Tallis' Third Tune

by Ellen L. Ekstrom

  I shook my head and choking back a sob, asked, “Did you know?”

  He winced and nodded. “I didn’t think it would blow up in my face. I called Harry and asked what would be a special present for you, since I never seem to get it right and he suggested the concert when I told him some ideas – he said the Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis was your favorite classical piece. That much I knew, and when I heard that the Orchestra was beginning a U.S. tour here, and I saw the program, I thought it would please you. I didn’t know about you and Radcliffe – at least I didn’t know he was the friend who broke your heart. I’m sorry, Angel. I wanted to please you for once.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I reached for his hand and smiled. “It was a thoughtful gift; thanks.”

  “It comes with a second half. We’ve been invited backstage and to the reception for Radcliffe. Mother’s art foundation put it together.”

  I took the handkerchief offered and dabbed my eyes with it.

  “Would it bother you to go?”

  The voice had that argumentative edge. If I had said yes, I knew what the conversation back to the hotel would be; there would be hours of interrogation over what I had long ago decided would be private, but Donovan would ask again and demand answers and hope that I would slip up or admit something that would give him license to neglect me, or worse, to drink.

  I waited a moment, perhaps too long a moment, and shook my head. It was a moment, too, before Donovan smiled – perhaps disappointed – and held a hand out as I stood. “Hopefully Radcliffe will get you to smile,” he said.

  We were escorted backstage by a security guard once Donovan showed his credentials and more importantly, had been recognized as the son of Senator and Arielle Trist. Society mavens stopped pushing their way towards the dressing room when we entered the corridor and stared at Donovan, then at me, whispering behind their hands and programs.

  The door to the dressing room was open and I could see Quinn surrounded by adoring patronesses of the arts and their single daughters – he had been profiled in the Times entertainment page that morning, which revealed nothing new to me; that he was a talented and dashing, handsome and available young man.

  “Wait here,” Donovan murmured as he left me in a corner. He pushed forward to use his clout for a private audience.

  Quinn towered over those pressing in for autographs and attention and I watched as he turned when he heard his name and shook Donovan’s hand, smiling and thanking Donovan for the welcome to Lincoln Center. Quinn bent forward to better hear what Donovan was saying and then glanced in my direction.

  It was a theatrical moment: Quinn staring at me while Donovan kept talking about his family, particularly his mother, and it seemed as if we two were the only ones in the crowded dressing room. He looked at Donovan and then at me and listened intently, finally nodding as Donovan extended a hand in my direction. They were both coming towards me and I felt as if my knees would buckle. My heart was pounding and I knew I would be sick. Quinn was a few feet away when the Director of the Center suddenly appeared with photographers and he was lured back on stage for a photo op. As he left, Quinn stared at me again for a painfully yet wonderfully long time, and I stared right back. He offered a loving, tender smile that wasn’t lost on Donovan, who, failing to secure his private audience with classical music’s latest wunderkind, was agitated and annoyed – and why wouldn’t he be, if he could read all the signals?

  “I suppose it’ll be the same at the reception,” Donovan groused as we walked towards the exit.

  “We don’t have to go,” I said as cheerfully as I could.

  “But he’s a friend and he seemed really interested in seeing you again.”

  “Well, if you think it’s that important, we can call his manager and set up a lunch or dinner while he’s in town,” I said dismissively.

  “Why don’t you do that?”

  “Don’t have his number.”

  We were outside on Broadway and 65th Street under the Grand Stair, waiting for our car to be brought around.

  “Alice!”

  Quinn’s shout made Donovan tighten his hold on my waist and we turned as one as Quinn sprinted towards us. Concertgoers paused to whisper and stare at the conductor of the Royal Philharmonic as he took the steps two at a time and landed almost at our feet. It didn’t help that photographers were following him.

  “Maestro,” Donovan greeted, a hand outstretched. Quinn shook it firmly, but his eyes were on me.

