The Hart & Horn

By C. S. Gordon

The only child of a workaholic Arrow Motors executive and a fundraising powerhouse, 27-year-old Donald Donovan has never aspired to much except getting high. Even after he’s finally kicked him out of house and moves to the U.P. to be with his best buddy Nick, nothing changes. Two years later, Don’s content to party on, be underemployed and take an occasional class at the local college when the mood strikes.

Then he falls for fellow student Cassandra Nouri, a divorcée 13 years his senior with an autistic daughter. At the same time, an accident thrusts Don into the life of Silvio Wood, their unusual professor. Both give Don reason to do some self-examination; the real wake-up call comes when Nick is diagnosed with terminal cancer. Suddenly wasting his life getting wasted doesn’t seem like such a good idea. While Don struggles with Nick’s impending death, he finds himself becoming deeply involved with the professor-- and Cassandra.

As Don and Cassandra work together to learn what the professor is hiding about his past in a bid to help him, the closer they become. But what they discover forces Don to choose between friendship and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. S. Gordon
• Release date: May 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9780615650012

C. S. Gordon

C. S. Gordon is Cathleen Hagan, a professional freelance writer, editor and website designer with more than 20 years of experience. Formerly editor of Michigan Meetings + Events magazine, Cathleen has had hundreds of bylines in magazines, newspapers and other publications. In addition to authoring short stories and The Hart & Horn, Cathleen has another novel in editing and is at work on a third, literary fiction set in Northern Michigan that explores the complexities of family relationships.

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The Hart & Horn

By C. S. Gordon

Copyright 2012 by C. S. Gordon

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Prologue

Don! Wake up! You’re going to be late!

His mother threw the curtains apart like Moses parting the Red Sea, flooding the room with light. Okay, okay, I’m up, he mumbled. His head was thumping like a bass drum and his mouth tasted as if something had died in it, but there was no avoiding the inevitable.

Honestly, she scolded, twenty-seven years old and I’m still giving you wake-up calls. And look at this room!

Yeah, what about it? he thought with a yawn, watching her snatch up dirty clothes. She’d recently wiped out all vestiges of his adolescent years with decor that matched the rest of the house--dark expensive furniture, oriental throw rugs, fancy vases with weird sticks poking up out of them, gilt-framed pictures of English countrysides--making him a guest in his own room. The only things confirming his presence were the stacks of nature and lapidary magazines, jars overflowing with polished stones, assorted old birds’ nests and his rock tumbler, humming away on the dresser.

She peered at his clock radio on the nightstand. You didn’t even set your alarm. If your father finds out you’ve been late twice already this week, I won’t be able to do anything about it, I can’t--

Don’t expect you to, he said, and escaped to the bathroom.

And you can clean up the basement when you get home, you and your friends left beer cans and liquor bottles all over. I’m not going to have the maid do it. It was an idle threat. They paid their squat little Hispanic maid so much she’d pick up dog poop at his mother’s directive, if they had a dog. He just hoped there weren’t any joints left in the ashtrays.

The buzz of the razor on his skin was soothing and the hot shower felt even better. He wished he could linger in there, naked and wet and warm. No chance. He was a little worried about being late, so he dried and dressed hastily. Then he saw his jeans from last night, now neatly folded over a chair. A piece of paper stuck out of the front pocket. Curious, he retrieved it. There was a phone number scribbled on it, with hearts where the hyphens should be, and a girl’s name: Jeannie. Who the hell was Jeannie?

He puzzled over this as he stood before the mirror tightening his tie, the noose closing around his neck yet again. Oh yeah, the skinny little Goth girl he made out with last night. She was nice enough, but no Ashley. He opened a dresser drawer and looked down at a photo of them together. They’d come close to getting engaged until she broke it off a year ago, disgusted with his drinking and drugging, tired of waiting for him to grow up and settle down. What was he keeping it for? He tore it into small pieces, and headed downstairs.

His mother was at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. Morning, he sang with false cheer. He kissed her. Thanks for getting me up, I promise it’ll be the last time. She looked less than convinced. He glanced at the paper, open to the society page. Hey, is that you? Great dress. What good deeds do you have planned today? Aren’t you working on something for that group, y’know, the one that helps, uh--

But his charms weren’t going to work on her today. There’s a piece of toast for you, she said, pointing to a plate on the granite countertop. Your lunch is beside it. Now get going.

