Playing the Maestro

by Aubrie Dionne

  Sandra Templeton. Blake’s flute goddess of a sister.

  Melody stiffened in her seat on sudden alert. What is she doing here?

  Thank goodness Carly nudged her arm and whispered, “Twenty-eight…twenty-nine…”

  Melody whisked her flute to her lips just as Wolf cued her for the entrance. His blue eyes were ice cold, and his lips pulled together in a tight frown. When Wolf signaled anyone else, he beamed welcomingly, as if he was sending out an invitation to join the most exquisite party the Wallsworth auditorium had to offer.

  When he cued her, it was like someone inviting their in-laws to their honeymoon.

  Was it because of that first day when she didn’t have the music? Or because of her errant comment about his sour expressions?

  No matter how well she played, she couldn’t win his attention or praise. Melody started to wonder whether he didn’t like her sound or just didn’t like her. At first, she’d thought of it as a challenge to win back his respect, but after three rehearsals full of callous glares, she wondered if she’d be packing her bags after this concert. And her replacement already sat waiting for her empty seat, flute in tow.

  Taking a deep breath, Melody focused on the music. She wasn’t going to let the presence of one of the most renowned flute geniuses of her generation intimidate her too much. What would she want with the Easthampton Civic Symphony, anyway? When the final notes of the piece rang throughout the hall, she put her instrument down in triumph. Take that, girl with the golden flute.

  Wolf placed his baton on his stand as people closed their black folders and cleaned their instruments. Sandra stood and walked with purpose to the stage.

  Carly dumped her reed water behind her and turned to Melody. “What was that all about? You never miss an entrance.”

  Melody nudged her chin forward just as Sandra extended her hand to Wolf. “What’s Blake’s sister doing here?”

  Carly snorted. “Probably traveling from New York to visit her brother.”

  “Then why does she have her flute with her?”

  “She could have come from a rehearsal.”

  Melody settled back in her chair. Maybe she was being paranoid; all Blake’s talk of change with the orchestra had gotten under her skin. Ever since she lost that youth orchestra seat in high school because she’d been outplayed by a student from New York, she’d been looking over her back. “You’re probably right.”

  Just as she spoke, Sandra reached into her coat pocket and brought out a piece of paper with the Easthampton Civic Symphony seal on the top. Melody’s jaw dropped and she froze. No. This can’t be happening. What would the top flutist in New York want with the Easthampton Civic Symphony?

  Carly followed her friend’s gaze. “Is that the concerto form?”

  Melody narrowed her eyes. “Yep.”

  Carly grabbed Melody’s chin and pulled her head away from the scene. “Listen, Mel. You got this. You’ve been practicing that concerto ever since your NEC days. I’ve heard it so many times, I could play it on my oboe, for God’s sake.”

  “But she studied with the principal flutist of the New York Phil. When she was only ten years old. I was taking lessons at the local music store from a saxophone doubler!”

  “And since then you’ve studied with some greats yourself.” Carly patted her arm. “Just keep practicing and don’t worry about that flute witch.”

  Carly was right. This was Melody’s orchestra, and she had to defend her own turf. If it took every single spare second she had, she’d play the concerto until it was tattooed on her brain.

  “What you need is a drink, hon. A bunch of us are going out after rehearsal.” Carly ran her purple cleaning cloth through her oboe. “Wanna come?”

  Melody snapped her case shut, considering her friend’s offer. A drink sounded like the perfect thing to get her mind off Sandra and Mr. Stoneface. “A bunch of us?”

  “Don’t worry, Blake isn’t coming. I don’t think that man drinks anything besides purified water.”

  Melody rolled her eyes. “Of course. We’re such slackers.”

  Carly laughed and pulled Melody up. “Come on. The Neighborhood Grill is waiting, and there’s a mango margarita with my name on it.”

