Musical Chairs

by Amy Poeppel

  In the library, she picked up Edward’s new Golden Globe statue, won for Best Original Score, and held it in her hand, feeling the cool weight of it. She put it down next to the Tony he’d gotten in the ’70s for his hit musical based on Colley Cibber’s play The Careless Husband. On the desk, there was music for a piece he was currently working on, and she studied it while listening to the third movement of Mahler through the open door.

  When they were young, she and Gwen would sit with their father for hours to hear recordings, while he pointed out tempo shifts or unusual interpretations of a certain movement and judged the excellent or heinous results for which the conductor (usually Karajan or Seiji Ozawa and later Edward himself) was wholly responsible. He would replay the same measure over and over again until they could distinguish subtle differences between two different recordings of it. Then he would test the girls to prove they could hear it. Gwen, at six or so, was good at it, better than Bridget, although sometimes Bridget suspected she was simply a better guesser.

  One day, Edward took the testing in a different direction, declaring proudly, “What fun—Bridget has perfect pitch.”

  Gwen had tapped her father on the arm. “Do I? Do I have perfect pitch?”

  No, he told her. She didn’t.

  Bridget was proud, thinking this actually meant something, that she had an innate skill that would propel her to mastery of the cello. “Don’t get too excited,” said her father when he heard her boasting about it. “It might help with ear training, but otherwise it’s nothing but a party trick. The only thing that matters is practice. Perfect pitch won’t get you anywhere.” So instead of relying on her aptitude, Bridget put in her twenty-five thousand hours.

  * * *

  Picking up a catalog of the collection from the Victoria and Albert, Bridget sat down on the leather chesterfield sofa and leafed through it. Right down the hall in Edward’s first-floor master suite, there was an early Turner over the headboard and a late Gainsborough over the dresser, dreamy British landscapes that had belonged to her mother. Bridget would stare at them and feel transported. The Turner, depicting a sky that looked like it was either about to storm or had just stopped—Bridget could never quite decide—showed an eerie light reflecting off a pond, and it seemed to change every time Bridget studied it. The Gainsborough was similar in that the field was lit in the background, while dark clouds formed over shadowy trees in the foreground, leaving her unsure if trouble was coming or going.

  “I like his face,” a voice whispered in her ear.

  Startled, Bridget turned to see Marge, holding a photo album under her arm and a duster in her hand, looking over her shoulder at Nicholas.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Bridget whispered back, “but he’s taken. He has a very attractive wife.”

  “He’s fancy-pants, like your father.”

  Nicholas was not, Bridget noticed, wearing fancy pants. He had on jeans with a linen blazer, giving him the look of a much younger professor.

  Marge looked down at Bridget. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, poodle, but you look like you spent last night on a park bench.”

  Marge had worked for the Stratton family ever since the day Bridget got her first Chapin School uniform. Bridget tried it on and said she looked stupid in it, and Marge had agreed with her. “Stupid indeed. So wear it ironically,” she suggested. Marge lived with her son in Yonkers now, but Edward still asked her to spend the summers at his country house. Edward used the title “Housekeeper Emeritus” and paid her a good salary to call the right person when anything needed attention, to order fresh flowers, dust the antiques, and write shopping lists. She cooked for Edward, but if there were more than three guests, she called the caterer.

  “It’s not my fault,” Bridget whispered, showing Marge her arm. “I got electrocuted this morning.”

  Marge examined the red mark, looking horrified. “Hire an electrician. Today. Do you need the name of ours?”

  “Is it Baxter and something?”

  “Braxton and Sons.”

  Bridget liked to have more than one problem before she dragged any workers to the house. “Maybe I’ll get some new fixtures put in while I’m at it. Sterling prefers lights with dimmer switches.”

  Marge straightened up. “I get the feeling your beau is sort of difficult.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Persnickety.”

  “He’s not persnickety; he’s brilliant and thoughtful. A few weeks ago, he recorded me playing a piece, and now he listens to it while he takes walks. Isn’t that sweet?”

  Marge pursed her lips together disapprovingly and then said, “I’ll let you know when I make up my mind about him.”

  Bridget wasn’t worried. By the end of the summer, Marge would like Sterling just fine.

  She was looking into the living room now with a puzzled expression. “He’s got something cooking, and I don’t know what it is.”

  “Dad?” Bridget asked. “What’s he got cooking?”

  Marge shrugged. “I thought maybe you knew.”

  “Do you think he’s retiring?”

  Marge shook her head. “The opposite. I think he’s got a new passion project.”

  “Gwen said he’s in overdrive,” Bridget said, giving his state of mind more attention now that Marge was backing up Gwen’s opinion.

  “He talks about you girls a lot lately.”

  “Is he going soft in his old age?”

  “Aren’t we all?” Marge asked, patting her hip. She offered the photo album to Bridget. “Would you like to take this in and say hello?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Bridget craned her head to the side so she could watch as Marge walked into the living room. Her father took the leather album, delighted to see it, while giving Marge a clear smile of appreciation. Marge went out the far door, waving her duster at the furniture like a wand.

