Forbidden Melody

by Magnolia Robbins

  At first, I wondered if she was referring to our rendezvous, but considering the fact that it had happened yesterday, he couldn’t have. Then it occurred to me that she had meant her presence. If he’d known she’d been selected to play for the summer series. That she was back in New York.

  “I don’t think so,” I admitted, taking a sip of the coffee that sat in front of me. “He and my mother spend their summers in a cottage home in Siena.” My father was a half a world away from us. Emma was untouchable. At least for now. The impermanence of the situation sent a wave of discomfort rushing through me, but I quickly cast it aside, maintaining my calm reassuring facial expression. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Emma did not look assured, a questionable look in those enchanting brown eyes of hers. Instead of arguing, I pulled her to me, letting her fall in my lap. Our mouths came together, hard and searching. I didn’t give her long to think. Only act. Exactly as it should have been.

  THE SUMMER AIR WAS balmy and light that Friday evening at Central Park. Mature magnolia trees that lined the meandering paths were in full bloom, pinks and whites spanning as far as the eye could see. Elm trees were nestled in between, covering the thick grassy landscape, occupied with park-goers. It was still light out, strips of pinks and purple hues filling the sky as the sun was beginning its descent.

  Across the northern side of the park, the summer concert stage had been constructed over the past day and a half. A massive structure of metal and wood that would house the Philharmonic, among other artists, throughout the next few months. Members of the stage crew, dressed in black, bustled around with last minute preparations.

  Sounds of children laughing off in the distance caught my attention. A crowd was already starting to gather across the lawn in front of the stage. The New York traffic buzzed off in the distance, buildings swallowing up the space all around us. I was lost in it for a moment, as I often was, every summer before our shows began.

  A brief graze of skin brought my attention back to reality. Emma had snuck beside me, her pinky finger making a few brief strokes against the inside of my palm. As usual, she was breathtakingly beautiful, dressed in a simple black dress that fell to her ankles and hugged her curves. She’d styled her short hair neatly and adorned those intense brown eyes with enough makeup to accentuate them perfectly. When I turned to focus on her face, there was a small curl to her lips. After the small affectionate gesture, she nodded to me, preparing to go and set up on stage. In a few short minutes we’d begin.

  I caught her wrist briefly before she wandered too far away. She turned her attention back, and I smiled. “All the best,” I said quietly. The expression on her face was all I needed. I knew she was nervous, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that she’d be spectacular. There was a small silent exchange between us before she made her way up the stairs, off to find Emerson and that piano she loved so much.

  The galloping introduction of strings filled the summer air as the Holberg Suite spilled from the orchestra. The line of violinist’s bodies rocked in a synchronic dance, bows skipping across strings in unison. Behind us, the violas played harmonic counterpoint to every note. The cellists and bassists drew out the long intricate bowings that kept the timing of the piece perfect.

  A few measures in, the strings slowed, inching their notes high, as the delicate airy melody breezed over the other instruments. The violas and violins took turn in conversation. One chanting across the strings, while the other made short replies. It was a fiery back and forth.

  Few songs that the Philharmonic played for the introductory piece were as passionate and lively for the violin as Holberg Suite. The violinists that played beside me had performed this piece with me many times, each time more captivating than the next.

  Once the song slowed in to the rolling sweet notes of the second movement, my attention turned briefly back to Emerson and Emma, both who were settled at their pianos. From the break in the crowd, I could make out Emma as her fingers steadied over the keys. She looked lost in thought, pondering over every note. Preparing herself as she usually did, with long rolling breaths.

  Another measure stretched through me, and I saw Emma disappear into the piano, her body folding on top of it as she and her counterpart made their entrance. It was just an accompaniment, but I could hear it clearly over every other instrument. I pictured every single note she played alongside my own careful bowing. Mostly however, I watched her facial expressions. This time, we didn’t catch glances at one another. This was Emma’s moment. Her dream since she’d been a child. Accompanying one of the most prestigious orchestras in the entire world. Her entire being was present with that piano. It was all there was. I’d known this song well enough it hadn’t mattered that I’d focused on her. I couldn’t help not to. Every note she played, she was feeling, rumbling through her. It was a quiet piece for piano, so I was certain it was taking the full extent of her concentration.

  The melody fell back to the violins. I was swept up in it for a few measures. When my attention swayed, I saw her watching me, playing rhythmic chords alongside the bright explosion of notes from the strings. This time she didn’t hold back the smile on her face. Neither could I. We watched each other with that same intense fascination we always did, the world around us becoming nothing more than background noise. I played for her, every delicate note, and she listened. Finally, the strings faded back into the whole of the orchestra. When they did, Emma shook her head, still smiling. Her attention fell back to the piano. I watched her a few moments more, before I fell into the rhythm of the melody, following it to the last few stretching notes.

  The two-hour show rippled on through the early evening, filling the bustling park with music. I was swallowed by every moment. When I wasn’t focused on my own playing, I caught glances of Emma, or stared out into the audience to find Miranda and Charlotte watching. It was the first time in years that so many of us had been together in a show outside of the Bard.

