Forbidden Melody
Magnolia Robbins
Copyright © 2018 by Magnolia Robbins. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Forbidden Melody Playlist
Prologue
1 | Juliet
2 | Emma
3 | Juliet
4 | Emma
5 | Juliet
6 | Emma
7 | Juliet
8 | Emma
9 | Juliet
10 | Emma
11 | Juliet
12 | Emma
13 | Juliet
15 | Emma
15 | Juliet
16 | Emma
17 | Juliet
19 | Emma
19 | Juliet
20 | Emma
21 | Juliet
22 | Emma
23 | Juliet
24 | Emma
25 | Juliet
26 | Emma
27 | Juliet
28 | Emma
29 | Juliet
Epilogue
More by Magnolia Robbins
Stay in Touch
Dedication
TO AMANDA—THANK YOU for making this book as much yours as it was mine. For being as invested in Juliet and Emma as I was. For every bit of sage advice, the encouraging words, and the faith in me to find the ending this book deserved. You are a wonderful human, and I’m eternally grateful for everything you have done for me, for this book, and for being a friend.
To Tasha and my betas—all of you helped shape this book in so many ways. Thank you for everything you did to help it become what it is.
To my readers— I love each and every one of you. You challenge me to grow, to learn, to be a better writer and a better storyteller. You pick me up on days that I doubt myself. You make this entire journey worth it and I couldn’t be more privileged to do what I do, with you at my side. I hope you enjoy the newest installment. I look forward to sharing more stories with you. Thanks for helping me get to book number ten. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Forbidden Melody Playlist
THIS BOOK IS FILLED with music. For your enjoyment, I have included a compilation of all of the songs featured, and they are listed at the top of each chapter. Being able to follow along with the music while you read makes for a fun experience.
If you choose not to listen to the music, I at least recommend listening to the piano and violin version of Tristesse by Chopin and Salut d’Amour by Elgar. These two songs are featured many times throughout the book and, trust me, they are worth enjoying.
I hope you like the story! Enjoy!
Shostakovich, Violin Concerto
Franck, Sonata in A Major
Beethoven, Violin and Piano Sonata
Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday
Ravel, Concerto in G Major
Bach, Sonata for Piano and Violin in B Minor
Drunken Lazy Bastard by The Mahones
Or sai chi l'onore from Don Giovanni
Addio di Mimi from La bohème
Chopin, Etude Op.10 No.2
Chopin, Tristesse
Elgar, Salut d'Amour
Sentimental Mood by Duke Ellington and John Coltrane
Angelica by Duke Ellington and John Coltrane
Bach, Keyboard Concerto No.2 in E
Pierre Boulez’ Structures I & II
Perdido by Duke Ellington
Think of Me from Phantom of the Opera
Metamorphosis, Movement III by Philip Glass
All I Ask of You from Phantom of the Opera
Dream a Little Dream of Me by Ella Fitzgerald
Franz Liszt, La Campanella
Schubert, Fantasia in F minor
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons- Spring & Fall
Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond
Handel, Sonata No. 3 in F Major
Bach, Concerto for 2 Violins in D Minor
Debussy, Arabesque No. 1 & No. 2
Debussy, Rêverie
Corelli, Concerto grosso Op. 6, No. 8
Sibelius, Violin Concerto
Pachelbel, Canon in D
The Point of No Return, Kansas
Wagner, Ride of the Valkyries
Bach, Christmas Oratorio
Liszt, Weihnachtsbaum (Christmas Tree)
Barber, Adagio
Bartok, Concerto for Piano No. 1
Grieg, Holberg Suite
Berg, Violin Concerto in D
Beethoven’s Piano Concerto
Debussy, Clair de Lune
Schumann, Kinderszenen
Mendelssohn, Violin Concerto
Beethoven, Sonata Pathétique
Prologue
THE MOONLIGHT CASCADED across the rippling water of the lake. A light breeze blew through the long vines of the willow I sat beneath, swaying them almost in rhythm to the music that played in the distance. I sat alone, the way I had intended to. My mind was elsewhere, as it had been for a week. If I hadn’t been asked to be there, I would have been home. Away from the happy laughing crowds that seemed so distant from me.
She’d taken me by surprise. Every slow lap of the water at the shoreline had been hypnotic. I’d lost myself in its rhythm and hadn’t noticed her approach. A young woman looming over me.
“Mind if I sit?” she’d asked, a small smile stretched across her face. When I took the time to examine her more intently, I’d caught the distant expression in her eyes. She looked almost as lost as I was. Something compelled me to nod, and she joined me on the grassy hill beneath the tree.
We lost ourselves in conversation for hours. I took solace in her presence. Confiding in her with things I wouldn’t have dared to tell anyone else. She’d been saddened too. Lonely.
