Musical Chairs

by Amy Poeppel

  Playing Synchronicity again all these years later, in its new iteration, and watching that little boy there—that’s your son, Gavin, yes?—as he was dancing so happily to it, reminds me that life is a perfect combination of chance and choreography. Much like the baroque dances I had in mind when I wrote the piece. Imagine: a group of people come together and delight in the act of rearranging themselves into new configurations. One person turns, leaving a space, upsetting the arrangement, but the other dancers follow suit and they all align themselves anew. For a moment they are all in motion, shifting with a chassé or a crossover, until a new constellation forms, and then there’s a moment of equilibrium… before it begins again. Friedrich Schiller described this movement as “sweet chaos” and “wild confusion,” until, finally, he said, “disentangled glides the knot,” giving way to order and merriment. When you engage in such a dance, you never lose sight of the purpose: “the enjoyment of this or that.” With music as a guide for the synchronized movement of the group, knots untangle, and the dancers glide. Such is life.

  * * *

  Now, is everyone’s glass full? Good. Because Seneca, the great Roman philosopher and dramatist, said, “The last drink delights the toper, the glass which souses him and puts the finishing touch on his drunkenness. Life is most delightful when it is on the downward slope.”

  Why, some of you are wondering, would anyone marry so late in life, on the “downward slope,” as it were? I certainly didn’t anticipate finding love again. There I was, enjoying life’s party, but sitting out the dance. Lottie was doing the same, until we suddenly found ourselves swept up in a “sweet chaos” of our own, a “wild confusion,” spurred on by the music of our common goals, our mutual affection, and a simple wish to stoke our vigor and passion again. I like to think Sophia and Johannes would be happy Lottie and I found our way to each other as the world around us shifted, and we formed our new constellation. Seneca also said, “I have lived! Every morning I arise, I receive a bonus.” Lottie has brought me the bonus of a most astonishing, unanticipated second act, a new chapter I welcome with great excitement.

  Who remembers Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses”? When I was young, I thought that verse was expressing sentiments reserved for a hero. But as I approach ninety, I see that a “hungry heart” and a longing “not to yield” until the bitter end should be the attitude of any great man. Of any man at all, in fact—or of any woman, yes, Isabelle and Oscar. (My thoroughly modern grandchildren do their best to keep me from old-fashioned, sexist turns of phrase.) Of anyone at all, I mean to say. And although Lottie and I may be on the delightful downward slope of our life, we want “to strive, to seek, to find.” To love and to live.

  My summer did not begin in the manner of a hero or a great man. Oh, no. Simply put, I fell flat on my “bloomin’ arse,” was strapped to a gurney and rushed to hospital with all the ceremony of a cow being taken to slaughter. No, no, laugh away. I, too, find it amusing. After that mortification, as I was doing my damnedest to prove to everyone that I am of very sound mind and body, I somehow managed—and I still can’t believe it myself—to light my own blasted house on fire. Unfortunate business, that. I got swept away by the fiery drama (no pun intended) of “Jupiter” from Holst’s Planets and started the blaze with my own cravat. In my defense, the piece is spectacular. I insist that each and every one of you—especially the composers here—go home tonight and listen to it with the volume turned high. Just make sure you stay far enough away from any halogen light fixtures, that’s my advice.

  Isabelle, my granddaughter, asked me an unusual question a few weeks ago. She asked if I think secrets “damage the soul.” I had to think about that, and I’ve got an answer now— I’m sorry? Ah, all right then, it seems we have the primary source of that theory right here in the room with us. Yes, well, I was about to say, I think there’s some truth to it. Secrets can be bothersome things that needle and render one disquieted. So, on the topic of fires and secrets: I will tell one now in hopes of setting minds at ease, a secret that, like a phoenix, came out of the ashes of my brief stint as an arsonist. Two paintings that belonged to my late wife were incinerated in my bedroom. They were valuable, quite valuable, actually. And although my daughters were surely devastated to know these two masterpieces went up in flames, they were too kind to make me feel badly about destroying them. Well, now, with relief and pleasure I’ll share a happy secret I just discovered: the paintings were reproductions, insured for only $500 apiece. Sophia, believing the Turner and Gainsborough belonged in the public view, swapped them out with reproductions—I never noticed the difference—and donated the originals to the National Gallery in London, where they await your visit.

