Free The Garden of Dead Dreams by Abby Quillen Page A

smiled. “Break a leg, son. I need to figure out where I left my drink.”
    Walker pulled the door open and stepped into the great room. Reed’s eyes shifted back and forth behind his glasses.
    “Are you nervous?” Etta asked.
    Reed rubbed his hands together. “Yes. I suffer from severe glossophobia prior to every performance.”
    “What-a-phobia?”
    “Glossophobia. The fear of speaking in public. It afflicts seventy-five percent of people.”
    Etta nodded. “Oh, right. Well, just picture us all naked.”
    Beads of sweat formed on Reed’s brow, and Etta wished she could take back the sentence. “I mean, I’ve heard that can work,” she mumbled.
    “Yes, I have heard of that tactic as well. However in my case it would be a detriment. Regrettably, I’m also afflicted by gymnophobia.”
    Etta glanced over her shoulder at the door to the great room. “A fear of gyms?”
    His forehead was now slick with sweat. “Gymnos is Greek for nudity.”
    Etta stifled a smile. “Oh. Well, picture us all wearing fur coats then.”
    Reed pushed his glasses up with his middle finger and smiled, revealing the gap between his front teeth. Etta wondered if his makeup would roll right off his face.
    “I must go through my voice exercises now. I hope you enjoy the performance.” The front door swished closed behind him sending a draft of cool air sliding across Etta’s arms.
    * * *
    A cello chord echoed through the room as Etta walked toward the hearth. A spray of sparks rose from the flames, which jumped in the fireplace as though someone had just teased them with an iron prod. Except Etta was the only one standing anywhere near the fire.
    Everyone else stood around the cello player sitting in front of the windows. It was Rodney Patterson. His thin black hair was combed in long stripes across his forehead. It should not have surprised Etta to see Rodney. His somber short story had been as haunting as his cello notes. But he’d never seemed like someone who’d be comfortable performing in front of a crowd. Etta wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard his voice. Now he was sitting on the edge of a wooden chair, his lanky body bent over the cello. He rocked as he bowed the instrument’s strings, his eyes fluttering open and closed as the notes climbed up and down octaves, faster and faster. The effect was so raw that Etta couldn’t draw her eyes away. Rodney looked as though he was possessed by something, as did the people clustered around him. Two women stood just on the edge of the circle of light, dressed in silk. They had their backs to Etta, but their faces were reflected in a windowpane. Lorna and Lydia. Their bodies swayed in tandem with the flicks of Rodney’s slender wrist.
    “As they say back home, that dress could charm the heart of a rusty lizard.”
    Etta spun around. Carl grinned and lifted his wine glass.
    “You cut your hair.”
    Carl ran his free hand along his newly buzzed head. His face looked even more wind-chapped than the last time she’d seen him. He had on a black tailored suit jacket and a green tie, and he looked so different than usual that she couldn’t help but stare for a minute. Finally she shifted her gaze back to Rodney. His fingers flew up and down the neck of the cello as he jerked the bow across the strings. The song ended as abruptly as it started, and the room fell silent.
    Then clapping and whistling erupted, and someone—Mallory Chambers?—whooped Rodney’s name.
    Carl’s breath feathered across Etta’s hair. “How are we supposed to dance to that? Think he takes requests?”
    Etta smiled. She was about to suggest the musician whose CD’s she’d seen in the kitchen, but she couldn’t remember his name. Jimmie Dave something? Rodney started another song, and Etta watched, mesmerized by the slow movement of the bow drifting up and down.
    “I was hopin’ to talk to you . . . about earlier” Carl’s voice was just above a whisper.
    Etta remembered all at once—Olivia and Carl on