stroke the instrument into submission changed her perception of music forever.

Who’s there? He demanded, shading his eyes and squinting into the dark.

She jumped and considered diving under one of the seats where he’d never see her. Instead, she stood, heart racing. Her voice quavered as she called out, I am.

Whoever you are, I have this auditorium for several more hours. Go away.

Jill took a deep breath. Professor Fairfield, I don’t mean to disturb you, but this is the second time you’ve missed our appointment. I need you to sign off on classes and approve my work-study schedule.

He frowned and ran his hand through his hair. We had an appointment? What time is it?

Four o’clock.

And I missed it, you say?

Yes.

I see.

I’d like to reschedule. Does tomorrow

What’s wrong with right now? You’ve already interrupted me. I presume you have what you want me to sign?

She climbed the steps to the stage, handed him the form and dug in her purse for a pen. When she finally found one, she looked up to see that he’d already signed it with his own pen and was waiting, his face unreadable.

What do you play?

He sounded so bored, she couldn’t imagine why he even bothered to ask. Cello.

His expression relaxed. Are you any good?

Jill straightened. I guess you’ll tell me.

He hesitated and then chuckled under his breath. Yes, I guess I will. You may stay and listen if you wish, but try not to disturb me again.

He never did keep an appointment, but she always knew where to find him. Before long, she adopted the daily practice of slipping into the back of the auditorium, exhilarated about yet another opportunity to observe him doing what he loved—and what she loved—most.

Then one day, he stopped and stared into the empty auditorium until he found her. You there. Why do you always sit in the back?

Me? Jill’s hairline crawled.

I don’t see anyone else.

II didn’t want to disturb you. I thought that if I sat in the back

You wouldn’t disturb me. Fairfield pushed away from the piano and stood, his legs slightly apart. Well, you have. You’re where you don’t belong, so muster the courage to sit where you can learn something.

After that, she sat in the front row where she observed the way his jeans hugged his thighs and emphasized the roll of muscles as he worked the pedals, or the way the black t-shirt he typically wore defined his shoulders and cut away from his biceps. Sometimes he even acknowledged her.

The morning of her midterm, Jill awakened with a deep sense of dread. She told herself that although the date was Friday the thirteenth, she wasn’t superstitious. Nothing could stop her from playing well, today of all days. As she had so many times, she sat in the auditorium—but nothing was magical about the man today. Demanding and impatient, he expressed himself with frank insensitivity.

Students fled from their auditions in tears.

When they called her number, apprehension stalked her like a shadow as she walked to center stage, her breathing so shallow, she had to fight the urge to flee. He looked beyond bored.

He stifled a yawn. Ah, Ms. Cole. At last, the time has come. Let’s see what you’ve learned. He sighed and turned away. You may begin. Watch for my cues.

Jill played the opening strains of a well-known piece by Shostakovich from memory. She could feel every fiber of her bow as it scraped the A string, cut across the D and G strings, resting heavily on the C string. Even some of the most elementary chords were stilted and sloppy.

Fairfield silenced her after a few bars with a careless flick of his wrist. Yes, yes, almost every hopeful cellist chooses that piece. But how often have you heard it performed? Almost never! Of what use is it? He waved his hand. "Play something else. Anything else. Be creative, genuine. Don't just show me what you've learned, show me who you are."

Jill’s hands began to sweat. Her back creaked from the familiar strain so many cellists suffered sitting at a ninety-degree angle. In an effort to please him, she lurched into the first piece that flew into her mind. The cello squawked, making her hands sweat even more. Two miserable measures later, her bow suddenly sprang free and arced across the room, narrowly missing Fairfield. When the baton landed, it spun around and around on the floor as if the baton had a mind of its own.

Humiliated beyond words, Jill sat motionless in her straight-backed chair, unable to think what to do next.

With a graceful, sweeping motion, Fairfield retrieved the errant bow, walked it over to Jill, and gave another understated flick to indicate she should start again.

Despite her determination, her nerves got the better of her ability and she played raggedly, as if the strings hurt her fingers.

He waved his hands. Stop, stop, not another note. Ms. Cole, where are you from? Farm country?

She bobbed her head and sputtered, I—I’m from a little farm near Hope, North Dakota.

He sighed, examining the palms of his hands.

Jill swallowed hard and fought against the sinking sensation of failure that settled in her throat.

He had jabbed a finger at her cello. "Well, Ms. Cole, rather than cling to the unfounded belief that one day you’ll be a musician, the only hope for you is your farm in North Dakota—which is where you belong. I suggest you go back there."

Nona buzzed, breaking into Jill’s reverie. She glanced at her watch. Yes?

Ross just called. Says they’re about halfway through the tour. Wants to know how you’re coming along.

Tell him not a minute before eleven thirty.

What about that tall drink of water?

Jill shivered. A little too much ice for my taste.

Nona chuckled. Ice melts, honey.

Chapter Two

Engrossed in Olivia’s file, Jill devoured every detail. While she wanted to avoid labels, Olivia had been, by any measure, a musical virtuoso. From the web articles and news clippings in the file, Jill learned that at age three Olivia played several instruments, at five she began composing, and at eight, just before the accident, she’d earned a reputation as a renowned concert pianist. From the various photos Jill observed that Olivia had developed quite a public persona.

Olivia’s medical prognosis indicated a full recovery with the exception of her musical ability. No matter how much Olivia’s brain might adapt and regenerate over time, she would never again take abstract musical concepts and create patterns. Her career as a musician, her life as a musically gifted virtuoso, was over.

