by Amy Poeppel
“There was a write-up about the owner in the local paper,” said Gwen. “He has a store in town with a coffee shop in it.”
“I’m working in the café.”
“My sister’s finally a barista,” Oscar said from the buffet. “Dreams really do come true.”
“Shut up,” she said.
Bridget started to say something about better uses of her MBA, but Gwen jumped in first. “Well done, Isabelle,” she said. “Landing on your feet. And a small business might suit you better.”
“I met the owner today,” Isabelle said, “Peter Latham. He’s all about reviving the feel of an old-fashioned general store. I think I can learn from him. He’s—”
“Move it, sister,” said Oscar, standing over Isabelle with his plate.
“Get your own chair,” sniped Isabelle. “And get one for Kevin, too.”
But at Marge’s direction, Kevin was already moving two of the armless Chippendales from the side of the room to the table. Everyone except Edward adjusted.
Bridget sat down next to her father, saying, “Oscar and I saw Nicholas Donahue outside.”
“He’s an entertaining and intelligent scholar,” said Edward. “Come to think of it, he asked about you today.”
“Did he?” said Bridget.
“Told you,” said Oscar.
“We were looking through family photographs,” Edward said, “and he asked to take a picture of you home with him.”
“That’s creepy,” said Gwen.
Edward scoffed. “For research purposes, I assure you. He’s interested in all aspects of my life, especially my annual retreat.”
“Does Lottie know the composers are coming?” Gwen asked.
“Of course,” said Edward. “She loves the idea.”
Gwen smiled. “Can we set one of them up with Bridget?”
“They’re always too young,” said Bridget, “and I don’t want to date a musician anyway.”
“Jackie outdid herself bringing me candidates,” said Edward. “She gave me an outstanding list of qualified composers.”
“I posted on Musical Chairs,” Jackie said, shrugging off her efforts. “It was nothing really.”
“What’s Musical Chairs?” asked Bridget.
“A Listserv for instrumentalists, music teachers, anyone in the music industry.”
Edward said proudly, “I chose a woman from Russia, a man from France, and another from Greece.”
“What are their names?” Bridget asked.
“Sonya, Simon, and Stavros,” said Edward.
“Okay,” said Isabelle, “that’s… adorable.”
“What’s adorable about it?” Edward said. “They’re composers, not puppies.”
“I’m picturing an East European pop band from the ’80s,” said Oscar.
Edward shook his head, exasperated with the lot of them.
“Tell us about the trip you’re planning,” said Gwen. “Your honeymoon.”
Edward put his utensils down. “As of September,” Edward said, “Lottie and I will be citizens of the world, traveling for the foreseeable future. We’re going to visit every continent and go to every renowned symphony hall on our list. It’s been a dream of mine to hear all the music there is to hear across all cultures on an extended trip. Lottie shares this passion, so we’re going.”
“No one travels for the ‘foreseeable future,’ ” said Gwen, “unless they’re living out of their car.”
“That’s awfully ambitious,” said Bridget. “Is Lottie… fit enough for that level of tourism?”
“Of course she is,” he said, “and Jackie’s helping us put together a marvelous itinerary using her whip-smart computer skills.”
“Oh, it’s not a skill, really,” said Jackie. “It’s just the internet.”
“Stop being so modest,” said Edward.
“Where are you going,” Gwen said, “specifically?”
“Everywhere we should and a few places we probably shouldn’t,” said Edward. “You only live once.”
“I’d love to see your itinerary,” said Bridget. If Hans disapproved of the wedding, she thought, he was going to hate the idea of this trip.
“Why?” said Edward. “For your approval?”
“Of course not,” said Bridget, laughing at the notion that she would have any say over her father’s plans. “I’m just curious.”
“If I see North Korea on the list,” said Gwen, “I might raise an objection.”
“Nowhere is safe these days,” said Edward, “and if I want to see Vahdat Hall before I die, then I’m bloody well going to Tehran, regardless of what the State Department has to say about it.”
