She lifted her head and touched her lips to his. “Tonight is going to be perfect. None of this would have happened had it not been for you. Thank you. I’m so grateful to have you in my life. So many things could have gone wrong for me if you hadn’t been there. I love you…I love you,” she whispered.
Lines of people filed past enormous Christmas trees covered in bright ornaments and myriads of lights. Decorations were strung all along the avenue, and garlands of poinsettias and greenery shrouded the street lamps. Someone had laid a red carpet from the curb to the entrance. It smacked of a Hollywood premiere, and the smile stretching from one side of her face to the other shone brighter than all the decorations combined. He experienced a taste of what her life had been like before Brett’s death. It humbled him to think of all she’d given up for men like him. He’d never been prouder of anything or anyone in his entire life.
Inside, waiters milled through the crowd, serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres. He quickly led her through the throngs of well-wishers to the backstage side entrance. Mary Leo met them at the door to the ladies’ dressing room.
“This is unbelievable. Can you imagine what this is going to mean to our project? You look marvelous, by the way. So do you, Brodie. Everyone is here. We’ve already gone over the line-up. All you have to do is give some opening remarks and then later begin the classical portion of the program with the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.’ You’re ready, aren’t you?” She fluttered about, her words running together.
Allison was in her element. She serenely hugged the older woman and smiled into her eyes. “Calm down, Mary. Take a deep breath.” She followed her own advice. “Everything is going to be perfect. We’ve done all we can do, the theatre looks beautiful, our performers are prepared and ready to create their magic. The city has turned out to ensure the success of the evening. I want you to enjoy the moment. Tonight is all about you. You started all this. You’re the one who introduced new treatments for PTSD and TBI into the forefront. Because of your work, so many men and women will return to their lives healthy and able to resume their place in civilian society. I owe all this to you.”
“Not only to me. Yes, the program is my baby. But because of you and the attention you’ve shone on the program we have a real chance to make a difference. Thank you, dear girl. And you’re right. I should enjoy this night. I have you to thank for it.”
The house lights flickered and dimmed. Allison took a deep breath. Show time. The orchestra quieted its cacophony of instruments tuning up and prepared for the opening number. The audience settled in their seats, and the red velvet curtains rose. On the movie screen behind a podium on stage right, a picture of a man in full battle gear smiled at the crowd. His helmet rested low on his smiling face. Confident, prepared, at the ready for whatever the world threw his way. A downturned rifle rested loosely in his hands. He was the image of America prepared for battle. Standing on the wall, ready to protect, to fight for the freedoms so often taken for granted.
Allison straightened her shoulders and walked to her place facing the audience.
The crowd applauded as she took the stage. Hand over her heart to quell her nerves, she looked out over all the people who had come to share the night, and she smiled.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of the mayor of the City of Birmingham, the Veterans Administration, Dr. Mary Leo, and myself, I’d like to welcome you to tonight’s event. Behind me is a picture of a soldier. This particular soldier is my brother, Brett Chandler. He was my greatest supporter, my most courageous defender, and my most loving confidant. He served his country with distinction, was wounded in battle, and came home to suffer the ravages of a disorder that eventually took his life. He is the reason we are here tonight. He and thousands like him. Those who do their duty, return wounded, and so often are forgotten.
“In honor of his sacrifice and that of so many others, Brett’s House is what I hope will be the first of many residential homes for the advanced treatment of those suffering Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and Traumatic Brain Injury.
“We need housing, doctors and nurses, and hours of research to better assist those who suffer what many of you who served in previous wars called battle fatigue. It is my hope that we can help all those reeling from the effects of traumatic experiences. Not only soldiers but those who stand on the front lines domestically—firefighters, law enforcement, first responders. All those who serve and ask little in return. They deserve more. They deserve not to be neglected.
“When I came to work at the VA, my boss, Dr. Mary Leo, asked if working with men suffering PTSD would bring back the horrors of my brother’s death. My answer was no. Because every time I see a breakthrough, every time a soldier returns to his life better able to cope and succeed, Brett’s life has made a difference. To borrow an idea from the well-known poet E. E. Cummings, I carry Brett’s heart with me and am never without it. Wherever I go, Brett is with me, and whatever I do is because of him. Brett is always with me in my heart, supporting me, encouraging me, challenging me. Wherever he is tonight, he smiles down on all of us.
“He loved to laugh. He loved music. He loved to have a good time. That’s what tonight is about. So, without further ado… Maestro, if you please.” She bowed low and left the stage.
A horn neighed like a horse and sleigh bells sounded from the percussionists’ section of the orchestra. The timpani set the beat, and the music began. As “Sleigh Ride” began the evening, the audience smiled, and some sang along, swaying side to side. Little Suzanna Montgomery played “Silent Night” on her viola, while her father grinned from front row center. It was a tremendous night.
Allison watched from the wings of the grand old theater. Feeling Brodie’s arms come up to cocoon her, she leaned back against his chest. Someday, when she looked back on her life and all the things that made it rich, this memory would be one of the most vivid—her brother smiling down from heaven while the most talented and gracious people she knew performed their hearts out and her lover’s arms wrapped securely around her, sharing her joy. If her music had healed him, his love had healed her.