  When Philip signaled the introduction to Beethoven’s Piano Concerto, my attention drew quickly on Emma, who stiffened at her seat nervously. I hadn’t had the opportunity to look away when her attention turned on me. For the first time that evening, she looked slightly panicked. My body straightened in my chair. I waved my hand in front of my mouth, reminding her in a silent way to breathe. Accentuate every note. Once I’d leaned the Vuillaume against me and sat my bow in my lap, I’d signed it to her quickly. A small smile broke across her face, and I watched her shoulders fall slightly as she drew in a few breaths.

  Across from her, Emerson gave a look of encouragement. She nodded thanks before her attention returned to the piano. Philip resumed his place in front of the orchestra, snapping his baton in the air.

  The strings readied themselves, every violin following my lead. My chin rested against the far end of the instrument, bow working on the strings. We took off in a fiery blaze straight from the beginning, in an elegant prancing melody, filled with dramatic dips and pulls of the bow. Philip danced in front of us, completely engaged in our playing. The group of us took the song in for the first few minutes, transitioning from a peppy upbeat beginning, to a beautiful slower portion that brought in the winds and percussion.

  Shortly after the melody picked back up again, I cast my eyes slightly behind me to see the Ugly Duckling in my peripheral. Emma had steadied herself. The last few measures of string notes played. Then a few short beats of silence, before the piano filled the space around us. A simple string of notes on the higher end of the keyboard to start, with the delicate flourishes Emma added so eloquently into the song.

  The strings combined with her playing. Emma’s arms worked like I’d never seen them before, spanning the entire length of the keyboard. Her attention completely focused on everything she was doing. Emerson watched across from her, mesmerized as she took on the song like she’d been performing it for her entire life.

  Every person in the crowd flew to their feet at the end. Emma stood shakily at
the side of the piano, taking a bow, and then a second. As soon as she had, she watched as I stepped from my seat to join her at the Steinway. The crowd grew silent again, settling in their seats.

  I situated myself beside the piano, turned towards Emma in our usual fashion. As she had many times that night, she was smiling softly at me. Just as I’d steadied my Vuillaume on my shoulder, the stage lights kicked on, the sky having grown dark enough by then. My eyes spent a few moments adjusting, finding their way back to Emma again. When I looked out at the audience and Central Park in the horizon, I could make out the colorful starry skies above, trickling between towering buildings.

  The air was crisp now, cooler than it had been. I breathed it in, letting my bow arm settle in the appropriate place, the Siberian hair strings carefully placed on the mid-registers where the song began. Once I’d settled, Emma and I found each other. We kept silent time with one another, counting the few beats until we both began in simple unison.

  Clair de Lune was such a classic recognizable song. Beautifully simple, as Emma once told me Redford Harvey would have called it. It was one of my grandmother’s most favorite things to play on violin. So, it had made perfect sense that Emma and I played it together that summer evening, in front of all of New York.

  Not unlike any other song we ever played, Emma and I found ourselves amidst an intimate conversation between one another. This time it was unlike most other times. Though we’d practiced it a hundred times before this moment, it hadn’t changed the fact that this was entirely different. I had felt as if we were dancing, like the night under the willow tree, or to Ella Fitzgerald at the mixer.

  The song was so quiet and intimate. Even still, it filled the space around us, engulfing everyone who had been listening. It felt as if the entire world had grown completely silent, straining to hear the most delicate of violin notes and the light taps of piano keys. Like whispers in the fading light, Emma and I were declaring things for each other once again. Complicated things, with no finite answers. In that moment, I hadn’t cared. There was just music. Just her.

  I found Miranda shortly after the show had ended, my body still running on the usual rush of adrenaline that always came with performances. She and Charlotte were chatting with other patrons of the show. Just as I was about to interject, I felt a rush of air beside me. Emma had landed to my right, looking as electrified as I felt internally. For a split second, I thought she would embrace me, but she hesitated. I could tell by the way she looked at me she knew this was still our private endeavor, as much she didn’t want it to be. There’d be time for that discussion.

  “My dear, you were fabulous,” a salt-and-pepper haired acquaintance of Charlotte’s spoke to Emma, reaching out a hand. It was clear by how he had waited to speak to her until her attention had turned completely on him, that my friends had enlightened him about Emma’s background. Emma beamed, her cheeks going flush as she shook his hand back graciously. “And that duet,” he added, turning his attention to me. “I’ve never heard a more beautiful rendition of a Debussy song. It was like you two had been playing for years together.”

  It was my turn to smile, giving him a small nod. Emma and I glanced at one another just for a brief few seconds. By the time the stranger had left left, Timothy, Andrew and Emerson had joined us.

  “I say this calls for a drink,” Timothy announced, once we’d all gathered.

  “I’ll be picking the venue,” I interjected before Timothy could get another word in edgewise. Charlotte let out a hearty laugh, and the group of us took off on a short walk through Central Park into the city.