  Melody and Carly left the stuffy auditorium and walked into the breezy night air. Melody pulled the pencil out of her bun and let her hair fall down her back. She slipped off the prudish button-down shirt she always wore to look professional at rehearsals, revealing her lacy tank underneath. As the breeze cooled her bare skin and fanned her hair out behind her, she pretended they were back at NEC, roaming Massachusetts Avenue, dreaming about when they’d play at Symphony Hall, believing endless opportunities rested at their fingertips.

  “Remember when all we had to worry about was voice leading in theory class?”

  Carly laughed. “I hated theory. Personally, I’m glad to be done with all that homework.”

  Melody shrugged. “It just seemed like life was simpler then.”

  “What’s making it so complicated now?”

  Melody sighed. Everything. How to make a living with a dying art form in a world where Lady Gaga sold more than Beethoven and Mozart. How to balance music with a nonexistent personal life. How to find a man who would understand why she spent so many hours playing etudes and scales.

  Carly had three orchestra jobs and organized a local concert series for new compositions. She lived and breathed music, and she didn’t seem to want anything else. But for Melody, struggling to pay her rent for her miniscule excuse of an apartment, defending her flute chair every year, and traveling each weekend to play at weddings on the coast wasn’t enough.

  She wanted more. How could she explain that to her friend?

  They rounded the corner and Melody pointed at the clear glass facade below the neon sign for the Neighborhood Grill. A line had formed at the waitress station. “We better hustle if we don’t want to wait an hour for our food.”

  They shuffled across the street. The warm breeze turned into a cool chill as they entered the air-conditioned pub. A jazzy blues band played in the corner and red-tinted lights cast the tables in a sunset hue. The place had been an old fire station before a local family restored it, keeping the overall feel of the wood and colonial architecture. Ivy wrapped around the firemen’s silver pole jutting from the floor to the ceiling in the room’s center.

  Carly went up front to ask about the wait as Melody filed in behind Dulcy, the French horn player, and Gary, the bassist. Members of the orchestra took up most of the tables and half the bar. Melody cursed her overly thorough habit of cleaning and polishing her flute. Her keys wouldn’t stick the next time she played, but all the violinists had beaten her and Carly to the best seats.

  Carly leaned over. “Waitress says we can wait thirty minutes or sit and order from the bar.”

  Melody’s stomach rumbled. “I’ll take the bar.”

  “Good choice.” Carly pulled her through the crowd and to a few open seats at the bar.

  An older man with a paisley bandana covering most of his gray hair came over. “What can I getcha?”

  “I’ll have a Heineken.”

  Carly slapped her arm. “A Heineken again, Melody? That stuff’s like drinking antiseptic”

  Melody shrugged. “Ever since my dad bought me one on my twenty-first birthday, I haven’t liked anything else.”

  The bartender smiled. “It’ll grow hair on your chest.”

  Melody laughed. “Excellent. That’s just what I want.”

  “And I’ll have a mango margarita.” Carly winked at Melody. “I’ll pass on the chest hair.”

  “Coming right up.” The bartender walked to the other end of the bar and wiped down two glasses.

  “Hair on your chest?” Carly shook her head. “Has Blake made you swear off men forever?”

  “Just musicians.”

  Carly nodded. “Probably best.” She leaned in and whispered, “Hey, is it okay if I hit up Dulcy about a gig?” Melody smiled and nod
ded as the bartender brought back their drinks.

  “Go for it.”

  Carly sipped the salt rim of her peach-colored margarita and turned around to the French horn player sitting on the other side of her and started up a conversation.

  Sipping the frothy part of her drink, Melody studied a knife carving scratched in the bar. Jack + Julie foreva. She traced the letters with her fingernail. Two people frozen in a moment in time. Were they still together? Out there somewhere stargazing, on a cruise, or raising a family?

  Gosh, I’m such a hopeless romantic. She couldn’t help but imagine her name there. Whose name would be scrawled with hers?

  “A Heineken lover, eh?”

  Melody froze, her fingernail still in the curl of the F. She’d know that accent anywhere. Taking a deep breath, she turned around.