He slunk out to his car, a glossy red Crossbow. The suburban neighborhood of million-dollar homes lining the winding street was quiet under the blue autumn sky. What a waste of a day. At least traffic was light. He made it downtown to the landmark Arrow Motors’ building in record time and slipped into his office without too many people noticing. He sat down at his desk, looked at the piles of paperwork to process, and felt like crying.

Instead he grabbed one of his jars of rocks, poured them out over the papers and began sorting the stones, translucent white and rose quartz, speckled granite, ruddy rhyolite, remembering the day he and Nick had collected them. Two best friends on a sunny Lake Superior beach, the water numbing their toes and the bottles of beer set into the wet sand. He thought about calling the U.P. to shoot the shit with him. Nah. It was only 9:30, Nick wouldn’t be awake. He lived off stipends from the casino, and didn’t have to worry about getting up after a night of partying to go to a job he hated.

The phone trilled, interrupting his despondency. Oh, you’re in, his boss said snidely. The old man wants to see you.

Crap. He should have stayed in bed, told his mother he was sick. He was sick, of it all. He’d spent almost four years of his life locked in this ivory tower. Maybe he’d just tell him he quit. But then what? With a resigned sigh, he got on the elevator and was lifted up to the executive floor. From there he ambled down the hallowed marble-lined corridor until he reached the brass nameplate that read William Donovan, Vice President of U.S. Operations.

His father didn’t bother to get up when he came in, one ankle cradled over the opposite knee, his hands quiet on the soft leather of the chair stationed behind the gleaming cherry wood desk. Don noticed he didn’t ask him to sit down.

We need to talk.

Boy, I’ll say, he thought, just not like this. Yeah, I didn’t think you called me in for a cappuccino. Oops, that didn’t help his cause any. His father’s face turned hard.

Don’t be insolent. I’m not going to mince words. I’m letting you go.

What? he cried. Look, I’m sorry I was late, I really will--

That’s reason enough, but not why I’m firing you. It’s your loan approvals. They’re too lenient.

Oh. He looked down at the floor. Show some spine, Nick would say. I’m moving cars, aren’t I? People who can get to work usually make more money, so they pump more cash into the economy, making it possible for more people to buy cars. What’s wrong with that?

I’m afraid I see it differently. Too many people are defaulting on loans you’ve approved. The division is losing money, and when divisions lose money, employees lose their jobs. People getting unemployment don’t buy many new cars.

Guess I’ll be one of them, huh.

I’m not going to lecture you. He reached for his cup of coffee, took a sip. You’ve always been a marginal employee at best. I thought maybe this position would help you become more motivated about your career, but it hasn’t. When Paul showed this to me-- he held up a sheaf of paper-- I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I think letting you go is a favor to you and Arrow.

If that’s the way you want it. He turned, dread churning in his stomach at the thought of having to go back down, clean out his desk under the eye of security and walk through the office. How many people already knew, and how many would agree with his father? Hell, who cared. Fuck’em.

Don, there’s one more thing. You have a month to move out of the house.

Three days later he announced, to his mother’s chagrin, that he was going to live in the U.P. He surrendered his company car, bought a 1984 Jeep, stuffed it with his belongings and headed north on I-75. The fall colors were at their peak, and he felt like the vistas of blazing trees were dressed for a fiesta in his honor. When he crossed the Mackinac Bridge and got on the highway that would take him to Superior, he toasted his new life, whatever it would be, by lighting a joint. As a sandhill crane rose up out of the fields thick with goldenrod and purple asters, he realized if it wasn’t for his father he’d be chained to his desk right now. Dad was right, he’d done him a favor. Maybe they could relax a little around each other, now that he wasn’t working for Arrow anymore. But he couldn’t imagine what would make things different. Like trying to push together the ends of two magnets that repel each other, there always seemed to be an invisible force keeping them apart. For them to meet, one would have to turn around, and he couldn’t see that ever happening, not in a million years.

Chapter One

Two years later

Tell me again what we’re doing here? Nick asked.

