Which was precisely the reason the sweet unmistakable sounds of Eleanor Hamilton’s Vuillaume reverberated through the length of David Geffen Hall. The strings of intricate notes flew through the tips of my fingers in an effortless fit of emotion. All the things I was never able to verbalize came out in that familiar melody. My entire being released into the instrument across my shoulder, in the lengthy bow that danced lightly in my hand. In those moments, I was finally able to breathe. Finally able to let go.
Minutes into the Andante, the second, slower and more romantic movement of the concerto, I was blinded. My eyes, that had been closed the majority of the song, filled with overwhelming pools of tears that flooded down my face. The violin sang in a series of long powerful bowing measures to the rest of the orchestra. A song that encapsulated every part of what I was feeling on that terribly lonely stage. The Vuillaume cried notes as tears spilled from my face. I hadn’t been sure who was watching me as I played, and I hadn’t cared. It was just me and the instrument. There was no need to explain myself. I said enough with the longing notes that trembled out of the strings.
Each movement fell on top of the next. There was no breathing room. By the time the Adante had finished, I couldn’t hold myself together. I fled from the stage before anyone could stop me, clutching my beloved instrument to my chest. The empty room I found on the far side of the building was small, but enough. On the opposite end, a black upright Steinway sat, dust accumulating on its flat top. The darkness cast shadows across it that made it look depressingly unnoticed. After I closed the door and paced across the room, my trembling free hand fell along the engraved Steinway name on the wood, feeling the letters beneath me. I studied every piece of the instrument. It looked as hollow and empty as I felt. I placed my violin back to my shoulder as I stood beside it. Imagining myself back at the Bard, locked away in a classroom, playing with the only woman in the world that mattered to me more than anything else ever would. I breathed long slow breaths, letting myself calm. My body eventually relaxed. There was no need to barricade myself any longer. I was alone. Free.
Emma had often told me that she’d let her fingers decide what to play when she’d sit at the piano. For so long in my life I’d been blinded by rules and expectations. Needing to know exactly what to expect, what to do. Sheet music. Measures. Lines. Notes. There had to be some sort of semblance of order. I was always prepared. I always had a plan.
Except, now I had nothing. Just an instrument. In an empty white room. Alone, with a sad piano that knew no musician to play it. I’d felt so much like it, in a way, in that moment. So, I adjusted the Vuillaume on my shoulder, letting the Morizot bow bounce in my palm for a moment before it fell to the strings. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think. There were no plans. No time to second-guess my actions.
I played. And the moment I did, the moment I heard the sweet notes of Tristesse ripple through my fingers, I’d decided.
MONDAY MORNING, I TRAVELED the two hours back to Annandale-on-Hudson and found myself on campus at the Bard. Instead of heading to my office, I made my way further down the hall. The door I’d been searching for was shut, but the light was on. I hadn’t known what I was going to say. Truthfully, I hadn’t fully decided I was going to act until I’d arrived at the door. As soon as I’d reached it, I twisted the handle without knocking first, letting myself inside.
He’d been sitting at his desk, buried in paperwork. I always hated his office. It was stuffy and reeked of cigar smoke. Everything about it was unwelcoming. There was one small window on the far side that he always had closed with a blind. I never understood why, he had a beautiful view of the campus. Perhaps he hadn’t cared to look. He never much cared to look at anything.
I’d stood there a significant period of time in silence. When my father finally acknowledged me, it was brief. He returned his focus on his work, his voice that same cold distant tone it always was. “I’m assuming you didn’t just come in here to gawk at me, Juliet.”
My face twisted into a scowl. Such a large part of me wanted to yell at him. It took everything in my power not to. I thought of Emma and what she might say to me. The words that rang through my mind instantly calmed me. I could feel the leather strap wrapped around my hand, sliding across my palm.
One pound of spruce and curly maple wood, stained a deep mahogany. Fourteen inches from its scroll to the chin-rest. Strings tuned in perfect fifths. Made in Paris over a century and a half ago by a renowned and prolific instrument maker. For almost a decade I’d felt its presence every day. It went with me everywhere. An extension of me, in every sense of the word.
Like many instances those past few days, I didn’t hesitate for long. A few swift strides had me across the length of his office, and in one careful motion, the decade old black leather case fell against his desk. When I released it from my grip, a rush of air filled my lungs rapidly.
“I came here to tell you I quit,” I said, before I even had a moment to think about it.
The words seemed to focus my father’s attention. His head jerked up, emerald green eyes burning into mine. “Pardon me?”
“I said, I quit.” My voice was firm. Calm. I didn’t yell. I didn’t say the millions of other things I wanted to tell him. Instead, I turned away, preparing to exit as swiftly as I came in. The weight I’d carried into the room having fallen from me the moment the Vuillaume had been sat in front of my father.
“If you walk out that door, I’ll make sure you never play another Philharmonic show for the rest of your career,” my father threatened. As soon as he said it, I turned on my heel.
“I won’t need to,” I replied, a small smile falling on my lips. I’d never seen the look in Frederick Hamilton’s eyes like he was giving me in that moment. Every ounce of control he’d had on me for forty-one years was dissipating in seconds. Again, I turned away, this time managing to get the door open before he spoke again.
