Musical Chairs

by Amy Poeppel

  They started to leave the room.

  “What if she throws up again?” Bridget said. “She could choke.”

  “We’ll babysit from the hallway.” Gwen took Bridget’s hand and pulled her away from the bed, leaving the door cracked open. They sat down side by side, leaning against the wall.

  “Do we still have to whisper?” Gwen asked in a normal voice.

  “No, but we’ll have to rock-paper-scissors for who goes in if she barfs again,” said Bridget.

  “I’m an optimist. I think she’s done for the night.”

  Bridget started laughing, thinking of Sterling, of her father’s fall, of this chaotic dinner party. “Best-laid plans gone awry,” she said.

  “You need some new plans,” said Gwen. “You’ve got almost three months before your trio starts up again. I can think of a million ways you can spend the summer.”

  “Like what? Should I enroll my kids in day camp? Teach cello lessons to the sheep?”

  “Meet some new people,” Gwen said. “You’re so antisocial when you’re here. Look at Will: he comes to town for one day and meets a woman.”

  “That was an anomaly,” said Bridget. “He’s normally just as antisocial as I am.”

  “Do you think we made a good impression on Emma?” Gwen joked.

  “Did you see her tattoo? Is it a bougainvillea?”

  “I don’t know, some kind of vine. Wisteria? They look cute together.”

  Bridget shook her head, trying to understand why, with all the women in Manhattan, Emma had stood out to Will as a good choice. “I can’t imagine what those two have in common,” she said.

  “What do I know? I’m no expert on relationships,” said Gwen. “And I’m nominating you to talk to Dad about this shotgun wedding and trip. One of us should make sure he’s not completely losing it.”

  “I’m an expert on relationships?”

  “You’re the family matriarch.”

  Bridget did not feel old enough for that title. Marge was more fitting for such a senior role; she was certainly more commanding. “Apparently, Lottie’s the family matriarch.”

  “Why did he tell us that story today about the retreat and meeting Mom? You and Dad are sentimental in the weirdest way,” said Gwen. “I didn’t inherit that trait.”

  “I think it’s cool that he still cherishes something from so long ago and replicates it every summer, mentoring prodigies.”

  “The August composers,” said Gwen, “always messing up my summer plans.”

  “I wonder how Lottie will like having three houseguests, strangers really, taking up so much of Dad’s time.”

  There was the sound of retching, and Bridget and Gwen did rock-paper-scissors. Gwen lost. “Shit,” she said and got up to go hold Jackie’s hair.

  Bridget considered her situation: A whole summer with her two grown children living at home; she’d never thought that would happen again. A summer with her father; who knew how many more of those she would have left? She should try to enjoy this peculiar blip rather than fight it. It might not be the summer of romance she’d planned, but maybe it could be memorable in some way. Weird but wonderful.

  Bridget heard the sink turn on and off in Isabelle’s bathroom, and then Gwen came out looking ill. “The fun never stops.”

  As Gwen sat down beside her again, Bridget said, “I’ll call Lottie tomorrow and welcome her to the family.”

  Gwen looked annoyed. “I’m not even sure I approve. Why’s he doing this? And why her?”

  “It could be so much worse. At least she’s age-appropriate,” said Bridget. “And they have history together. It makes sense.”

  “How can it make sense when they’re living on two separate continents, wooing each other on WhatsApp? His best friend’s wife? Isn’t there something creepy about that?”

  Bridget worried that it was somewhat creepy. Awkward at best. “I wonder what her son thinks. Hans.”

  “I get a bad, yucky feeling every time you say his name. He was such a little shit, wasn’t he? God, I hated him.”

  “You remember Lottie pleasantly enough, don’t you? She wore bright lipstick and hats, remember? And she always had chocolate in her purse.” Bridget was about ten when Lottie visited New York and gave both girls German dresses, dirndls, with little aprons. Bridget said thank you and folded hers back in the box, when Lottie insisted she and Gwen put them on, right then and there. She vaguely remembered her dress being a size too big and Lottie making her pose for a picture.