My professor is performing. Don took one last pull off the joint, stubbed it out and set the hemostats in the ashtray. He rolled down the car window. The cloud of smoke he exhaled paisleyed into the frozen air. It was so bitterly cold his face burned and the hair in his nose crackled when he inhaled.

What class are you wasting your money on this semester?

Music history.

Nick read the poster board taped to the door of the bar. You gotta be kidding. The Troubadour?

Yeah, he plays the lute and sings. He’s a real odd duck.

Birds of a feather... What the hell is a lute?

A guitar with a bent neck.

And to think we could be over at Lars’ watching hockey and playing euchre. Let’s get in there and get a beer before we freeze our asses off.

The weathered vinyl banner strung across the brick storefront proclaimed the establishment below to be The Hart & Horn. Inside, British pub décor had replaced the deer camp photos and dusty buck heads mounted on the knotty pine walls months ago. It didn’t matter. Everyone in Superior still called it the Track-a-Rack and would for years to come.

If the new owners hadn’t already alienated the regulars by raising prices and changing the beer list and menu, Don was sure adding entertainment like his professor would have done the trick. In the far back corner, on a triangular stage lit by a single spotlight, he stood with his arms wrapped around his instrument, singing merrily: Robin loves me, Robin has me, Robin asked me if he can have me, Robin took off my skirt of scarlet, good and pretty, my bodice and my girdle, hurray!

Nick raised an eyebrow and did his best Spock imitation. Interesting.

Don grinned and shrugged off his parka. It’s a thirteenth century song about Robin Hood and Maid Marian by a guy named Adam la Halle.

You are a bigger dork than I ever suspected.

Look who’s talking, Vulcan man.

From the bar with a beer in hand, Don scanned the sparse crowd, mostly students from the university in jeans and sweaters, but didn’t see Cassandra. So he watched Professor Wood instead, now singing what Don recognized as a motet. Pop songs of the Middle Ages, the professor had called them. The fairest lady is love, fairer than the whitest dove, why then is she so cruel, to treat me like such a fool...

He was good. Really good. From the monotonous way he lectured, Don never would have guessed he had such a beautiful singing voice. It wasn’t operatic, or catchy like some flavor of the week on the radio, lacked the testosterone of a country singer. No, it was more like an instrument, a tenor woodwind, with a poignant edge that raised the hair on his arms. He closed his eyes and listened to the resurrected 700-year-old lament: My heart begs for her mercy, I pray that she might see, I kneel at her feet in torment, in rain and snow and sleet.

I gave my love a cherry, Nick sang tunelessly in his ear.

Don joined the scattered applause. Piss off. He’s fantastic.

Two women emerged from the shadows of the back hall. There’s the girl from my class who told me about the professor playing tonight, Don said. The one on the right.

So that’s why you wanted to come, Nick replied with an approving nod. How come you didn’t just ask her out instead of dragging my ass here?

I’ve only talked to her a few times.

Lame. Nick regarded him suspiciously. You’re not still seeing that bitch Zelly, are you?

I wouldn’t call it ‘seeing’ each other. They’d gone out a half dozen times since Zelly kicked him out last November, unable to go back to where they were, unable to move forward, either. Cassandra was the first girl--woman, really, she was definitely older--to arouse his interest and a few other things. Friendly to him in class, she wore no rings but gave no indication she was looking.

Nick groaned. What you see in that gold-digging piece of trailer trash I’ll never understand.

Are you going to needle me all night?

Hey, you’re providing the material. Nick winced and rubbed his temple.

You got one of those headaches again?

Yeah.

Why didn’t you say so? You wanna go home?

I’m fine.

I thought you were gonna go to a doctor. For his concern he got a one-finger salute. Seeing the professor set the lute aside, Don slid off his stool, ignoring Nick when he called Bad news, looks like she came with a date.

Hey, Professor Wood, you were great, Don greeted him. His praise was met with silence and a slight frown. He needed a shave, not a good look for him. He was bleary-eyed too, and Don noticed a rock glass with amber liquid in it on the stage.

He tried again. Don Donovan, from Music History 201?

Ah. Mr. Donovan. Uttered without a shred of recognition.

I mean it. I’m truly impressed.

Thank you. His eyes slid past Don’s shoulder.

