Free Happy Any Day Now by Toby Devens Page A

Grace to add a pinch of jealousy and stir the pot. See whether she could cook up a happy ending.
    He was shifting his weight from one foot to another. Waiting for my answer.
    “Fun. Oh sure. We spent the evening catching up.”
    I was aiming for nonchalant, but Geoff had the keenest ear. He picked up a sharp that should have been played flat.
    His voice went tight, tone testy. “And are you sufficiently caught up?” When I didn’t answer immediately, when I vamped by taking a swig of my Sprite, he recanted, “Sorry, Jude. Not to pry. I’m a clod.”
    There you go: the perfect example of everything that was screwy about our relationship. Which boiled down to one thing, really. It was unyieldingly superficial. Geoff and I could talk about music, politics, mutual friends, but what we felt for each other? How we defined our relationship? Our future? Off-limits. We’d established the ground rules early on. Geoff had laid it out: many ties, no strings. I’d agreed. Eagerly. Because it fit seamlessly with my own mishegoss, my personal nuttiness having to do with trust issues. So far it had worked for us. It was working for me right now. So why was I having second thoughts about this cushy arrangement? And how come Geoff, with only the shadow of Charlie in the picture, looked so miserable?
    “Change of subject, then. You saw the posting, I take it? No? Check your mailbox.” The musicians had mail cubbies downstairs near our locker rooms. I’d been heading for mine when Charlie’s call had knocked me off course. “Richard’s position is now officially up for grabs.”
    That hadn’t taken long. Richard was well liked, highly respected. Everyone was sad, management included. But for them business was business.
    “It’s also posted on the job Web site. Auditions are scheduled for the first week of June. That gives you almost two months to prepare. And prepare you must, because you’ve already got stiff competition.”
    Shit.
“Really, who?”
    “Burt says Vince DeGrassi’s going to try out.”
    According to our timpanist Burt Silverman, his friend Vincent DeGrassi, principal cello with the San Francisco Symphony, had decided to jump ship in the wake of the recent collapse of his marriage to the SFO’s concertmaster. I knew Vince DeGrassi from a summer stint at Jacob’s Pillow. He was a cellist of prodigious talent and unquenchable ambition.
    “Messy divorce. Burt says Vince would like to put a continent between them. This spot would be perfect for him.”
    “I am one dead Oriyenta.” The nickname my sensitive lox-slinging father had given me as a toddler. No wonder I was so screwed up.
    “I’d be glad to help you train for the ring,” Geoff said. “I’ll whip you into shape. Figuratively, of course. We can start next Monday at ten a.m. and do an hour or two every Monday thereafter until June.” He paused for a frown. “Unless you’d rather not.”
    I realized there might be potential complications with the arrangement, but for the moment it was an offer I couldn’t pass up. “I’d rather. And thank you.”
    Geoff gave me the twisty smile that I found so sexy. That it probably resulted from all those hours of trumpet practice perfecting his embouchure made it no less hot.
    “Brilliant. We can talk it out over lunch.”
    “Can’t today. Marti’s coming over to go through the party plans. I brought her a pastrami sandwich from New York.”
    “Ah.”
    I thought for a moment. I’d have three hours with Marti in the afternoon to tap into her cut-to-the-chase wisdom. I’d lay out the Charlie/Geoff situation and by the time I got to see Geoff that night I’d have all my ducks in a row. Or I’d be a dead one. Either way, decision made.
    “Free tonight?” I asked.
    “Shame, but I’ve got a few lads coming over to watch some Ozzie football on the telly. Here’s my final offer—” He hitched up the smile. “Tomorrow, dinner. My house. I’ll cook.”
    “It’s a date,” I said.
    The twisty smile