Page 49 of Pure Abandon

Maybe it’s the wine talking but, I have to admit, I’m starting to like nicknames.

The sun beats down on the New York City pavement as I exit the subway terminal and walk briskly to Lincoln Center. I haven’t been inside David Geffen Hall in over two decades and want to reacquaint myself with the venue before finalizing production details for Asher’s report.

A bright young woman named Claudia escorts me through the campus and gives a guided tour of where the gala will take place. The limos will pull up on Broadway and the guests will walk out on a black carpet. The paparazzi pit will be on the far right side of the carpet. At the end of which, a station will be set up for interviews by select media outlets. There is a giant fountain outside. I can imagine it lit up and glowing in the evening, with spotlights illuminating the space for the event. It will look spectacular. I request rows of lighted-trees be placed around the parameters to create an elegant ethereal feeling. We make a deal for the venue to pick up the added expense.

Inside, I ask to see the concert halls. They are exquisite. David Geffen Hall is nothing short of spectacular, adorned with gold filigree and velvet seating.

Claudia’s phone rings and she excuses herself. I leisurely glide my fingers over the front of the stage, taking in its enormity up close. My thoughts are halted by his husky voice.

“Have you ever performed?”

I freeze and look up onto the dimly lit stage. Walking out from the left wing, he’s dressed in dark jeans and a black button-down shirt with the top button undone. He looks polished and perfect. What is he doing here?

“Mr. Asher. It’s a pleasure to see you again, albeit a surprise,” I say, adjusting my bag on my shoulder.

“I could say the same thing.” He strolls across the stage and takes his place above me, idyllic eyes gazing down at me. “Mr. Asher? Since when did we go back to formality?”

I stare up at him in awe. His golden highlights are combed perfectly, glistening in the soft light of the stage.

“Did you enjoy your Twinkie?” I ask.

“Turns out I’m not into sweets.”

“No?”

Asher tilts his head to the side. “No, I want something a little more savory. Say, a Gray’s Papaya.”

We may be on friendly terms now, but his innuendos still make me uneasy. I give him my best deadpan stare. “I think you should stick to dessert.”

“Come up here,” he commands, holding out his hand.

After a beat, I raise my hand and grab his. I walk up to meet him, careful not to trip over my wobbly feet.

I look out at the scene in front of me. The theater is massive. Over twenty-seven hundred seats face me. It’s hard to imagine this is our smaller venue. You can only imagine how many people will be at the Central Park event. It’s no football stadium, but our talent is excited to play on this iconic stage.

The room is illuminated in golden hues. The lights on the balcony aren’t lit, but I know they’re spectacular when turned on. The room irradiates in their warmth and casts a heavenly glow from all sides of the theater. There are three rows of balconies lining the left, back, and right walls.

The stage is lined in wood, but for our event it will be covered in backdrops, plasma screens, and a top-of-the-line lighting system. Erik, Richard, and the technical team have all been working hard making sure this place will be perfect.

My eyes travel around the room and fall on my hand, still enclosed in Asher’s. I pull it back quickly.

“Feels incredible, doesn’t it?” For a second, I think he’s talking about our touch, but I flush to realize he’s talking about the stage. He’s right. The feeling is extraordinary. Standing here facing hundreds of seats… I feel larger than life. The corners of my mouth turn up in an insolent smile, but it quickly fades when I realize he’s staring at me.

With a puckered brow, he looks at me quizzically, as if trying to answer a plaguing question inside his head. He shakes it off and moves toward the back of the stage.

“I used to perform on this stage when I was a boy.” He reminisces.

“What do you play?” Of course he’s a classically trained savant.

“The cello.”

My face must register surprise, because he laughs, and for the first time, I relax. He has a great laugh.

“This is something I am very passionate about. Music is my life. That is why these concerts are so important. Through music you can express how you feel. Through music you can find yourself. And there is no greater way to bring people together than with a song.” His passion for the subject is genuine. He seems so vulnerable; as if music were a beautiful woman he can’t get enough of.

The room goes silent. I realize I’ve been too quiet, probably because I’ve been busy assessing him, admiring him. Mega-mogul, philanthropist, and musician… The list goes on.

“May I ask you a personal question?” he says, taking a step closer, invading my personal space. I nod and wonder how personal he plans to get. “Why do you go by your maiden name?”