A song echoed in the distance. I remembered the way her expression had changed when she heard it. It was a sweet melody. Simple, yet beautiful all the same. When I’d offered her my hand, she took it without reservation, and we danced. The whole world around us disappeared in those few minutes we did. The heavy burdens we’d carried dissipated.
Her lips had tasted sweet, like the strawberry wine she’d most certainly been drinking. I smelled it when I breathed, the remnants lingering. Once I’d kissed her, we fell apart. It had likely been a foolish thing to do. She was young, but to in that moment, she’d felt the same as I. A woman that had given me comfort in moments of weakness. When I’d left that night, I was freed. I had been lightened by her. Two perfect strangers who’d come together in a necessary moment.
1
Juliet
Shostakovich, Violin Concerto
Franck, Sonata in A Major
Beethoven, Violin and Piano Sonata
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” I found my voice echoing, more pronounced than I had intended it to be. My fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of my late grandmother’s Vuillaume, tingling from the past few hours of practice. Across my lap sat a ten-thousand-dollar ebony Morizot bow, strung with the finest Siberian hair available. Sweat
trickled down my brow, and I wiped it away with my available hand.
My father Frederick had joined me in my private office at the Bard Conservatory of Music. Cream colored plain walls surrounded us, two windows on the far side overlooking the courtyard outside. A large mahogany desk separated me from him. There was a small music stand to my right, several sheets of music organized on it. The smell of my father’s cologne wafted into the room, mixed with the wretched smell of cigar smoke.
In a matter of a minute, he had destroyed every hope of having my music distraction-free for the remainder of the year. As usual, it became full of obligations to the Bard Conservatory, an institution that was passed down through my family for several generations. The responsibility, while maintaining my livelihood, was almost always a nuisance more than anything. My father had never understood music, too wrapped up in the business aspect to care. Chairman of the Board of Trustees at the Bard and Executive Director for the last twenty years. We’d fought this same battle time and time again.
“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter.” My father’s emerald-green eyes, a feature we shared, stared firmly back at me. “Miranda Kepner will be on tour for the semester, and I have no one else to replace her. You’ve taught these courses before. I’m certain you are capable of teaching them again.”
“The Philharmonic starts its fall production preparations in three weeks.” My voice had not eased. I hadn’t put in fifteen-hour days practicing for nothing. Concertmasters led the entire first violin section and required a great deal of preparation. I’d taken this role for the past seven years and I didn’t intend to relinquish it anytime soon. “I agreed to private lessons with the conservatory in the fall. That was all.”
“I’m not asking,” my father said, his voice remaining calm. Even after all these years, I’d still kept my mother’s feisty demeanor. It did not faze my father in the least. “And you’ll be there on Monday for the graduate school auditions. Miranda was on the panel, and we need a replacement.”
“Of course you do,” I muttered, fidgeting with the handle of the bow in my lap.
“We’ll see that you still maintain your position with the Philharmonic,” my father assured me, bracing his hands around the edge of the door frame. “However, your duties to the conservatory will take precedence over your extracurricular activities.”
The nerve! I held my tongue. Fifteen years I had been a member of the New York Philharmonic. Extracurricular, my ass. “Whatever you need,” I replied, curtly. “Is that all?”
The stare down between my father and I lasted for a good thirty seconds more before he shrugged me off. “Monday, Juliet. I expect you to be on time.”
“Monday it is,” I replied. “Shut the door behind you.” My father did as I asked, shutting the door tight as he left. The Vuillaume returned to my shoulder, and my mind back to Shostakovich’s Violin Concerto.
SOSSNOFF THEATER IN Fischer Hall was a well-known venue for music in New York. The proscenium stage, housed in a towering concrete building, was decorated with Douglas fir, a sturdy wood turned to the key of G, in the box seats on the walls and the paneling around the stage, and on the eight-hundred seats that filled the room. The design was intentionally simple, hexagonal in shape, with bowed walls to create convex surfaces to diffuse sound. The tall ceilings gave enough volume to allow sound to bloom. From an acoustical standpoint, it provided an optimal space for vocal and orchestral sound. Which was the reason every April, it housed undergraduate and graduate school auditions.
For someone who played at venues like the Lincoln Center in New York, Fischer Hall was just another acceptable performance location for above-average musicians, only a minute percentage would play in anything other than local small-town orchestras or theater troupes. To me, it was barely impressive anymore. It represented an obligation I forced myself through, to appease my father and maintain my comfortable living circumstances. A day job. Nothing else.
My eyes glazed over the folder of the final candidate for the day. Every fiber of my being was exhausted. I sometimes practiced for twelve hours and had not felt as drained as I did after a day of graduate student auditions. I didn’t bother reading the name, more interested in the young woman’s background than anything else. She’d done her undergraduate work at New York University. A subpar education considering many of the applicants had graduated from schools like Juilliard and the New England Conservatory.