  Maybe bossy was what her father needed.

  “Dad’s getting a second act,” Bridget said, liking the idea of a new chapter, something exciting to embark on. Her father loved marking momentous occasions, graduations and funerals, birthdays and even housewarmings. “I’m sure he’ll want the wedding to be special.”

  “He loves toasts,” said Gwen, “so at least there’ll be a lot of champagne.”

  “Noooo,” groaned Jackie from the other room.

  “Fine, no champagne for Jackie,” said Gwen.

  As Bridget considered her father’s plans, a notion began to form: the new Forsyth Trio could play at the wedding. That idea excited her; it felt meaningful and personal. This would be their debut concert, playing in front of a warm, receptive crowd. What a nice way to start their journey together, with a positive, feel-good concert, erasing any negativity Will was harboring about their collaboration with Caroline.

  Will would know the right piece to play, but as she started to get up to go talk to him about it, she remembered: Will was busy with Emma at the moment. She didn’t want to intrude.

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “Tomorrow what?” said Gwen.

  “Tomorrow I’m starting my summer over again.”

  11

  Will tried his best not to move a muscle or open his eyes. He was sitting on the couch in the middle of the night (he couldn’t check the time since his phone was in his back pocket), while Emma slept soundly, her head on his right shoulder, her shirt gaping open ever so slightly, showing a hint of white lace. He wouldn’t peek.

  They’d had an oddly domestic evening for a first date. While Gwen and Bridget were tending to Jackie, he and Emma had dinner in the kitchen, washed the dishes, and dozed off watching a cooking show on TV. However, the evening was far from boring. He’d watched when Emma took the leftover chicken and divided it into three equal pieces for the dogs, talking to them earnestly: “Now if Jackie comes downstairs hungry, asking for her dinner, let’s not tell her you ate it. I’m not saying you should lie, I’m just asking for your silence.” The dogs wagged their tails.

  And then they fell asleep together (for an hour? two hours?) on the couch. Will woke up briefly to the sound of Bridget and Gwen whispering as they walked to the front door. Now he’d woken up again to the sound of a car pulling out of the driveway. Hudson heard it, too, and started growling.

  Emma sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

  Will shifted to reach his phone. “One thirty. Sorry, this evening wasn’t exactly… romantic.”

  She made a face like he’d said something crazy. “Cleaning up vomit off a porch? Drying three big, wet dogs and doing the dishes? This was a dream date.”

  Will smiled. “Any chance I could try again? Maybe take you out next time?”

  “Not sure you can top this, but…” She sighed and said, “I guess you could try.” She stood up, pulled on her sweater, and got her purse.

  “Are you okay to drive? You can take my room, and I’ll sleep here on the couch.”

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’d hate to upset Ronaldo.”

  Emma hadn’t mentioned a man in her life. Will didn’t want to pry, but he took a guess. “Do you need to… let him out?”

  “No,” she said. “But he misses me terribly when I’m gone too long. And he gets very jealous.”

  Emma got her phone and showed Will a picture of a large blue parrot.

  “Ronaldo,” he said. “I like him already.” He
looked at the photo more closely. Ronaldo had a fierce glint in his eye, daring Will to try anything.

  Will ignored the warning and asked Emma if he could kiss her good night.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, before anyone else was up, Will took Bridget’s car and went to get hangover supplies for whoever needed them: Gatorade, ginger tea, saltines, eggs and bacon, Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, Alka-Seltzer, and the New York Times. His mission was so obvious that even the middle-aged guy behind him in the checkout line took a look in Will’s basket and said, “Rough night?”

  Will wasn’t in the mood for a conversation this early in the day. “Yep.”

  “Big party, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Cool, man, I get it. You’re hard-core.”

  “Ha,” Will said. He felt a need to defend himself, but he kept his explanation simple: “We’ve got the grown kids back home, sort of indefinitely, and they got a little out of control last night.”

