Piano in the Dark

by Eric Pete

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Chase Hidalgo has a good life. He works as a paralegal in his buddy Jacobi’s successful law firm and has a loving wife, Dawn. Yet he feels unsettled. Like he still has dreams left unfulfilled.

When he meets Ava in a bar, she seems to know him, but he has no idea who she is. A spark ignites between them, but intrigued as he is, Chase stays true to his marital vows. But when Ava pursues him, the attraction is too powerful to resist, and a fiery romance ensues.

How does this mysterious woman seem to know Chase better than he knows himself? As Ava and Chase spend more time together, his comfy life starts to unravel, and it’s clear that Ava will soon ruin him. But how can he let her go before understanding their true connection?

Release date: June 8, 2011

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 253

Sample

Hey, everybody! We’re now up to number ten and I look forward to sharing more novels with you in the future. With all your choices in today’s market, I appreciate your picking up my newest. If this isn’t your first novel by me, thanks for coming back. If this is your first time, I hope you go back and check out my other works such as Someone’s In the Kitchen, Lady Sings the Cruels, Blow Your Mind, Sticks and Stones, Reality Check, Crushed Ice, and many more.

This story you hold has had its share of stops and starts for a variety of reasons. I guess I kept trying to wrap my mind around some of the core themes and concepts, letting them marinate until they were ready to be shared. I’d begin another story, but kept getting drawn back to this one as I tried to figure out would it work…could it work? Wondering what that means? What it is? You’ll have to read to find out, my friends.

First off, I have to express my appreciation of the creative minds behind TV series such as Lost and Fringe. Thank you for challenging our notions, stimulating our imagination, and balancing that with the importance of the human condition. You inspire this humble writer.

I’m grateful for my family—Marsha, Chelsea, Mom, Dad, Virginia, and all the rest of my relatives and friends who’ve been there for me. An extra thanks to my bee-bee for reading those pages I set at your bedside in the middle of the night and for the honest feedback.

To Portia Cannon, thank you for wanting nothing but the best for me and my career…and for giving a damn.

To Carl, Martha, Brenda, Natalie, Maxine and the entire Urban family as well as Kensington: Thanks for walking with me on this journey and for all you do behind the scenes to get my books on the shelves.

Susan Farris, my subdural hemato-homie! Thank you for your valuable insight and answers to my medical questions once again. The discussions are always fascinating…and fun. You’re a lifesaver in more ways than one.

To my ghost readers who somehow find the time, Jamie, Shontea, and Jacqueline. I know that as I write this you haven’t had a chance to read Piano in the Dark (my fault), but can’t wait for our discussions.

To the dude on the trumpet by North Oaks Shopping Center at the corner of Vets and FM1960, thank you for playing that day, sir. You never know which seeds may blossom.

To everybody that came out to the Crushed Ice @ Crush book premier, my first time doing such an event, thanks for making it magical. Special shout-out to Blake Boyd, Andrew Grala, and the rest of the Crush Wine Lounge folk. Always look forward to that next bottle of Riesling. Also have to thank Dianna Montoya of Karrelle Photography for the incredible shots and Michelle Hill of Borders for always vending with that smile. To all of my readers who made it out to my stops on the Crushed Ice tour, a hearty thank-you and big hug. ATL, I owe ya! Thanks to the booksellers who are always so pleasant as well. Special shout-out to the cities where I’ve hung my hat from childhood into adulthood—Seattle, Lake Charles, New Orleans, and Houston. Glad I got to hit all of you on the last tour. Seattle, thanks for making my homecoming so special. Promise not to make it so long before you see me again. West Seattle, kid!

Immense gratitude to the book clubs for welcoming me and my creations into your homes, your meetings and, most of all, your hearts. The discussions and hospitality I’ve experienced have been some of the highlights of my career.

Thanks to the reviewers and media who find the time for me and my works: Tee C. Royal and RAWSISTAZ, Yasmin Coleman and APOOO, Adai Lamar of KJLH, Radiah Hubbert and Urban Reviews, Hal Clark of 98.5WYLD, Book Remarks, Joy Farrington, Kimberly Kaye of 96KIX FM, Thais Mills of LipServiceInk.com, Heather Covington of Disilgold.com and Literarydish. com, Nakea Murray, Erik Tee, Gina Cook and Big Boy Chill of 107JAMZ, Angela Jenkins of KBMS, Monica Pierre, Jackie Simien, Mista Madd and Brandy Garcia (GO NOLES!) of 97.9 the Box, Kandi Eastman of Majic 102.1, Ella Curry, Gail Norris, Nancy Parker-Boyd, Dionne “Diva” Character, Dedan Tolbert, Jake McDonald, LBJ and Kelder Summers of Old School 106.7, Tony Jones of the McLean County Urban League, and Glenn Townes.

