Counterpoint and Harmony (Songs and Sonatas Book 5)

by Jerica MacMillan

  The recital goes off without a hitch. I nail the Dvořák. The Bach has a couple of wobbles, but only someone who knows the piece would realize it, and everyone loves the Brahms cello sonata.

  Even Charlie sneaking in and out goes smoothly. Natalie comes with her this time instead of Gabby and keeps her company. They come to my parents’ house afterward for a celebratory dinner, and my mom hugs Charlie like she’s her long lost daughter returned home.

  I catch Charlie wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, but they look like happy tears.

  We don’t get any time alone, though. So no deep conversations about our relationship are possible.

  And then I don’t get to see her again for several weeks, not until the Gem State Concerto Competition winners’ concert in Boise in mid-May.

  It seems like an eternity away when all I want to do is talk to her. Alone. Face-to-face.

  Boise’s where I made love to her again for the first time. It’s fitting that we should figure out where we stand with each other there too.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Crescendo: to gradually grow louder

  Charlie

  The house lights are already down when I slip into the auditorium. The random sounds of the orchestra musicians warming up taper off, and I know the concertmaster is about to come on stage.

  Keeping my head down and the little brim of my cute slouchy hat pulled low, I slip down the outside aisle. Carla has a seat saved for me next to her and Damian’s parents, Elisa and Hector. I listened to Damian’s recital from the greenroom at Marycliff, like I did with Lauren’s, but I’m damned if I’ll do that here.

  He’s the last performer before intermission, so I’m slipping in at the last second before the concert starts, and I’m planning on darting out during the applause once Damian’s done. Hopefully that will minimize the likelihood of me being spotted.

  For once, it’s not because I’m worried a pop-up show will be discovered in advance. In fact, if I get spotted in town at some point, it wouldn’t be the worst thing ever, because it would throw people off track, thinking I’ll do a show here when there’s not one planned. Because I just did one in March.

  While it is convenient to plan shows at the same time I get to visit my friends, the point is to spread them out, so two shows in the same place only two months apart doesn’t fit that plan.

  What I don’t want is for people to see me here. The point of tonight is to celebrate the concerto competition winners. For me, to celebrate Damian. When his mom found out I was planning on coming, she insisted that I sit with them. She was annoyed I didn’t sit with them at his recital, in fact. But there was no way for me to sneak in and out of the auditorium there. It’s too small, student recitals too sparsely attended, for my presence not to be noteworthy.

  When I’d explained that, she’d sighed but seemed to accept it.

  Here, though, there are more people, many from out of town, and it’s a community orchestra, so the audience is made up of people in the community, not just the insular music department of a university like at Marycliff.

  Clapping starts around me as I settle into the seat next to Carla. Looking up, I see the concertmaster bow, then turn to the orchestra to start the tuning procedure. There’s a grand piano on stage as well.

  Carla passes me a program and leans in close. “I’m so glad you made it. Do you think anyone noticed you?”

  I give a tiny shake of my head, not wanting to answer verbally or do anything that will draw any attention. Elisa reaches across Carla and pats my knee. I turn and give her a smile. Then we all settle in for the concert. There are five performers in all—a pianist, a clarinet player, a violinist who won the high school division, a vocalist, and Damian.

  The pianist plays a Rachmaninoff concerto—lush and beautiful. Listening to her play gives me a little pang in my chest. I had daydreamed about playing this kind of music for a short time. I love writing and collaborating on my next album, and the pop-up shows have been the most fun I’ve had performing in a long time, but I miss the weekly lessons, the constant striving to improve. Working with The Professor is a little like that. His nickname fits him to a T. He’s brilliant, but he also works closely with the artists, showing them different tricks and teaching them how to get the most out of their voices and instruments so that his job is just to take the song to the next level more than it is to fix problems in the process.