  “Yeah, when the empty nest doesn’t stay empty, I know all about that, the ol’ boomerang effect. My daughter’s living with me, and I’ve got a friend whose thirty-year-old son came back home and moved right into his old room.” The man put out his hand and shook Will’s. This was precisely why Will didn’t like small-town life.

  “Mark Thomas,” the man said.

  “Will.”

  “You live around here?” Mark was wearing a blazer and khakis, making Will feel like a bum in his shorts and flip-flops.

  “New Yorker,” Will said. “I mostly come up on weekends.”

  “A city guy,” the cashier chimed in. “Hey, Mark. How’s it going?”

  “Hey, Mary,” Mark said. “Do you know Will?”

  This, thought Will, is a fucking nightmare.

  “How’s it going?” Mary asked as she scanned Will’s items. “I heard the fitness studio is getting sold.”

  Will seriously didn’t care. He just wanted to pay and get back before someone else needed the car.

  “That’s right,” said Mark. “It’s gonna be a new bakery.”

  “A bakery? Replacing a fitness studio?” said Mary. “That’s gonna do wonders for my waistline.”

  They both laughed.

  Will handed his credit card to the cashier, while Mark handed his business card to Will. “If you’re thinking of downsizing, give me a call,” he said. “I’m pretty much the guy around here.”

  “He is,” said Mary.

  Will started to object, but Mark stopped him, putting his hand on his shoulder and leaning in. “Let me tell you something, Will: if you move into a smaller place, the kids aren’t so keen to live with you anymore.” He raised his eyebrows like he’d just revealed the top secret location of a military black site.

  Will studied the card. He hated Realtors; Realtors and greedy landlords were the reason his building was going on the market. “It’s not actually my place. It’s my friend Bridget Stratton’s house.”

  “Stratton?” Mark might or might not have gotten a hard-on. “How about I swing by sometime?” he asked eagerly, sticking a piece of gum in his mouth and offering one to Will. “Let me take a look at the place, give you my two cents?”

  Will said no, both to the offer of gum and the visit. “She hasn’t decided. She just happened to mention it the other day, thinking it’s too much house given how little time she spends up here.”

  “I totally get it,” said Mark. “Totally. The weekend places get tough to manage.”

  “I’ll give Bridget your card,” Will said.

  “Please do. Hope the kids feel better,” Mark called after him.

  * * *

  The house was still quiet when Will got back. He made coffee, poured himself a cup, and went outside with Hudson and the newspaper. After perusing the front page, he skipped to the Arts section, where he read a worrisome and thoroughly bizarre story: Caroline Lee had left the stage in the middle of a Tchaikovsky violin concerto with the Dallas Symphony, saying she felt woozy due to the heat. She’d taken allergy medicine and reacted poorly. She might have gotten food poisoning. Also, she was overtired. The excess of excuses made Will doubt the entire claim. And even if her health were to blame, he simply couldn’t imagine how she could walk offstage mid-concert. Stopping a performance in the middle of a piece? Abandoning an audience? It was unthinkable. Through the years, he and Bridget had played tired, hungover, congested, and jet-lagged. With stomach bugs, fevers, and broken hearts. What kind of musician walks offstage before the end?

  Will was so disturbed, he got his phone and called her manager. And for the first time ever, Randall took his call.

  “Well, we’re in a big fat mess now, aren’t we?” Randall said.

  “What happened? Is Caroline okay?”

  “Fuck no, she’s not okay, but that’s hardly the point. She’s out. She won’t work with you.”

  Will was baffled. “Me?” he said. “What do I have to do with her walking offstage?”

  “No, that was a stomach virus or something. She says she talked to you, and you were rude and insulting. She wants nothing to do with Forsyth.”

  “What?” Will tried to replay the phone conversation they’d had from the parking lot. “I wasn’t rude to her,” he said. “She was being very demanding, and I listened, and then I agreed to everything she wanted.”

  “That’s not what she said.”

  “I may have hesitated for a brief moment, literally, like for a second, and then I said, ‘Fine, we’ll fly you first class and whatever else bullshit you want.’ ”

  “No wonder she didn’t like your tone.”