  All around this massive house were old-world antiques, the seventeenth-century armoire, the Empire rolltop desk, carved headboards in the bedrooms and medieval-looking wooden candelabras in the dining room. On the table next to Bridget, in an antique silver frame, was a picture of Edward conducting the Munich Philharmonic. She recognized the concert hall by the details of the ceiling (which led to controversy about the hall’s acoustics), and her father by the familiar view of his back. Munich was home to Edward’s oldest friend, Johannes, a man he’d known for sixty years until he’d died about a year ago. Sixty years! A friendship lasting that long was something to be treasured.

  Bridget’s phone pinged, and she quickly silenced it.

  Will had texted to check on her: Are you recovered from your electric shock???

  Bridget responded with a string of emojis (lightning bolt, surprised face, thumbs-up). Then she wrote: All okay. Hanging out at my dad’s.

  There was a pause. And then: Didst thou receive an audience with his Majesty?

  Ha and no, Bridget texted. He’s holding court with a loyal subject.

  Will was the only person Bridget knew who didn’t hero-worship her father, mostly because he resented Edward for the insecurity Bridget had when she started conservatory. This was not irrational; Edward had told her bluntly when she was young that, in spite of her dedication, he didn’t think she was good enough to become a professional cellist. When she turned sixteen, he admitted she had become a decent player, but said it was unlikely she would ever become an exceptional one. It would not be a constructive use of her time, said Edward, to go to conservatory, and she probably wouldn’t finish anyway once she met the competition: prodigies who were far superior. She insisted on going anyway, so he suggested she spend a summer in London, living with her grandmother while attending an intensive program (that culminated in a master class she’d barely survived) so that she could work on her “wholly inadequate” technique (poor thumb position and bow balance, to name a few issues). He was less critical of her after she returned, but Will spent a lot of his time in college convincing Bridget that she deserved to be
at Juilliard, that she could succeed as a professional musician, no matter what Edward had told her when she was a kid. Will finally met Edward the day he and Bridget graduated. Will threatened to say something snarky to him, but he didn’t, of course. It would have been rude, and Will was unfailingly polite. Besides, Edward was intimidating. He was a genius. He had charmed the pope. He’d delighted dictators. Everyone loved Edward.

  * * *

  The sound of men’s laughter came from the next room, just as the fifth movement was ending. Bridget opened her eyes, realizing she had no memory of hearing the fourth movement at all and that she’d drooled a bit on her sleeve. She stretched her neck, stood up, and saw her father and Nicholas shaking hands, Nicholas thanking him in a deep voice. Bridget slipped out of the room and hurried down the hall, past the grandfather clock that struck twelve as she went by. Picking up her shoes by the door, she quickly left the house and drove home in her mismatched socks.

  * * *

  That afternoon she practiced for over an hour, going through the Schubert with a metronome. Seeing Edward always compelled her to work hard, but there was something about the sight of him today (or his feet, anyway, from the back of his wing chair), adjacent to Nicholas, the two of them listening so intently to every note, intention, and manifestation, that motivated her. She wanted to be on top of her game to impress Caroline when they started playing together in the fall.

  Once again, they were starting over. It was hard to fold in a new violinist, to work out the group chemistry and make sure that she and Will were allowing a new personality to help shape the group dynamics. This time the experience would likely feel different: Caroline Lee was out of their league and the answer to their prayers; Bridget was grateful to her.

  The Forsyth Trio had seen better days. It was getting harder and harder to book concerts, their fees were stagnant, and their manager of twenty years seemed completely uninterested in helping them turn things around. Meanwhile new, younger groups were popping up all the time. These kids might not have the experience, connections, and professionalism of Forsyth, but they knew how to use social media and build a brand. Forsyth didn’t have a SoundCloud account or a YouTube channel or an Instagram page. They had nothing but an old website and their reputation.

  Through a friend (and likely with a little help from the cachet of Bridget’s last name), they scored a meeting with Randall Bennett, a manager who handled the careers of the world’s top classical musicians. Randall, a slightly balding, fast-talking, intimidating alpha man, had heard them play at Alice Tully Hall once, and he told Bridget and Will that he thought they were impressive; nevertheless, he turned them down, with a clear and absolute shake of his head. “I’m sorry, guys, but I can’t sign a two-person trio,” he’d said. And, amused by the absurdity, he laughed. Bridget and Will didn’t think it was funny at all. “But I’ll tell you what,” he added. “If you can find a soloist, a Hilary Hahn or an Anne-Sophie Mutter, a Christian Tetzlaff, someone of that caliber, then get back in touch, and we’ll talk.”

  A few days later Randall contacted them with a proposition: His client, the exceptionally talented, well-known violinist Caroline Lee (graduate of Curtis, winner of the Martin E. Segal Award, named on several fabulous-people-under-thirty lists), wanted to expand her repertoire with ensemble music. She’d heard Forsyth play in New York a few years before. Would they consider working with her, on a trial basis, of course, for one year?

