Paperback Romance

by Karin Kallmaker

  “Sort of romantic-like.” Without consciously doing so, Alison found herself sitting next to Sam on the mattress, then they were falling backward. “Oh my God,” Alison said. Sam’s mouth captured whatever else Alison had been going to say.

  It couldn’t have been important, Alison thought. She wasn’t sure this was even happening. The bed was definitely on the lumpy side, but it was Carolyn’s. The bedroom was Carolyn’s, but the heavy black hair falling around her was not Carolyn’s. The mouth, soft and sweet, could be Carolyn’s. Yes, it could be.

  Sam’s hands went to Alison’s breasts and she gave a slight moan. Busy fingers were at the buttons of her blouse, then they brushed her bare stomach. Frantic, she rolled Sam over and tried to pin her down, but as she had suspected, she was no match for Sam’s strength. She was on her back again in no time, but Sam didn’t resist when Alison reached up and unbuttoned, unzipped, unhooked and pulled away every scrap of clothing she could get her hands on.

  They were both breathing hard and loud when at last they were naked and wrapping their arms and legs around each other. Sam moaned as she arched herself against Alison’s thigh, then murmured, “I wanted it to be slow.”

  “No, not slow,” Alison said hoarsely. “Fast.” She guided Sam’s hand to her and then closed her eyes against the images of Carolyn. Her mind played tricks anyway. They were Carolyn’s fingers, it was Carolyn’s mouth at her breasts, then Carolyn’s tongue teasing the insides of her thighs, encouraging her wetness. The moans of excitement, the murmurs of “yes, yes” could have been Carolyn’s as Alison gasped and climaxed.

  Then she was up off her back, over Sam’s tall, lean body. Bending, she buried her face in the curls of black hair spilling over the mattress. She moved to Sam’s breasts—dusky rose tips swelled up from the satiny brown of Sam’s breasts. She kissed and nipped in increasing frenzy. “Too fast?” Sam clenched her teeth and shook her head and Alison moved down Sam’s body to the tight curls and bristles that rubbed against Alison’s cheeks, her lips, her nose.

  She held onto Sam’s hips, her mouth and tongue never stopping until Sam lay still, her breathing ragged. Then Sam drew Alison up into her arms and Alison rested her head on Sam’s heaving chest, aware that the moisture on her face was a mix of Sam and her own tears.

  Sam rocked her for a few minutes. Her quiet, “Thank you,” only made Alison cry harder.

  ***

  Nick looked up and smiled gently when Oscar came in; she knew where he had gone. The lost Jacob still occupied a special place in Oscar’s heart. “You look better than I thought you would.”

  “I ran into Miss Vincense, the American who almost threw up on you.” Oscar went into his room to hang up his coat.

  “What is she doing in Munich?” Nick asked when Oscar returned.

  “Holiday. She has excellent taste in both music and art so I’ve agreed to escort her to the various sights tomorrow before she leaves. Despite the fact that you are a boor—her phrase, not mine—she’s forgiven me my association with you. It will be delightful to have an attentive student again since you’ve stopped listening to me.” Oscar began to make phone calls to ensure that the obligatory flowers for various performers were on their way to the theater. Although Nick pretended to study her score, she fumed when Oscar added an order of wildflowers to be delivered to Ms. Vincense at a hotel just down the street.

  What was with this Vincense creature? She hadn’t struck Nick as particularly interesting—she was probably trying to find any route into the “magic circle.” It had certainly happened before. When women got nowhere with Nick they often tried Oscar, who was at least courteous in return, which is more than most of them would say about Nick. Well, Carolyn Vincense wouldn’t get very far with Oscar. And if she started showing up in the dressing room—the publicity would be useful as always. Yes, a little publicity was an excellent reason to invite Ms. Vincense to dinner.

  ***

  Carolyn sorted through the clothes the hotel laundry had returned while she was out. She was one pair of panties short. She stood with her hand on the phone for a while, wondering if she should complain or just go back to writing the latest letter to Alison.

