The Treble With Men

by Smartypants Romance

  “I didn’t say you weren’t good enough.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You just lack practice. Hence the request for additional practice on the weekends.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “It won’t be every weekend. We can break if we have a performance or a holiday, but we only have eight full weekends remaining. My house is large enough to accommodate you if that’s the issue. My staff as well.”

  My eyebrows shot up involuntarily. I hadn’t seen any evidence of anybody else. My parents were wealthy. I knew all too well that I grew up with privileges that few people enjoyed. But we didn’t have staff. Was I in a Turkish soap opera?

  “You have staff?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow, conducting pays. Who knew?” I shook my head. “Okay, so.” I cleared my head and got back down to business. “Hypothetically, the plan going forward would be I come here on the weekends?”

  “Saturday and Sunday mornings. As the schedule allows.”

  That was a lot of time to spend with him. I’d have to learn to keep my curiosity locked down. I still had so many questions, but Devlin didn’t seem like he was going to answer them. He was so closed off. I needed answers, but I only got anger or deflection when I pushed.

  “And then by September, you think you’ll have finished the Smokey Mountain Suite? How do I help?” I asked.

  “I’m stuck on the cello solo in the second movement.”

  I waited for him to explain more but that didn’t happen. “You just need someone to play it?”

  He hesitated but after a moment said, “Yes. I’ll need you to play through it so I can make tweaks. But it’s more than that. This composition is my crowning achievement. It will put me in the same league with the biggest contemporary composers. It will ensure I have a career no matter where I go. It will—” He scratched under his mask. “It’s very important.”

  “Great,” I said. “So no pressure.”

  Chapter 11

  Keep your cello where you can see it. Be ready to practice at any time.

  DEVLIN

  “Let’s get started,” I said.

  Kim had been digging for information on why I chose her. I couldn’t tell her all that just yet. She needed time. She held so much back; I had to be able to show her through the music, and then she would understand everything. I needed time to play with her, to remind her of her own skills. Only then I would reveal our history.

  Her eyes widened. “Right now? I don’t have my cello.”

  “I brought it with us last night.” I pointed to her purple sparkly hardcase that was tucked safely in the corner. As much as the minivan had been an eyesore, the automatic pop up trunk had been mighty convenient. But I would be taking that bit of information to my grave.

  She smiled and said softly, “Looks like you’ve thought of everything.” Her gaze then moved down to her pajamas. “Can I have some coffee? Maybe wake up fully and process?”

  “There’s some in the kitchen. I don’t have any other clothes to offer you except for what you wore last night. Or my own.”

  She swallowed. “I can change into what I wore last night.”

  “You have ten minutes, and then we start.” It helped me focus to assume the role as conductor.

  “Very good idea, Maestro.” She smiled cheekily at me, ignoring my instructions. “We should both put on clothes first.”

  My scarf hid the smile she coaxed out of me. Maybe I wouldn’t get dressed just to mess with her. But no. This was business, and though it did seem like September was a long way off, I was anxious to get started.

  “Like that would stop you from undressing me with your eyes.” The joke slipped out. Or at least I hoped she’d see it as a joke.

  Thankfully, she chewed her cheek to keep from smiling. “I don’t suppose you could show me where the kitchen is? Or how to get out of this room even? I feel like I walked a mile to get here.”

  “This room is far underground. It stays cool year-round that way, which protects the instruments.” I could go into the acoustics and sound proofing as well, or how it had taken me years of fighting for approval from the Green Valley council to build it. I needed a place to always come home to—a sanctuary—and this was it. It was something I was extraordinarily fond of. I wished I could have seen her face upon walking in here.

  “Let’s go.” I held her arm and led her down from the platform without thought. So much for my short-lived vow to not touch her.

  Twenty minutes later, not ten, she all but skipped happily back into the room. I had gotten dressed after all and she was in her clothes from last night. She had a surprising amount of pep. She smelled faintly of wintergreen and her hair was no longer ruffled. The haziness in her eyes had been replaced with intense focus. Again, this was not the Christine of the performance space. She sat in the chair where I had set up her stand and music, but had left her cello in its case. Unpacking that felt too personal.

  She unsnapped her case and set up her instrument, and as she did, she slipped back into the professional persona that I was most familiar with. Her posture went rigid and her face smoothed with cool focus. Once her bow was tightened and she sat in a ready position, I struck a note on the piano and she tuned her instrument to it. All this was done with the unspoken comfort of people familiar with each other.

  “I’ll play through what I have written.”

  I flexed my fingers, feeling a slight rush of nerves. I began to play for her. Obviously, it was not the full symphonic arrangement; just the piano sonata so we could rehearse together. It was a little rough around the edges still and I wasn’t happy with the third movement. It felt lacking. That was where her solo would be, and while I knew I was close, I wasn’t there yet. As I played, I shot glances at her to gauge her reaction. Artists had fragile egos that bruised easily. She held her bow, slack in one hand, leaning forward to rest her chin on her instrument as she listened. With every glance, I noticed her gaze growing more distant. Eventually she closed her eyes and subtly rocked to the melody as though it couldn’t be helped.

