Solo (Symphony Hall)

by Lauren E. Rico

  “And asking for my help…?”

  I sit back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. He wants to know? Well, then I’m going to tell him.

  “Truthfully, I’d have asked every single one of your neighbors on every street in this development before I would have come to your door.”

  “But that makes absolutely no sense.” he murmurs, looking baffled by this confession.

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “I mean, I know we’ve had our differences…”

  It’s all I can do to keep from snorting in his face.

  “Our differences?” I echo disbelievingly. “Dr. Markham, there is nothing that you have said or done over the last five-and-a-half years that would lead me to believe you would help me. You can say what you like now—now that we’ve shared a few intimate moments and had our little heart-to-heart last night, but we both know that you would have found a reason to fail me had that paper not been in your mailbox by five o’clock. I could have been banging on your door, begging you to accept it, and you probably would have left me standing on your porch in the cold.”

  He’s shaking his head, opening his mouth to object, but I hold up a finger for him to stop. He does.

  “Come on,” I say softly, conspiratorially. “You know it. I know it. It’s just the two of us here now. Let’s call it what it is for once.” I sit back again and take a deep breath, putting a lighter expression on my face. “I can’t blame you. Even if I didn’t look so much like your—like Casey—it’s like you said. I can be prickly and defensive. I can be a difficult person. I’ll own that. But I guess I just never did understand what it was I’d done to make you have so much…” I cast around my brain for the word and then find it. “…disdain for me.”

  With that, I pick up my cup and look down into it, not wanting to see the expression on his face. Bracing myself for the blowup that is sure to come. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll loan me boots and a coat when he kicks my ass out of here.

  But he doesn’t speak. Unable to keep my head down any longer, I finally look up to find him staring at me, brows drawn together in supreme confusion. At last, he takes a deep breath and stands up, taking my now empty plate from the table.

  “Did you have enough to eat?” he asks over his shoulder.

  Oh shit.

  I nod curtly. “Uh, yes. Yes, thank you.”

  I put my elbows on the table, close my eyes, and rub my temples with my fingers. The headache is starting to resurface.

  “Are you all right?”

  My eyes fly open and I jump at the sound of his voice right behind me. My breath picks up. It’s unnerving having him so close to me.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he rushes to apologize.

  “No, no,” I say quickly, twisting around in my seat to look up at his concerned face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… That was incredibly rude of me.”

  He sighs as he sits back down again.

  “No. It’s okay. I’ve said it before and it bears repeating. We have a complicated relationship, you and I. You don’t have to apologize, Miss Brenner—Katherine. But how about we try and keep things a little lighter for the rest of the time you’re here?”

  “Lighter?”

  What? Like puppies and rainbows?

  He smiles at the confusion that must be evident on my face.

  “Yes. Lighter. I have a big DVD collection. We can watch some movies. Or play Scrabble. Or you can take a book and find a comfortable spot to read. I’ll make us a nice dinner. Does that sound all right?”

  “I…I think that would be really great, Dr. Markham,” I respond, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Good.” He nods resolutely. “I think maybe you should go upstairs and take a long, hot shower.” He grabs my mug and refills it with the hot, sweet tea. “Here, take this up with you. There are clean towels on the shelf in the bathroom. I washed your clothes from the other night, I’ll leave them on the bed. Okay?”

  I nod and take a good look at my professor. His face is soft and open, his hair messier than usual and his casual clothes are a stark contrast to the slacks and dress shirts he wears when he’s teaching. Taking it all in at once, I’m struck by how different he looks. Younger. Much more like the “hot teacher” all the girls were talking about on my first day of freshman Music Theory.

  Yes, something is different about the way Drew Markham looks. Or, maybe there’s something different about the way I’m looking at Drew Markham.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Drew

  She’s crying but, thankfully, it has nothing to do with me. We’re watching one of my favorite movies, Truly, Madly, Deeply, about a cellist who comes back from the dead to be with his pianist lover. And, while it has its amusing moments—like the undead orchestra—it’s a poignant story about letting go. Something I could stand to do more of.