  They’ll ask me what they look like, Carolyn told herself. And I’ll have to confess that they’re French-cut fluorescent purple. Of course French-cut might not mean the same thing in Germany. She thought over just how she might explain all of that, in German, without blushing and decided she could buy more underwear. Maybe she could find some with days of the week on them and then she could just say she was missing Saturday or Wednesday, whichever was the case. Of course she hadn’t seen Days-of-the-Week underwear since junior high.

  She answered the knock at her door and a bellman handed her another laundry parcel and an arrangement of wildflowers, then clicked his heels and departed. Carolyn looked in the laundry parcel—her fluorescent purple French-cut panties were there, along with a shirt she hadn’t yet missed. But she thought the flowers were really going overboard as an apology for almost misplacing her underwear. Then she saw the card.

  Oscar was a very sweet man, though he would probably hate her thinking so. She dialed the number he’d written on the back of his calling card. But it wasn’t Oscar’s regally accented voice that answered—it was that elusive, modulated voice edged with impatience. She recovered from a momentary loss of speech and asked for Oscar.

  “Oscar has gone on some last-minute errands before we leave for the concert. This wouldn’t be Ms. Vincense by any chance, would it?”

  “Yes, it’s Carolyn Vincense. This must be Maestro Frost, how are you?” She decided for Oscar’s sake she would at least be cordial. She didn’t have to be friendly.

  “Fine. I was sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye in Paris, but fate has given me another chance, it seems.”

  “Unless you’re going to Amsterdam from here,” she said, “in which case I’ll see you there.”

  “No, we’re bound for Brussels.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to take your precious time—”

  “Not at all,” Nicolas’s surprisingly charming voice assured her. Carolyn remembered it when it had not been at all charming.

  “Well, if you would thank Mr. Smythe for the flowers and tell him he really shouldn’t have—”

  “I’m sure it was his pleasure. And it would be my pleasure to take you to dinner tonight, after the performance. It’s short notice, but if you have no other plans, I’d be delighted to get you a seat in the conductor’s box.” Now the voice was warm, cordial. Perhaps he was sorry he’d been so rude in Paris. Besides, she’d get to talk to Oscar over dinner. She could be pleasant to Nicolas Frost.

  “I attended last night, but I’d love to sit in your box,” she said. Cripes, she sounded like some stage-struck nymphet. She had meant to be merely gracious.

  “And dinner afterward?”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she replied more sedately. His attitude had certainly changed! Nicolas Frost was—odd.

  ***

  The view from the box was stunning. Carolyn could see the musicians’ every move and the reflection of the pianist’s hands in the dark finish of the piano as the fingers rippled out the exquisite Rachmaninoff melody. She could see Nicolas’s every gesture, in profile, feel his energy and dynamic presence. His height gave him an extensive reach, arms sweeping out over the orchestra. Otherwise slender and fine-boned, he had broad shoulders.

  It was not the body that intrigued her, though, but the hands. Even with Nicolas’s hands in gloves Carolyn could follow the ripple and expression of every finger in the free right hand, as it traced graceful patterns in the air. His left hand alternately gripped and gently held the baton that marked the tempo in a twirling triangle that ended with an unmistakable downbeat. The more she watched the more convinced she was that the real power was in the most subtle movements of the left hand. When Nick’s hand clenched the baton the basses surged. If the baton held for even a heartbeat at the top of the triangle patte
rn the musicians would lean forward slightly, then slump back to their instruments with renewed passion and artistry when the baton fell.

  Enthralled, Carolyn watched as Nicolas seemed to pour every emotion into the musicians. The guest pianist rose to the occasion again and again in swirling crescendos that faded into the musical equivalent of moonlight. As the melody line swelled, it was Nicolas’s arms spread in appeal to the violins and piano that caught Carolyn’s imagination. Tension and energy seemed to beat from baton to musician and back again. Unbelievably, this performance outdid the previous night’s. Surely Alison would love classical music if she heard Nicolas Frost bring it to life. She wished Alison were there.

  Nicolas Frost virtually ran from the stage, returning a few moments later to acknowledge the applause and bring the musicians to their feet. A hearty handshake was shared with the pianist and then all bowed again and Nicolas followed the pianist from the stage. Carolyn’s box was opposite the musician’s entrance and through the backstage shadows she could see the pianist and Nicolas gesturing and shaking hands enthusiastically.

