Mike shrugged. "That was with recession prices. I should have made half a million, but I gave him a good deal."
She studied him, to see how he felt about that. Relieved, she decided, and secretly happy.
"You are my wise giant," she said, "and a masterful rancher."
"And you are my Fairy Queen!" he replied, "bold and majestic." Olivia looked to Bron, whose face was red with embarrassment. "You can say it, Bron," Mike told him. "Gross!" he exclaimed.
Mike laughed. "You'd better get used to it, Little Brother. You're going to hear that kind of fluff all the time."
Bron hadn't failed to notice that Olivia had turned off the news. He wanted to learn what he could about their attackers. But Olivia didn't want to know.
So they sat down for dinner, and when Bron was nearly finished, he kept the conversation on a safe subject. He asked Olivia, "So those clubs that I have to audition for next week. Can you help me get ready?"
Olivia glanced to Mike. He threw his hands in the air and shrugged. "I guess I can fix dinner for a couple of days."
She kissed his cheek, turned to Bron. "Get your guitar."
Bron went to his room, pulled it from its case, and found that it somehow felt more familiar than ever before. He'd dreamt last night that Olivia was making him play, hour after hour. He'd grown more comfortable with it in his sleep.
For the rest of the evening, they worked on the guitar. He'd never had a formal lesson.
His scant knowledge came from watching kids on YouTube, and downloading chords off the internet.
He was amazed at how much he'd learned from Olivia's one lesson. As he put his fingers to the strings, everything clicked, and music flowed from him.
Olivia smiled. "Wow, you are a fast learner!"
Bron felt his chest swell, and a fierce dream was suddenly born in him: the hope of playing like this all the time—perhaps even becoming a professional.
So Olivia began grounding him in music theory, telling how musicians create resonance in their listener's minds, and then do changeups to create interesting variations.
He spent a lot of time biting his lip and clutching the neck of the guitar too tightly.
Olivia taught him "House of the Rising Sun," an old song that he'd never heard before. The basic melody was simple, but it had a guitar solo in the middle that begged for wicked interpretations.
She tried to get him to sing along, but his voice shook so badly that he wanted to give up.
Olivia encouraged him to keep working until after midnight, and then called for a rest.
"Well," Bron asked when they were done. "Do you think I'll have a shot?"
"You've still got a few bad playing habits, but work with me. Passion and practice, those are the ingredients for artistic success."
"What about talent?" Bron always wondered if he had that elusive quality that everyone said was so necessary. Sure, he thought, talent is easy to see in a pro, but what about someone who's only starting?
"All great art comes from the same place," Olivia said, "the human heart. A painting, a song, a dance. It's as if the heart longs to communicate so clearly, so perfectly, that words and expressions won't do. So the artist's feelings force themselves out through some other medium. That's the kind of passion I'm talking about. And when you practice any art, it's that passion that drives you toward perfection. It makes you stay up an hour later to work on your voice, or rise an hour earlier to play an instrument. When people witness that combination of practice and passion, too often they confuse it for 'talent.' Some things you'll find that you do a little easier than others, but the truth is, talent is mainly just sweat."
"I only have a couple of days till the auditions," Bron said. "Most of these students that I'll be up against have studied for years."
"It will be all right," Olivia said. "There's a reason why I got hired at Tuacahn. For each department, they get hundreds of applications every year, and they take only the best. Give me a couple days. Together we'll work miracles...."
The house had grown quiet. Mike was already in his bedroom. Bron said softly, "Have you heard any more about those guys that were chasing us?"
Olivia smiled secretively. "Let's not talk about it. Tonight we sleep." She kissed his forehead and sent him to his room.
In bed, Mike was lying awake, smiling. Olivia lay down beside him. Mike whispered, "That kid sucks, compared to you."
"Give him time," Olivia said. "I can teach him."
"You're good," Mike argued, "but face it, he's not like you. He doesn't see sounds as colors, or imagine songs to have three-dimensional shapes, or write papers on how Beethoven's Fifth is a perfect musical conversion of a fractal equation."
Olivia sighed. "Maybe not, but not everyone has to see music in order to make it. There's music inside him, wanting to get out. He can't sight-read yet, but that will come. Even when he strums, though, he has perfect rhythm."
"So buy him some drums," Mike suggested.
"When he sings, his pitch isn't bad," Olivia argued. "He just needs to learn to really listen to his own voice, and then correct, until he learns how to shape pure notes." Mike looked at her, bemused. "You really think you can teach this kid?"
"I know I can."
Mike suggested, "Maybe it would help if he made a pact with the devil."
Chapter 10
A Breed Apart
"'Bron was never deceived by beauty. That is hard to remember, considering how close he became to his father. How could one love a killer? How could an entire nation bow down to Hitler? Some have sought to excuse Bron because he was young and gullible, but the truth is far more complex. Bron was never deceived by appearances."
Bron woke that morning feeling refreshed and relaxed. Apparently there was some sort of tradition of having big Sunday breakfasts, so Olivia got up and made waffles with bacon in them, smothered in fresh blueberries, with whipped cream on top.
The concoction tasted better than it sounded, and apparently it was one of Mike's favorites, so he ate a mountain of them. Bron planned to go to his room and practice his music, but just as soon as breakfast was done, the doorbell rang.
Mike looked at Olivia, and she peered back at Mike. Apparently they didn't get many visitors. "Sunday tourists," Mike suggested, "come to feed the cows?"
He went to the door, but it wasn't tourists. He shouted, "Hey, Olivia, the Mercers are here."
A small family piled in, a stunningly beautiful blonde woman with a perfect figure and a huge basket of fruit that included bright peaches, kiwis, and red apples. She introduced herself as Marie, and her daughter—even more stunning—as Galadriel.
The daughter, whom Olivia had warned was an "idiot," had a gymnast's lithe body and hair like her mother's. She was even prettier close up than Bron had thought when he saw her in her swimsuit. She had a heart-shaped face, with a broad forehead and penetrating eyes so dark blue that Bron could never remember having seen the like. Her petite nose, he decided, was elfin in size and shape.
She wasn't the kind of girl that he would normally introduce himself to. In fact, one look at her, and he couldn't even speak.
Olivia took the fruit basket from Marie, who apologized that her husband Doug was on a business trip in Alaska, fishing at a lodge with some senators and a general.
The women went into the kitchen and sat down at the table to "catch up." Olivia watched Bron just stand there like a moron, and suggested, "Why don't you go show Galadriel the cows?"