  Bridget and Will discussed the proposal.

  “If it doesn’t work out,” Will said, “we’ll have no manager, and we’ll be in worse shape than we’re in now. It’s a huge risk.”

  “But if it goes well,” Bridget reminded him, “Randall will represent us.”

  They decided to take the risk.

  Randall began booking concerts for the fall, starting with the Frick in mid-September. However, he had explained to them, he was not representing them yet, so everything else involved in getting Forsyth back on track was Bridget and Will’s responsibility. He told them to “up their game” in order to deserve Caroline. He recommended a PR firm that would launch a publicity campaign, and a company that would revamp their brand and their whole look as an ensemble.

  Will was nervous about the plan, but Bridget was thrilled.

  * * *

  Bridget put her cello back in its case just as a loud screeching came from the other side of the field, making her wonder who was eating whom in her backyard. Every year, ice storms chewed up the cedar shingles, and the summer heat warped the doors in their frames, making them creak when they opened. The seasons had given her house a lot of its character. She poured herself a glass of rosé and went out to the porch to look at the mountain, the trees, and the outline of Batshit Barn. It was so beautiful, and it made her all the more excited to share it with someone. She couldn’t wait for Sterling to get there and picked up her phone to tell him so.

  “Here’s the plan,” she said, as soon as he answered. “We’re going to sleep in as late as we want, work as much as we need to, and have sex anytime we like, day or night. Happy hour begins at seven p.m. sharp.”

  “Hold on,” he said.

  Bridget heard voices, a woman’s and then a child’s. Something crackly like an intercom.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “The hospital.”

  “No way,” said Bridget, “I was at the hospital today, too.” He didn’t say anything. “Are you okay?”

  “I had a twinge in my back.”

  “A twinge. What’s a twinge?”

  There was a rustling and then the woman’s voice again. “Bridget? It’s Mallory.”

  “Hi,” she said. “Is Sterling all right?”

  “He’s not taking care of himself,” Mallory said. “He sat writing for so long today, he’s pinched a nerve in his lower back.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Bridget. “I’ll have to make sure he takes a lot of breaks this summer.”

  “You should get him up from the desk every two to three hours,” she said. “And he should do some core-strengthening.”

  Was sex core-strengthening? Bridget had the good taste not to ask. “There couldn’t be a better place to take walks.”

  “I was thinking,” said Mallory, “since he’ll be there for so many weeks, why don’t you guys go on a health kick together? You should do the Whole30.”

  A bullfrog croaked in the pond, and Bridget took a sip of her wine.

  “I’m sending you a book about it,” said Mallory. “Sterling’s blood pressure’s high, and the doctor thinks a high-fiber, low-carb diet would be good for him. I’d rather you follow Juliette Stark’s program, but I think it’s too rigid for Sterling. Have you heard about Juliette’s book? Gwyneth Paltrow swears by her.”

  Bridget put her glass of wine down, feeling defensive. “I eat fairly well here.” She didn’t mention the scolding she’d gotten about her own blood pressure that very morning.

  “You guys should cut carbs and all processed foods.”

  “Who needs fun, right?” Bridget joked.

  “No one over fifty,” said Mallory sternly.

  Bitch. “Lucky you then.”

  “No dairy, no sugar. And no alcohol.”

  Bridget saw her wine-and-cheese hour under assault. “Did Sterling agree to this?”

  “Hang on,” she said.

  There was more rustling, and Sterling got on the phone. “Hi, hon. Not to worry, I’m taking ibuprofen and feeling better already.”

  “Whole30?” she asked. “Really?”

  “Fantastic! So, you’re on board? And Bridget, I was wondering: You said the study, the loft or whatever, it has a bed in it, right?”

  Will’s bed. “Of course. And a desk and—”

  “How’s the mattress?”

  “In the loft? It’s fine, why?”

  “Is it firm?”

  “Posturepedic,” said Mallory in the background.

  “Is it Posturepedic?” repeated Sterling.

  “You
mean mine? Not really. It’s a little squishy.”

  “No, the mattress in the loft.”

  Bridget had no idea. “But I don’t want you to sleep in the loft,” she said, hating the whininess of her voice. “I want you to sleep with me.”

  “Just in case I have a flare-up.”

  “Did she bring the cats?” she heard Mallory ask.

  “You brought the cats, right?”

  “Yes,” Bridget said.

  “She brought the cats.”

  Bridget heard the mumblings of a conversation.

  “I’ll need a hypoallergenic pillow,” he said.

  “Is Madison excited about camp?” Bridget asked, trying to shift the focus away from allergies and back pain.

  “She sure is. Aren’t you, Madison? Madison? My friend Bridget wants to— Madison?— She wants to know if you’re looking forward to camp.” More mumbling. “…if you’re excited about camp?” Sterling said.