Rhapsody (Reverie Book 2) Read online

  Rhapsody

  By Lauren E. Rico

  New York 2016

  Rhapsody by Lauren E. Rico

  Published by Harmony House Productions

  Copyright © 2016 Harmony House Productions

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without explicit written permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  For permissions contact: [email protected]

  ISBN-10: 0-9974303-3-8

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9974303-3-2

  Visit the author’s website www.LaurenRico.com

  For Ma Mére

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Matthew

  Part One: Brett/Maggie

  Part Two: Julia

  Part Three: Matthew

  Part Four: Jeremy

  Part Five: Julia

  Part Six: Matthew/Julia

  Epilogue: Maggie

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Music of Rhapsody

  Excerpt from Requiem by Lauren E. Rico

  Prologue: Matthew

  They call it ‘The Magic Hour,’ a small window of time just before sunset, when the world is bathed in a warm, sepia glow. Right now, this perfect light is cast across the back lawn of the North Fork Children’s Home, as I watch my bride make her way toward me. I’m waiting for her at the point where the earth falls away into the steep, sandy bluff below. Behind me, the inky water of the Long Island Sound is dotted with sailboats, some wafting lazily, others picking up speed as their sails are filled by the salty breeze.

  That same breeze just catches the hem of Julia’s dress so that it billows out around her. It makes her look like an angel floating toward me. Adding to the illusion is the way the light in her auburn hair creates a gentle halo around her perfect, porcelain face. Her left hand holds a small bouquet of wildflowers, while her right is wrapped in the arm of the man who is giving her away. Dr. Sam Michaels couldn’t look more proud than if he actually was her father.

  We’re surrounded by children. There must be two hundred of them lining the path that Julia is walking, throwing rose petals at her as she passes. They are of all different ages, backgrounds and ethnicities. What they have in common with us, and with one another, is that they will spend some part of their childhood in this place.

  “It’s like we’re all family, Matthew,” she reminded me. “I want them there, participating, witnessing. I want them to celebrate with us.”

  And now, as the flowers fly, and the tiny North Fork Children’s Home band honks away on the Wedding March, I see that she was absolutely right.

  From next to me, the Reverend Caldwell pats my shoulder supportively but I hardly notice because I cannot take my eyes off of Julia. She crosses the long patch of soft green grass to the very spot where we sat as children, looking out to the water and planning our lives together. When, finally, she’s standing only inches in front of me, Dr. Sam takes her hand and puts it into mine, patting the two, as if he can adhere us for eternity.

  “She’s yours to watch over now,” he says softly, seriously.

  “She always has been,” I reply, without even looking at him.

  Julia is even more breathtaking up-close. I see now there’s a wreath of tiny white flowers and ribbon on her head. And, for the first time, I notice that she’s barefoot. This makes me smile. She makes me smile.

  “You look… amazing,” I whisper.

  She blushes as she gives my hand a squeeze, and we settle into our positions. Dr. Sam steps back behind us, and the Reverend moves in front of us.

  “It is my great honor to join together today in holy matrimony a pair of souls who were united a long time ago. Matthew, Julia, I remember you clearly from your days here at the children’s home. You were inseparable companions, protectors and confidantes for one another. You assuaged the pain of mutual loss and found the strength to build a life together out of the ashes of your earliest days. Never before have I felt more confident in a union, for you are already devoted to one another. You have already sacrificed for one another. You have already weathered some of the worst trials a human being can endure and yet, here you stand before me, your belief in the goodness that exists in the world still strong enough to give you hope for the future. Please face one another and join hands.”

  We do as he says.

  “Julia Victoria James, will you have Matthew as your lawfully wedded husband? Will you love him and cherish him and stand by his side all the days of your life?”

  “I will,” she says softly, her emerald eyes never leaving mine.

  “Matthew David Ayers, will you have Julia as your lawfully wedded wife? Will you love her and cherish her and stand by her side all the days of your life?”

  They’re the two words I have been waiting to utter for what seems like my entire life. It’s all I can do to keep myself from shouting them.

  “I will.”

  Dr. Sam pulls the pair of matching gold bands out of his pocket and hands them up to me.

  “Matthew, please put the ring on Julia’s finger and repeat after me. With this ring, I thee wed.”

  I do as I’m told and we repeat the process in reverse with Julia slipping the band on my finger.

  “Julia, Matthew, I am so happy to pronounce you husband and wife.”

  From behind us, there’s the huge eruption of applause and catcalls from our witnesses. I glance over my shoulder at the crowd of young people who have congregated to watch the spectacle.

  “You may kiss the bride!” the Reverend yells above the jubilant noise.

  He doesn’t have to say it twice. I pull Julia into my arms and plant a long, deep kiss on her lips. I pick her up and twirl her around as she throws her head back and laughs. I’ve never been much of a romantic, but I just can’t seem to help myself. The way she looks, the way she sounds, the way I feel at this moment… I think she just might be an angel after all.

