by Rico, Lauren
Reverie
by Lauren E. Rico
New York 2016
Reverie by Lauren E. Rico
Published by Harmony House Productions
Copyright © 2016 Harmony House Productions
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
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This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
For permissions contact: [email protected]
ISBN-10: 0-9974303-1-1
ISBN-13: 978-0-9974303-1-8
Visit the author’s website http://www.LaurenRico.com
For Vanessa, who told me I could.
For Tom, who told me I should.
For Janet, who told me I would.
Table of Contents
Part One: Julia
Part Two: Jeremy
Part Three: Julia
Epilogue: Brett
Acknowledgements
Excerpt from Rhapsody by Lauren E. Rico
About the Author
Part One: Julia
1
If it’s true you don’t get a second chance to make a good first impression, then I’m in serious trouble here. I’m late, I’m out of breath, and I look like a wild, sweaty mess as I sprint the final length of the hallway to the concert hall; the concert hall where my audition should have started nearly ten minutes ago. All around me, clusters of musicians are loitering in my path.
“Excuse me!” I gasp as I dart in and around them, skirt hiked-up and long strands of red hair plastered to my damp face. All the while, there is what looks like a small coffin strapped to my back.
“James? Julia James?” I hear my name being called from somewhere in the distance.
“Here!” I yell, not bothering to excuse myself as I become entangled in a gaggle of pianists.
“Last call for Julia James, cellist, McInnes Conservatory!”
I’m closer to the voice now.
“Here! Wait, I’m here!” I bellow with as much volume as I can muster.
I spot the girl with the clipboard twenty feet in front of me, but she steps inside the auditorium doors before I can get her attention.
No. No way I’m going to get this close and blow it now. I dig deep and summon the extra burst of energy I need to propel myself through the heavy doors before they can bang closed in my face.
“I’m here!” I yell, too loudly, I realize, as three sets of eyes swivel in my direction from the judges’ table. But that doesn’t stop me. Clipboard Girl has to duck into a row of plush red seats just to avoid being mowed down as I head straight for them.
An older man peers at me curiously over his horn-rimmed glasses. God, I must look a disaster.
“Miss James?” he asks a little skeptically.
I nod, too breathless to speak for the moment.
“You’re late Miss James,” says the woman next to him. She puckers her mouth in distaste while she scowls at me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I begin, still wheezing. “I apologize. You see, I couldn’t get a cab and I had to run here…”
Sourpuss leans forward across her table of judgment.
“Miss James, if I were you, I wouldn’t waste what’s left of my audition slot making excuses.”
Seriously? If this woman had any idea what kind of a morning I’ve had… But, she doesn’t know, and I’m quite sure she doesn’t care.
“Yes, of course,” I say, swallowing my irritation.
I drop the casket-esque case where I stand, and pop it open to reveal my cello and bow. I grab both more roughly than I should, and scramble up the stage steps. The enormous platform, which usually holds over a hundred musicians at a time, is empty, save for a single folding chair and a music stand. They are dead center, and my shoes clop noisily as I make my way across the floorboards to sit down. I can feel the spotlights hot and bright above me, no doubt accentuating my disheveled appearance. But that, I realize, is the least of my problems. In my haste to get up on stage, I have left my music folder down with my case. Damn! If I try to go back and get it, they’ll probably end the audition altogether.
What am I going to do now?
I take a deep breath and try to suppress the wave of panic that is rising within me. I’m just going to have to play something from memory.
It’s okay. I’m okay. I can do this.
With that thought, I close my eyes and give the slightest nod of my head as I set my fingers free to dance across the fingerboard. In my right hand, the bow is an extension of my arm. I swing it effortlessly over each string, digging in; grabbing hold, pivoting and leaping like a gymnast on the uneven bars. I coax and tease and pull the notes from my instrument, fingers rocking back and forth from string to string.
The Prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 feels as if it is pouring out of me and spilling into the theatre. It is only when the very last note has died away that I’m able to open my eyes again and, when I do, they are all staring at me. And I mean staring. Like in disbelief over what they’ve just heard. I’m not quite sure what to do next, so I just stare back at them silently, waiting. Finally, Glasses Guy clears his throat and speaks.
“Thank you, Julia. Thank you very much. I hope the rest of your day is a little less hectic.”
I stand up and speak in a voice that sounds tiny in the vast, empty space of the concert hall.
“Thank you all for your time. I apologize again for being late.”
I pick up the cello, which is almost as tall as I am, and take it back off the stage to return to its case. As I do, I can still feel their eyes on me, and it’s freaking me out. I can’t get back up the aisle and through the double doors fast enough. I breathe more easily once I’m back out in the corridor, but I really need a minute to decompress, so I turn in the opposite direction from where I came in. When I find an empty bit of hallway, I set the cello case down and stand with my back against the wall. Slowly, I let myself slip down into a sitting position on the floor, closing my eyes and trying to steady my frantic pulse.
“That bad?” asks a winded voice.
I open my eyes and he’s standing there, bent over, palms on knees as he tries to catch his breath. My best friend, Matthew Ayers, is looking at me expectantly.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, momentarily forgetting my own problems. “You’re supposed to be in rehearsal! You didn’t blow it off to come hear my audition, did you? Matthew, you just got that job…”
“Just hold on a second, will you?” he says, straightening up and holding up a hand to stop me.
It’s funny how all of our lives, people have been surprised to find out Matthew is a viola player. It’s like they think that classical musicians are supposed to be pasty, geeky and dull. Well, that’s certainly not the case with this particular classical musician. Someone who didn’t know him would probably believe he’s one of the best tennis players in the world before they’d believe he’s one of the best violists. He’s tall and muscular with thick, light brown hair that seems to be perpetually disheveled. Matthew is forever raking his hands through it in a losing battle for control. There’s nothing fancy, or pretty, or overworked about Matthew Ay
ers. He’s handsome in that easy, casual way.
