Dean could understand that, considering Aiden’s injuries and all, and he wanted to be of help, if he could. But then Aiden turned to him and said, “We need to take Dad’s Tesla.”
“I thought I was gonna drive.” That had been the plan, since the trip was over two hours and Aiden was concerned about stressing his wrists driving that much.
“You are. But Dad said we can take the Tesla. It’s an automatic, so you shouldn’t have a problem.”
“I won’t have a problem driving it,” Dean replied, “but what’s wrong with my truck?”
“I’m sorry,” Aiden said, “but I can’t ride up to the music hall in a pickup truck. It’s just… not what they’re expecting to see.”
“You’re ashamed to be seen with me,” Dean said darkly.
“I am not. I will happily go out to dinner with you in the truck, or anywhere else you like, at another time. But this is essentially a job interview. I’m dressing my best, and if I have a choice between pulling up in a new Tesla or an old truck that’s obviously seen better days….” He spread his hands wide as if the answer was obvious.
Ouch.
“So I suppose I shouldn’t come inside with you,” Dean said. “You don’t want ’em thinking you’ve been reduced to hanging out with a junkyard dog like me.”
He thought that would do it. Aiden would blow up at him and tell him to go fuck himself, and then he’d drive himself down to Manchester and never talk to Dean again. But instead, Aiden said calmly, as he checked his hair for the umpteenth time in the front hall mirror, “I want you to be there, Dean. I need your support. But, yes, I do want you to put on something nice, and not show up wearing torn jeans and a sweat-stained T-shirt.”
“I don’t got anything nice,” Dean snapped.
He jumped as a hand rested on his forearm. He turned to find Mr. Scott standing there, holding a button-down shirt out to him. “This should fit you fine. Now, do us all a favor, Dean, and just put it on. You guys will have all the time in the world to argue about this after the audition. Right now, Aiden’s barely holding it together, so cut him a little slack, okay?”
Dean did as he was told, though Mr. Scott’s shirt was too tight on him, which just contributed to his irritability as they pulled out of the Scotts’ driveway. He thought back to the conversation they’d had in the truck—the one that had ended with both of them a little sticky. He’d denied thinking Aiden was stuck-up, but it was true. He did think Aiden was stuck-up. Traveling the world and making money hand over fist had just made it worse.
But Mr. Scott was right. Aiden was venturing back into the lion’s den, and he was a bundle of nerves. Dean could see it in the agitated way he kept playing the “piano” in his lap on the drive, and how distracted he was. He needed Dean to support him.
So Dean would support him. But they were going to talk about this shit later.
Manchester was a long haul down most of the state, and even the shortest route was a little over two hours. But once they’d connected to Route 93, it was a straight shot down the highway.
“Are you usually this nervous before you perform?” Dean asked, trying to find something they could talk about without snapping at each other.
Aiden seemed startled that he’d spoken. “Huh? Oh. No. I guess I’ve always been kind of cocky about it. Performing used to seem so easy.”
“Do you know the piece?”
“Of course I know the piece!” As if realizing how curt he’d been, he added, “I’m sorry. I know it. I’ve played it a million times.” He looked out at the birch and pine forest scrolling past the window. “I just… hope my hands remember….”
“What about your pills? Should you take one, so your hands won’t hurt?”
“It would just make things worse. I don’t need to be loopy.”
Dean didn’t know how to respond to that, so he turned his attention back to the road. Aiden didn’t seem interested in continuing the conversation, so Dean didn’t press him to make small talk. They rode in silence until they reached Manchester.
IT was impossible for Aiden to convey to Dean how terrified he was. He felt like a total douchebag for demanding they take the Tesla. He knew Dean was insulted, and he couldn’t blame him. But he was in full-panic mode at the moment. Martel and anyone else present at the audition would be judging him from the moment he walked in the door, and if they could see out into the parking lot, they’d be judging him the moment he pulled in.