  Part One: Brett & Maggie

  1 Brett

  It’s hard to describe the sound that the human body makes when it hits a stationary object at a high rate of speed. My mind registers some cross between a ‘thump,’ a ‘splat’ and an ‘ugh,’ as I go flying out of the back seat of the cab and slam into the solid, plexiglass partition that separates the passengers from the driver. Equally disturbing, is the smacking sound my head makes as it hits the armrest of the rear passenger door on my rebound journey. Now, I’m lying, face-up, staring at the roof of the car.

  I’m jolted out of the eerie silence by a sudden explosion of noise. It’s as if all hell is breaking loose around me. There is yelling outside of the cab, the drivers are screaming obscenities at one another. How did they get out of the cars so fast? I can hear excited conversation just outside of my door, but I can’t lift my head enough to see anything out of the window. Horns are honking relentlessly.

  “Open the door and help him!” I hear someone say nearby.

  “Nah, man. You ain’t supposed to move someone when they been in an accident.”

  “Has anyone called an ambulance?”

  No one replies to that question.

  For once, I had decided to splurge on a cab after one of the Walton Quartet gigs. We hadn’t even cleared the intersection, when a box truck ran a red light, T-boning us. Now I try to lift my head, but I feel a rush of tears wash down my face as I do.

  “Move!” demands a woman’s voice close by. “Will you please get out of the way?” she asks from closer now, and with more irritation.

  Without warning, the car door swings open and my head drops off of the armrest. I flinch with the expectation of hitting the metal jamb, but I don’t. My head barely moves an inch. I try to s
ee what’s happening behind me, but at this angle, the late afternoon sun pours in, temporarily blinding me. I squeeze my sore lids shut against the glare.

  “Hey,” says a soft voice. “Hey there. Can you hear me?”

  It’s a woman’s voice. I think maybe the same one who told everyone to move.

  “Yes, I can hear you,” I mutter.

  “Open your eyes,” she commands.

  I do.

  The bright light is blocked by her head, hovering closely over me. I squint and try to make out her features, but she looks so dark against the backlight of the sun behind her. Not to mention the way she is leaning over me from the outside, she looks like a floating head with no body attached. That can’t be right, can it?

  “What’s your name?” the head asks.

  “Brett. Brett Corrigan.”

  “Hi, Brett. I’m Maggie. Listen to me, you’ve been in an accident,” she says slowly, as if I’m an imbecile.

  “No shit,” I murmur.

  I think I can make out a smile on her shadowy face, but I’m not certain.

  “Okay, good! You remember what happened. Are you in pain, Brett?”

  I start to nod and the tears flow again. Dammit!

  “Hey, hey, don’t try to move. We need to keep your neck straight until the ambulance comes, okay?”

  “I don’t think anyone called…”

  “Don’t you worry about that, they’re on the way,” she assures me. “Where does it hurt, Brett?”

  I think about this question and a quick mental inventory gives me the answers.

  “My head. My face.”

  “How about your arms or your hands or your wrists, Brett? Did you try to brace yourself when you hit the partition?”

  Oh, shit! Did I? One bad break and my career is over. I try not to panic as I assess the state of my limbs and digits. Finally, I take a deep breath and speak again.

  “No. I don’t think so. It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to brace. Just my head hit and then I flew back.”

  Either my eyes are adjusting or her face is lightening, because now I can make out the soft outline of her cheeks and jaw.

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t stop crying.”

  I think I see her brow furrow, either in concern or confusion. Maybe both.

  “You’re not crying, Brett. You’re bleeding.”

  I’m about to say something when another head pops into my line of vision. This one is bigger.

  “What the fuck, Maggie? You should have waited for the ambulance to come!”

  Oh, I don’t like this head at all. This head sounds like a dick.

  “John, make yourself useful and find me some tissues or a towel or something so I can wipe some of this blood off of his face. And make sure it’s clean!”

  Dickhead lingers for a second before receding.

  “Boyfriend?” I ask, and am surprised to hear I have a slight slur now. If the girl notices, she doesn’t mention it.

  “Date,” she says with a hint of disdain.

  “First?” I ask, trying to focus on her as the pain behind my eyes intensifies.

  “Second,” she says. “And last.”

  I don’t think I was meant to hear that last bit; it’s barely a whisper under her breath.

  “Here, I’ve got some napkins from the pretzel truck,” I hear him say as a hand is thrust into view.

  Maggie takes them from him with her right hand, still using her left hand to cradle my head. She presses the stack gently, but firmly on my forehead.

  “Oh, fuck me!” I howl. “That hurts!”

  She shushes me quietly.

  “I know,” she murmurs. “But you’re bleeding a lot and I want to try and slow it down.”

  From somewhere in the distance, I hear the squawk of sirens.

  “Those are for you,” she informs me.

  I can hear the sound of dickhead’s voice nearby, but I can’t quite catch what he’s saying. Maggie has turned her head slightly toward him and now I can make out a halo of curls around her head.