  “Oh. It was so beautiful,” she says now, turning to me as she wipes her damp face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I haven’t really ever seen Alan Rickman in anything but the Harry Potter movies.”

  “What? No.” I’m incredulous.

  She nods.

  “Oh no, Katherine. You have no idea what richness awaits you,” I say dramatically as I drop onto my knees and root around the DVD cabinet, pulling out one case after another. “I consider it my personal responsibility to educate you on the finer points of Mr. Rickman’s career. We can start with his early stuff. Let’s see, there’s Die Hard, of course, and Quigley Down Under. Then The January Man, oh, and Closet Land. That one’s just fucking disturbing…” I nod and laugh at the same time as if to confirm my own point.

  “What? I haven’t heard of any of those. I mean, Die Hard, yeah, but not the others.” She slips down onto the floor with me so she can examine the DVD cases for herself.

  “Listen, I want to go out and take another pass at the driveway with the snowblower before we get clobbered again tomorrow morning. Then, maybe we can watch another movie? I’ve got pizza dough in the fridge. We can eat in here,” I say, gesturing to the TV room. It’s considerably smaller than the den, but it’s got a big, comfortable couch and a big, impressive flat-screen TV.

  “Yeah, I’d like that.” She nods enthusiastically and then hesitates. “Um, Dr. Markham?”

  “Drew,” I correct her. “You’ll have to go back to Dr. Markham when we’re back at school, but it’s insane for you to call me that in my own house.”

  “I’ll try, it’s just a little weird. You know?”

  “Please.” I roll my eyes. “Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it. What did you want to ask?”

  She looks a little uncomfortable.

  “I was wondering if I could play the piano a little? Just while you’re outside?”

  That’s it? That’s the big “ask” that she looks so worried about?

  “Of course, but I have to warn you, it hasn’t been tuned in a while.”

  Her face lights up.

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I don’t get to play on a baby grand very often.”

  I get to my feet and offer her a hand up, which she accepts. She follows me back into the kitchen.

  “Do you have a piano at home?”

  “No, not now. There’s one in my father’s house in Virginia. That’s the one I learned on. And sometimes I can use the grand piano in the concert hall at school. But, usually I’m stuck with the uprights in the practice rooms. I kind of forfeited my time on the ‘good’ pianos after I switched from being a piano major to conducting.”

  “I’d forgotten you’d been a piano major,” I say as I grab my coat and boots from the mudroom and sit at the kitchen table to lace-up. “Why did you switch?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Russ. He can be very…persuasive.”

  This makes me laugh. She’s right, he can be. But not in any conventional way.

  “What did he do?” I ask, knowing there’s more to this story.

  “He caught me ‘air conducting’ Beethoven o
ne night and informed me that I was a conductor. I got a whole speech on how concert pianists are a dime a dozen, but a conductor like me—” She stops abruptly, her face reddening.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, it just sounds so vain when I say it out loud.”

  Now she’s got me curious. I know Russ Atherton well enough to know he only says what he means—whether you want to hear it or not.

  “It’s okay. What did he say?” I coax.

  She clears her throat and looks down at the floor, studying her feet as she recounts the conversation.

  “He told me that concert pianists are a dime a dozen, but that a truly gifted conductor only comes along once in a generation. He compared me to Bernstein and Toscanini. I mean, I know I’ll never be like that—like them—but he was so convincing, I just had to drop everything else and study with him.”

  “Katherine,” I say, waiting until she raises her cool-blue eyes again. “Russ is one of the greatest conductors I’ve ever seen and his instincts for music are spot on. So, I’ve got news for you, if that man says you’re the next Leonard Bernstein, then you’re the next Leonard Bernstein.”