  “I didn’t like her tone!”

  “Well, good for you,” said Randall, clearly furious, “because now we’re fucked. She’s dropped out, which puts me in a hell of a position. I’ve already scheduled concerts for you guys, and I’m gonna get my ass kicked when I have to cancel.”

  “Wait, come on. I’ll call her back, I’ll straighten it out.”

  “Do not call her. I mean it, Will. She specifically said she doesn’t want to talk to you, and she’s on shaky ground as it is. She’s a serious musician.”

  That comment struck Will as a jab. “And we’re not?”

  Randall paused for a second and let out a big sigh. “I’m having a real shit day because of you two.”

  Will didn’t know if by “you two” he meant him and Bridget or him and Caroline. Either way, Bridget was going to flat out kill him for this. He wasn’t too pleased with himself either. One of the goals of this collaboration had been to end up with Randall managing them, and the prospects of that happening had just taken a serious dive. He hadn’t even had a chance to tell Bridget the details about the phone call. What would he tell her now?

  “It’s a real shame,” Randall said. “You would have liked Caroline if you’d gotten to know her.”

  Will doubted that very much.

  “But it doesn’t matter now,” Randall said. “It’s over.”

  “What if,” said Will, running the names of violinists he knew through his head. “What if… we could replace her and still do the concerts?”

  Randall coughed out a ha! sound. “Who are you gonna replace her with?”

  “Someone with name recognition and serious talent. A famous soloist.” As Will considered what he was saying, it occurred to him that he was “friends” with only one such person, and he couldn’t stand the idea of asking him.

  “Give me a name, Will,” Randall said impatiently.

  Will rubbed his forehead, wishing he could think of anyone else. “What if… What if I could get… Gavin Glantz to join us? At least for the concerts you already scheduled?”

  There was a pregnant pause, and Will waited. If Gavin agreed to do even one of the concerts, it would be better than zero.

  Randall finally spoke up. “How long was he with Forsyth?”

  Will didn’t have to think. He and Bridget marked time by who their violinist was at any given period. Gavin was from co
llege until five years after Will’s divorce. Martina was from Bridget’s pregnancy to Oscar and Isabelle’s toddler years. There was the Julian era, a brief period marked by great camaraderie, Will moving into his current apartment, and Bridget buying her Connecticut house. “Gavin was the original,” said Will. “Bringing him back would be a reunion of sorts. We were together for over five years, nine if you count our time at Juilliard.”

  “I’ll email the dates to you. If you can get Gavin, I can make the argument for the switch.”

  “Good,” Will said, feeling his stomach start to hurt. “Hey, do me a favor, Randall. Don’t tell Bridget about any of this just yet. Let me sort it out first, and I’ll tell her.”

  Randall exhaled in irritation. “Your relationship issues are not my problem—”

  “No, no, I only—”

  “Call Gavin, and let me know when you’ve got him.”

  * * *

  After hanging up, Will went in the house and dropped two Alka-Seltzer tablets into a glass of water for himself. Shit. How could he reach out to Gavin after all this time? And how could he possibly persuade him to join them, given what a big deal Gavin had become, how busy he was, how little he cared about them.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the pitiful sight of Jackie limping into the kitchen, looking pale, wobbly, and miserably uncomfortable in someone else’s pajamas.

  “Hi there,” he said. “What can I get you?” She squinted at him and tried to put on a good face.

  “I want to apologize for my behavior last night,” she said. “I never drink to excess, ever, and—”

  “It’s fine,” said Will, getting a pan from the rack over his head, the butter from the fridge. “We’ve all had nights like that.”

  “Not me,” Jackie said. “I do not have nights like that, ever. I can’t imagine what Bridget must think. Or you. Or Isabelle—”

  “Don’t worry about it. How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

  “Do you know where my clothes are?”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ll be putting those back on. You kind of… destroyed them. But I’m sure we can find you some jeans or something.”