  “You know what?” she hisses quietly out the door behind her, “I’m done. Take your theatre tickets and shove them, John. And while you’re at it, you can shove my phone number, too.”

  Ouch. Dickhead got a beat down in public. I wonder if his head hurts as much as mine does right now.

  When she turns back toward me, I can see her smile. Sort of. Everything’s a little hazy at the moment. The ambulance is very close now, blaring its horn as it tries to make its way through the gridlock this accident has undoubtedly created.

  “Any second now, Brett. I think they’ll probably secure your neck with a collar and slip a back board under you.”

  I moan, suddenly alarmed. “Do you think I hurt my spine? Isn’t that why they do that?”

  She’s shaking her head and the hair shakes with it.

  “No. I don’t think so, but we don’t want to take any chances, right?”

  I can hardly hear her now.

  “Brett?”

  And why is it getting so dark in here?

  “Brett?” I hear her ask a little louder this time.

  “Brett!”

  2 Maggie

  The man I’m looking at in this hospital room looks substantially worse than the man I was looking down on in the car just two days ago. His nose is swollen and bent too far to one side. There are tufts of cotton stuffed up into his nostrils, and the gash on his head, the one that gushed all over me, has been sewn up in large, jagged stitches, a la Frankenstein. But the worst of it are the two perfectly black eyes. Jesus. This guy looks more like he was hit by a cab, instead of while inside of one.

  I can see and hear the steady rhythm of his pulse as he sleeps, his chest rising and falling gently. The only other piece of furniture in this tiny room is a plastic, yellow chair. It doesn’t look as if it’s going to be especially comfortable, but it’s what’s available, so I pull it a little closer to the bed and sit myself down. No, not comfortable at all.

  From inside my bag, I pluck one of several file folders, and my favorite pen. I start flipping through pages, reading evaluations and reports on a fifteen-year-old girl who has run away from three foster homes in two months, each time returning to the vacant apartment where she last saw her mother. The mother who packed up her things and moved out while the girl was in school. She’s just one of ten new cases assigned to me this month, and hers is the least tragic of the bunch.

  I sigh and shake my head. I haven’t been a social worker for very long, but already I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for any other career. I can’t help myself, I’ve never wanted to do anything but help people who can’t help themselves.

  Now, I consider this guy in front of me, all banged up and bruised. Surely there’s someone who cares about him. But, then again, maybe not. When he was staring up at me that night in the back of the cab, blood streaming down his face, he was trying to sound tough, like a smartass. But there was just something in his eyes that told me differently. He was scared, and alone.

  I make notes in my file for another hour, watching in silence as an array of nurses pop in to check on his vitals, make notes in his chart and inject drugs into his IV line. They smile at me vaguely, assuming, I’m sure, that I’m some relative, or maybe a girlfriend. I’m thinking I’m going to drift off to sleep myself in this stuffy room, when I hear a low groan from the bed. His hand feels around on top of the covers, for the call button, I’m guessing.

  “What do you need?” I ask, jumping up at his side.

  “Water,” he whispers hoarsely, barely opening his eyes.

  On the tray table next to his bed, I find a filled pitcher and matching plastic cup. I pour the water out for him, plop a straw into the cup and hold it up to his mouth so his parched lips can wrap around it. The water is gone in an instant.

  “More?” I ask.

  He nods, and we repeat this process two more times until,
at last, his thirst is sated. I return to the yellow chair and give him a few seconds to adjust to consciousness again. Finally, he turns his head, stiff in a cervical collar, towards me slowly, squinting through bloodied eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he croaks, “but do I know you? You don’t work here do you?”

  I shake my head and offer him a smile. “No, I’m Maggie.”

  He looks perplexed, so I elaborate. “I was there with you. I held your head in the car.”

  “Oh, Maggie!” he says, his face lighting up “The angel head!”

  “Excuse me?” I laugh. “Angel head?”

  “Yeah, the way you were leaning over me. You looked like this free floating head. And the way you were backlit, it was like you were an angel or something.”

  It’s probably just the drugs talking, but I’ll take that as a compliment.

  “Sorry,” he continues, “I didn’t recognize you from this angle.”

  “And I didn’t recognize you without all the blood,” I quip back at him before realizing that he doesn’t need to know how bad he was back there. “Looks like you got pretty beat-up in the back of that cab, huh?”

  “Yeah, well, next time I’ll stick to the subway,” he mutters.

  I chuckle.

  “How long will you be in here?”

  “Doctor says I should be clear to go home tomorrow morning,” he says, reaching out for the cup again. I get to it first and hold it for him again. When he’s done drinking he looks up at me intently. “Thanks for helping me. I was really out of it after the accident.”

  I wave a hand at him dismissively. “I’m just glad you’re going to be okay.”

  “I’m sorry I ruined your date.”

  “Hah!” I snort. “Are you kidding? You got me out of a three-and-a-half-hour play about the Civil War. Specifically, the women who collected the dead southern soldiers.”