The evening passed quickly. Each performer sounded better than the last. Excitement rushed through her. If she never did another thing with her life, tonight would be enough. Brett’s sacrifice would not be in vain. Those men who needed help in the worst way would have a place to go, a place to live and heal and reclaim their lives. Tonight would make it all possible.
It seemed as if it had just begun when it was over. Applause thundered through the theater.
The performers gathered in a long line reaching from stage right to stage left. Allison and Mary Leo anchored from the center. The curtain closed after the first bows and raised as the line moved forward, holding hands, and accepted another round of applause. From somewhere in the back reaches of the theatre a voice called, “The ‘Moonlight.’ Play the ‘Moonlight.’ ” The crowd took up the chant. The musicians on stage broke ranks and began to join the crowd. “Play, Allison. Play the ‘Moonlight’ for us.”
“This is a holiday concert,” she protested to the audience.
They were having none of it. “Play the ‘Moonlight,’ ” they yelled.
She took her place at the beautiful old ebony grand. The eighty-eight familiar keys waited for her to give them life. The spirit of the master once again filled her mind, the notes as clear as if they were written behind the lids of her eyes. She raised her hand over the ivory keys and played.
She was there in the dream, in the moonlight. Hazy rays of sheer pearl white fogged the images that floated through her mind—and he was there on the periphery, only this time his face was clearly visible.
It was Brodie, walking slowly in her direction, his eyes piercing the darkness, his arms reaching out toward her.
While she conveyed the magic of the music through her fingertips, her spirit ran to him. He enfolded her in his arms and imprisoned her within the confines of his love.
Her head
upon his chest, they waltzed to the tempo of the sonata. As the last lingering notes faded into silence, his lips closed on hers. He belonged to her. They were sealed together for all time by the touch of his lips, the love of his heart.
From this moment on, in her mind’s eye, as she played the piece that was part and parcel of her soul, the hauntingly beautiful notes penned by the master would signify their bond. She had finally won. She’d caught the elusive lover who had dogged her youth, tormented her girlish heart, and become the point and counterpoint of her existence.
The audience roared. No standing ovation for any previous performance thundered as loudly as the one from her hometown.
Brodie joined her on stage and presented her with a full bouquet of red roses. She gave him her widest smile, trying to convey by her expression the love that filled her heart. Then…she glanced down.
Time stood still.
In the middle was a sparkling diamond ring hanging from a ribbon. In front of everyone, he dropped on one knee as the crowd went wild. The men whistled, the women sighed, and Allison cried as she answered…
“Yes!”
Behind her, on the big screen, superimposed on the picture of her smiling brother, was the image of Brodie placing the ring on her finger. The theatre went ballistic.
“This is how I always wanted it to be,” she whispered into his mouth as his lips rubbed softly against hers. “Just you, and me, and the moonlight.”
He grinned. “With apologies to Ludwig for taking so long.”
“Our own sonata, in the moonlight. What will you do for an encore?” she teased.
He proceeded to show her, strong hands holding her close, warming her heart, sending her body soaring. From somewhere up above, she heard the rush of wings and felt a brother’s love.
Wherever life took them, whatever they faced, the magic of the music and the moonlight would guide them.
You will want to read the next book
in the Heroes and Half-Notes series,
A Little Night Music,
coming soon from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Here’s a chapter to get you started…
A Little
Night Music
by
A. E. Easterlin
Heroes and Half-Notes, Book Two
Chapter One
Katherine carefully pulled back the edges of her fluffy spa robe and forced herself to look down at her chest. She swallowed the lump in her throat.
Cancer.
Even the word made her blood run cold.
Almost two years ago, she’d stared death in the face and vanquished it. But the specter of the disease remained.
It always would.
Not yet thirty, she was young to have received such a terrifying diagnosis. As kind as the doctors had been, the fear and horror of hearing those words were as fresh today as when she’d first heard them. Even though she’d done well, her general good health a factor in the success of the procedures, the memory haunted her.
She’d felt assaulted. Raped. Violated. She hated the doctors who touched her body, altering it forever even though it was for her own good.
Yes, the feeling was irrational. They only sought to save her life. Her mind knew the mastectomy was necessary, and accepted what had to be done. But her soul cried out at the loss of a part of her femininity, part of what made her a woman. A desirable woman. A woman with a future. A home, a husband, a family.
Kate touched her damaged breast. The reconstruction incisions had healed exactly as the surgeon predicted. No redness, no swelling. Partial sensation. As good as it was going to get. The magic scar cream the nurses had clued her in on had lessened the raw appearance and helped diminish the evidence of her surgery. Her surgeon had promised a good outcome, and no more wearing of the hated prosthesis. She didn’t regret having it done, but she still resented the cancer. Her arch-enemy. The enemy of women everywhere.
Now the only thing marring her torso were the thin scars and the asymmetrical swell on the left side of her chest. Otherwise known as her new “breast.” She fought tears, but they fell anyway and burned skinny, acid rivers down her cheeks.