“And, this?” my father’s question hung in the air. I knew exactly what he was referring to without having to look. But once again, my body turned underneath the door frame and my eyes fell to the hard black case stretched across his desk.
“There’s other things I need more,” I replied, disappearing beyond the door as soon as I’d said it.
JERWOOD HALL WAS A large open-spaced room inside of St. Lukes, the home of the London Symphony Orchestra. Housed in an 18th-century Hawksmoor church, it sat in the heart of London Borough of Islington. The crème-colored building was a blend of 18th century architecture mixed with a contemporary interior. Jerwood Hall offered an intimate space for rehearsals and performances alike. The original interior brickwork had been retained, and the acoustic banners that flanked the walls and ceiling were designed with music in mind.
Sitting on the second-story balcony, I looked down at the hundred musicians that filled the space, wrapping up the four-hour-long rehearsal. The afternoon sunshine trickled in through the tall glazed glass windows filling the walls around us. It caught my attention, only because the way the light reflected down onto the musicians, and caused the hairs of a particular blonde to glisten.
Emma Harvey was buried in the piano, as she often was, rumbling down the keys in the triumphant and final chromatic chords of Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique. I watched as her body fell in and out of the piano, those perfect nimble hands working every piece of ivory like magic. The final notes rang through the room, and she paused, her hands resting firmly down on the instrument. Feeling the lingering sensations of her music.
Not surprisingly, Emma remained at the single L-model Steinway after the entirety of the room had emptied. Once I’d made it down to the ground level, finding my way back into the barren room, I couldn’t tell what she was working on. It was in fragments. Chords and harmonic measures. Instead of making myself noticeable, I did the one thing that was frowned upon by so many musicians. The one thing that I couldn’t stop myself from doing since the moment I’d seen her audition in Fischer Hall all those years ago. I watched her pla
y.
Emma practiced for at least another hour, all the while I stood watching. At my vantage point, I could see the piano keys and the side of her body and face as it worked with the instrument. For a while, she worked on small pieces. Portions of the work the orchestra was rehearsing. Likely things she was overthinking. Every time she played, she was nearly flawless.
Just as I thought she was about to finish for the evening, the automatic lights of the hall having gone out behind me, I watched her shift on the black cushioned bench at the piano. Emma’s facial expression shifted. Her fingers danced above the keys. Pondering. Waiting. For what I didn’t know. The silence of the room made the hairs on the backside of my neck stand on end.
The second I thought I had a chance to take a breath, to blink, Emma began to play. Every note from her fingers beckoned me. A melody I hadn’t heard in years. One that filled the summer night air as a young woman stole my heart underneath a willow tree. It was meant for violin, but the notes were played so beautifully on the piano, it hadn’t mattered. A waltz, meant for dancing. There was no need for dancing now, the song did it all on its own.
My footsteps were light as they glided along the hardwood floors of Jerwood Hall. Even still, the curl on Emma’s lips seemed to indicate they hadn’t been quiet enough. Those captivating brown eyes looked up from the piano, her head turning slightly. The expression on her face was calm. She hadn’t seemed surprised. No words came from her mouth. I made it to the bench as the last few measures of the short song trickled from her fingertips. Once the last notes rang into the room, I smiled at her. “Mind if I sit?”
Emma repositioned herself slightly, allowing me the opportunity to seat myself beside her at the higher registers. I watched her dribble along the keys for a moment before she turned back to me. You’re here. Every sign of her hand was slow and deliberate and intricate. Beautiful.
I am, I replied, my smile lingering. A soft sigh fell from Emma’s lips. She didn’t ask. It hadn’t mattered. There was only one thing on my mind in that moment.
“What would you like to play?”
Epilogue
Beethoven, Moonlight Sonata
Bach, Sonata for Piano and Violin in B Minor
EMMA
“We’re going to be late—”
I barely had a moment to breathe, hastily interrupted by the firm push of my body against the window pane of our small two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of London. My naked backside exposed to the tiny alleyway below. At that precise moment, I hadn’t cared much, too distracted by the delicate sweeps of soft, moist lips across the flesh of my neck.
While I loved everything about Juliet, perhaps my favorite thing was her long fingers that were meant for the violin. Much like how they knew every intricate detail of that instrument, they too knew every inch of me. That, even with only a few precious moments, she could give me exactly what I needed, without much effort.
And in that moment, I needed her inside of me.
Every time Juliet dropped to her knees in front of me, my heart would pause in my chest. It was all I could do to continue breathing. That moment had been no exception. Those emerald green eyes were glistening with a carnal energy that was exploding within her. I felt the gentle sweeps of her caress before she dipped inside of me. Hungrily. Without reserve. My body pushed back against the cool glass, writhing at the sensation of her filling me completely.
Juliet’s name sung from my lips as I watched her mouth wrap over me, sucking and licking in a vigorous rhythm that I could hardly keep up with. Moans turned quickly to gasps as I rocked in time with her, my body banging lightly into the window frame. When Juliet’s green eyes looked up into mine, everything released. My legs buckled and my hands fell against the window-sill, fighting to keep my balance. My once quiet vocalizations filled the entire apartment, savoring every second of the pleasure that overtook me.