“Very funny,” said Gwen, just as the doorbell rang again.
Marge started to get up, but Oscar stopped her. “I got it.”
Isabelle turned to Gwen. “Have you heard of Juliette Stark? She’s a psychologist who created this new lifestyle program.”
“I have her book upstairs,” said Gwen. “You can have it.”
“What do you think of her?” said Isabelle.
Gwen looked skeptical. “Not really my cup of tea. She says we should approach self-improvement by adopting the habits of our pretech ancestors or something along those lines. Not very convincing.”
“Are you going to interview her?” Isabelle asked.
“I don’t think so. Her followers swear by her, but I can’t buy into her beliefs, like the power of ancient grains. Farro, bulgur…”
Edward took another bite of his dinner and closed his eyes. “What is this, Marge? Rice?”
“Orzo,” said Marge. “It’s not an ancient grain.”
“It’s good,” he said.
“Look who’s here,” said Oscar from the doorway.
They all looked up to see Emma entering the room in a gauzy white sundress. Bridget looked past her, but Will wasn’t there. His absence unsettled her.
“Who are you?” Edward asked her, brightening at the sight of this lovely woman.
Bridget got up to greet Emma and to introduce her to Edward. Emma presented him with an orchid in full bloom.
“Ahhh,” said Edward, taking the celadon pot in one hand and Emma’s hand in the other, “a model for Georgia O’Keeffe herself. What perfection.”
Bridget hoped Emma knew he was talking about the orchid.
She tried to introduce Emma to Marge, but Marge brushed her off, saying, “We’ve known each other for years. Who do you think arranges our flowers every summer?”
“Will’s on his way?” Bridget asked as Emma pulled a cropped cardigan out of her purse and slipped it on.
“I certainly hope so,” said Emma, “or I’m going to feel like I’ve crashed your dinner party.”
“Nonsense,” said Edward. “We’re glad to have you. Here,” he said, patting the seat beside him, “take Bridget’s place by me.”
Bridget rolled her eyes, picked up her plate and napkin, and moved. Kevin helped carry two more chairs up to the table, and they all scooted around again to make room.
“Will’s train was delayed,” Emma said. She looked apologetically at Bridget. “He said he texted to let you know I was meeting him here.”
Bridget got her phone from her dress pocket and saw Will’s texts, along with another from her tenants in New York:
Bridget, Thank you for letting us try on your apartment. It happens we found a different situation that is better for us and much lower price. We leave by the end of the week. We send regrets that this was not working for us. We hope for no bad feelings.
Oh, there were bad feelings. Why on earth, Bridget wondered, had they hated her apartment so much? And what could they have found that was both better and cheaper?
“I heard about your good news,” Emma was saying.
Bridget looked up from her phone. Good news would be welcome.
“Will told me you’re having a reunion tour with your original violinist,” she said. “I feel ashamed that I’ve never heard of him; Will says he’s quite f
amous. Gavin somebody?”
“Who?” said Edward.
“What?” said Bridget.
“Gavin?” Gwen said.
Bridget felt ill.
“Are we talking about Gavin Glantz?” Edward asked. “He was in your Juilliard class, wasn’t he, Bridget? And part of your trio as well.”
“Briefly,” said Bridget, and she finished her glass of wine in one swallow. “That’s all ancient history.”
“He’s an outstanding soloist,” Edward said to Emma, as if to impress her. “And as I recall, I helped get him a seat in the orchestra at the Sydney Opera House when he was quite young. He’s had a solid career ever since.”
Bridget turned to Edward and blinked. “What do you mean you helped get him a seat?”
“Years ago,” Edward said casually. “Gavin was looking for other options, I recall. Why you and Will chose to stay in a trio for so many years, I’ll never understand. An orchestra provides a much higher quality of life, stability, a steady salary, a true home.”
“No,” said Bridget, shaking her head, trying to make sense of his words. “Gavin wasn’t looking for options. He got that offer out of the blue, I remember.”
