Maid of Honor

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Persis’s father would never be transferred because he worked for his father-in-law. He’d married the boss’s daughter and was still hoping to become president of the firm himself some day. So far, Muriel Green’s father had shown no sign of quitting, so Charles Green was still stuck with being Grandpa’s assistant.

  And Persis had stuck with her lessons. She truly loved the piano. Practice had never been a bore to her. Her marks at school were only average and she didn’t always turn in her homework on time, but when it came to music, she’d been a model student. She’d shown up on the dot with her lessons prepared, she’d remembered everything Miss Folliott taught her and used her knowledge in the right places. She’d made up her mind when she was ten that she was going to be a professional musician and had consequently developed a grown-up approach to her playing that surprised some people and either amused or annoyed the rest.

  Being so totally goal-oriented hadn’t made for all-around popularity. Persis seldom had time to hang out with her friends; there was always practice, a rehearsal, a gig to play or a lesson to give, since she’d been taking some of Miss Folliott’s beginners for the past year or so. Even the students she played with in the school orchestra got annoyed with her sometimes. Persis had this thing about wanting to quit horsing around at rehearsals and get down to making music.

  Other people’s opinions didn’t worry Persis much. She didn’t care to be everybody’s pal, she wanted to be a good pianist. She’d already begun to make her mark, earning top awards ever since she’d been old enough to participate in local and regional music competitions. Only two weeks ago, she’d won the statewide gold medal. None of her family had been there to see her, get her award because one of the neighbors had been giving a shower for Loni that night. Her mother had been angry with Persis for being hurt that her parents wouldn’t be at the competition.

  “For goodness’ sake! I went last year, didn’t I? And a more boring evening to sit through I never want to get stuck at again. I should think you might pass up the competition for once yourself. How often does your only sister get married?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Persis had replied. Her remark had not eased the tension. When she’d gotten home with her medal, she hadn’t even bothered to tell her parents she’d won it. If they didn’t care about her, why should she care about them?

  She finished “The Blue Danube” and went on without thinking to Anton Rubenstein’s “Melody in F.” The man in the second row gave her a look of hurt reproach. She threw him an apologetic shrug and switched to the “Whiffenpoof Song.” This would be her last selection. Miss Folliott was in the wings, signaling that they were ready to begin. She must be wondering where the Whiffenpoofs came from. Who cared? At least Persis now had one friend in the audience. She was almost sorry to leave him to the tiny tinklers and their nervous renderings of “Dolly’s Funeral.”

  “Well, you were having fun out there,” Miss Folliott remarked when she got offstage.

  “There’s a guy out there in the second row I was trying to keep from falling asleep,” Persis explained. “The tall one in the gray suit. I’d have played him a few Sousa marches if I could have remembered any.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t.” Miss Folliott’s voice sounded a bit strange. She was either annoyed with Persis or having an attack of nerves. Most likely nerves, Persis thought gratefully, when the teacher added, “Tie Petey’s shoelaces, will you? I don’t want him falling on his face before he gets to the piano. No, Karen, you may not wear bright purple lipstick on stage. Your mother would kill me. Fix her face, Persis, and start lining them up in order of their appearance. Got a program? Here, take this one. Come on, Betsy, you’re next.”

  Trying to cope with Miss Folliott’s jitters, Persis didn’t have time to develop a case of her own. She didn’t start to panic until she’d given a pat on the back to the last performer before her and stood alone in the wings listening to Miss Folliott tell the audience, “I’m sure my other students will forgive me for saying we’ve saved the best till the last because we’re all so proud of our interscholastic champion. Here she is, this year’s gold medal winner, Persis Green.”

  Everybody started to clap. Persis gave one last, frantic hitch to the blue chiffon stole and prayed she wouldn’t stumble in that narrow skirt. As she went onstage, she heard Miss Folliott’s urgent whisper.

  “Persis, your music!”

  “Vladimir Ashkenazy doesn’t carry music,” she muttered out the side of her mouth, and kept on going. Right now, she couldn’t call to mind a single note of her concerto. She could only hope her trusty hands remembered.

  They did. After the first few tentative notes, she simply let go and let the music happen. By the time she finished, Miss Folliott’s dainty scarf was a sweat-soaked rag around her neck, the raw seams at her armholes were sticking out, the hairdo Antoine had spent so much time fussing over was a worse mess than he’d left it, but even the man in the second row was on his. feet yelling, “Bravo!”

  All right, so she wasn’t Vladimir Ashkenazy. Maybe her concerto had been nothing more than a welcome contrast to all the Fairy Dances and Teddy Bear Marches. Who cared? What musician was going to quarrel with a standing ovation? Persis took her bow regardless of what might be happening at her neckline, was called back for another, grabbed her teacher by the hand and dragged her back to share the third. Miss Folliott hugged her in front of everybody.

  That was when Persis thought to look down at the two seats she’d so carefully saved in the front row. They were still empty. Like a true professional, she managed to get offstage before she started to cry.

  Chapter 3

  “Persis?” One of her own little pupils was tugging at her skirt. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s only a nervous reaction, Susie,” Miss Folliott explained. “It’s not unheard-of for a musician to cry after a performance.”

