From the Ashes
by Janet W. Butler
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
FROM THE ASHES
Copyright © 2014 JANET W. BUTLER
ISBN 978-1-62135-345-4
Cover Art Designed by Cora Graphics
For all those who rebuild dreams from ashes of grief, loss, or despair
and find that God does, indeed, make “something beautiful” of our lives.
Acknowledgements
For their untiring and devoted support in bringing both this author and her book to where we are today…
I thank my music teachers, “Papa G” and “Mr. Jeff”;
my former RWA chapter, Chicago-North;
and Susan Peterson, who was once my fellow traveler in Mentor Land.
PROLOGUE
Boston, Massachusetts
February 1996
“You did it, Goodwin! You son of a gun!”
James Michael Goodwin had savored those words when he first stepped offstage. But now, in the early hours of a midwinter morning, his friends’ exuberance rang hollower with each step.
Through the stage door leading out of the depths of Symphony Hall, toward the parking garage where an attendant stood ready to retrieve his black convertible, the truth now tolled like a somber bell inside his head, a macabre counterpoint to the remembered applause still ringing in his ears.
He closed the driver’s side door, switched to a public-radio jazz show on the car stereo, then swung the Mercedes through the side streets toward home. He was finished.
Too soon.
At last.
Fifteen years, he’d had, good years. Even when he never got enough sleep, playing jazz piano in smoky two-bit college rooms and seedy bars all night, then dozing in between fits of scribbling down charts in the back of the band bus. The hard work paid off in time. The crowds got bigger, the critics kinder. The CDs sold. And then came years of Grammys and flying first-class…
…and tonight, a five-minute standing ovation from a crowd known to be stingy with its praise.
Boston’s upper crust had thrown him a whale of a party. Never mind James could barely hold his champagne glass without dropping it, couldn’t shake hands without wanting to cry out in pain…
Looking down as he drove, he felt sweat bead on his upper lip. How were those gnarled, twisted fingers controlling the steering wheel? Were they this bad onstage? Had anyone known how hard he fought to play his own music? Had the crowd suspected they were watching his swan song?
He parked the car and locked it. All that mattered now was he’d left them smiling. Wasn’t that the best any man could hope for, in the end?
Inside his townhouse, the trappings of his life made a surreal, dark portrait: the oak worktable, covered with orchestral score paper and nubby pencils, the bottle of India ink, the calligraphy pens. Shrugging out of his topcoat, he crossed the room and picked up an oversized manila envelope, then slid onto a polished bench fronting a sleek ebony Bösendörfer grand. He moved to switch on the piano lamp, then decided against it, slipping the narrow sheaf of score paper out by feel. Light wouldn’t make any difference on it now.
He knew the title page already read Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, and his name. The first concerto — the one he’d played tonight — had been a gamble, a dare to himself, to reckon back to his classical training for a serious piece.
That bet he’d won. But lightning never struck the same man twice. This second time he’d tempted fate, writing that page so soon, and he’d paid for it. Stuck at the second movement, against a wall he couldn’t penetrate, he’d pleaded with the caged Muse, only to have his petitions drop into a fathomless void.
Now, one month shy of his thirty-first birthday, James Michael Goodwin was a man with his best days behind him, a man who’d outlived his usefulness. Now his failure was complete, and his silence would be eternal.
“Has-been,” Toni had taunted him. And his ex-wife had been right.
Gently, he slipped the manuscript back under cover, rose and placed it on the piano bench. It could stay as it was. Maybe someone in the music world would treasure it more that way. Like Schubert’s unfinished Eighth Symphony.
Opus posthumous.
Taking a deep breath, he crouched down and opened a squat oak cabinet, took out a half-empty bottle of scotch and a glass. He willed himself to ignore the slight spill as he poured, amber drops over the side of the glass bespeaking his unsteady grip. One finger, two fingers. He tossed down the burning liquid, quelled the urge to choke. This was his celebratory toast to himself, for knowing when to leave. A man couldn’t lose it on that.
He paused a few moments, allowed the liquor to warm and numb his senses. Then he unlocked the side door on the cabinet and drew out a third object from its secret place. His hands shook a little cradling the cool blue steel, but these quavers were born less of infirmity or even fear than genuine, if bittersweet, relief. He could stop pretending now. He could stop smiling on the outside while despair tore him in two below the skin.
It was over.
Breathing shallowly, he settled at the worktable. Swallowed back the aftertaste of scotch and defeat. Grasped the ready .38 in his left hand. Felt one last, fleeting jolt of pain as he drew the weapon upward, as he positioned it carefully at the spot where a pulse throbbed beneath his temple. Then James closed his eyes, slipped his index finger around the trigger. Caressed it for a moment. And, gently, squeezed.
CHAPTER ONE
Chicago, Illinois
November 1998
“You’d think after five years at this university,” Melody Rowland said dryly, “I’d have suspected. But I swear, Barb, I never knew.”
Barbara McMahon, secretary to the dean of the School of Music, swallowed a last mouthful of chocolate mousse before she answered. “What didn’t you know?”