  Wolfgang Braun stood in front of her wearing a snug-fitting T-shirt that hugged his biceps, loose-fitting, low-rise jeans, and loafers. Fittingly, he looked like he could have stepped out of a Heineken commercial.

  He gestured beside her. “Is this seat taken?”

  Melody glanced around. The entire room was brimming with people. In fact, the only open seat was next to her. She couldn’t turn him down—it would be like throwing him on the street.

  “Sure. I mean, no, it’s not taken.”

  Wolf settled in beside her and her entire body tingled as if struck like a tuning fork. His arm brushed hers as he gestured for the bartender. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  Melody’s cheeks started burning, and she sipped her drink to cover her reaction. What was he doing sitting next to her when he didn’t even give her the time of day in rehearsal?

  Because it was the last seat open, dummy.

  “Any suggestions on the menu?” Wolf opened their plastic brochure and flipped to the burger section.

  Melody shrugged, trying to find something, anything to say. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Good. We can order something together.”

  Together? She almost spit out her beer. Was this some type of peace offering for having given her the cold shoulder?

  Carly poked her arm and Melody whirled around. “My, my. Got a drinking partner, eh?”

  “Shut up,” Melody hissed. “Think of something to say so I don’t have to talk to him.”

  Her friend smirked. “Sorry, I’m drawing a blank.”

  Carly having nothing to say was like pigs flying in a blue-mooned sky. Melody gave her friend the meanest look she could conjure and turned back to make sure Wolf hadn’t overheard their bickering.

  He pointed to a platter with sweet potato fries, chicken fingers, and nachos. “What do you think of this?”

  Her stomach rumbled again despite the tense situation. Melody could always eat, and those sweet potato fries looked pretty scrumptious. “Sure.”

  “Great.” He folded the menu before she could see the price. The bartender was busy helping the brass section with second drinks, so he waved a waitress down.

  “We’ll have the trio platter.”

  The young, curvy woman placed a strand of bleached, white-blond hair behind her ear and looked him up and down. She smiled so widely Melody thought her lips would split open. “Absolutely. Right away.”

  After she jotted his order down on her notepad, the waitress gave Melody an I-can’t-believe-he-picked-you look and swung her hips as she walked away.

  Melody scratched her forehead to hide her sour face and turned back around to the bar. If only she knew how much he disliked me.

  Now was the time to come clean, to lay all her cards on the table if she was ever going to keep her job. “Listen, Mr. Braun—”

  He held his hand up to silence her. “Call me Wolf.”

  “All right. Wolf.” The nickname definitely sounded better and fit him more. Otherwise, she felt like she was in music history class. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: born 1756, died 1791. Melody took a deep breath. “I know we didn’t get off to a perfect start.”

  He looked at her as though he’d randomly forgotten how to speak English. “Oh, that? I’d completely forgotten.”

  Melody stared in utter disbelief. Completely forgotten? So why had he given her the cold shoulder all this time?

  “Things happen,” he continued. “You did a superb job sight-reading that night.”

  Melody settled back into her chair as warmth from his compliment bloomed in her chest. Finally, some approval. “Thank you.”

  “You are a fine player, Miss Mires.” He stared at his drink as he said it, as though he couldn’t come to terms with her being so good.

  The waitress butted in, positioning her body between them. She set the platter on the bar and winked at Wolf. “Enjoy.”

  He nodded and gave her a pleasant smile. “Thank you.”

  Melody drummed her fingertips on the table. If Blake influenced Wolf at all, there was nothing she could say or do that would convince him to keep her. She’d have to bite the bullet and find a new place to play. Besides, she didn’t want to be a part of an organization that fired its loyal employees.

  She needed to find out more about Wolf’s intentions.

  “Are you going to try it, or are you going to make me eat the whole thing?” He smiled, waving his hand over the food.

  Melody calmed herself. The alcohol was getting the better of her, and she had to keep it cool. She didn’t want to talk to him at all, really, considering how he’d treated her in front of the orchestra, but she needed answers before she jumped to any conclusions. She picked up a fry, dipped the end in ketchup, and took a bite. “So what’s your plan for this orchestra?”