Last, but far from least, to my fellow authors and friends who continue to dazzle the world with their literary skills and boundless imagination. Shout out to a few of ’em: Kimberla, Dwayne, Victoria, Kendra, Tracie, Marissa, Lisa, Mary, Victor, Lolita, Reshonda, Pat, Donna, Jessica, JL, Karen, Earl, Monica, Linda, Gloria, VeeJay, Lissa, Electa, Nancy, and Shelia. To all the up-and-coming authors, don’t stop believin’! Yeah—a Journey reference. I went there. Sue me.

I’ma go ’head and wrap this up, so you can meet these new characters. They’re waiting for you.

No. Really.

They’re waiting for you.

If you want to keep up with moi, stop by www.EricPete.com and let me know how you’re doing. Follow me on twitter: @IAmEricPete or join the ERIC PETE Readers group on Facebook. Or if you’re really, really adventurous, you can me at 1-800-…*click*

Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Believe that. -E.

We stare each other down. Neither wanting to budge from our position. But I’ve come too far to back down. So many resources exhausted, including my patience as well as my soul.

“You sure you cain’t wait ’til tomorruh?” he asks, pulling his slicker close to his grizzled face. His chewed-up cigar has long been extinguished, yet he doesn’t relinquish his toothy grip. One hundred percent misery with a chance of despair is forecast for today. My arm, although fully healed, aches. My shoes are ruined by the deep, muddy puddles before I even travel a yard.

I consider his request, but don’t relent. I have to know. “No. I need to do this now,” I reply.

He grimaces before considering what I’ve paid him for this task. “Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug. A crack of thunder erupts, announcing the next harsh downpour. My tiny umbrella from Walgreens has long succumbed to the brutal gusts, offering me nothing but the illusion of shelter. Rain’s coming down so hard now that I have to focus just to see him as he restarts his hasty clip. Headstones and markers of bygone eras only serve as the briefest of obstacles to someone as familiar with the grounds as he.

I quickly pursue, wondering if after all the searching that I’ve finally come to the right place. And if he knows what he’s talking about. My pulse is racing and part of me wants to puke. A raw mix of exhaustion and nerves. I swear if this is a wild goose chase, I’ll kill him.

“Should be right about…here,” he proclaims, trying to read from the hastily torn piece of paper removed inappropriately from the church records he’d spent days sifting through. I rush past him, eager to put the haunting to rest. Through the deluge, I read the words etched in the worn stone.

“This isn’t it! This is not frickin’ it!” I belt out. The surly old Cajun doesn’t take kindly to my barking. Probably wants to cause me grave bodily harm.

“Wait, wait,” he says, acknowledging my frustration before it boils over. I watch as he flips the paper in his hand, scowling as he deciphers it. “It’s over there,” he says, having righted his treasure map. He points at a different section of Saint Joseph’s Cemetery, newer than where we are now. Makes sense. More puddles to navigate. I lower my ruined umbrella, considering whether to abandon it if not for hallowed ground.

“C’mon then!” I yell over the din, nature’s fury telling me to leave well enough alone. I can be hardheaded. We continue our march through the graveyard, my own personal Trail of Tears, until he stops. A final glance at the barely legible scrap in his hand and he nods.

“Here,” he solemnly says, the cigar fragment wiggling between his teeth. “Dis it here.”

He steps aside, bowing his head as he makes the sign of the cross. I get down on one knee, muddy water soaking through my pants leg and chilling me further. I silently mouth the name on the headstone while reverently touching the tiny gravesite, my search at its end. I feel the lump welling up in my throat and try to suppress it. “I found you,” I mumble, more out of astonishment than accomplishment.

“Loved one?” he asks, daring to interrupt the moment.

“You might say that,” I answer, not taking my eyes off the grave that held a small child. Rainwater continues to run down my face with a steady stream rolling off my nose.

Who knows tomorrow’s plans for you, I think to myself, those words having once been said to me by another.

I groaned as Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” reverberated through the midtown pub for the second time in a row, finding fleeting solace instead in the bottom of my empty shot glass.

“Tell me again why we came here on karaoke night?” I asked my boy Jacobi as I raised my hand to request another round of Cuervo from the attractive waitress. As before, she held her smile a little longer for me. Lips curling to which mine reciprocated.

“Because the drinks are cheap. Duh.”

“Like you don’t have enough billable hours to afford a private room at Downing Street.”

“True enough,” he agreed, never one to let something like humility get in his way. The only time Jacobi used the word humble was when he dropped the H sound and referred to the town of Humble north up the East-ex Freeway. “But the pickings here are better. Even if they sing like scalded cats.”

“I’m not here for that, man,” I reminded him before he tried to get me in some sort of trouble. “I’ll leave the pussy-chasing to you.”

“Whose fault is that, idiot? You were my role model in law school.” The silent now look at you was almost palpable in the air, hovering like a big flashing neon sign over us whenever too many drinks were consumed. Especially when too many drinks were consumed.

Jacobi finished law school at TSU, Texas Southern University, while I simply unfinished…dropped out with a bunch of student loans and no shingle to show for it. Now I worked for Casey, Warner & Associates, the same law firm as him, but as his paralegal. But I was happy. Yeah. That’s it.