Gavin’s words drifted back. Music is what she loves most. What if all she needs is for someone to believe in her? I can’t possibly accept defeat. Not when it comes to Liv’s music.

Jill gave an involuntary shudder. As she read further, she discovered that various assessments completed by psychologists at three-month intervals over the last fifteen months confirmed Olivia’s loss of memory. Her inability to engage in any form of musical appreciation had left her frightened, resentful and angry. One of the reports hinted Olivia didn’t have the appropriate emotional nurturing from her family to make a healthy recovery, but didn’t indicate a reason.

So that’s that. Even if I could make room, she’s not eligible. No child could be admitted into her program without strong empathic support from family members grounded in a realistic outlook, and realistic expectations consistent with medical fact. Gavin Fairfield was far from realistic and she had no reason to believe he would follow anyone’s protocol but his own.

About to close the file, her gaze landed on a single sentence nearly obscured by a post-it note. The father’s refusal to accept the patient’s musical limitations is damaging to the well-being of the patient.

When the two men settled themselves in her office, Jill began, Olivia’s application indicates you’ve selected the institute’s advanced program. We have many programs here for children with TBI. Why have you chosen this particular program?

Because it’s the one you designed.

I design them all.

But this is the one whose clinical trial results were recently published?

More than a little flattered that he knew about the early success of her program, she clarified, Those were preliminary results. The trial is ongoing. This year’s results will be crucial to the future of the program.

Fairfield flicked his hand. Yes, yes. I’m aware of that. Liv needs your program. No one else can claim your results.

I see. You understand that particular program is reserved for students who demonstrat­e high levels of intelligence

Yes.

—creative ability

Yes.

—and where brain injuries have resulted in a minimal degree of permanent impairment—

Which makes Liv the perfect candidate, Gavin insisted.

Jill scrutinized the maestro’s handsome face, all too aware of how used he was to getting his own way. Mr. Fairfield, what do you hope this program will do for Olivia?

His eyes widened and he spread his arms. What else? Save her!

Silence reigned.

Jill hesitated, careful to keep her body language in check, despite her rising frustration. With quiet determination, she said, We aren’t in the business of saving children

No? What would you call it? My daughter is lost. We’ve tried

We?

Her grandparents and I. We’ve tried to help her but we’re as lost as she is. I’m convinced that you can help her find her way back.

Back to what, specifically?

To herself.

Ross shifted.

Jill jotted a few notes while she chose her next words. The students who do well in my program have strong emotional support from family members and caregivers who have realistic expectations. There are strict guidelines—an exacting protocol—boundaries. They can be challenging, even frustrating for family members, but they exist so that everyone can adapt to the many personality changes that accompany traumatic brain injury. My protocol allows the child access to what he or she needs without the pressure of expectation.

Again, yes! Gavin inclined his head.

Jill leaned forward. For example, you have an expectation of Olivia that medical evidence indicates she can no longer meet. You expect Olivia to think, act and perform as a musician. My program would require you to change that expectation. Olivia would not pursue any form of music because we would never reinforce what she can’t do. Instead, our focus is to help her discover what she can do, and find new interests. But I can’t imagine this being something you can support since earlier you stated you would never accept defeat regarding your daughter’s music.

Gavin’s blue-gray eyes flashed. I believe in your program. I’m confident you know what you’re doing.

Jill smoothed nonexistent wrinkles out of her skirt and looked to Ross for support.

Ross avoided her gaze.

And I believe in my daughter, Gavin stated in a quiet tone.

After a long moment, she said, The program you’re interested in is full.

Gavin gripped the chair arms and opened his mouth.

Jill held up her hand. We employ a meticulous process when we select our students to ensure the greatest likelihood of success for the student, and for the program. The success of one depends on the success of the other. The information in Olivia’s file is a start. We’d never make an admission decision without conducting interviews and assessments—I would need to administer tests—observe Olivia in her home environment, none of which I have time for. Jill smoothed more nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. The deadline for admission was four months ago. What reason can you give me for taking on an eleventh-hour effort like this?

Fairfield reached into the pocket of his buff-colored sports jacket, withdrew his phone, and set it on Jill’s desk. Take a look. Her grandmother took this. It’s a daily occurrence—often as many as half a dozen times a day.

The video streamed. A thin child with lifeless hair and hunched frame sat at the keyboard of a piano, stabbing the keys. The sound was staccato, atonal, and nonsensical as she cried out in a voice as attenuated as her twig-like body, Listen, Dad. I’m doing it. Can you hear me?

The camera caught Olivia’s face full on. Despite the dogged determination in her eyes, she wore the same haunted look as her father. The frame widened to include Gavin whose face was crippled with self-recrimination. Did Gavin feel responsible for Olivia’s condition? According to the news clippings, he hadn’t been in the car, or even anywhere close by at the time of the accident. What did he have to feel guilty about?

Fairfield’s hand shot through his hair. Look, I know I come off a bit high-handed at times. I’m not asking you to consider Liv because of who I am, or who she is… His fingers raked the flawless cut. I’m saying this badly. What I mean is that I understand deadlines—I respect them. Regarding quotas, I guarantee you’ll have whatever funding you need to more than make up for a stretched budget… He paused.

Jill straightened her back and stood as tall as her five-feet-five frame plus heels allowed. Mr. Fairfield, we would never make a decision based on the promise of an endowment.

Fairfield retrieved his phone from her desk, his thumb running over the display which still projected Olivia’s face. "You asked why my daughter deserves an eleventh-hour effort. I’ll tell you why. Because she hasn’t given up. You saw for yourselfshe still wants to be a musician. Every day she tries, and the effort is killing her." His knuckles whitened at his tight grip on the phone.