  Conveniently, Bridget is traveling to England in two weeks’ time to audition for the London Philharmonic, and I couldn’t be more confident that she’ll earn a spot. My hometown, as she well knows, is a magical place. Samuel Johnson once said, “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.” Bridget, dear, while you’re in that magnificent city, relishing everything life in London has to offer, I would ask you to keep a close eye on my friend Nicholas—the scholar sitting over there, scribbling notes in his Moleskine, good man. He will be returning to Oxford soon to finish writing his biography of me… You are to make sure he writes only flattering things! Understood? Excellent.

  Gwen— Ah, that reminds me, before I continue, let’s all express our gratitude to Steep Canyon Rangers and, of course, Steve Martin, for treating us to the joyful bluegrass we heard through the worst part of the storm. Thank you so much, Gwen, for inviting them. And for delivering Hans safely to us. My daughter Gwen collects friends the way some people collect beautiful things. Bridget, on the other hand, is more like a curator. I like to think I am a bit of both. I love bringing new people into my life, and I treasure my old friends. Hans, you represent both. Your father and I had a friendship that was the longest and closest of my life. I will endeavor to be as good a friend to you as he was to me.

  And where is Marge? I raise a glass to you as well, my friend. Whatever would I have done without dear Marge? She even got me to the church on time tonight “spruced up and lookin’ in me prime,” like old Alfred P. Doolittle.

  * * *

  I look around at the faces here, and I see connections everywhere. Friends connected to friends. Artists connected to artists, past and present. Our world seems much less vast and cold, much more like home, when we place all of humanity in varying constellations, connecting them to one another, moving them about, synchronizing them to dance the allemande in our minds. Maybe I’ll write a new piece for that purpose.

  I’m sure my tireless assistant, Jackie—who has had little time off this summer—would love to know why I still write music, study music, play and teach music. I’ll tell you why, Jackie: because, as Tennyson said, “Death closes all: but something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done.”

  “A Work of Noble Note.” That will be the title of the next piece I write. No, it will be a coda!—a final chapter for Synchronicity. I’ll write it for Bridget, Will, and Gavin, the original Forsyth Trio, and I will call on them to play it for us at our one-year anniversary party, right here next August, in this very barn with the moat around it, which we will either fill with alligators or use for punting. But not both. Agreed? Agreed? Agreed? Good, all three said yes. You witnessed that, right? And I expect you all to be here as well. Same time next year, in this grand old barn whose roof has held up miraculously in the deluge. Lottie and I will be here to welcome you all with open arms.

  In the meantime, Lottie, let’s begin this coda of our own, this next and, yes, final section of our dance. As Goethe said, “Und lieben, Götter, welch ein Glück!” “And to love, oh gods, oh, what a prize!”

  Lottie, my dear, to love you is a most marvelous, unexpected prize. Prost, my darling.

  Cheers, my friends. Cheers to you all.

  It’s time to dance!

  I cannot rest from travel: I will drink />
  Life to the lees…

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Ulysses”

  CODA

  September

  Bridget stands in the terminal of John F. Kennedy Airport, staring up at the electronic board, looking for her British Airways flight to London. She finds it (after Lisbon, before Madrid) and goes to check her bags, draping her Burberry trench coat over her arm. The woman at the counter hands her two business class tickets for the flight.

  She makes her way through security and is sitting on a bench, putting her shoes back on, when her phone rings.

  “I think Eliza’s depressed,” Isabelle says. “She feels very sad without Henry, and I’m not sure she can handle the daily grind of the city anymore. Do you think she needs antidepressants?”

  Bridget knows her daughter is more self-aware than she lets on. “Tell Eliza to give her choices serious consideration and remind her what she learned about herself this summer.”