Calm down. He forced himself to pretend this was just like all the other auditions he’d gone to, full of confidence, positive he’d blow them out of the water. He usually had. He’d been damned good.
I still am, dammit!
He had to stop his fucking hands from shaking or it would be all over.
Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to find the music hall with the help of his dad’s GPS. Dean pulled into the parking lot and shut the car off. Then he waited patiently for a long time, until he finally broke down and asked, “Are we gonna get out?”
“We’re almost an hour early.”
“Okay. You wanna go get some coffee or something?”
Aiden took a long, quavering breath and turned to look at him. Dean had a concerned look on his face, as if he thought Aiden might pass out on him or something. That, more than anything, motivated Aiden to open the car door. “Let’s just go in.”
As they crossed the lot, Aiden glanced at the side of the building and had his fears confirmed—a host of people were watching him through the plate glass windows. He straightened his shoulders and affected the haughty demeanor he’d acquired over the course of his career. The one that told people, “I’m the full package, baby, and I’m going to rock your world.”
“What are you doing?” Dean asked. “You look like you suddenly turned into an asshole.”
Aiden bit his lower lip. “Don’t. You’re going to make me laugh.”
“Maybe you should.”
“I can’t. Not right now.”
Dean sighed and shook his head as they arrived at the front entrance. “Whatever you gotta do to get through this,” he said, opening the door for him.
“YOU’RE early!” Martel exclaimed, after they’d introduced themselves.
Dean really didn’t want to be there. Well… he did, for Aiden’s sake. But he felt completely out of his element. He thought there would be just a few people—Aiden, the conductor, himself, and maybe a few others. But there were dozens of people gathered in the hall. He assumed they had to be the members of the orchestra, since many were tuning up woodwinds and brass instruments. The theater seats were empty, except for one mysterious figure sitting way up in the back.
“I know,” Aiden said. “We overestimated how long the trip from Springhaven would be. I don’t mind waiting.”
Martel fluttered his hands melodramatically. Dean didn’t like to jump to conclusions about a man’s sexuality, but he’d lay odds on Martel being gay. “Oh, no! I don’t think we need wait until two. I put out the word you were coming this afternoon, and most of the orchestra came here straightaway. We’re just waiting for a few stragglers.”
Aiden would have to audition in front of the entire orchestra? Dear God, don’t let him fall apart.
“I apologize,” Martel said. “Everything’s a bit chaotic this morning. They’ve been so anxious about the possibility of canceling the performance, so I posted on our forum about your audition. Everyone’s so excited!”
Aiden spread his hands wide. “I can’t wait to meet them.”
“I know this isn’t the way things are generally done, meeting the entire orchestra before we’ve even had a chance to get to know each other, and again I apologize, but I was thinking…. What if we just dive into the concerto, once we’re all assembled, and see how far we get before it all falls apart?”
Aiden looked amused. “You think it will fall apart?”
“Oh, Lord!” Martel placed a fluttery hand against his chest. “Of course it will fall apart! And it will be entirely my fault. I don’t expe
ct you to stay in sync with the orchestra without a single rehearsal. But please indulge me. They were so devastated when… He Who Shall Not Be Named left us high and dry. It would mean so much to them if we could just hear the opening bars with the piano again. I doubt we’ll make it through even the first movement. But then we can focus on specific passages.”
“That would be fine.”
Martel looked startled, as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh! But you’ve just driven two and a half hours! Would you like a cup of coffee or some tea? We have some made back in the kitchen.”
“I’d actually like to look at your piano first.” Aiden turned to Dean and asked, “Dean, could you get both of us some coffee while I talk to Gregory?”
“Sure.”
Martel gestured toward one of the men nearby. “Jacob, would you mind taking Dean out to the kitchen?”
Thank God. Dean followed a young Latino man to a room behind the stage, where there was a small kitchen. The coffee was brewing but hadn’t quite finished yet.