She shouldn’t cry. Like Gigi and Ellie often reminded her, she was alive. That should be enough. Not the same as before, but alive. Her pity parties were becoming fewer and farther between.
A wasted emotion—pity. Served no good purpose, not at all. But every now and then it came, welcome or not.
Nobody really understood. They tried. But if they hadn’t walked in the shoes of the diagnosis of breast cancer, there was no way they could fully understand. “Be grateful,” they said. “It’ll work out in the end. So many have lost the fight. You’re a role model, an inspiration.”
Well, she didn’t feel like an inspiration. She felt like a lopsided freak. Half a woman. So tired of pretending everything was okay—that it didn’t hurt, mentally, physically, emotionally. So tired of presenting a brave front to the world, only to fall apart when she was alone and the doubt and fear came to call.
Breaking up is hard to do. An understatement. Breaking up is devastating.
She should know.
The man she loved, depended on, lived with, and had promised to marry left her in horrendous circumstances, and for the last eighteen months she’d grieved, denied, fumed, and finally accepted the obvious. It was over.
Loss was a part of life. It hurt, but it didn’t change anything.
Again, she should know.
What mattered was what came after. Right? Living again. Pulling yourself up by the bootstraps, plastering a smile on your face, pretending you weren’t crying inside while the world went about its merry way concerned with its own problems and totally oblivious to your pain.
That’s what was really hard to do.
Once more, she should know.
****
The should know was what led her to Tortilla Joe’s place. Her best friends, Gigi Monroe and Ellie Compton, had determined it was time for her to engage humanity again. No more hiding, hurting, or sulking. No more nights of ice cream binges, tears, and feeling sorry for herself. No more wallowing in what-might-have-beens.
So here she was, her presence giving tacit agreement to their strategy. Find Kate a new guy. Enjoy a little night music. Prove there were men out there who weren’t the scum of the earth, cheaters. This was a place to sift through rubble and gaze at the world through fresh eyes.
Not only was breaking up hard to do—starting over was equally as difficult.
Kate rocked her head to the music and smiled at her two closest friends as they relaxed in a corner booth, eating chips and salsa, drinking margaritas, and surveying the possibilities. They had done this for her; she did this for them.
Friday nights, the crowded bar filled with twenty to thirty somethings, and most were on the prowl. Tonight was no exception. Music was loud, conversation louder as it blended with the music to amp the decibels to an alarming degree. Laughter interspersed with the bump and grind of singles competed with marrieds pretending to be singles looking for a good time and a hookup.
Typical party night after a long, hard week in the trenches. And—as the line in the movie said—the crowd promised a “target-rich environment.”
For her two best friends this was a good thing.
For her? Not so much.
She was pretty well done with men. At least, that had been her claim. But she was here, wasn’t she? She’d made an appearance, and that had to say something about the true state of her intentions. Maybe her friends knew her better than she knew herself. Maybe they were right all along. Maybe she was, in some convoluted way, ready to play the dating game again.
For the most part, she was happy being alone. Extremely happy. Rarely lonely. Okay, occasionally lonely. And she had gradually morphed into a woman astoundingly accomplished at denial and self-delusion. So accomplished, it seemed, she began to believe her own lies, and devolved into a pseudo-hermit before she realized it. Granted, it was foolish a
nd a colossal waste of time. But the solitude had been a comfort, a time for healing, adjusting, and hours of reflection. All a part of the scheme of life. Grow from failure. Learn from defeat.
Made sense.
Except—she was out with her friends, and not hiding at home, for the first time in a long time. And on the first night of the weekend. Hookup night. Ambivalence had become her forte in the past two years. That was the first tell. The second was her agreeing to show up in the first place. Still, she hoped her friends didn’t read too much into her capitulation. They thought she was ready to hit the market again. In her mind, the jury was still out.
Refusing to accept that fact, Gigi Monroe, pseudo-sister, glamour girl, and all around man-magnet, took a sip of round two and leaned across the table toward Kate.
“You’ve repeatedly told us you’re out of the game. If you’re so certain you’re done with romance, why did you show tonight? Methinks you’re not so sure. Methinks you’re ready to put yourself out there. Methinks—”
“Enough of the ‘methinks’ already.” Ellie Marsden, the other member of the trio and all-around sweetie, wagged her brows and nodded over her left shoulder. “Hunk alert. Two o’clock. The perfect number—three. One for Gigi, one for you, and one for me. Perfect.”
Ignoring Ellie for the moment, Kate dissected Gigi’s comment. Her friend made a valid point. If she really didn’t want to get back into the dating scene, then why did she come tonight? Not sure she liked the unavoidable conclusion, it hammered her anyway. She might not be ready for a relationship, but she was interested in testing the waters.
Hating herself for doing so, Kate casually glanced in the direction of the trio of drool-worthy men Ellie spotted. One dark, one blond, one of particular interest wearing dark glasses and a sexy grin on his face. The guys stared across the distance and targeted their table. Unconcerned with appearing obvious, the men faced them, leaning against the surface of the bar, giving them the once over, then adjusted their stances.
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