  I head for the door before she can respond. “Okay, I’ll be outside for a while. Enjoy the piano,” I say with a wave as I shrug my parka on then head out the back door, leaving her stunned by what I’ve just said, and me stunned that I said it.

  …

  It takes me a good forty-five minutes to get through the snow and back down to the asphalt and I’m sweating my ass off by the time I’m done. I lose the coat before I can even get the blower back into the garage. By the time I’m stamping the snow off my boots, I’m also minus my hat, gloves, and scarf. I’m just heading back into the kitchen when I hear it.

  At first, I’m not sure what it is that I’m listening to. The tune is so familiar that it stops me in my tracks. But still, I can’t quite place it. I find myself drawn from the kitchen, down the hall and into the den, where Katherine’s sitting at the piano, playing. I watch her left hand walk across the keys while her right hand flips to the next page.

  That’s when I realize what the music is. That’s when she realizes that I’m standing there, watching her. I’m not quite sure what she sees, but the music stops abruptly and I catch a shadow of fear cross her face. She jumps to her feet and steps away from the piano bench as if it were scorching hot.

  “I…I’m sorry, Dr. Markham,” she stammers and I can see she’s poised to run up the stairs again.

  “Drew,” I correct her absently as I walk to the piano and glance at the handwritten pages she’s just been playing. “I, uh—it’s just that I haven’t heard that piece in a long time. Years, actually.”

  I watch the color drain from her already pale face.

  “Please don’t be angry. I—it was the music. I couldn’t help glancing at it and then I just had to hear it,” she breathes. “I never should have…”

  Whatever my expression is, it’s clearly scaring the hell out of her. I will myself to calm down and I force a smile on my face.

  “No, really, it’s fine. You just took me by surprise. That’s all.”

  But Katherine Brenner doesn’t look convinced. “You know, maybe I should go read upstairs. Give you your space. I’ve disrupted your whole routine and now I’ve gone and stuck my foot in it…again.”

  She’s shaking her head, rebuking herself internally even as she’s talking to me. She starts to walk around the piano, but I stop her, reaching out and gently grabbing her upper arm as she tries to pass me.

  “It’s all right, Katherine,” I say quietly. “It was actually kind of nice to hear it again.”

  “Did she…” she begins and hesitates. “Did Casey write it? Is that why you don’t play it anymore?”

  “What? Oh no. I wrote it. That’s what I did before. I was a composer.”

  She looks stunned. “Really? A composer? I just assumed you were a Music Theory major.”

  I smile at her surprise. “Nope. I was a composer. Maureen thought that would make me a good Theory and Orchestration teacher.”

  “That piece is so beautiful. Would you…would you play it for me?” she asks a little tentatively. Her expression is so earnest and open that I find myself drawn in.

  “I like the way you played it, actually. Why don’t you give it another go?” I prompt her back toward the piano bench with a raise of my eyebrows.

  “Are you sure?” she confirms, her voice excited and hesitant at the same time.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  She returns to the bench and I watch in fascination as she spreads the music out on the bridge of the piano. Then, without so much as a glance down at her hands, she begins to play the notes I wrote so many years ago. I’d forgotten how much I love this piece.

  I didn’t write in any tempo markers or accents because I was the only one who played it and I knew exactly what it was supposed to sound like. But under her fingers it comes to life in a way I never imagined. She pauses where I played through. She uses the pedals to soften and sustain passages that were meant to be bold and jarring. When she gets to the intricate section in the middle, she leans in a little closer to the music, as if she’s afraid she’ll miss a note. But she doesn’t. She sight-reads the rapid-fire figures with perfect fluidity. By the time she’s finished the last line of the last page, I’m standing there watching her like a fool with a ridiculous grin on my face, shaking my head.

  She looks up at me, clearly anxious about how I’ll respond to her performance. “Was that okay? Did I get the gist of it?” she asks quietly.

  I try to keep myself from laughing.

