“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought,” he says, pointing at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
“Oh, please, Kate. I know you too well. Humming? Smiling? Relaxed?”
“Russ,” I say on a long sigh, “I can’t…”
He waves a dismissive hand in my direction.
“I’m just busting your chops, Kate. You don’t have to tell me anything about your trysts,” he says, making the last word sound naughty. I try to object but he stops me. “No, no, really. It’s none of my business. And besides, we don’t have time for chatting today.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“Because you’ve got some Dvořák to learn, my dear Katherine.”
I’m confused.
“There is no Dvořák on the Wind Ensemble concert program.”
He grins up at me.
“No, there isn’t. But there is on the Symphony Orchestra concert program.”
I hop off the podium and walk forward to the front of the stage so that I’m standing directly in front of him, but three feet higher.
“What does the orchestra have to do with me? I’m conducting the Wind Ensemble for my final jury grade.”
He’s still smiling.
“What?” I demand. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He stands up and walks to the edge of the stage, where the footlights give him an especially ghostly look. The threads of silver in his hair are glistening and his face has taken on a bluish tint. It’s really, really creepy, but I try to ignore it.
“Dr. Giovanni slipped on the ice and broke his leg over the weekend.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say, an image of the tiny Italian man flashes through my head.
“Don’t be. He’ll be fine. And…he asked if you might be willing to take over for him on the spring concert.”
“Wait. What?”
I get down onto the floor of the stage and let myself drop over the edge so that I’m with him in the house.
“You heard me. Someone else will conduct the Wind Ensemble. You’ll start with orchestra rehearsals on Wednesday.”
I feel my breath catch in my throat.
“Oh my God… This is amazing!” And then I think about it. Did he just say Wednesday? My hand goes up to my forehead as a try to process. I shake my head down at him. “No, Russ, this is terrible… I can’t get an entire program together in three weeks!”
He scowls his disapproval up at me.
“Stop it, we both know that’s bullshit.”
I close my eyes and try to settle the churning in my stomach. When I reopen them, he’s smirking at me.
“Just because I can memorize the score in a night doesn’t mean I’ll know how to conduct it in a night,” I whine.
“Are you through with your panic attack?”
“No. But that’s beside the point. Which Dvořák?”
“The New World Symphony.”
“The Ninth?” I ask, as if another symphony has that nickname.
He nods.
“But that can’t be the only piece on the program…”
“No, it’s not. There’s an overture to start, and the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto.”
I open my mouth to freak out on him, but he swiftly holds up a hand to stop me from imploding.
“I said I’d conduct those. You’ll only have to worry about the symphony.”
Okay, forget about imploding, I’m about to explode. Far and wide.
“Wait, wait, wait. So you’re saying that not only will I get to conduct the big piece on the big symphony concert, but that you, Russell Atherton, world-class, renown conductor, are going to come out of retirement and conduct on the same program?”
“One night only, baby,” he says, doing a mildly disturbing take on jazz hands.
“Holy fucking shit…”
My expletive makes him laugh, but I’m dead serious. The implications of this are huge. Russell conducting publicly for the first time in years is going to cause a major stir in the classical music world. Add to that any curious lookie-loos who’ll come to get a look at Tucker the Fucker’s daughter…
“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head resolutely. “No way.”
Russell puts his hands on my shoulders and gives them a squeeze.
“This is it, kid. This is your chance to blow them all away and shut their mouths once and for all.”
But I don’t look convinced. Probably because I’m not.
“And hey, you can invite your new guy. That is, if you haven’t kicked him out of bed for eating crackers by then.” He grins.
“What? What do crackers have to do with anything?” I ask, head spinning with everything that’s just happened.
He throws back his head and laughs, but I have no clue why. Clearly I’m missing something.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s just an old expression.” He chuckles, then reaches behind him for something on one of the chairs. “Here,” he says, handing me a score for Dvořák’s Symphony Number Nine. “Come on, get back up on stage. We’ve got work to do.”
I take the heavy manuscript from him and run my hand over its smooth paper surface. When I look up at him again, his gaze tells me everything I need to know. I can do this. I will do this.
“All right,” I agree finally. “I’m in.”
I get back up onstage and take my place on the podium. It feels good. It feels right.
…
Wednesday March 29th 11:35 p.m.
K: OMG OMG OMG!!! I’M going to conduct the Dvk9 with ShepU Orch!
D: Doesn’t Gabe Giovanni conduct that concert?
K: He tripped on the ice and broke his leg :)
D: Umm… Schadenfreude much?
K: Didn’t mean it like that!
D: You didn’t “help” him fall did you?
K: What? No! I’m just PDH because he wants ME to conduct in his place!
D: PDH?
K: OMG buy a glossary or something. Pretty Damn Happy. UR the 1 who wanted to text!
D: IKR?
K: Oh-Ho! Look at you, Mr. TextyPants :)
D: I miss you.
K: Me, too.
D: I’d like to see you.
K: You will. In class on Friday.
D: Couldn’t you manage to come by for office hours tomorrow?