“How to put on an industrial-strength party.” Melody gestured with one hand toward the sparkling ballroom, aglitter with formal gowns, chandeliers, and an ice sculpture that glowed under indirect colored backlights. “But thanks to Dean Thomas, my education is finally complete. I may never get to the concert stage, but I’ll sure know how to make use of the best room at the Palmer House!”
Barb laughed. “Don’t talk nonsense, Mel. You’ll be there, and I plan to be in the front row every time you play.”
“Barbara’s right.” Miss Harriet Rowland, Melody’s closest living relative, had just returned from the powder room and spoke up at her niece’s right elbow. “Tonight’s your Professor’s night. Fifty years teaching — that’s nothing to sneeze at. He deserves major kudos for that. Have a little faith for the rest of it, and relax.”
With that, Hattie settled her ample self back into her seat, clearly satisfied, but Melody pushed her dessert away untouched and sagged deeper into her chair. She’d done her part this evening. And she certainly didn’t begrudge her beloved teacher every minute of the fun he was having tonight. Her hands were sore from applauding, her eyes still damp with tears of laughter at the good-natured “roasting” they’d given Professor von Steuben. The only trouble was now that the evening’s festivities were winding down, at the back of her mind she couldn’t help hearing that old song, The Party�
�s Over.
Her party was over. As the room buzzed with conversation and background music, she watched it all as if from behind a glass looking in. Her piano teacher, the man who’d made her what she was musically, was calling it quits with nary a whisper as to who would take his place. At first, she’d been willing to stay in suspense. But as time had gone on without a word about who would step into the Professor’s shoes — and whom she’d be working for, as graduate assistant — she grew increasingly concerned. Tonight, she felt orphaned, the same way she’d always felt years ago when her parents took off on another of their junkets…
Get a grip, she told herself firmly. She had to snap out of this mood, and fast. But the Professor hadn’t been himself for some time; his weak heart had nearly given out twice already, terrifying everyone at school and finally forcing him to quit. He might have been preoccupied enough to forget that she had a master’s degree recital scheduled in only three months.
“I do have faith,” she murmured. “It’s just a little shaky right now.”
Barb’s smile vanished. “You? Miss Persistent? The rock of the School of Music? Don’t tell anyone, they’ll print it in the campus newspaper.”
Melody laughed dryly. “I’d settle for one tiny item on what’s going to happen come Monday morning.”
Behind her round glasses, Barb’s eyes went rounder still. “Wait a minute. You mean you don’t know?”
“If I knew, would I be worrying about it?”
“Well, you know you do get a bit obsessive,” Barb teased.
“Funny thing about music school,” Melody deadpanned back. “It tends to make you that way.” She twisted her napkin into a knot, then tossed it on the table. “All kidding aside, fat lot of good blind faith’s going to do me in February if I don’t have the best mentor I can get for the most important recital of my life.”
“But, Mel—” Barb was clearly distressed. “You do have one. Dean Thomas was supposed to tell you all about it—”
Before she could finish the sentence, a crash of cymbal from the dance band interrupted them, and the lights flickered. Then, the dean of the music school was once again on the dais, speaking into a microphone at a small brass-lighted lectern.
“Folks,” he said apologetically, “there’s one more thing we have to do tonight. So if you would all be kind enough to take your seats…”
Melody picked up her napkin again and knotted it a second time. Dean Thomas was supposed to tell her all about what? Couldn’t they have let this extra bit of fluff go by for one more second? It seemed to take years before the last person was seated and the banquet room quieted again.
“This night wouldn’t be complete without us looking toward the future,” the dean went on, his tone turning serious. “Before Heinrich leaves, he wants you all to meet the successor he has named to this important position.”
Melody felt her mouth go dry. “About time,” she muttered, to no one in particular. And didn’t miss Hattie’s none-too-subtle poke on her arm.
“There’s a story behind his choice, one he’d like me to share with you.” The dean waved to his left, where two busboys pushed a cart bearing a large rectangular object swathed in purple. One his cue they pulled away the cover, and the room let out a collective gasp.
“The picture!” Barb whispered in awe. “Wow!”
Melody didn’t answer, for she couldn’t get a word past a sudden lump in her throat. She knew that picture like the back of her hand; the Professor had hung it in his studio a mere six months ago, but it fit as if it had been made for that spot. It was a painting of a boy about ten years old with hair as black as night, intense blue eyes focused on a piano keyboard, and an older man hovering close by. The boy’s expression was rapt, almost devotional; the old man was painted as if in mist. The first time she’d seen the picture, she’d marveled aloud at how closely the older man resembled her Professor, and thought she’d seen tears in Dr. von Steuben’s eyes.
But what was it doing here?
“Most of you know that Heinrich lost his beloved wife Mathilde some time ago,” Dean Thomas went on. “But probably none of you knows that he also lost another family member…over the years. His daughter, Angela.”