  THE FEW MONTHS THAT followed were an intricate dance of days and evenings filled with music, and nights that were consumed with Emma and Kira. It became routine. Normal. I’d been so overtaken by it, I hadn’t realized that we’d continued the same discretion we had years ago. There was no discussion of it, so I assumed Emma had been fine with the way things were. Until she’d caught me after dinner one night on the patio of my apartment, after we’d put Kira to sleep.

  Every part of the night that night was spectacular. Most of the time I was too wrapped up in other things to enjoy the beautiful view from my apartment, overlooking the streets of downtown Manhattan and Central Park. Tonight however, had been another story entirely. I leaned against the iron rod chair at the table outside, sipping on the last serving of an imported scotch.

  I heard the door shut behind me, Emma having returned from fetching a glass of rose wine. She sat beside me quiet, eyes scanning the view for a minute before I felt them fall back on me. The way she was acting lead me to believe that whatever she was going to say I wasn’t going to like, so I braced myself, turning towards her.

  What are we going to do? Emma signed to me, her hands flowing gracefully in the air. My mind rolled, trying to discern what she could have possibly been implying. I had a few ideas, but after I hadn’t replied, Emma continued. About your father.

  Truthfully, I hadn’t thought much about him, which was a surprise. My secretive nature about our relationship had been entirely out of habit. I sighed, deciding to finish off the small swallow of my drink before I replied. Once the glass was on the table, Emma’s eyes landed on mine. I don’t know, I replied, honestly. Emma didn’t seem to have any ideas either. I watched her swallow half her drink, fidgeting in her seat. She looked understandably frustrated. She knew it was complicated. That even after all this time, my father had my life wrapped around his finger. “We’ll figure it out.” I did my best to offer a reassuring smile, reaching out to take her hand in my own. Emma’s lip curled for briefly, letting her thumb run over my skin before she moved away.

  “If we should keep it a secret for now, we’ll keep it a secret,” Emma decided.

  I looked at her, surprised she’d even agreed to such a thing. “I couldn’t ask you that,” I argued.

  “You don’t have to,” Emma replied, breaking into a small smile. The look on her face said otherwise, but I knew she’d been doing it out of kindness.

  “It won’t be for long,” I reassured her.

  THE MONDAY OF OUR FINAL week of performances, Miranda caught Emma before our first show. I’d been lingering around, making small-talk as we often did. Most remained unaware of our relationship, but Miranda and Timothy had both caught on rather quickly.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” Miranda said, as Emma and I broke away from one another. Her attention was mostly focused on Emma at that point. “I wanted to talk to you about the fall,” she said. It had been a question on everyone’s mind as of late, what Emma’s future would be with the Philharmonic after the summer. When Miranda had said it, Emma seemed to freeze in place, waiting anxiously.

  “I’m going to step down for a while. Because of the twins.” Miranda smiled at Emma, and my body relaxed. Miranda had recently discovered she and Timothy would be having twin boys. “I asked Philip and the board if they’d considered letting you stay on as a permanent member of the orchestra, and if you want to, they’re going to let you.”

  Emma let out a resounding shout that reverberated across the length of the stage in the middle of Central Park. The smile on her face was something I’d never grow tired of. She looked ecstatic. Before I could stop her, her arms were wrung tightly around my neck. My body stiffened slightly, but I hugged her back, reveling in her happiness. After she’d released me, she went to Miranda, embracing her as tightly as she had me.

  Good vibrations seemed to be in the air that night. The show went spectacularly well. Emma played her best show yet, likely still on a high from Miranda’s news. Not unlike other times throughout the summer, Emma and I kept our distance even after the show had completed. I was putting away the Vuillaume when I heard a scuffling from across the stage.

  “Darling, you were wonderful!” The voice rang out, and my body froze in place. It was lucky I’d already placed the violin down, otherwise I would have surely dropped it. Instead, my bow rattled on the ground loudly. Finally, I dared to look up, meeting
eyes with my mother, who was steadily approaching. Behind her, my father was talking to Philip on the steps of the stage. I fought to breathe, trying to focus on my mother.

  “What are you doing here?” I choked out, steadying myself against the chair I had been sitting in all morning. Even still, I wobbled slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father wrapping up his conversation, moving towards us.

  “Your father had business with the college,” she explained. By the time she’d finished talking, he’d came to stand beside her. Ever since our confrontation about Emma, we’d barely acknowledged one another. He didn’t look at me directly, as I made small talk with my mother for a few minutes.

  Before I could stop her, I heard footsteps behind me. Then a tap on my shoulder. “Juliet, are you ready to go?” Emma must not have seen them in front of me. As soon as I turned, her eyes grew slightly bigger. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were in the middle of a conversation.”

  “You’re the pianist,” Lilith noted, offering a bright smile. “Oh dear, you were wonderful.”

  Every fiber of my being prayed that the next few words wouldn’t come out of Emma’s mouth, but they did anyway, before I could stop her. “I’m Emma. Emma Harvey,” she extended her hand out in my mother’s direction.

  “Lilith,” my mother said. My eyes scanned upward, to meet my father. He had a strange look on his face, as if he was trying to place her. To place her name. “Lilith Hamilton.” When I looked back at Emma, I watched the color drain quickly from her face the moment she realized.