  “I’m not used to being so alone anymore,” Isabelle admits.

  Me neither. Bridget sits up straight and puts her cello on her back. “Trust yourself. You have excellent instincts, and if you miss Kevin, call him and say so. What time’s your interview?”

  “Ten tomorrow morning. I appreciate Gwen for the contact, but I don’t think I want to live in the city. And I like Kevin.”

  “You had a very happy summer with him.”

  “But was that real life?”

  Bridget thinks she will remember this past summer as the most real her life has ever been. “Of course it was.”

  “Oscar and Matt and I are meeting in Connecticut this weekend. We’re having lunch with Peter Latham.”

  Bridget is sorry to miss this occasion, but she also knows that on some level, it has nothing to do with her. “I can’t wait to hear how it goes. What are you hoping will happen?”

  “I’m hoping for the start of something. And I wouldn’t mind a little advice. I want a life like his, satisfying work and a sense of community. Maybe I want a reason to live near Kevin. Oscar’s so happy these days, I don’t know that he wants or needs anything.”

  An image of Oscar and Matt dancing at the wedding comes into her mind; Bridget hopes the photographer got a good picture.

  “Will you text me when you get to Heathrow?” says Isabelle.

  “Of course, the second I land.” The time difference will complicate things, but Bridget doesn’t mention it. “I love you,” she says.

  “Love you, too, Mom.”

  After they hang up, Bridget walks in the direction of her gate. There, on the front table of Hudson News, is Sterling’s book with a 50-percent-off sticker smack in the middle of its drab cover. Bridget feels sorry for him; his book looks sad and unloved.

  A few steps to the left, she spots a familiar, bright yellow, cheerful cover. Juliette is in good company with the other celebrated self-help gurus, nutritionists, and psychologists. Bridget picks the book up, smiling at the picture, the image a stark contrast to the sight of Juliette and her son scarfing down a big slice of rich vanilla-cream wedding cake. Gavin was elated to learn that he wasn’t the twins’ father—only because, he was quick to explain, they’d found out that morning that Juliette was pregnant with their second child. “I’m getting too old for this parenting racket,” he said, his face turning slightly red, and then he quickly added, “Not that your children would have needed anything from me at this point, but—”

  “I know what you mean,” Bridget had said.

  “Congratulations,” Will added, patting him on the back. Bridget had noticed Will was making an effort to be especially kind to Gavin.

  The afternoon before the wedding, the Forsyth Trio rehearsed together, Bridget reveling in how familiar and yet fresh it felt. And then the next night, at the reception, as they were taking their places, Will surprised them both by bringing her father onto the stage, offering him the piano bench, and walking away. She’d never played with her father before and fought back tears as she trained her eyes on him, instead of on Will, waiting for him to inhale on the third beat, with a nod of his head, to mark the beginning.

  * * *

  Bridget walks to her gate with Juliette’s book sticking out of her tote bag and sits down to make her last phone calls. She calls Oscar first, and then her father. She calls Marge and Jackie. And finally she calls Gwen, who has been impossible to reach since the wedding.

  “I hate you for leaving,” says Gwen, “but I’ll fly over for your first concert. Just tell me when to be there.”

  “How’s Hans?” Bridget asks.

  “Hans? How would I know how Hans is?”

  The pots and pans hanging directly under the loft had been clanging together the night of the wedding after the last guests had finally left. “If you don’t want to tell me about your hot night with him, then don’t,” says Bridget. “But you’re not fooling me. I’m just glad you got him to stay overnight.”

  “Fine, yes, I took one for the team. Hans. What a ridiculous name. You know how much I hate him,” says Gwen. “I always have.”

  “Yes, you get very worked up whenever his name is mentioned.”

  “He’s opinionated and obnoxious. And he’s a workaholic. He’s divorcing a terrible person.”

  “Sounds familiar. And?”

  Gwen pauses. “We’ve got great chemistry,” she says, “and I’m really ticked off about it.”