“It wasn’t out of the blue,” Edward insisted. “I pulled strings.”
“Why?” Bridget asked, putting down her glass. “Why did you pull strings?”
“I don’t remember the details now,” said Edward, “but I vaguely recall… Will mentioning that Sydney was Gavin’s ultimate goal, or am I mixing things up. Who went to Sydney?”
“Gavin,” Bridget said.
“Then where’s the confusion?”
“Will would never do that,” said Bridget.
“He wouldn’t ask me to help a friend?” asked Edward.
“He wouldn’t sabotage our trio,” said Bridget, wanting to believe that was true.
“We were at Tanglewood,” said Edward, “and your trio performed. Gavin was especially good—”
“You’re saying Will mentioned—”
“The life of a chamber musician is a constant struggle,” Edward told Emma, “but the music can be sublime and much more intimate; a piano trio can be as impactful as a full orchestra.”
“The food’s great,” Kevin said to Marge.
“Emma,” said Marge, “you haven’t even fixed yourself a plate.”
“Listen to this,” said Edward, scrolling down the screen of his iPad and finding a recording. “Thanks to Jackie, I present you with Mendelssohn’s Piano Trio in D Minor, featuring the highly alliterative trio Gavin Glantz, Louis Lortie, and Mischa Maisky, who happens to have spent almost two years in a Russian work camp in the ’70s before repatriating to Israel.” He closed his eyes, and they all sat silently as the music began.
With everyone’s attention on the piece and on Gavin’s bright, vibrant playing, Bridget got up and slipped out of the room. The piece was thirty minutes long, and knowing Edward, they would have to sit there and listen to all four movements, Edward editorializing throughout.
Passing through the kitchen, Bridget waved to the caterer, who was arranging chocolates on a three-tiered stand, and went out the back door to the patio to clear her head. Her dearest friend had possibly done something inexcusable, exiling their colleague and greatest asset to the other side of the planet. And now, when she least wanted it, he was insisting on summoning Gavin back.
Bridget sat at the patio table and stared out into the darkness. Leave it to Edward Stratton to turn an ordinary dinner into something unforgettable, to be the puppet-master of ceremonies. Her father reveled in celebrations, speeches, tributes, and milestones. Pomp and circumstance. He gave a eulogy at her mother’s funeral, a speech on the occasion of Gwen’s divorce, and a toast at Oscar’s wedding. He enjoyed Bridget’s graduation more than she did. He casually asked her friends to join them for dinner after they’d received their diplomas; they were so honored to be invited that some even abandoned plans with their out-of-town parents just to spend an evening with him. In the middle of the dinner, he stood up, tapped the side of his wineglass with a spoon, and gave an epic toast that was mostly about him. He gestured dramatically with his right hand, while running his left through his thick, wild hair, much darker back then, and told a story about a time in the late ’80s when he drank champagne with a young Renée Fleming in Budapest. He told them all about that memorable night, describing his encounter with a talented young Hungarian busker to whom he offered a place in his orchestra right there on the spot, and finishing with a story about a tarnished but ornate sterling silver Prussian teapot (from a former “baroness”) that he exchanged for his Seiko watch (an airport purchase). He spoke for thirty straight minutes without notes, quoting Adorno in German, Eco in Italian, and Derrida in French, along with George Bernard Shaw, George Gershwin, and George Harrison, pausing now and then to connect with his audience. Bridget’s friends stared in awe. Then he turned to Bridget and handed her a box, telling the assembled grads that he was honored to pass along the very Prussian teapot to his daughter. He instructed Bridget to look inside, where she found a check for an embarrassingly large sum of money. As she quickly folded the check and put it away, everyone clapped, although it was disorganized, offbeat clapping for a bunch of musicians. Bridget felt her face burn, knowing her friends were watching.