  By the time I played the last note she sighed wistfully. “That’s beautiful.”

  It took her a minute to come back into her head, I could see the moment she did. She blinked rapidly and sat up straighter. “Just lovely.”

  I cleared my throat. “Let’s start at page eight, where your solo, I mean the cello solo, begins.” I glanced over to see if she’d caught my error, but she was busy flipping the pages of her music. “The intro is pretty standard.”

  She waited for my cue, then began. We played like this for a few hours. Every once in a while, I’d stop her to listen to me play a specific part at half tempo until she could get it correctly. When the muscles in my neck protested from constantly looking at her and her cheeks grew pale, I stood.

  “Let’s break for lunch,” I said.

  Kim quietly set her cello down on its side. She had performed adequately but stiffly, like in rehearsals. As I feared, her performance skills had rusted over and she had formed bad habits that would need to be broken in order to be reset.

  Only after standing to stretch my neck side to side did I notice she was unnervingly quiet. And in fact, upon replaying the last few hours in my head, I could not remember the last time she bit out a snarky comment. Her eyes were low and focused on the task of loosening the hair of her bow. She would not meet my face.

  She sniffed and I reared back. Was—was she crying? Why?

  “No,” I said, short and unexpected as a gasp of surprise. She shouldn’t cry. She should never cry.

  “I can’t do this,” she said quietly, still not lifting her head.

  “Do what, exactly?”

  “This. All of this. I’m not to this level.” She gestured to the cello. When she finally brought her face up, her eyes were glossy and her pale skin grew splotchy. Her attention was focused behind my head, not looking directly at me. “I don’t understand why you asked me to do this.”

  “Don’t cr
y,” I snapped. “We’ve only just started.”

  “I’m not crying.” She shot back, her bottom lip jutting out and quivering. “If it seems like that it’s only because I’m angry and my stupid face makes me look like I’m crying.” She sniffed.

  I didn’t like that she called her face stupid. I didn’t like that she was acting like this. “Where did this come from?”

  “I’m humiliated. I’m not at this level.” She took a deep breath in. “Did you bring me down here just to show me all of my shortcomings? To remind me that I’m a second rate professional?”

  “I would never do that.” Inexplicably, my heart started slamming against my chest, rattling me like a gong. I could handle ego and temper tantrums, but I couldn’t handle Kim’s self-doubt. I didn’t recognize this person. I stood, aware that my hands had fisted at my sides.

  “Just explain it to me then. This isn’t an attempt to fish for compliments. I genuinely do not understand why I’m here.”

  My heart was now racing at climactic tempo, slightly erratic and running away. I couldn’t hold her gaze.

  “I don’t pretend that I’m not talented. But Maestro, you have to see that I’m not the best for this.”

  “This is why you practice,” I growled the words.

  She gripped her bow brandishing it like a knife. “Why not Carla or Barry? Why not audition people for this? There are thousands more talented than me.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed.

  Her nostrils flared even as the rest of her face started to crumple in dismay. How did I communicate this to her? With every second she questioned me, my panic grew.

  She took a deep breath and held my gaze. “I can see that you’re frustrated with me,” she said. “But getting angry isn’t helping me understand. I hate that I sound so unsure of myself. There was a time—” She shook her head. “But you have to give me something more to understand.”

  She was humiliated. I was too, but she didn’t see that. She only saw the anger. I needed her. My heart hammered. I had to give her something. I couldn’t risk her saying no. Rejection from her of all people might break me.

  “It’s not always about talent. It’s about potential.” I began tentatively, trying to explain some without giving too much away. “You’re dedicated. You’re punctual. You’re available.” These were all facts that were true, but they weren’t selling her. The trepidation was still there in her quivering lip. I lifted her chin, touching her again before realizing it. “Some people have a spark in them. I’ve heard you practicing at night when you think nobody can hear you. You have that talent, but more importantly, you have passion.”

  Her eyes widened.

  I went on, “There is something locked inside of you that is desperate to be free. When I heard you play …” I swallowed down the fear in my dry throat. “You inspired me—my music. That’s why I need your help.”

  Her mouth closed as she processed. My heart raced as though I’d confessed all my sins. Her head just shook like she wasn’t sure of any of it.

  I swallowed. Go big or go home … alone. “I can’t do it without you. I need you. I’ve tried and failed on my own. I’m stuck. This is my last chance.” The confession sent me into a tailspin. If she walked away now, after I admitted all this to her, where would that leave me? I regretted saying so much. I should have just forced her to do it.

  But then her features smoothed and she nodded. It was just like the night of the solo, when she understood that she was doing it to help and not to take. “You need me to help you. This is for your success. I understand that now.”

  Chapter 12

  Feel the composer’s meaning.

  KIM

  Devlin needed my help. The choice was mine. After he’d admitted to watching me play, I’d left the room under the guise of needing a break and come back to the guest room to think. I was too floored to process. Well, let the processing commence. If I was alone and at home, I’d change into my softest sweatpants, make a cup of tea, and binge-watch crappy TV. But no. There were no distractions to aid in avoiding the thoughts and fears that caused a downward spiral of self-doubt and panic.