  Wolf leaned in, his face inches from hers. “We’ve got a lot of things in the works.” He popped a nacho in his mouth.

  “Such as?”

  …

  Wolf sighed, regretting his choice of neighborhood bars. When he’d first seen Melody sitting next to the only empty seat, he thought maybe he could smooth things over a little and prove he wasn’t the snob she thought he was. But now, his gesture had bitten him in the butt. Now Melody wanted answers he couldn’t give.

  She tapped her fingers impatiently, crooking her pretty, arched eyebrow.

  Wolf popped another fry to buy time. “I approached a few high-profit donors last week with an offer to sponsor a chair in the orchestra. One of them even chose the flute.”

  Melody nodded, her eyes sharp and penetrating. “And the audience attendance?”

  Wolf drank his beer and pondered just how much to tell her. “I have a few ideas to boost enthusiasm for classical music, starting with the area’s youth.”

  Melody took the last swig of her Heineken, impressing him. She’d drained the whole glass. “And the current personnel?”

  Wolf rubbed his temples. Damn, she’s bold. “What about them?”

  Melody’s face drooped as if she’d swallowed a French fry the wrong way. “Some of those older musicians have played with the orchestra since they were kids. Like Bertha Payne, for instance. I remember going to this orchestra’s concerts as a kid, and there she was, sitting in the back row. Her husband passed away five years ago, and this orchestra is everything she has. The music keeps her going. I don’t know what she’d do if someone told her not to come anymore.”

  Wolf was well aware of Bertha Payne. He’d read about her husband’s contribution to the orchestra in old program notes. Bertha reminded him of his late grandmother—she was the last person he wanted to fire.

  A current of guilt spread through him. Why not tell Melody everything? How he’d escaped from a bad relationship in Germany to this new opportunity. How he’d longed to make his family of lawyers and businessmen proud of his musical career.

  Wolf wished he could give Melody more to go on, but with Blake breathing down his neck, he’d rather play it safe. Besides, he’d been burned once before. “Due to contractual obligations, I’m not at liberty to say. Although the last row of violins is the least of my worries.”

  Melody blinked in su
rprise. Her fingers fumbled and she tipped over her empty glass with her arm. They both dove for it before the glass hit the floor. Melody’s hands closed around it, and Wolf’s hands closed over hers. Her skin felt hot as fire, lighting up his arm with heat.

  “Are you okay, Miss Mires?”

  Melody froze and looked down in horror as if he’d stolen her hand. “Um, yeah. The bar isn’t level.”

  “Of course.” Wolf dropped her hand like the lead violist dropped the beat. Did she really find him that unappealing? If so, nothing short of saving the entire orchestra would earn her trust.

  Looking at her pretty face, he decided he just might want to—even if it was only to right her wrong opinion of him. For some strange reason, he couldn’t live with her thinking he wasn’t a good person.

  His gaze traveled over her in one last longing look before he quelled his desires. “If you’re done with your interrogation, Miss Mires, I’d like to get back to my work. I have a donor meeting early in the morning.”

  “B-but—”

  “Nice talking with you.” Wolf slipped two twenties underneath the platter and walked swiftly to the exit.

  Chapter Four

  Confronting His Fears

  The humid night air hit Wolf in a soothing bath of relief even though the evening was twenty degrees warmer and stickier than that air-conditioned bar. Just sitting next to Melody turned him into fire. She was everything that Alda was not: talented, direct, open, kindhearted. When he leaned in close, she didn’t smell of candy apples, sugary and sweet enough to make your teeth rot with no depth underneath. Her hair had the distinct scent of lavender, and her skin of chamomile, healing herbs his mother used to make tea. Melody’s features were softer, smaller, and rounder, with less exaggerated angles. Her voice was softer and sweeter, without the cloying twang of annoyance or sarcasm.