  Applause at the end of the piece pulls me out of my thoughts, and I join in. Someone stands and brings a bouquet of flowers, which she crouches down to retrieve before taking another bow. She turns to indicate the conductor, cradling the flowers in her arm as she joins the applause for the orchestra. With one last bow, she sweeps off the stage.

  Stagehands dressed in black push the piano off to the side behind the violin sections to make room for the next performer. Once again I lose myself in thoughts of what might have been had I been able to stay at Marycliff. Could I have competed in something like this? Would I have had a chance of winning, performing with an orchestra?

  No.

  That’s the only real answer. Even if I could’ve been good enough—which, given my lack of formal training for so many years is unlikely in the extreme—but even if I’d been able to overcome that hurdle, the fact that I’m Charlotte James makes competing on this stage, performing here in this way, impossible.

  This is not Charlotte James’s music.

  That thought makes me inexpressibly sad, because this music is beautiful.

  Although …

  If Metallica can perform with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, maybe I could come up with a similar project.

  I shelve the idea, though. For now. I need to get through my current album and the subsequent tour and promotional period before I can start on something like that.

  But if I could get Jonathan and Gabby’s help with the composing, and maybe Damian can weigh in too … well, that opens a whole new world of possibilities. I could even do it as a collaboration with Jonathan. I bet he’d love it.

  I’ve missed almost the entire clarinet performance, but I don’t care, because Damian’s next. I let out an ear-splitting whistle as he takes the stage dressed all in black, the sleeves of his shirt cuffed above his elbow, holding his cello at an angle so he can bow low, his scarlet tie dangling in front of it. He straightens and settles in the black chair the stage hands brought out for him after the clarinet player left the stage.

  The oboe plays an A for him, and he draws his bow across his strings, checking his tuning. Satisfied, he nods to the conductor. The conductor raises his arms and the orchestra lifts their instruments, playing the opening beautifully. Damian sits still, lost in the music, waiting for his entrance.

  It’s different from his recital, where he was accompanied by a piano and they shortened the introduction, playing only a few lines before Damian’s entrance.

  When he sets his bow on the string, his passion comes through from the first note. I watch, spellbound.

  I’ve heard him play—I’ve heard him play this piece, in fact—countless times. Not just through a closed practice room door or from behind the stage in the recital hall, either. He’s played it for me more than once. But nothing about those previous performances compares to this one, with him backed by an orchestra.

  It’s breathtaking.

  He’s breathtaking.

  Everything about his performance, the way he moves with the music, with his cello, like it’s an extension of himself, like every movement, every note, is effortless.

  I’ve never managed that with the piano, and I doubt I ever will.

  Oh, I can perform. I can work a crowd and dance and sing and execute choreography and costume changes. I’m a good performer, a good entertainer. I know this, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do what I do.

  But I am not this. I do not become this sublime creature who delivers art and beauty to earth. Communicating the heart of emotion without words. The oracle of artistry and tru
th.

  When he reaches the end, all I can think is how glad I am to be in the audience instead of backstage or in the wings. That I get to experience this the way it’s intended, not as a stowaway hidden somewhere.

  Damian stands and bows. And when his mother moves to take him the bouquet of flowers wrapped in cellophane that I just now notice she has, I hold out my hands for them. She hesitates, but when I wiggle my fingers, she hands them over.

  With a giant grin on my face, I jog down the outside aisle and cross the front of the stage, picking my way past the people in the front row so I can get to Damian.

  When he sees me coming, he stops and stares, waiting for me to get there so I can give him his flowers. He crouches down, one hand supporting his cello next to him where the neck joins the body, the bow pinched between two fingers. “What are you doing?” he hisses, but he’s smiling, even if his eyes are wide and surprised.

  “Giving you your flowers.”

  He takes them from me, glancing around at the people behind me. That’s when I notice the murmuring blending with the dwindling applause. Then there’s a flash. And another. Someone crowds in close on my right, the flash on their phone going off as they take another picture.