  I was curled in a ball on the window seat watching the heavy rain fall outside. It had been an exceptionally cold and rainy start to spring. The dreary weather only added to my melancholic state. All that was missing was Adele to sing along to, and my self-indulgent pity party would be complete.

  I inspired him. Those words were on a loop in my head.

  It would be easier if he demanded from me. If he told me I had to do it and pointed out everything on the line. I wanted the Devil of the Symphony as he presented himself; demanding and sure of everything. He seemed convinced that I was the key to his success, and more alarming than that, vulnerable to my rejection.

  I longed for the safety of home and my strict schedule.

  My phone buzzed with a text. I jumped at the sight of Devlin’s name popping up. It was still so weird to get messages from him. A tiny frission of something happened in my body.

  “Lunch is ready.”

  I blew out a long breath through pursed lips and tossed the phone to the side. I wasn’t ready to see him. But I was super hungry. My stomach grumbled and I acquiesced. I dramatically rolled off the window seat and shuffled to the door. If nothing else, eating always helped motivate me.

  I kept my ears perked for sounds from Devlin as I made my way down to the dining room table. My jaw dropped. Heavy wooden blocks were stacked high with several types of olives. Hard and soft cheeses with waxed edges had been laid next to fat, dark purple grapes and little green ones. Almonds, cashews, and Brazil nuts piled in small mounds were tucked between decadent chunks of dark chocolate topped with flecks of sea salt. Slices of fatty hard salami and prosciutto were splayed next to whole grain round crackers. It was a Caravaggio painting come to life with rich colors, abundant textures, and enticing smells. My eyes could hardly register all the treats spread before me.

  My stomach growled loudly in approval.

  Next to a stack of plates were three silver buckets of ice with bottles in them at the end of the table, along with toothpicks and napkins. I was happy to find a sparkling cider that I could drink. The rosé I would avoid. Geez Louise, how many people were joining us?

  My phone buzzed again. Devlin. What did it mean that a little spike of something flooded me when I saw his name?

  “I have work and won’t be able to join you.”

  Yes, I had just been distressed at the idea of seeing him again, but truth be told, his message evoked a small pang of disappointment. I was alone a lot. My parents were so close and their love for each other so strong that I had always felt like a third wheel. Well, at least I was excellent company.

  I still had the phone clutched to my chest when it vibrated again.

  “Enjoy.” The follow up text said.

  “Thank you. The food looks amazing,” I sent.

  The message showed as read but a second later my phone was forgotten.

  “Hello? Hope it’s okay we just let ourselves in—Holy cannoli!”

  I spun around at the exclamation to see Gretchen LaRoe, looking as fabulous as ever, standing in the doorway. She nodded with approval at the food piled high behind me as she shrugged out of a floral print raincoat and hung it up on a hook.

  “Gretchen?” I ran to meet her at the door, tears almost immediately filling my eyes. I didn’t even realize how badly I’d wanted company until she’d arrived. I squeezed her so hard she wheezed.

  “Okay, okay. Girl, I need to breathe.”

  I loosened my grip but I didn’t let go. “What are you doing here?” I looked up to her face, situated above her ample cleavage. My chin quivered, giving me away. Her cat-eye black liner was perfect, and her flaming red hair was styled in its typical boho-retro chic. Whereas I looked I’d jumped out of bed to wrangle a rooster—and lost.

  “We heard there was a last-minute move of the SWS meeting.” Her smile melted as her gaze moved over m
y face. “Are you crying?”

  I shook my head. “We?” Hope filled my chest and I let her go.

  On cue, Suzie Samuels, Blithe Tanner, and Roxy Kincaid filed into the room wearing bewildered looks.

  I ran to each of them and squeezed them until their backs popped. Even Suzie, who was the newest member of the SWS and who I had only met one other time. I didn’t care. I needed all the hugs today. Each hug was welcomed warmly. When I was finally done, I wiped my eyes with a sniffle. I was a sap; I owned it.

  “Here.” Gretchen pushed a duffle bag into my arms.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Provisions,” she explained. “We thought maybe you were in danger, but I see we were way off base.”

  Suzie’s dark hair was styled in a sleek bob with the left side shaved close to her head. Her eyes were wide as she took in the massive living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. “This place …”

  Suzie’s mouth hung open, her head swiveling to take in the room. With the massive windows and trendy—and no doubt expensive—interior design, this was no average home, to be sure.

  “When you hear ‘cabin in the woods’ you think chainsaw-wielding serial killers and half-naked teenagers. This is …” Suzie trailed off.

  “Unreal,” Blithe finished for her. Her long, pale, blonde hair fell straight down her back. She stared at the ceiling before shaking her head and turning to the buffet. She squeaked in excitement when she found the rosé and began opening it.

  “This place is insane. I equally want to rescue you and knock you out to take your place.” Gretchen moved toward the table of food and we all followed. “I could totally learn the violin.”