Still gasping, I watched as Juliet moved to her feet. We tangled together while I cleaned off my arousal that lingered on her lips. As soon as I finished, Juliet kissed me once more chastely before separating from me.
“Now we can go,” she smiled.
JULIET
The theater was nearly empty, outside of a small collection of faculty sitting near the front of the room. Miranda, Timothy and I had found seats in the back row, off to one side, being careful to remain as quiet as possible. In all actuality, we shouldn’t have been inside, but Miranda had convinced us anyway. It was rather large and chances were we would be unnoticed.
A young male student had just left. For being a smaller conservatory, it was a decent sized theater and stage. The room was painted a shade of rose, with plush black seating. Timothy and Miranda were busy chatting with one another while I waited impatiently, fidgeting in my seat.
“Take a breath, Jules,” Timothy said, resting a hand on my leg to settle it. I sat back in the seat, letting a long breath of air run out of me. Once it had, my attention turned to the doors just as Emma walked inside. Miranda waved to her, and she came to settle next to me. Lips pressed against my cheek softly and I found her hand to wrap in my own.
“I think she’s ready,” Emma said, when we were facing one another. “Just a little nervous, but she was okay.” Her lip curled in a small smile as she looked me over. “By the looks of it, you’re more nervous than she was.”
It was likely the truth. The entire week I’d been anxious. I was about to reply to her when a commotion rang out across the room. By the time we’d all turned our attention towards the stage, Kira was making her way out.
Somehow, I was back in Fischer Hall at the Bard, watching a younger Emma Harvey make her way onto the stage. She had the same untamed blonde locks that Emma had once sported, and wore a modest dress. As captivated as I had been over Emma, I was equally so by Kira. At the same time, there was a new emotion there. One that I’d been feeling more and more as I watched her grow older. I was proud. Overwhelmingly so.
I’d never seen her walk so confidently in my time of knowing her. She made her way over to the white Steinway set up in the middle of the stage, positioning herself across the untucked bench. After she settled, she arranged her sheet music on the stand. Over the past week, she and Emma had picked out the pieces she would play. It would be a surprise to me. I waited patiently, feeling Emma’s hand squeeze my own.
“She’s going to be great,” I heard her whisper into my ear and I smiled.
The group of us held our breaths as Kira got settled. Everything around us froze until the first notes of the piano rang into the room. It took just a few measures for me to realize what she was playing. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata filled the theater. The soothing calm melody causing me to relax against the seat. My attention turned to Emma, who was staring at me smiling. There was no doubt she’d helped Emma pick the song on purpose. No doubt that it had been meant for me to hear. That Emma’s moment on David Geffen Hall three years ago, had been so much like Kira’s moment now.
We didn’t focus on one another long. Once I’d turned my attention back, it was impossible to look away from her. I could tell how engaged she was with the instrument. How focused she was on every note that rippled through her and across the floor. She’d never heard the song before, but it was all the same. Kira knew it, in the same ways Emma had known it. It was a part of her completely.
The audition was three songs long. Kira played the first movement of Moonlight Sonata before she continued with two required pieces, both of which she performed flawlessly. As soon as she’d finished, the four of us snuck out of the theater, making our way through the halls to meet her in the back. Before we’d made it around the corner, Emma caught me by the wrist, pulling me back towards her. I turned around swiftly. She stood silent, a small smile stretched across her lips. Finally, I couldn’t help but ask. “What?”
“I think she’s going to get in,” Emma said, matter-of-factly. While I was nervous, there was hardly a doubt in my mind. Emerson had pulled some last minute strings to get her
an audition for a small music conservatory for younger students in the heart of London. Kira had been practicing non-stop for a week to prepare. She would have been able to perform even without the practice, nearly as dedicated to the instrument as Emma was. Still, Emma’s guidance had been a great assistance.
“She had a good teacher,” I admitted, wrapping our hands together and Emma nodded appreciatively before we walked to catch up to Miranda and Timothy.
Once we’d reached the wings of the stage, we found Kira, packing up her backpack with her sheet music. She looked thrilled, to say the least. After a round of congratulations, she scampered off with the faculty to get her tour of the school with Miranda and Timothy, while Emma and I lingered on the stage. The theater was empty now, just the two of us remained.
In my years of knowing Emma Harvey, there had never been a time that a piano had been in front of us untouched. So, it wasn’t a surprise when Emma had wandered across the small stage to the white Steinway, whose wooden bench still sat untucked. I watched her sit gracefully, turning to look over her shoulder at me. She hadn’t needed to ask. Once I’d reached her, I sat beside her at the higher end of the register.
Brown eyes fell on green. That smile, still lingered on her lips. “Bach’s Sonata?” Emma asked me. There were plenty of them, but I knew what she had been referring to. I nodded, unsure of how I would approach it on the piano. It had always been something I’d played on the violin. Emma started off, dribbling down the length of the lower end of keys. Eventually, I decided how to enter and fell alongside her.
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