  The applause has completely died, and now I can clearly make out people whispering my name. The whispers are turning into full-voiced comments, and then someone shouts, “Charlotte James, sing us a song!”

  My mouth is still smiling, but it’s a frozen rictus now. Dammit. I was supposed to slip out before they turned on the house lights, not run down to the front with Damian’s bouquet. Blinking hard, I suck in a breath, prepared to turn around and offer to sign autographs at intermission and after the concert. And then make a donation to the symphony as an apology for interrupting everything.

  But before I can do any of that, Damian’s mouth firms, his eyes refocusing on me after scanning the crowd behind me. He lays the bouquet on the stage next to him and offers me his hand.

  When I don’t immediately take it, he whispers, “C’mon, Charlie. We can go out the back. Then you won’t get mobbed.”

  That’s all the convincing I need. I place my hand in his, my fingers wrapped around the meaty base of his thumb. Planting my other hand on the stage, I use that in concert with Damian’s strong pull to get up on the stage.

  We take a bow together as the tone of the crowd turns from wonder to confusion. A few people clap as we straighten and Damian places his hand on my lower back to hurry me off the stage.

  As we get to the wings, the house lights come up. A glance over my shoulder shows the conductor heading our way, his face equal parts confused and annoyed.

  “Come on.” Damian threads his fingers through mine and tugs me down a hall to a tiny dressing room. Once we’re inside, he closes and locks the door, his breath coming hard and fast as he turns to look at me.

  But then he smiles, that wide, sexy smile of his, and I can’t help but smile back.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cluster: a harmonic structure composed of seconds (rather than thirds)

  Damian

  “Do you have a car?” I ask as I start putting away my cello.

  “What?”

  I look up to see Charlie still standing by the door, her hands over her mouth, a dazed look on her face.

  Straightening up, I strap the velcro around the neck of the cello and close the case, latching it before turning to face Charlie. “A car. With a driver. That’s what you usually do when you travel, right?”

  Charlie blinks, her blue eyes coming back into focus. “Right. Yes. I do.”

  A knock sounds at the door, pulling both of our attention, but neither of us moves to answer it.

  “Oh my God,” she whispers. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  A slow smile spreads across my face. “I can’t either.” I guess I don’t have to worry about her being embarrassed about me, about us, anymore. She just made our relationship known in front of the whole auditorium. Any chance she may have had to slip away unnoticed evaporated the second she bounded down to the front with an arm full of flowers. For me.

  Another knock. This time accompanied by a voice. “Damian? Uh, you … left your flowers on stage.” I recognize the voice as Barbara, the orchestra manager.

  With a sigh, I realize she won’t go away until I at least talk to her. Gripping Charlie’s arms, I draw her gaze to my face. “Text your driver. Tell him to meet us by the stage door. Once he’s here, we’ll leave, okay?”

  She nods. “Right. Of course.”

  She pulls out of my grip and gets out her phone, moving to stand by my case so she’ll be blocked by the door when I open it. Which I only do a crack, just enough for my face and left arm to fit through so I can retrieve the flowers. Because that’s what I care about right now.

  Barbara cranes her neck, trying to see behind me, but I’m filling the opening so that she can only see above my head. Which, since she’s a good six inches shorter than me, means she can only see the ceiling tiles.

  I extend my hand through the opening, and she stares at it. “The flowers?”

  “Oh! Right. Of course. Here.” She places the bouquet in my hand, a mix of different colored roses.

  “Thanks, Barbara. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to stay for the reception. I’m sure you understand.”

  Her brows pull together, and she gives her head a little shake, her iron gray bob swaying with the movement. “Oh … but the winners are supposed to …”

  I give her a sympathetic smile. “I know. And I’m terribly sorry. Please communicate my apologies to the conductor and the other performers, as well as the audience members. Something rather … urgent has come up, and I won’t be able to stay for the rest of the concert.”