K: Danger! Danger! Flashing lights, screeching sirens! Armed men with dogs!
D: Oh, for God’s sake. Just say NO next time.
…
Saturday April 1st 3:35 p.m.
D: Are you hearing this?
K: What? The out of tune clarinets or the dragging bassoon player?
D: I was talking about the couple sitting next to you. She won’t shut up.
K: So move.
D: But I want to be near you.
K: You’re sitting in the row behind me. It’s not like we’re together.
D: How can you say that, K? I’m gazing upon your silky tresses…
K: Oh, please.
D: The way they fall in those soft waves down the back of that sassy little sweater.
K: Sassy?
D: Grrrrrrrrrr.
K: WTF was that?
D: Me. Cyber-growling when I think of how long and lean your neck is under that hair.
K: Oh. My. God. Please, make it stop…
D: Holy shit! He just whispered something naughty in her ear.
K: Who? Whose ear?
D: Girl next to you, who else?
K: How can you tell?
D: Because he whispered and smirked and the back of her ears turned beet red.
K: That’s it. No more pseudo-cyber dates for you.
Chapter Thirty-One
Drew
It’s standing room only at the Shepherd University Theater. Every seat is filled, every spare inch covered with camera, sound, and lighting equipment. Television crews are stationed around the perimeters. I’ve managed to squeeze into a row reserved for faculty and staff, sandwiched between a poetr
y professor in need of a shower and a mailroom clerk in need of a haircut.
Seated around a semicircular table onstage are three politicians who could not look, or be, more diverse. Annemarie Pugliesi, a congresswoman from New Jersey is first in the lineup. Her no-nonsense demeanor is reading as abrasive to the genteel southern audience she’s addressing right now.
Next to her is James Little, the first black governor in the history of North Carolina. He’s fairing slightly better than Congresswoman Pugliesi in that he knows his audience and has no trouble appealing to their southern sensibilities.
And finally, on the far end of the table is a distinguished looking man in his early fifties. He’s tall and lean, with dark hair and blue eyes. There’s no mistaking who he is, and not just because of his reputation, but because of his striking resemblance to his daughter. I pull my phone out of my pocket and type in a text message.
I can’t believe how much you look like your father
Katherine isn’t here tonight, afraid that her father’s campaign people might take advantage of her presence for a family photo op. And, by the look of this three-ring circus, she was smart to skip it.
The man’s got 30 years and 60 lbs. on me. If that’s supposed to be a compliment, it’s a pretty lame one.
I chuckle at her response. This is about as intimate as we can be these days. We’ve managed to keep ourselves out of trouble mainly by avoiding one another—in person, anyway. Of course, I can’t avoid her in class. And that’s where we must be extra vigilant. So I keep my distance and act like the jerk that I am so no one will be the wiser.
I glance at my watch. This thing is about to get going and I won’t be able to text her once the lights go down.
I have to sign-off for now. Are you ready for your big dinner? Call me after?
I get a thumbs-down emoji as a response to the former, and a smiley face blowing kisses to the latter. She’s stressing about having dinner with her father later tonight. It’ll be the first time they’ve been alone together in a long time. Longer, I think, than she’s willing to admit to me. I’m starting to wonder if this asshole has spoken to his daughter at all since he kicked her out of the house at eighteen. Before I can get my blood pressure up thinking about it, the house lights dim and the moderator comes out on stage. I recognize him as John Lipinski, the Dean of the Shepherd University College of Political Sciences.
Lipinski throws out a few softballs to get the three politicians comfortable. But after that, all bets are off and he’s pulling out the big guns. This guy does not mess around. He stumps Congresswoman Pugliesi on her plan to address unemployment in Appalachia, one of the areas hardest hit by the economic downturn of the last ten years. One mention of her newly planned programs to extend unemployment benefits have the audience hissing. What she doesn’t get is that this community wants jobs, not handouts.
Lipinski moves on to Governor Little, confronting him about his multimillion-dollar highway project that’s had traffic outside of Charlotte snarled for close to two years, with no sign of relief on the horizon. More boos and hisses.
And then our moderator turns his attention to Senator Tucker the Fucker Brenner of Virginia. Having seen John Lipinski go right for the jugular with the previous two candidates, I know exactly what he’s going to ask before he even opens his mouth.
“Senator Brenner, you’re sitting in a theater. A theater on the campus of a university that has a strong tradition of arts education. How do you justify your stance on arts funding?”
The senator acknowledges Lipinski with a nod and then faces the cameras. He obviously knows what the other two don’t, that this town hall may be held in North Carolina, but his audience is much, much broader. He knows that his appeal has to be not just to this region, but to this entire country. Judging by the TV cameras, this little get-together is likely to end up on CNN, MSNBC, PBS and a dozen other configurations of alphabet soup.
“It is time,” he says, pounding his fist on the table for emphasis, “to stop wasting our limited resources on pretty pipedreams when so many more important departments need that precious funding. How can we support ballet dancers in tutus when there are children in this country who go to bed hungry every night? How can we fund pornographic so-called art work when so many of our citizens are without basic medical care? And what is the point of throwing money at an orchestra attended by the rich elite, when our schools are in crisis all over this nation?”