I glanced up as she’d walked to the model L Steinway piano set up in the center of the stage. When I first saw her, I had half a mind to dismiss her based off of her attire, which was unprofessional. Adorned in a long white Bohemian dress that plunged at her neckline, she looked as if she was about to perform at a casual show in a bar. Her blonde hair flowed around her shoulders in an unruly fashion. If she’d been more appropriately dressed, I might have been caught off guard by the natural elegance she exuded. She was an attractive woman, with a long dainty frame and fingers that looked made for a piano. The thoughts didn’t linger, still trying to keep my annoyance with her presentation under control.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I whispered in a hiss to Andrew Baker, my colleague and friend, who sat to my immediate left. My attention returned to her audition packet again, scanning through her résumé. She’d performed in quite a number of venues over the past few years, many of them impressive. When I noticed Miranda Kepner’s name amongst her references, I shot a surprised gaze at her husband, Timothy, who sat two seats down from me on the panel. She’d trained under one of the finest pianists in New York, quite possibly the United States. Still, judging based on appearances, I was skeptical.
“I wouldn’t know,” Andrew responded. “However, Miranda and Emerson both are in agreement she’s one of the best pianists they’ve ever heard.” I shook my head, unable to believe a woman so ill-prepared had enough talent to make it at the Bard Conservatory. However, it wasn’t up to me, so I had to cooperate. She was a lucky one. I glanced at her name. Emma Harvey.
Andrew waved at her to proceed with the first piece. Franck’s Sonata in A Major. Unlike many of the prior auditions throughout the day, the woman was poised and confident. She settled at the piano as if it was an instrument she’d been practicing at her entire life. Carefully, she arranged her sheet music in front of her, studying it. Her fingers flexed and danced above the keys. She took a few careful breaths, settling her hands.
Then she began.
Every graduate student performed five pieces for their audition. After seven auditions, I was sick to death of all of them. Year after year, it had been the same pieces. The same nervous attempts. Most students performed well enough. Some were memorable. None of them compared to the seasoned musician playing for us. As soon as the music filled the theater, I was transfixed.
“What did I say,” Andrew whispered, and I waved him off with a flick of my wrist. My body leaned across the desk, my entire being focused on every part of her as she worked the piano. It was as if it had become an extension of her. Her body flowed effortlessly as she moved her way through the Allegretto ben Moderato, the first movement of the piece. Everything she did made it seem effortless, and yet, it was far from it.
The sonata was considered by many to be the finest sonata for piano and violin ever written. While she played, I closed my eyes as the accompanist joined in, imagining myself playing alongside her. I found a scowl drawing across my face, listening to the violinist. A second-year graduate student, mediocre at best.
I cleared my throat and clapped my hands to stop them. The violinist paused and a few moments later, the woman at the piano did as well. Andrew’s eyes were piercing into the side of my face as I spoke.
“That will be all for today, Annette,” I said, with not a moment of hesitation.
“What the hell are you doing?” Andrew whispered. I waved him off again, stepping out and away from the booth where we had been sitting all day. Underneath my seat, a black case sat. I snapped it up, making my way down the aisle to the sta
ge. Annette stared at me confused. I waved her up from her seat and she fumbled with her instrument, stepping away. Once she had, I took her place and handed off her sheet music.
“I’ll be accompanying this audition,” I announced to the theater. Andrew and Timothy stared me down. Meanwhile, Annette had made her way off the stage, looking confused. “Let me tune,” I looked up to the woman at the piano. Emma. A G rang out into the theater. When I was satisfied, I offered her a small smile, which she returned.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” I said. Her attention fell on my mouth as I spoke, which I found curious but didn’t question. We studied one another as I readied my Vuillaume against my shoulder, my grip light against its neck. The bow bounced in my hand as I relaxed myself and nodded for Emma to begin.
Once again, she wiggled her fingers above the keys. Her attention turned to the piano and before I knew it, the music filled the room. While I would normally close my eyes while I performed this piece, I found myself engaged with Emma. The last few measures before the violin introduction came at a rapid pace. My bow laid across the strings. My fingers fell to the appropriate places. Then at once, we blended together in seamless unison.
In my years of playing, never had I lost myself in another musician like I did with Emma Harvey. Once we began, our eyes never wavered from one another’s. It felt as if we were engaged in a passionate conversation. One that was natural. Effortless. A conversation that should have been years, even perhaps decades in the making, and instead was between two complete strangers.
The first movement of the sonata was a slow reflective theme. A kind exchange between two instruments. By the Allegro, the second movement, the tempo picked up as the song flew into the thematic core of the work. Traditionally, the pianists auditioning played through the first two movements before they finished. By the time the second movement ended, Emma and I continued into the third and fourth, not once interrupted by Andrew or Timothy. I wouldn’t have noticed even if we were. I was too engaged with Emma.
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