  When Gwen and Hans were dancing, Bridget saw Lottie and her dad smiling at them, whispering, conspiring. Had Lottie predicted this? she wondered. Standing in the barn’s open doorway, the rainy night making wonderful drama behind her, Bridget watched the joyful scene unfold.

  * * *

  Bridget hears her flight being called, sends kisses to Gwen, and boards the plane, putting her cello on the aisle seat beside her. Once she settles in, the flight attendant stops at her row.

  “Would your instrument mind being upgraded to first class?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a gentleman who says he knows you, and he’d like to switch seats with your cello.” The flight attendant points up the aisle.

  Unbuckling her seat belt, Bridget gets up, walking to the front of the plane.

  Nicholas Donahue is sitting in 3A, a glass of champagne in his hand. “Hello,” he says.

  Bridget smiles. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  He stands and steps into the aisle, ducking his head to avoid the open overhead bin. “I saw you earlier at the gate and waved, but you were on the phone. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “That’s a pretty nice seat you’ve got,” she says. “Why on earth would you downgrade?”

  “I would consider it an improvement actually,” he says. “I was hoping we could keep each other company. Unless you’d rather be alone.”

  Bridget tries not to be too obvious about how electrified she feels to be near him, but finds she’s unable to control her smile.

  “Hmmm,” Bridget says. “Is this an interview? Are you going to make me talk about my father for seven hours?”

  Nicholas holds up his hand to make a pledge. “I’ll never mention his name, all the way to the UK. In fact, I’ll probably sleep for a few hours. I have to catch a train to Oxford as soon as we land.”

  She feels shy but asks anyway, “What’s the rush? You could spend the day in London with me. We could have dinner?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “You see, I heard recently, according to Samuel Johnson, life is very tired of London.”

  Bridget squints at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what he said.”

  “When a man is tired of life, he’s especially weary of London.”

  “Still wrong,” she says with a shake of her head.

  He pretends to concentrate. “ ‘When a man is tired of London, he’s tired of life.’ ”

  Bridget snaps her fingers, saying with her best British accent, “By George, he’s got it.”

  “Dinner would be smashing actually. I so enjoyed dancing with yo
u, and if it’s not painfully obvious,” he says, shrugging helplessly, “I rather like you.”

  Bridget takes a moment to appreciate the word “smashing” used unironically in conversation.

  A woman goes by them with a carry-on far too large to be the acceptable size, and they move to the side, pressed together until she passes them.

  “How about we start our journey with a glass of champagne,” he says. “And later, if you find me dull or irksome, you can take my seat here, and I’ll keep your cello company for the rest of the flight.”

  “I don’t find you irksome or dull,” she says, her face feeling warm, “not at all.”

  They get Bridget’s cello settled in its first class seat, and sit side by side a few rows behind it. By the time the plane is taxiing, their shoulders are touching as they talk, and he’s smiling at her, as if she is the prize, the bonus the day has brought him.

  Her phone pings with a message from Will: Have a nice flight, friend. Your house is in good hands. We’re in heaven. Love you. He sends a picture of him beside Emma, holding up glasses of wine on the porch.

  She sends a selfie back, Nicholas’s temple pressed to hers. Synchronicity! she writes. Love you, too.

  Before the plane takes off, Bridget tightens her seat belt and looks out the window, the words of her father’s wedding toast, a recipe for happiness, filling her with optimism, driving her on. As the plane accelerates, she cherishes this moment in time, this threshold of an adventure, the start of something new.

  On your mark, get set, go!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m very grateful to Emily Bestler at Emily Bestler Books and to everyone at Atria/Simon and Schuster (especially Lara Jones and Megan Rudloff) for all the work they do to conjure a book into being. I had the world’s best production and copy editors, Sonja Singleton and Mary Beth Constant, whose knowledge and attention to detail, musical, grammatical, and otherwise, amazed me. And thank you to Ella Laytham and James Iacobelli for creating a cover that captures the tone of the book so well. I feel so lucky and proud to be part of the EBB team. Thank you!