“Sorry,” Jacob said, “I think if you pull the carafe out, it will stop the flow temporarily.” He looked uncertain, and Dean pictured coffee gushing out all over the place if he tried it.
“That’s all right. I can wait a couple minutes.”
Jacob smiled apologetically and asked, “Do you mind if I go back out there? I still have to moisten my reed.”
“I get it. I’m a clarinet player myself.”
“Oh, really? Which orchestra do you play with?”
Dean wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “Uh… the Springhaven Septet. You probably haven’t heard of us.”
“Awesome!” The sound of piano music drifted into the room, and Jacob looked toward the closed door with longing. “I have to go. The cream and sugar are right there on the counter if you need them.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Jacob left Dean to fend for himself, but that was all right. Dean could tell the main event hadn’t started, because he recognized the piece Aiden was playing—the Brahms intermezzo he loved so much. He was warming up, testing the feel of the piano.
The coffee finished, and Dean poured two cups. When he sipped his, he wasn’t overly impressed with the brew, but it would do. He carried the cups out into the performance hall.
“That was very nice,” Martel said, making Dean want to dump one of the cups of coffee over his head. Very nice? It had been absolutely beautiful! “How’s the piano?”
Aiden didn’t seem to mind the tepid praise. “I like it. Though one of the keys….” He struck a few high notes until he found it. “Yes, the E-flat in octave six… it’s out of tune.”
Dean couldn’t hear anything wrong with it, but Martel nodded. “Oh, that’s horrid! I’ll have someone come in. I’m afraid we’ll have to make do for now.”
“Of course.” Aiden saw Dean standing awkwardly on the floor near the stage and smiled. “Is that my coffee?”
“I’m told Theresa is on her way,” Martel said. “You have a few minutes until she gets here—traffic is awful at this time of day. Then, if you’re ready, we’ll begin.”
Aiden came down to take his cup from Dean and sipped it, sighing as if it were pure liquid sex. The sound went straight to Dean’s groin. But he focused on what was important at that moment.
“Everything all set?” he asked. What he wanted to say was “How are you holding up?” But he knew it wouldn’t help, and Aiden might not appreciate it in front of Martel and the orchestra.
Aiden nodded, still affecting the cold, aloof demeanor. “Everything’s good.”
AIDEN would have preferred to play solo for Martel the first time. It would be difficult for the conductor to hear the nuances in his performance over the orchestra. But as Martel had already said, this was an unusual circumstance. No doubt he’d want to listen to Aiden more closely after today, but the orchestra members were heavily invested in this performance. They’d been rehearsing for months with the other pianist, and now they were looking at the possibility all that rehearsal time would go to waste.
At the same time, they wouldn’t want to settle for a mediocre pianist. There was no point in going on if it simply made the orchestra look sloppy.
After Theresa—a flautist—arrived, Martel had them take their places and warm up. Aiden handed his half-finished coffee to Dean and took his place at the piano. Dean sat in the first row of seats to watch, and Aiden was amused to see him finish both cups of coffee. Hopefully, he’d remember to hit the restroom before they drove home.
At last Martel stepped up to the podium and raised his baton. A moment later the kettle drums announced the ominous first passage of the concerto, with the orchestra supporting Aiden as he cascaded down the keyboard. Within moments he was lost in the music, unaware of anything beyond the piano and the orchestra and Martel’s direction. The piece was approximately half an hour long, but Aiden had no sense of time passing.
What he was aware of was that his playing was note-perfect and expressive, flowing from his body as if his hands were one with the piano, his soul spilling out of him in a cascade of notes and harmonies. He blended with the orchestra as if they’d been rehearsing together from the first day. He hadn’t felt like this in over two years. It was euphoric! When they arrived at the end of the first movement, Martel quirked an eyebrow in surprise and paused only a moment before signaling the beginning of the second.