You came, said a female voice. Don turned, and there was Cassandra by his elbow, wearing a fuzzy red turtleneck sweater that melted around her generous breasts, gold earrings that glinted through her cola-colored hair, and lipstick the same shade as the sweater. I gave my love a cherry indeed.

I’m glad I did, he said. I mean, I’m glad I got to hear Professor Wood. He didn’t want to give her the wrong idea, even if it was right.

Cassandra just smiled and tucked her fingertips into the front pockets of her black knit slacks. Hello, Professor. You were wonderful, as usual.

Thank you, m’lady, he replied graciously and made a quaint and elegant bow.

An awkward pause followed. Bar conversation filled the vacuum. Shouts went up by the dartboards; someone had scored a bullseye. Don’s gaze kept returning to Cassandra’s scarlet sweater, a vivid splash of color inciting a riot in the clove-scented air. Who was smoking one of those damn things, anyway?

It’s a cold one tonight, eh? Don finally blurted in desperation. But Cassandra was looking at Professor Wood, who seemed to be looking at something no one else could see.

Professor? she said. When he didn’t respond, she laid a hand on his forearm. I was wondering when--

The gentle touch made him start violently. Excuse me, he gasped, and hurried off towards the back hallway.

Wow, said Don. Weird.

Cassandra frowned. There’s something very sad about him, she mused. He’s so... repressed. Except when he performs. That’s why I like to see him play.

Uh-oh. Could she have a thing for him? The guy was at least 50, with the looks and build of a Russian peasant. How long has he been playing here? Don asked.

I don’t know. I’ve only seen him twice before. She stared off in the direction the professor had gone. Have you noticed that he doesn’t ever talk about anything personal? Is he married? Does he have kids?

Are you? Married?

It worked. He finally snagged her attention. She flashed a wry smile.

See the guy at that table, the one in the sweater vest?

Don checked him out: early 40s, blond, well-fed, closely-shorn beard.

That’s Chris, my ex-husband. He’s an associate dean at the university. What about you?

He wanted to know what went wrong between them, pugnaciously sure he could succeed wherever Chris had failed. They must be friendly, if they were out together. But how friendly? Still waiting for the right person to come along, he replied.

A romantic, huh?

Their eyes met. If not sparks, Don at least felt possibility as rosy as the aura the sweater cast under her soft chin.

She looked towards the hallway. Maybe you should go check on him.

I’m sure he’s okay.

Cassandra crossed her arms, reproachful. And things were going so well.

Look, I don’t want to intrude, Don protested. You just pointed out he’s a private kind of guy.

Uh huh. I should get back. See you in class.

He watched her zigzag between the tables, smarting. She joined her friends, hunched over the table, talking. He felt absurdly glad when the ex-husband shook his head. A moment later the other guy headed for the hallway.

Don sat down next to Nick and ordered a rum and Coke. To hell with beer. Don’t ask, he growled. He took a huge swallow of the sweet drink. Everything was going great until she wanted me to bug the poor guy in the john. Sorry, I just wasn’t going to do it.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m proud of you, man, Nick replied. At least you reached out and tried to touch someone.

Yeah, and she hung up on me.

A few minutes later Professor Wood emerged from the hall, haggard but steady. He returned to the stage and performed a second set, then packed his lute away and sat down heavily at a nearby table. The waitress brought him a drink. Once it was in his hands he looked nowhere else, sipping methodically. Don saw Cassandra and company leave, but pretended to be engrossed in conversation with Nick, whose one-word answers were as black and astringent as the mug of coffee he nursed.

By the time he felt a nudge--It’s 1:30, let’s go--Don saw the world through blurry rum-and-Coke-bottle glasses. He fumbled into his parka, glancing at the empty table where the professor had been sitting, wondered groggily when he had left.

There were only a few cars still parked along the street, glittering with frost beneath the surreal greenish light of the streetlamps. Holy crap, Nick said between chattering teeth, nodding his head towards the bank’s electronic sign. The date scrolled by in bright red digital numbers… 2-17-98… the time… 1:37… and the temperature… -12.

The Intrepid cranked reluctantly, then roared to life. They scraped the windows while it idled. A car door slammed nearby. Someone next to an old sedan several parking spaces away lifted a tentative hand. The man walked towards them. It was Professor Wood.

I apologize for the intrusion, but my car won’t start, he said. "Do you think you