Even as a large contingent of the audience hisses and boos, I can see how this guy has managed to gain traction for his plan to discontinue all public funding of arts organizations. Dance companies, orchestras, theaters, and museums. None of them is safe under the Tucker Brenner Bill for Arts Funding Reform. The senator seems to be unfazed by the negative response to his words.
“Okay, I’m just going to come right out and ask you this, Senator,” Lipinski says. “Are you here to announce your bid for the presidency?”
The senator looks genuinely surprised by the question, though I’m sure he’s not. Good actor, though.
“No, I am not.”
Lipinski shrugs. “Then what are you doing here? On this tiny campus in the North Carolina mountains?”
“Well, it seemed to me to be a good opportunity to discuss my bill and my platform. And, as I’m quite sure you’re aware, my daughter is a student here.”
I sit up and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as if this will get me closer to the stage somehow.
“Yes, I am aware. Katherine is a graduate student here at Shepherd University.”
“Yes. Yes, she is,” Brenner confirms with a smile and a nod.
“And, as it also happens, she is about to graduate with a master’s degree in conducting. Is that correct, Senator?”
“Yes, John, she is.”
Lipinski holds up his hands toward the ceiling in a WTF? gesture.
“A tad hypocritical, don’t you think? Turns out your own daughter’s one of the ‘entitled dilettantes’ you like to shame so publicly.”
Oh. I do not have a good feeling about where this is headed.
“And, Senator, isn’t it true that she did this against your wishes?”
Suddenly appearing on a screen behind the three politicians is a picture of a newspaper article. There’s a horrific picture of Tucker Brenner caught during one of his fiery public appearances. His mouth is open, his eyes are wild, and his dark brows are drawn into almost a point. Whoever unearthed this particular photo chose well, it makes him look like Senator Satan himself.
And then there’s Katherine, in the adjacent picture, looking positively angelic as she plays the piano on what I recognize to be the stage at the concert hall of the New York Conservatory of Music in New York City. This must be the picture that got her into so much hot water with her father. The image has captured her with eyes closed and head back, totally immersed in whatever she was playing at the time.
The headline screams Senator’s Daughter to Daddy: Tuck off!
A ripple of giggles makes its way through the audience. Still, Tucker Brenner sits there, calm and cool, the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Was there a question somewhere in there, John?” he asks the moderator.
“Yes, Senator. What is your relationship with your daughter now, and how has her decision to pursue a career in music impacted your credibility in the senate?”
“Well, first of all, let me say that my relationship with my daughter is no one’s business but our own. We are a very private family. I respect Katherine’s choices just as she respects mine. You’ll find no disparaging comments from her in any publication. Ever. As for my credibility in the senate—well, there are those who questioned my dedication to this cause in light of these circumstances, but I have demonstrated, again and again, why my bill will have a positive impact.”
“But, Senator, surely this must be a sore point between the two of you—”
“Not at all,” Brenner cuts him off. “You must keep in mind that
Katherine grew up in a very comfortable lifestyle. She isn’t really impacted by the constraints I’m discussing…”
Wait, wait, wait. Did this guy just imply that he supports Katherine? I snort and get a nasty look from the poetry professor to my right.
“Senator, why isn’t your daughter here tonight?”
“As I mentioned, we are a very private family. And I respect my daughter’s wishes to stay out of the spotlight.”
“Yes, but—”
“John, I believe that’s the last comment I’ll make on this particular subject. Now, if you’d like to discuss the bill…”
I’ve heard enough. I’ve seen enough. I stand up and shoehorn my way past the long line of legs in my row and to the main aisle so I can slip out a back entrance. Outside, the frigid air is a relief from the oppressiveness inside the theater. I look up at the cloudless sky, nothing but a vast black expanse cluttered with twinkling stars and the moon. It makes me think of Casey and how she used to lie on her back on the lawn, looking for shooting stars to wish upon.
I’m glad I don’t see one right now, because I have no idea which wish I’d make. The life behind me, or the life ahead of me?
With a sigh, I walk back to the parking lot, careful to keep my eyes on the ground so I don’t have to decide.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kate
When the black Town Car shows up, I’ve already been sitting in the restaurant parking lot for forty-five minutes. It’s not that I don’t trust my father to keep his word about this being a private get-together, I don’t trust Leandra, “The Ice Queen,” not to leak it to a reporter or two. Or ten. So far, though, no sign of anyone suspicious lurking around outside the Italian restaurant. I give my father a ten-minute head start before I get out of my car, taking one last look around for any rogue reporters.
When I get inside, I approach the hostess, a way-too-put-together model type who reminds me of Tessa Morgan. I’m suddenly regretting my decision to wear a simple skirt and tights.
“Good evening, I’m Katherine Brenner…”
“Of course. Welcome, Miss Brenner, we’ve been expecting you.” She smiles. “The senator is already waiting for you. I’m Patricia, please, come with me.”
Solo (Symphony Hall) Page 16