Bridget was proud of her father that night, but for him to make such an extravagant display in front of her friends who were all heading into the world with massive debt and modest earning potential, to set her apart from them in such a public way, was painful. She looked around the table that night, and at Will in particular, knowing that her relationship with them would be forever altered; they would never see her as one of them again. And to become one of them, with the last name of Stratton, had been difficult enough.
* * *
The sounds were different up on Edward’s mountain, and Bridget closed her eyes to listen to the cacophony, unable to tell if the chirping, humming, and croaking were coming from beneath her or over her head. Even from here, over the ruckus of the bugs, she could still hear Gavin drawing the bow over the strings of his violin.
When they’d slept together, it was like they were finishing a wonderful conversation they’d started the day they met. She liked Gavin. She’d missed him when he was gone, though no one would have known it because she never talked about him again.
If he came back now, her life would get very messy, but without him, her trio would fall apart. Edward’s words about being in an orchestra came back to her: a steady job, a true home. What a monumental change that would be from her life with Will, linking together performance dates, fighting for bookings and recognition, breaking in a new violinist every three to five years.
She heard a door close behind her and turned to see Jackie walking slowly out on the patio.
“Sorry to bug you,” she said. “Marge said to tell you we’re having dessert.”
“What did Gwen do to you?” Bridget asked as Jackie gingerly lowered herself onto a chair.
“It was fun,” said Jackie. “A little terrifying at first, but I’m glad I went. It was my first time on a horse.”
“Can I ask you something, Jackie? What was the name of that site you mentioned earlier? The one that lists jobs for musicians.”
“Musical Chairs,” she said. “All the orchestras, festivals, and music schools in the world post opportunities on it, from Beijing to Saint Louis. It’s a great resource.”
“I didn’t know something like that existed.”
“You and Will could post for a violinist, next time you need one. He’s here, by the way.”
Bridget didn’t want to face Will. She wasn’t mad at him, not exactly. Her feelings were too complicated for a one-dimensional, simple emotion like anger. She needed to think through what they’d both done to push Gavin so far out of their circle.
“Will brought his dog with him,” Jackie was saying, “and Mr. Stratton’s not too happy about it.”
Bridget faked a yawn.
“I’m so exhausted,” she said. “Can you let everyone know I’ve gone upstairs to lie down? Tell my kids they can go home without me.”
“Sure,” said Jackie.
“I’m fine,” Bridget said, although Jackie hadn’t asked.
They went in the house together, and Bridget slipped up the back staircase to avoid Will, went into Gwen’s room, and crawled under the covers.
17
Will had never been to therapy. He wasn’t averse, and there were various junctures in his life, like during the weeks before he married Molly, when he probably should have gone. But in most respects, Will considered himself a fairly well-adjusted man with no need to talk anything through.
But the morning after he’d shown up for the tail end of dinner at Edward’s, Will was lying on the squishy floral sofa at Emma’s house, hands clasped on his chest, staring at the low popcorn ceiling, feeling shitty about himself. While a part of him was glad to be there, in the sweet-smelling living room of a woman he liked very much, with Hudson on the floor beside him, the rest of him was in turmoil.
The parrot was squawking.
“I don’t think Ronaldo likes me,” Will said.
“I don’t think Ronaldo is what’s really bothering you,” Emma said.
It was hard not to be bothered. Will and Emma were trying to have a conversation, but they were interrupted by cawing, whistling, and screeching, along with some choice words the bird would belt out: “hello,” “uh-oh,” and “cock,” to name a few. (“It’s short for cocktail,” Emma had explained.)
In the midst of this background clamor, Will was attempting to discuss his guilty conscience, repent his past actions, and express how awful it felt to be at odds for the first time ever with Bridget. He was grateful not to be alone.
“To be clear,” said Emma, sitting in a chair by his side, “she didn’t seem mad exactly. More… shocked.”
“She didn’t even come back to the table,” said Will, still unnerved from that slight. “She was avoiding me. Did she really use the word ‘sabotage’?”
“Call her.”
Will took a slow breath. “Thanks for letting me stay last night,” he said.