The concerto ended in a bombastic merging of piano, kettle drums, and brass, and after the last passionate chord, the hall fell silent. No one in the orchestra dared breathe, awaiting the final verdict of whether their hard work would go forward or not, if they would perform as scheduled in July or this last chance at pulling it together would fall apart.
It was likely to be their last chance. If Aiden hadn’t performed adequately, there would be no time to find another pianist.
Martel slowly lowered his arms, smiled at them all—Aiden, in particular—and said, “That was lovely.”
Chapter Nineteen
DEAN had been surprised he recognized the concerto. He would never have been able to name it, if Aiden hadn’t told him what it was, but the opening of it was incredibly familiar. He didn’t know where he’d heard it before. Perhaps on Bugs Bunny?
It might be wise to keep that thought to himself.
One thing he could tell, though, was that Aiden’s performance had been brilliant. He had no idea whether Aiden had missed any notes—Aiden would’ve had to belch in the middle of it or jump up and plant his ass on the keyboard for Dean to notice anything wrong with his playing. But he could tell from the gleam in Aiden’s eyes it had gone well. Really well.
Boo-yeah!
That Martel guy seemed to be happy about it too, and afterward the members of the orchestra all started talking at once, some of them going up to Aiden and saying things Dean couldn’t hear. This was obviously a big deal for them. Though Aiden had denied it, Dean knew it couldn’t exactly be flattering to be the last resort for a small orchestra in a city of just over a hundred thousand people. If Aiden had failed at this, it would have been all over. No more dreams of going back to New York and touring the world, performing in front of enormous audiences…. The thought made Dean’s chest ache.
More than the thought of Aiden recovering his career and going away again?
Dean couldn’t think about that. Not now. This was Aiden’s moment.
There was a lot of discussion after the performance, and Martel insisted on going over a bunch of passages to discuss technical details Dean didn’t understand. Dean rapidly discovered that rehearsals were boring as shit for nonparticipants. Even the strange man who’d been sitting in the back of the theater had vanished after the initial performance of the concerto. After a cup and a half of coffee, Dean was squirming in his seat. He didn’t want to interrupt to ask where the restroom was. It was too important to Aiden. He needed this.
Still, when the orchestra began packing up their instruments and Aiden came over to him, he wh
ispered through gritted teeth, “Can you ask someone where the can is?”
AFTER playing through the concerto and going over different sections several times until Martel was satisfied, Aiden’s hands did ache. But he was so elated he barely noticed.
Martel took him aside as things were breaking up. “How are you doing?” He glanced significantly at Aiden’s hands.
“I’m all right,” Aiden said. “A little sore, but nothing serious.”
“You think you’ll be up to the performance, then?”
“I do… if you do.”
Martel smiled warmly. “I do. Shall we see you at rehearsal this Saturday? Around three?”
“Absolutely.”
Still, Aiden didn’t object when Dean insisted upon driving. They had to make a stop for a friend of Dean’s in downtown Manchester before they could venture north again, but fortunately it was easy to find the shop with the GPS. Parking was more challenging, but they managed to find a spot on a side street just a block away. Unfortunately, that meant Dean had to carry a box of books for a block.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Aiden asked skeptically. “You could throw your back out or something.”
“Nah,” Dean said, looking ridiculously macho with Aiden’s dad’s shirtsleeves rolled up and his biceps bulging. Aiden was simultaneously concerned and turned on. “I gotta make the trade. I promised Lisa I’d do this for her.”
“Which means you’ll be carrying another box back to the car.”
Dean grimaced. “Let’s not talk about that.”
There wasn’t a damned thing Aiden could do about it. He couldn’t carry the box himself, and he didn’t have another box to offer to carry half the load. So he just followed alongside Dean and hoped he wouldn’t hurt himself.
The Romantic Reader was a quaint used-book store on Elm Street, sandwiched between an Indian restaurant and a dry cleaner. Dean groaned as he looked at the front window, and Aiden asked anxiously, “What’s the matter? Do you need to put the box down?”
Small Town Sonata Page 11