“I’m happy with my decisions, man,” I said, vocalizing my thoughts as if some sort of therapeutic exercise. “You wish you had a wife like mine.”

Before he could string together a remark, my iPhone rang in my jacket pocket. Speak of the devil. Thinking back to our argument before I came out here, I decided to ignore it. Disagreements were the currency in which we exchanged these days. The sounds of frolicking and cavorting in the background during a phone conversation with Dawn would only make things worse. I’d deal with her and my impending hangover when I got home.

“Speak of the devil?” Jacobi joked, reading my mind as any close friend could. He was also the best man in my wedding.

“Yeah. Too noisy in here, though. I’ll text her later.”

Another round of shots was delivered to us. Jacobi thanked our waitress, slipping her an early tip along with his business card. The same waitress who’d shown definite interest in me all night. I started to say something to Jacobi, but declined. This was his game, not mine. I was here to put my problems on hold, not to generate new ones—no matter how attractive.

Jacobi smiled. Teeth as impeccable as his attire. “Like you said, man. You’re happy with your decisions.”

Several bad songs later, it was closing time. Pathetic as it was, we were carrying on like this on a weekday. Boys afraid to grow up. Jacobi offered me to sleep it off at his place, a luxury condo on Binz Street near Hermann Park and Rice University, as he had his designated driver chosen. I declined, watching our waitress for the night as she maneuvered his Range Rover from the curb and left me to my own devices with a honk of the horn and thoughts of how differently things could’ve gone down. A lot could’ve gone down differently. I could be that high-priced hotshot lawyer on the cover of all the right magazines in Houston. But that wasn’t the choice for me.

I stood outside the pub on the ever quieting street, debating whether to head straight home or grab some coffee at a Waffle House and sober up first. Spring, to the north where I lived, was a haul in my current state.

I unlocked my Camry with the remote. Decided to rest against it and take in the sticky night air before driving off. The missed call from earlier still shown on my iPhone. In a typical instance of too little, too late on my part, I sent a text to Dawn.

Worked late on big case with J. Be home soon.

I was almost the sole refugee from closing time at this hour.

I took a few deep breaths, sampling the spent residue of a depleted midtown in an effort to clear my head. The intake reeked of big talk long over and alcohol-induced false promises. Soured by the atmosphere, I prepared to enter my car and leave.

Except I wasn’t alone.

What was strange was that I knew before I’d even turned to look. An awareness I’d never experienced before.

A woman in a simple black dress stood near the corner of Bagby and Webster. Under the streetlights, she appeared almost ethereal in nature. Lonely. As if, for that moment, she were the captive subject in a French painting or something with the city as her backdrop. Long ebony hair obscured her face, making me more than mildly curious. Rather than crossing the street and getting on with her purpose in life or whatnot, she just…stood.

Stood kind of like the hairs on the back of my neck, telling me something was either very wrong or strangely right. The area was relatively safe for me at this time of night, but all that was needed was opportunity in the form of a lovely victim such as herself to make the headlines of the morning’s Chronicle.

“Ma’am,” I called out politely and in an as sober as possible fashion. “Are you waiting on a taxi or something? Because the bus isn’t running for several hours and it’s not safe for you.”

“I’m fine,” she said calmly. She was stone cold sober. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m okay. I live around here—”

I startled her. Had to come closer for some reason. Hit the remote to lock up the Camry again as I stepped back onto the sidewalk to join her. Was as if something was drawing me in despite my needing to be on my way. Something more sobering than Waffle House coffee.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” I offered as my tired, red eyes adjusted to the streetlights. She was beautiful—a basic, but apt description of her. She was little paler than what I was accustomed to, but with smooth, flawless skin, the sister appeared almost East Indian. Tall in her heels, she looked to be about five foot five with them off. Beneath her full eyebrows, her piercing brown eyes glistened; eyes that seemed almost alien and exotic under the light. Okay. The tequila shots had taken their toll on me. “Just wanted to make sure nothing was…wrong.”

As I spoke, those eyes of hers flared in recognition. It was as if a new energy manifested and suddenly erupted from her. It overcame me and rendered me speechless. “Oh my God. Chase,” she said, her voice wavering.

It wasn’t a guess or a question coming from an addled mind. She knew me. Somehow she knew me.

But I’d never seen her before in my life.

“Chase, is it you?” the stranger said, overcome with emotion for reasons unbeknownst to me. She came forward and embraced me in a hug stronger than which I would’ve thought her capable.

“Yes,” I answered, feeling embarrassed at the moment. “Do I know you?”

She didn’t answer at first, just clung to me. Left with no choice, I kind of enjoyed the moment. I smelled deeply of her hair as her head rested on my shoulder. The fresh coconut was pleasing to my nose. On instinct, I allowed my hands to touch her in return, lightly rubbing her back.

After another moment or so of our corner . . .