  “Alice,” he said trying to catch his breath; “Alice, my mother told me about Denny – I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks – he did ask about you in the last weeks,” I murmured.

  “I was home a month after, and Harry said you’d gone, so…”

  “Donovan had to get back to the dig at Petra and I had lectures so we couldn’t stay in Berkeley for very long.”

  “Do you want to come to the reception? I know Doctor Trist spent a fortune on food and drink – wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

  “Angel?” Donovan asked, turning to look at me.

  Again, I took too long to make a decision, looking at their similar faces, one anxious and one smug. No matter what I did, it would be the wrong move and I would suffer for it. Finally, I shook my head and smiled, extending my hand to Quinn.

  “It’s been a long night, and I haven’t been feeling well,” I said. “Donovan, you should go. I can take the car back to the hotel.” I looked up at Quinn. “You do understand? It’s nothing personal.”

  “No worries,” he whispered, smiling.

  “I really am sorry – it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  Quinn looked as if he were going to speak and then merely nodded.

  Donovan beamed with what I thought was a victorious smile and invited Quinn to show him the way. As they departed, a photographer and then two hovered and took my picture as I waited for the car, which when it came was a godsend. I hoped it would take me back to the Curiosity Shop, but it brought me to The Plaza.

  I was finally drifting off to sleep hours later when the telephone rang. One-thirty in the morning; it was Donovan calling to say he would be at the hotel soon, just waiting for a taxi.

  “Hello, Faery Princess.”

  “Quinn? How did you…?”

  “You can hang up if you want and I’ll understand completely. Your husband told me where you were staying…Hello? Alice?”

  “I’m still here. Where is he?”

  The last I saw of him he was with the Opera Company Director having drinks.”

  “He what?! Oh, never mind…I thought as much…”

  “Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble; I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Y’know, we almost didn’t come to New York. I wanted to skip it altogether, but it turned out to be a good thing.”

  He paused, and I could hear a pencil in the background. The familiar tappa-tap-ta-tappa.

  “Did he tell you why we came to New York?” I asked.

  “Yeah, a wedding anniversary. Has it really been a year?”

  “Almost to the day.”

  “I didn’t mean the wedding.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “You don’t sound happy, Alice. If I’m bothering you…”

  “It’s not that. As soon as I knew we were coming here, I started dreaming about that summer.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Scarborough, and York, and Here Comes the Sun,” Quinn sighed and laughed. “And Un Giorno Per Noi.” He sighed again, this time more seriously. “So. What do we do?”

  “We stick to our promise, our plan – all I know is that I haven’t forgotten, and I doubt I will, no matter what.”

  “You’re so beautiful, Alice.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, swallowing my tears.

  The familiar tappa-tap-ta-tappa filled the void. He was on the other end of the line and that was all that mattered.

  “Little darlin’, the smiles retu
rning to the faces,

  “Little darlin’, it seems like years since it’s been here.

  “Here comes the sun,

  “Here comes the sun,

  “And I say it’s alright.” Quinn sang and then laughed after he finished the verse. “Wait a minute! Do you know that’s the first time you’ve said, ‘thank you’ after I told you you’re beautiful? Usually you change the subject.”

  Maybe it’s because I hear it so seldom now…

  “I’ll take every compliment I can get these days!” I laughed.

  “You’re beautiful!”

  “Thank you again!”

  “Alice, it was great to see you tonight – I wish I’d known you were coming.”

  “Didn’t you? I thought Un Giorno Per Noi…”

  “Oh, it was for you, most definitely. I added it to the repertoire last month. Maybe I was hoping that if I sang it enough times, I’d find you.”

  Tappa-tap-ta-tappa….tappa-tap-ta-tappa.

  “Well,” Quinn said, “I have a nine o’clock rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “I have to get back to Providence.”

  A long, painful pause. “Alice, you will hear from me, I promise.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you!”

  “Always – I love you. Good night.”