  The musicians began returning. Carolyn breathed in deeply as a bass practiced the low melody line of Seigfried’s Funeral March. The Wagner was next.

  ***

  Usually by the time Nick reached the top of the runway to the podium her mind was blank except for the music to come. But across the stage, by mere chance, she caught a glimpse of Carolyn Vincense. She was no longer pale as she had been in Paris—her face was aglow with pleasure, pleasure Nick knew somehow she herself had wrought. Giving pleasure to another woman—Nick clenched her hands and ruthlessly drove the idea from her mind. She touched the baton and everything slipped away. Her mind went blank. Her vision dimmed and the silence in her mind grew. She gathered herself and raised the baton, knowing the emptiness in her mind would be filled little by little as she summoned each instrument into its place.

  This is why I live as I do.

  The music would fill her. The Wagner arrangement she had created filled her own inner silence—she lived through the moments of music. She wasn’t the conductor, she was the instrument, and the music stroked every tendon, pressed every nerve.

  And she soared.

  ***

  Carolyn was applauding madly when Nicolas returned to the stage for the fourth time. That arrangement should be recorded—Wagner in Germany, maybe that had something to do with the way the music had seized her imagination, calling forth images of scented gardens and moon-drenched nights, sweeping away rationality.

  Nicolas shook hands with the concertmaster and turned again to the audience, bowing. From the side view of the box, Carolyn saw the unbelievable—a full smile that transformed the angularity of Nicolas’s face to soft planes. There was something familiar about Nicolas with that smile, but it was gone in a flash.

  As the boxes emptied, Carolyn went around backstage and gave her name to the porter, who let her pass. She murmured, “Schuldigung Sie mir, pardonnez moi, s’cuze,”as she forged her way through the crowded hallway. When she finally reached the open door of the conductor’s dressing room she hesitated. No doubt there were some famous people in there and, for a long moment, Carolyn felt very much like an ordinary woman from Sacramento, California, and she didn’t know what on earth she was doing outside a conductor’s dressing room.

  She heard Oscar’s voice then, and her own self-confidence reasserted itself. She was, after all, a successful writer, and she could always talk to Oscar. She squared her shoulders, pretended she had Alison’s confidence, and went inside. Oscar saw her immediately.

  “Carolyn, how lovely. Nicolas said you would be in attendance this evening. What did you think?” Oscar’s expression was light and joyful, as if the music had washed away the sorrow of the afternoon.

  “I’m no critic so I don’t have the words to describe it. But I thought the top of my head would come off.”

  Oscar smiled. “Very apt—that’s what I thought as well. Now you must tell me where you would like to go tomorrow.”

  Carolyn rattled off her list, laughing when Oscar rolled his eyes at the most obvious tourist attractions.

  “Perhaps I can talk you out of those over dinner after this crowd leaves. Something small and light to top off the day in a civilized manner,” Oscar said.

  “Uh, I’m already tied up,” Carolyn said. Now she felt awkward. Obviously Nicolas hadn’t told Oscar about dinner, which meant that Nicolas hadn’t intended Oscar to join them, which meant—oh my God—it was a date. She had agreed to a date with a man she didn’t even like.

  “But of course you are,” Oscar said, “and it makes absolute sense that you would be dining out with someone other than an old, crusty music critic.”

  “You aren’t old and crusty,” Carolyn protested. “It’s just that Nicolas invited me out when he offered the box seat.”

  “Really?” Oscar exclaimed. His eyes narrowed and something told Carolyn he wasn’t pleased. “Come,” he said abruptly, “you must meet everyone.”

  ***

  Nick mopped the back of her neck as she tried to find a word or two in her scattered German to express herself to the guest pianist. She wanted to tell Heinrich how wonderful he had been. It had been an exhilarating performance—even more so than last night’s. Oh, everything was worth it.