  “I’d say the gist and then some.”

  I notice she’s looking at me strangely all of a sudden.

  “What?” I ask, still smiling. “What is it?”

  She shakes her head slightly.

  “I just—it’s just, you never…”

  “I never what?”

  “You never smile like that. It’s a good look on you,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

  Suddenly, it’s as if my world has flipped upside down, I can feel the heat creeping up from under my collar. I clear my throat and look down at the floor briefly. When I look up again and meet her eyes, I’m back in check, emotions locked safely away.

  “Okay, well, I’m going to get started on that pizza,” I say, extricating myself from her orbit and taking a step toward the kitchen. “Oh, and I remembered another Alan Rickman classic. Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen him upstage Kevin Costner.”

  She’s still looking at me strangely when I turn my back and walk out of the room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kate

  “Are you feeling up to some wine?” he asks me, bringing a pair of glasses and a bottle into the den, where we’ve relocated post–Alan Rickman movie marathon.

  “Um, sure, I guess,” I say, not doing a good job of hiding my discomfort. He notices.

  “Would you prefer something else? This is a riesling. But, if you like red, I think there’s a shiraz in the basement,” he offers, clearly thinking I’m put off by his wine selection.

  “I…I don’t really drink much,” I say a little sheepishly. “And when I do, I hardly ever drink wine. But I’ll try it.”

  I see the confusion register on his face. For him, this does not compute.

  “I know. You probably assumed I was a big drinker, right? Because I look tired and hung over all the time?”

  “I, uh, well, no. I mean…”

  I try not to giggle as he struggles to find an appropriate response.

  “It’s none of my business either way,” he says, finally, pulling the cork and filling each glass.

  “You’re not the only one. I know I look like crap when I’m tired. And since your classes always seem to be first thing in the morning, you’re not exactly seeing me at my best.”

  He doesn’t comment as he hands me a glass with just a splash in the bottom.

>   “Oh, you know what? I’ve had wine before. Wine coolers,” I offer, suddenly remembering my wayward high school years.

  “Wine coolers?” he repeats, looking as if he’s just smelled something bad.

  I nod and he shakes his head.

  “Yeah, well wine coolers are a little…” He pauses, seeming to search for the right word. I decide to help him out and spare him the embarrassment.

  “Juvenile? Cheap? Tacky?” I offer with a grin.

  “Sweet,” he says as if the other adjectives had never even crossed his mind. “Sweet. But, if you like that, then I think you’ll like this. It’s sweet, by wine standards.”

  I take a tentative sip of the straw-colored liquid.

  “Mmmm,” I say after I sample it. I can’t help licking my lips and nodding. “It’s kind of appley. Crisp. I like it.”

  When he’s topped my glass, I take a longer gulp.

  “Whoa, hey, slow down a little,” he warns with a laugh. “That’s not a wine cooler, you know. It’ll knock you flat on your ass if you’re not careful.”

  I shrug and watch as he settles onto the opposite end of the couch from where I’m sitting with my legs tucked up under me. I had changed out of my sweats and into another one of his shirts that he left out on the bed for me to sleep in. We sip in companionable silence for a minute or two.

  “So, you don’t drink much. Does that mean you’re not a frat party kegger kind of girl?” he asks out of nowhere. There’s something about his tone that makes me think he’s only half teasing.

  “Not so much.” I smile. Two can play this game. The “fishing for info” game. “Is that what they all think? The faculty, I mean? That I’m some party girl coed?”

  “Oh…” He seems to give this some thought. “No, I don’t think so. There’s speculation of course, because you’re very high profile, but you keep to yourself. And that kind of exposure paired with that kind of secrecy is always going to pique people’s curiosity. And that curiosity is going to breed rumors.” He shifts his gaze forward so he’s looking at the fire.

  “May I have some more wine?” I ask, realizing my glass is empty. Did I drink all of it already? God, I don’t even remember doing that.