  I replaced the receiver to the phone and stared at it, willing it to ring again as in the old days, when Quinn had one more thing to share, wanted to tell me again that he loved me. When nothing happened, and when I closed my eyes and opened them again and wasn’t in the Curiosity Shop, I plumped up the pillow and burrowed deep under the blankets, falling asleep towards dawn.

  It was past ten o’clock when I woke. The Manhattan skyline was in silhouette on the drawn blinds, but the August morning sun was threatening a sweltering day. I heard the shower running and wondered when Donovan had finally got in. I ordered his favorite things for breakfast. When he came out of the bathroom and went into our sitting room, I was at the table with The New York Times and digging into waffles and sausages.

  “Hello!” Donovan greeted happily. He leaned down to give me a kiss and then took a seat, dragging his chair so that he was opposite me, as always. I offered part of the newspaper and poured a cup of coffee.

  Suddenly he laughed and took a bite of eggs, pointing with his fork at the page. There for all of New York and the world to see were photos of Quinn and me taken after the concert. Quinn’s photo had been taken at the reception and the one of me was from the mob scene backstage.

  “Well, we knew this was going to happen!” Donovan chuckled. He read aloud, “‘Radcliffe’s mysterious love interest revealed. A year of speculation ends.’ Hah! There were rumors about his being a homosexual.” Then he added, “And every debutante is cursing the day Alice Martin was born. Sorry Angel; you wanted to be remembered for your work as a history professor and author of serious work. Looks like you’re getting a different legacy.”

  “I will be taken seriously for my work,” I said a bit defensively. “I’m surprised you find it so amusing, since,” here I picked up the paper and read, “‘the talented and young conductor of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra made no secret for whom his haunting rendition of “A Time for Us” was intended: a demure and beautiful young and married woman, Doctor Alice Martin formerly of Berkeley, California and now on the faculty of Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island.’ Your mother isn’t going to like that at all – and here she went to all that trouble for that reception.”

  “I find it funny, that’s all. Radcliffe gets to dream about you all night and I’ve got you in my bed.”

  I took the page and folded it up, tossed it on the floor. “This isn’t a competition, Donovan.”

  “Isn’t it? He couldn’t take his eyes off of you as soon as he knew you were in room.”

  “We were high school and college sweethearts. That’s the way it always is with first loves. You see them again – and you wonder what might have been.”

  “Not with mine.”

  I winked at him. “Maybe that’s because you cut a swath through the New England social registry and they’re still trying to finish the count – or dig up the bodies!”

  Donovan leaned in and gave me a warm kiss that I returned in kind.

  “You’re funny,” he murmured, and then fed me a strip of bacon.

  It didn’t end there. We decided to have dinner that evening at Le Cirque in the Mayfair Hotel and enjoyed a quiet meal and mundane conversation. It seemed as if our First Anniversary weekend would be one without high drama until we returned to the hotel.

  I was running a bath when I heard the phone ring and came out to answer it but Donovan had the receiver in hand, saying, “I told Andrews to call me if there was anything new about the excavations at Petra – reporters have been calling for a story…Hello? Hi, Mother. Yes, it’s been a great weekend.”

  He winked at me and puckered up, blowing a kiss in my direction and I started back to the bathroom.

  “We did as a matter of fact – he seems like a nice guy. Taller than I expected, but yeah, you’re right, we do look like brothers!”

  I retraced my steps to the sitting room, making a pretense of finding toiletries in my luggage in order to eavesdrop.

  “No, Alice came back here – she’s been under the weather. I stayed, though…What? You’re kidding, right? Where’d that come from?”

  Donovan frowned and glanced at me, then turned his back.

  “Was it on the news? What about the Journal? Mother, calm down. It’s nothing. Why anyone would care is beyond me – yes, I know, but I don’t think Dad’s career would be in jeopardy. No, no, no, not the building, Mother. C’mon, what the building has to do with a story that’s probably a rumor anyway…”

  I slipped back into the bathroom and upon closing the door I was in the Shop and slipped over to my table without anyone noticing – except the Proprietress.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Miss Alice?”