  She turned from the pianist as Oscar interrupted them, smoothly introducing Carolyn Vincense. She immediately knew why she had asked Carolyn to dinner—how could she have forgotten those blue eyes? She glanced at Oscar and caught the tail end of a disapproving glare—Oscar definitely looked ’narked. Nick guessed he’d found out about the dinner invitation. Okay, she hadn’t realized the extent to which Oscar liked Carolyn—an extremely rare occurrence—so it looked as if she would have to abandon the public relations plan she’d been considering. She would be nice to Carolyn Vincense. No more than nice. She didn’t attribute any motive other than pleasing Oscar to her change of motives and plans. It would be wonderful to relax over dinner someplace quiet instead of playing head games in Munich’s equivalent of the Savoy. They could just have a friendly, simple dinner.

  Oscar continued introducing Carolyn to the other people crowded into the dressing room, announcing her name with the gravity he usually reserved for royalty and adding the imposing information that she was a successful writer. Nick envied Carolyn’s fluent German. It sounded perfect. When Oscar gravitated Carolyn back toward them Nick found herself asking for a favor.

  “I want to tell Heinrich how masterful his Rachmaninoff was but the only language we really have in common is music,” Nick said. “Of course I know German musical terms, and a little conversation, but I’d like to be clear. Would you translate for me?”

  She watched a faint blush climb Carolyn’s cheeks as she nodded. “Of course.”

  “Please say that his grasp of the cadenzas exceeds any I have conducted—” Nick broke off when Carolyn put her hand on Nick’s sleeve and began to translate. She squeezed Nick’s arm as she paused. “And while some of the other musicians may not agree with us, the primary themes should give way…” Nick went into minute detail, pausing each time Carolyn squeezed her arm. She was finally able to express herself to the pianist who shared a very sympathetic view of Rachmaninoff.

  She heard the word prächtig, magnificent, which had been one of the last words she’d said. Heinrich then spoke volubly, stopping only when Carolyn put her hand on his arm, as she had Nick’s, to make him pause. Nick’s arm felt warm where Carolyn’s hand had been.

  “He says that he is honored to have been conducted by you. A crime, what’s a crime, oh—it will be a crime if your Wagner arrangement is not recorded soon. I quite agree,” Carolyn said. Her eyes were piercing Nick with a focused blue gaze of concentration. “Perhaps when you are…at your zenith and recording the Rachmaninoff for posterity you will remember him…” Heinrich bowed slightly and then they were distracted by new arrivals. Somehow it seemed quite natural when Carolyn continued to translate for
Nick. How had she survived without the services of a translator?

  After a few minutes Oscar stepped in and the conversation switched to English as Oscar guided the discussion of the night’s music, deftly pointing out the finest moments of the performance in such a way as to make them occur to the critic as his own original thoughts. Nick was sure the review would reflect each of Oscar’s points. The critic left satisfied, the room at last quieted down. Nick found herself only half listening to the prattle of the first violinist, who was sure he was God’s gift to music. His technique was excellent but he had the musical soul of a turnip.

  Nick felt the adrenaline subside and decided dinner was moving up on the priority list. The room was emptying and she caught Carolyn’s attention. “How about dinner? You’ve earned it.”

  “I didn’t think I’d be hungry this late at night, but I am,” Carolyn said. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “Let me change and we’ll go.” Nick stepped into the anteroom but not before she caught another of Oscar’s disapproving glares. Carolyn was in safe hands, Nick wanted to tell him. She made sure the door was firmly locked, then removed her shirt. She looked at the binding layers of gauze in the mirror. She wanted to take them off and present herself to Carolyn as a woman. That realization made her stomach do a slow flip-flop. Carolyn was, with almost one hundred percent surety, going out with Nick because she thought Nick was a man. It was a date. So how could she present herself to Carolyn as a woman and hope for a flicker of interest? She wanted Carolyn’s company, but she would have to stay a man to have it.

  Chapter Five

  Crescendo

  Despite her sudden eagerness for a quiet dinner, Nick didn’t mean to enjoy herself—not this much anyway. Carolyn was unlike most of the people she met these days. She was quiet and lovely in an unexotic way—more Brahms than Stravinsky. It didn’t matter that the image of robins’ eggs was corny, Carolyn Vincense’s eyes were precisely that shade of blue. After the company of violinists and concertmasters, Carolyn’s presence was restful and undemanding; once Carolyn relaxed a little, Nick found talking to her very easy.