  “Sometimes it’s the audience that cries.” Persis blew her nose on a tissue Miss Folliott handed her and tried to laugh at her own woes. “I’m all right, Susie. I couldn’t eat before I went on. Maybe I’m just hungry.”

  “We did have some punch and cookies.”

  Miss Folliott looked around the backstage area, but could find only empty paper cups and a plate with some crumbs on it. That figured. Persis had to be a good sport about missing the cookies, too.

  At least now she could get out of this wretched straitjacket. She found her jeans and jersey and ducked into the ladies’ room. By now, the dressing room was too crowded with parents looking for their budding geniuses. No Greens among them, of course.

  Persis dragged out the business of changing her clothes as long as she decently could, wondering how she was going to get home. Miss Folliott or somebody would give her a lift, she supposed, if she asked. Some joke, the star of the evening having to thumb a ride after the show.

  She was hurt but not really surprised that her father hadn’t shown up. He’d been finding more and more excuses to work late at the office, with the wedding so near and things at home so frantic. But her mother had promised. It was pretty stinking of her, after Persis had even sacrificed her hair for the sake of that awful gown they were foisting on her.

  Maybe she’d been afraid Persis would make a scene, and she had reason to be. She’d known perfectly well Persis had intended to wear the red gown for the recital. She’d seen it when it came home from the dress shop and thrown a fit because Persis had gone ahead and bought it without consulting her first. Sending the mauve horror had been no mistake; she’d done it on purpose, and she was going to hear about it in no uncertain terms. Persis stuck out her tongue kiddishly at the cropped head in the ladies’ room mirror, splashed cold water over her face to remove the tear streaks, and went to see what was happening backstage.

  Nothing much, actually. Most of the crowd had cleared out. One or two parents were still wandering around hunting for various articles their childen had mislaid, or stopping to chat with other parent
s while their offspring hung around them whining, “Come on, let’s go. You said we could stop at the Dairy Queen.”

  Miss Folliott was wearily picking things up and stuffing them into shopping bags. Some man who looked vaguely familiar was leaning against the edge of a table, fiddling with his car keys and watching her. He must be waiting for Miss Folliott to finish her chores so they could go. Her boyfriend, Persis assumed, if boyfriends could be old and fat. Fairly old, anyway. Well, probably not much older than Miss Folliott. Persis felt a little annoyed at the notion that her piano teacher could have a man interested in her.

  Then she realized why he looked familiar. This was her friend from the second row. Apparently it hadn’t been the teacher he was waiting for, but Persis herself. When he caught sight of her coming toward him with the mauve dress over her arm, he slid off the table and stood up straight.

  “So there you are. Not a bad performance, Miss Green.”

  What did he mean, not bad? Persis scowled at him. “Maybe you could have done better?”

  Miss Folliott gasped, “Persis!”

  The man only jerked his head toward the stage entrance. “Come on.”

  Wishing she’d kept her big mouth shut, Persis followed him. He sat down, flipped his coattails over the piano bench and stretched his arms to loosen his sleeves. Even before he’d struck the opening chords of her concerto, she realized what an utter fool she’d made of herself. After a few bars, he glanced up at her with the same grin on his face she’d seen when she played him “The Stein Song.”

  “How’m I doing?”

  “Mr. Lanscome, I’m sorry,” she blurted.

  Well she might be. The last time she’d seen Frederick Lanscome at a piano, he’d been on stage at Symphony Hall and she’d been up in the second balcony wondering if she’d ever get to be anywhere near half as good.

  He let his hands fall. “Sure you wouldn’t rather hold out for Vladimir Ashkenazy? Was that really why you wouldn’t bring your music out with you?”

  “No,” Persis admitted. “It was because I didn’t have any to bring. I left it home and forgot to tell my mother to send it with the dress. I didn’t dare tell Miss Folliott for fear she’d pass out.”

  The famous pianist thought that was a riot. The next thing Persis knew, she was telling him the whole story about her horrible day. He nodded in perfect sympathy.

  “You don’t have to tell me, young woman. Wait till you go on tour. That’s when old Lady Luck really socks it to you. I once had to appear on live television before a symphony audience wearing light blue slacks and tan shoes with an evening jacket I borrowed from the third trombone. The producer stuck me behind a low screen and threatened to break my jaw if I made the mistake of standing up to take my bow. I’ll bet I was more nervous then than you were tonight.”

  “I’ll bet you weren’t,” Persis said.

  “But you came out here and laid ’em in the aisles all the same. That’s what counts and don’t you ever forget it. It is a shame about your red gown, but it’s a far worse one about that gorgeous hair. Do me a favor and let it grow back before you come to us, will you?”

  “What do you mean, come to us?”

  “Hasn’t Angela told you?”

  Miss Folliott, who’d come onstage when he’d started to play, shook her head. “I haven’t had time, Frederick. Persis, you of course know about the Master Classes for Piano Mr. Lanscome sponsors over in Lowrey. The thing is, he wants to offer you a scholarship.”

  “Me?” Persis gasped.