  Wincing, I rose slowly and shuffled over to the counter where she had placed my book. Another miniscule star was stuck onto the page. “I guess you’ve run out of the large ones, huh?” I queried.

  “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”

  “It was an accident that we met in York, Quinn and me, Quinn and I, I mean.”

  “You’d like to think that.”

  “Wait ‘til you see what she does for an encore,” Sigmund Freud snickered at Marie Antoinette, who frowned and wagged a finger at him.

  I wanted to snap at them, but decided it wasn’t worth the breath, and went out into the high street. “Mind where you go,” said Hildegard von Bingen as she paused in tending the flower boxes. “Change is in the air, Alice.”

  I shot a look of surprise at her and she smiled and held up a hand to bless me. Looking up, I didn’t see a single cloud in the sky, nor was there a breeze or even wind, but the light had grown softer, perhaps dimmer. Even more curious to me were the lights starting to shine in shop windows and in the stained glass of the church.

  “The week is almost up, mind you,” Anne Boleyn commented as she left the apothecary’s. “Oh!” She whirled about, her skirts spinning like a top, and held up her wrist in the universal position of trying a scent. “What do you think of this?”

  The perfume had undertones of musk, with top notes of freesia and rose. I pointed to the shop and she nodded ‘yes’ happily before crossing the street.

  It was yet another Victorian shop out of a Hardy novel, but this time the shopkeeper wasn’t the Proprietress, but my own mother.

  Behind the smooth oak counters were shelves upon which sat jars labeled not with medicines or herbs, or flowers, or perfumes, but emotions. Each jar was of Italian majolica with a medieval lady’s profile portrait gracing the round bowl of the container.

  I stepped cautiously up to the counter and studied my mother. She looked as she had before disappointment and illness set in and etched lines, made her lips purse. It
was me at the same age, I was sure of it. She had always been strikingly pretty, perhaps beautiful. At least, men thought so by the appreciative stares and look-backs she got when we were out together.

  “There isn’t much time, Alice Rose,” Mother said cheerfully, not bothering to look up. Oh, how many times had she done that to me whenever I procrastinated and waited until the last minute?

  “A week, I was told, and it’s almost up.”

  Now Mother glanced over her reading glasses and put down her copy of The Bell Jar to smile at me, like she used to before I came in to say goodnight.

  “One thing about you: you always listen! And you’re clever, too. So my dear girl, what will you have? A bit of fun?”

  She took down a bright pink jar and when she opened it, it smelled like a bakery – that sweet smell of frosting and cake.

  “What about determination?” Mother asked now, reaching for a jar with purple and yellow stripes going around like a barber’s pole. The scent that wafted out was of a fresh spring morning, of damp earth, sharp and biting, how the world smells just at dawn. As tempting as that was, I pointed to a sky blue jar with gold stars decorating it.

  “What about this one?”

  Mother nodded and winked. “Ah, love! Well, it makes sense.”

  The jar was placed before me and Mother nodded, coaxing. I drew the stopper and the scents of the ocean overwhelmed me – that salt tang and earthy smell that filled the nostrils and made one take giant breaths because it gladdened the heart and soul.

  “I thought it might smell like baby powder or lotion, ivory snow flakes, or…”

  “Or Donovan’s after shave? Please!” Mother shook her head and dabbed the scent behind my ears and on my wrists. “This will get you through what’s to come, darling. Now, hurry! I’ll see you in a bit!”

  She gently pushed me towards the door and before I could protest or at least ask her about my father, Mother blew a kiss that sent butterflies and rainbows my way, bright bits and shocks of color that distracted me momentarily. When I tried to grab a purple butterfly and succeeded, I opened my hand to find nothing. Glancing up for an explanation, I saw that Mother had gone and the Proprietress stood in her place, in her clothes, smiling at me.