  “That’s … but—”

  “Again, I’m very sorry. Thanks again, Barbara. I’ll be sure to contact the conductor personally once the situation is … resolved.” I give her one last closed-mouth smile and close the door. In her confused face. I feel like a dick, but I don’t have a choice. Charlie can’t stay. She’ll be mobbed. We’ll be mobbed.

  Hell, even if she leaves, the people approaching me will be talking to me about her more than my performance. What happened at Marycliff after her identity came out and the spring semester started taught me that much.

  We have to leave.

  When I turn to Charlie, she has a smirk on her face. Laying the flowers on the built-in vanity, I narrow my eyes at her. “What?”

  Her eyes drift down to my crotch. “Something urgent has come up, huh?”

  Crossing my arms, I let out a snort.

  She opens her mouth to say something else, but her phone vibrates before she can say it, pulling her attention. “My driver’s here.”

  When her eyes meet mine again, the humor is gone, her expression serious. “I’m sorry, Damian. I didn’t mean …” She throws her hands up in the air and lets them fall to hit her thighs. “I wasn’t trying to make your life more difficult. I’ve always wanted to avoid that. I just …” She looks away for a second, blinking, then looks me in the eye again. “I was so excited for you. Your performance was so amazing. I wanted to be the one to give you the flowers.”

  I close the few steps between us and press a kiss to her mouth. “Don’t apologize. Maybe it’s not ideal, us having to leave like this, but I’m okay with it.”

  She smiles at me and opens her mouth, but whatever she’s about to say is cut off by another knock on the door.

  “Fucking hell,” I mutter.

  But it’s not the orchestra manager or someone trying to get to Charlie. At least not for selfish reasons.

  “Ms. James. I’m here,” a deep voice says from the other side of the door.

  Charlie clears her throat. “That’s Tony. My driver.”

  I pick up the flowers and hand them to Charlie and slip my arm through one of the straps on my case, hoisting it off the floor. At my nod, Charlie opens the door. Dressed in a charcoal suit and white shirt, Tony
looks a little younger than my dad, except he’s completely bald and my dad has a full head of hair. He holds the door for Charlie, his sharp gray eyes scanning me as I follow her. He keeps Charlie next to him, leaving me to bring up the rear as he quickly leads the way through the backstage area to the stage door.

  Curious heads poke out of the larger dressing rooms where the orchestra members keep their cases and mill around during the intermission as we pass. Conversations stop when they spot us, then exclamations of surprise erupt in our wake, like a weird doppler effect, but no one stops us.

  A nondescript gray sedan waits for us right outside the door, parked and running in the loading zone. Tony opens the rear passenger door for Charlie, and shuts it behind her as soon as she climbs in.

  I clear my throat, and his piercing eyes meet mine as I make a lame gesture toward the trunk of the car. “Um, can I put my cello in there?”

  He nods once, walks to the driver’s side, climbs in and pops the trunk for me. The way he’s been looking at me, I half expect him to drive off before I can get my cello in, much less get in the car myself. But he doesn’t.

  A head pops out of the stage door, one of the orchestra members I think, but then I’m in the car, and Tony’s driving before I even get my seatbelt buckled.

  Charlie and I exchange glances, but remain silent as Tony drives us back to the hotel. The orchestra had arranged for me to stay with a host family, but when Charlie found out about it, and that my parents and little sister were coming, she reserved rooms for all of us without even asking first, and called me to let me know. It’s the same hotel we stayed in when we were here in March.

  When Tony pulls up in front of the back entrance, I get out first, retrieving my cello from the trunk. Tony opens Charlie’s door, staying by her side as he escorts us to the staff elevator and up to Charlie’s room.

  My room is on a different floor, but now doesn’t seem to be the time to point that out. Charlie unlocks her door and holds it open. I look from her to Tony and down the hall, but she’s obviously waiting for me to follow her in. As is Tony. With a mental shrug, I step inside, and Tony nods at Charlie as she closes the door.