  Frederick Lanscome nodded. “I was one of the judges at the statewide finals. You wouldn’t remember because I had to dash off right after we’d finished judging and I don’t think you ever saw me. Frankly, I was surprised to encounter a performer of your caliber in that age group. Which isn’t to say you don’t have a long way to go yet,” he added, in case she might begin to feel too pleased with herself.

  “When Angela told me you were one of her students, I thought I’d come along tonight and see how you shaped up in a repeat performance. I have to admit I needled you a little bit at the beginning there, on purpose, to see how you’d react. You came through like an old pro, which pleased me very much. That knack of reaching out to an audience is one thing that can’t be taught. As for the concerto, you were a bit tentative the first couple of bars, but now that I know why, I guess I can’t hold that against you. So how about it. Do you think you might be interested in studying with us for the next few years?”

  Persis ran her tongue around her dry lips. “I’d be crazy to say no, wouldn’t I? I mean—well, of course! What would you—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “What’s the deal? It’s not a free ride, I can tell you that. What we offer is what we call a working scholarship. You’d have to provide your own living quarters because we don’t have any dormitories, but you’re close enough to commute so that’s no problem. We do have a dining room where you’d get your meals without charge. Some of our students work there, but I think we could use you to better advantage as an assistant instructor in our junior classes. Angela tells me you’ve already had some teaching experience with her.”

  “Yes, and she’s done very well,” Miss Folliott put in. “The children really like her.”

  “Good. And you’d also accompany other musicians in both practice sessions and performance. If it’s a school-sponsored program you don’t get paid; but we do have a good many outside requests for accompanists, and you often can pick up a fee that way. In any case, it’s professional experience you wouldn’t be apt to get at most schools. The scholarship would also save your family a fairly hefty sum of money, if that’s any consideration.”

  “It is to me,” Persis answered. “They were planning to send me to the same dumb junior college my sister went to. I’ve been fighting tooth and nail to make them let me study music instead, but they won’t listen. My grandfather says it’s not practical.”

  “Here that, Angela?” said Lanscome. “You and I have been wasting our time being impractical all these years.”

  She laughed. “Too bad we didn’t know sooner. Persis, I am sorry your parents weren’t able to come tonight. It would be nice if we could settle this matter right here and now. Of course I know it’s a busy time for them,” she added out of politeness.

  “What do you mean, busy?” Frederick Lanscome demanded. “What’s more important than their daughter’s recital?”

  “My sister’s wedding,” Persis told him. “It’s the biggest thing since Star Wars. There’s no sense trying to get them to listen to anything about me till after June twenty-fourth. About the Master Classes, Mr. Lanscome, do I still have to finish high school before I can come? I was going into my senior year.”

  She hoped he’d say she could come right along, but he didn’t.

  “You finish. As far as this coming year goes, Angela seems to think she’s taken you to the point where you’d be better off having your weekly lessons at the school. Think you could manage the commute? We can work out a time that will suit your schedule. And it’s part of the scholarship.”

  “I can manage,” Persis told him. “I’m old enough for a driver’s license and I’ve already passed my driver ed, all but the road work. I might be able to talk my parents into letting me have my sister’s car after she gets married.”

  That was pure wishful thinking. Loni wasn’t the sort to let anything out of her grabby little mitts if she could help it, and Chet might not be inclined to buy her a new car right away. No matter, the bus service between Donville and Lowrey wasn’t bad.

  “Besides,” she said, “my grandmother lives in Lowrey. I could stay with her if it stormed or anything. She has a foldaway bed.”

  “Good,” said Frederick Lanscome. “Then it’s just a matter of talking things over with your parents and getting the go-ahead. Now, Persis, since you don’t have transportation tonight, may Angela and I offer you a ride home? I thought we might stop somewhere for a bite on the way. I don’t know about you,
but I’m always starving after a performance.”

  Chapter 4

  “You’re always starved before one, too.”

  Angela Folliott was laughing at the famous pianist, teasing him as if he were just anybody. She looked young and pretty all of a sudden, Persis noticed. Or was that because Persis was seeing her tonight in a different frame of reference?

  After all, she’d known Miss Folliott all the years she’d been growing up. When she was seven, Persis supposed, anybody over ten would have looked old to her. Besides, she’d never thought of Miss Folliott as a person, particularly, but as a piano teacher. It was a revelation to find that she was not only a human being but a delightfully amusing companion.

  The impromptu supper party was a great success. This was the first time in her life Persis had been out with two people much older than she who were ready to treat her not as a child but as another person like themselves, somebody they could talk with about things that interested them all equally.

  Who’d have thought that after such a disastrous day she’d wind up sharing a pepperoni and mushroom pizza with the great Frederick Lanscome? That she’d be chatting with him about Brahms in much the same way as her friends at school discussed their favorite rock stars—only, she told herself, far more intelligently. It was a wrench when, her fabulous new acquaintance said at last, “Well, Angela, I expect we’d better get young Persis home to bed so she can let her hair grow.”

  “I should say so,” her former teacher agreed. “I didn’t realize how late it was getting. You must be done in, Persis. Maybe we ought to have called your mother. She’ll be worrying about where you’ve got to.”