“He had a daughter?” Melody sputtered, then caught herself when Hattie brought a finger to her lips. Around her she heard a sympathetic murmur course through the room.
“Angela von Steuben was the apple of her father’s eye.” The dean’s voice wavered for a moment, then cleared. “But she and her father had — troubles when she was a teenager. We can all relate, I’m sure.”
He gave a faint smile, and Hattie chuckled. This time it was Melody’s turn to aim a poke at her aunt’s elbow.
“Angela eloped when she was seventeen, and tried not to be found. For many years, she succeeded.” Dean Thomas cleared his throat again. “Over those years, she had a son whom Heinrich never knew, but who knew about his grandfather and wanted to come to visit him. He did, once, a few years ago. Heinrich, of course, didn’t know the boy, and in his ignorance unwittingly broke his grandson’s heart. It took a near-tragedy to reconcile the family.” The dean paused. “We can all be grateful that that reconciliation did take place. And this picture is a testament to that, a portrait Angela presented to her father as a gift to celebrate the family’s reunion.”
Applause rang through the room.
“The boy in this picture is grown now, of course.” The dean chuckled warmly. “More than just grown, however, he is a world-class musician in his own right. Which has suddenly made Heinrich’s retirement infinitely easier for him to take…”
Melody could sense where this speech was leading, and her heart skipped at the thought. Another von Steuben to study with? It would be a dream come true.
“I’m sure you can all guess,” the dean continued, “that it gives me great pleasure to tell you that Heinrich von Steuben’s successor is none other than his own grandson. But nepotism be hanged, we are honored and privileged indeed that this man has consented to join academia after a long and award-winning performing career. So without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I give you our newest faculty member, a man who needs no introduction…”
Melody heard the crowd erupt in incredulous cries, shouts, and applause that drowned out the dean’s final words, and knew the mystery man had emerged from the semi-darkened side of the hall and was approaching the dais. Unable to restrain herself, she stood to get a better look…then felt a dizzying wave of shock at what she saw.
Mercy. That can’t be.
Of course, the man in question wouldn’t be a von Steuben if his mother had married at an early age and he was the issue from that marriage. But did it have to be that man? More important, how could it be that man?
Even seeing him from a distance, walking with his head down and his face slightly averted, she recognized him. The entire room was in the process of joyfully recognizing James Michael Goodwin. International concert artist, Boston’s native son, grown from jazz roots to the “serious” stage. Barely past thirty, but already a household name…
…or at least he had been at the time he’d supposedly committed suicide.
Melody sat down hard, numb with disbelief and confusion, and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Her eyes followed his every move as he shook hands with the dean, embraced his grandfather, and turned to smile and wave to the cheering crowd. If ghosts could walk, she supposed they could smile and shake hands, too, but Melody still couldn’t quite absorb the sight in front of her. She’d heard rumors about Goodwin — illness, a relationship that hit the rocks, depression — and that one day it had been too much, and he’d put a gun to his head.
But that man she saw now was very much alive. And, she thought wryly, looking remarkably good for someone who’d wanted to blow his own brains out. Way too good for the sake of her blood pressure.
And way too warmly welcomed for a man who should have been persona non grata on campus.
Okay, so she hadn’t got
ten the suicide story right. Maybe she’d mixed him up with someone else. Heaven only knew she hadn’t exactly kept up with his fan club mailings. But a more important question came to mind now — why her Professor would want him anywhere near this place, much less taking over the prestigious job of piano instructor, after what he’d done, the damage he’d inflicted, the pain he’d left behind him.
Of course, she understood what the Professor was trying to do. He wanted to make up for slighting his grandson. But surely he could have thought of a better way to do that than bequeathing an honor like this on a man like James Michael Goodwin, a man who’d taken her fledgling talent and all but torn it to ribbons.
Quitting school had never looked so good before.
Melody groaned, not caring who heard her. There’d be time enough to deal with all this on Monday morning, but for now, she wanted no part of it. Grabbing up her evening purse, she bolted from her chair, only to have Barb shoot up equally fast and plant herself in the way.
“Where,” Barb demanded sotto voce, “do you think you’re going?”
Melody rolled her eyes. “I need some fresh air.”
“No, Mel.” Barb put a firm hand on her arm. “Don’t go.”
Melody shook free. “Why not?”
“Because it would be rude,” Hattie put in in a stage whisper. “That’s why not. Now sit yourself down, my girl, and mind your manners.”
Fine thing for them to say, Melody seethed, blinking back sudden angry tears. Mr. Boston Prodigy had been a thousand times ruder to his own kin not so long ago — not to mention what he’d done to her. But as she would have opened her mouth to remind them all of that, a baritone voice came over the sound system, cutting through the crowd noise like a warm knife would go through the leftover mousse on the table.
“Please — no more. You flatter me.”
If only he hadn’t spoken, Melody thought miserably, she would have been able to fake her way through this. If only he hadn’t said a word, with that voice that made its own music, with its dropped “r” and rounded “a,” with its every syllable dripping Beacon Hill polish…
From the Ashes Page 1