Right now, he seems to just fold in on himself as he slips down to join me on the floor. When we are eye-to-eye, his amber to my emerald, I’m flooded with a sense of relief. I don’t know why he’s here, I’m just glad he is.
“I didn’t skip rehearsal,” he reassures me. “I just asked if we could skip the coffee break and wrap it up early instead. They were fine with that, so as soon as we were done, I hauled ass down here to try and catch your audition. I actually snuck up into the balcony, but you were already gone. One of the pages said you went this way. She also said you nearly mowed her down,” he adds with a slight smile to his lips.
“Yeah, well, I was late and she was in my way,” I grumble.
“How late is late?” he asks with a hint of concern.
“I barely made it in there. That page was starting to cross my name off the list as a ‘No Show,’ but I ignored her and went straight to the judges’ table.”
“Did they let you play?”
“Yeah. But I only got five minutes.”
His brows shoot up in disbelief.
“God, that’s barely enough time to get tuned!”
“Who tuned?” I cry. “Matthew, that five minutes included apologizing, unpacking and getting my butt on the stage. And, to make matters worse, I didn’t bring my music up with me. The only piece I could think of to play was the Bach Prelude.”
He considers this for a few seconds.
“Okay, well, that’s not such a bad thing is it? I mean, you kill that piece every time you play it.”
I shrug and roll my eyes.
“I don’t know. I played it well enough, I guess, but it was only like three minutes. Is that enough time to compete for a spot in the Kreisler International Music Competition? I mean, everyone else got here on time, and was able to play whole movements for the committee. I don’t know that they’re even willing to judge me based on what I did,” I say dejectedly.
He drapes his arm across my shoulders and I sink into his broad chest. This is a safe place for me.
“I had a feeling something was wrong when you didn’t pick up your cell this morning, so I called the lobby. Marcus told me he wasn’t able to get you a cab in the rain and that you were going to try and run the twelve blocks here.”
“Still, you shouldn’t have come,” I protest.
He shrugs.
“I was worried about you. I just wanted to make sure you got here okay.”
I shake my head, not sure if I should be touched or furious. In the end, I give him a kiss on the cheek and am rewarded with the sweet smile that makes those amber eyes crinkle. We grew up together in some pretty tough circumstances, and there is no one on this earth that I trust, admire, and love more than Matthew. For him, it would have been an easy move out of the friend zone and into ‘lovers’ territory. Not so much for me, though. I lost too much, too early on. If our relationship becomes romantic and things don’t work out, we could lose everything. And I’m simply not willing to jeopardize the only stable, loving relationship I have ever known. It’s been a constant source of conflict between us for years.
“Come on. Let’s go get something to eat. If I know you, you were probably too nervous to have your breakfast, and now you’re starving,” he says.
I smile sheepishly; I’m always starving.
He gets to his feet and offers me a hand up before grabbing my cello case and swinging it easily over his shoulders. As we walk back down the hallway that I sprinted through not a half-an-hour ago, I have the luxury of taking in a lot of what I missed the first time. Musicians are everywhere, chattering excitedly, pacing nervously. There are a lot of us, and not just cellists. This year, the Kreisler categories include piano, violin and French horn, too. We’ve all worked so hard to get to this point, and it’s just the beginning. Even if I’m lucky enough to make this cut, there are semi-final and final rounds still to come.
“Look,” I say, pointing inside one of the warm-up rooms as we pass. “There are Jeremy and Cal from the horn section. I should have known they’d be auditioning, too.”
I catch Cal’s eye and give a quick wave. He’s playing, but manages to convey a hello with a lift of the eyebrows and tilt of the chin. I know that Jeremy sees us too, but he doesn’t give me a second glance.
Matthew doesn’t even bother to look.
“Good for them,” he mumbles, gently pulling me along out of the building and into the crisp fall air.
2
The McInnes Conservatory of Music is my home away from home. It’s not quite three blocks from the illustrious Juilliard School, but the two couldn’t be more different. McInnes doesn't offer its students high-rise dorms looking out over the Hudson, or a fitness center. There are no high-tech, climate controlled practice rooms equipped with Steinway grand pianos.
Most people walk right past the unremarkable building which houses McInnes, thinking it’s just another New York City public school. That’s probably because it was exactly that before the conservatory took over the grim space with its cinderblock walls and yellowed linoleum floors. But the thing about McInnes is that you don’t come here for the amenities, you come here because it’s intimate. There’s no getting lost in the crowd here. Although, today is one day when I’d welcome the opportunity to do exactly that.
It’s been a few days now since the first round of Kreisler tryouts, and with dozens of McInnes students in the running, the entire building is buzzing. Pianists are comparing notes, violinists are gossiping, and my cello colleagues are passing judgment on one another’s performances. It’s a musician-eat-musician world over here in Lincoln Center. Personally, I’m trying to keep a low profile because I don’t want to hear the insincere good luck wishes. I don’t want to see their glances, or notice their giggles and whispers. I’m talented enough, and lucky enough, to sit first cello in a world-class conservatory, but that doesn't give me an advantage around here. Quite the opposite, actually. All it does is put a target on my back. There are more than a dozen other cellists walking around the building at this very moment who would happily push me under a bus to move up a chair or two in the McInnes Conservatory hierarchy.
It doesn’t help matters that I’m a little shy and embarrass easily. I have a hard time being the center of attention– not a great trait to have when you’re in my line of work. So, I avoid orchestra politics, I don’t sleep around with my professors and I don’t pay attention to the petty gossip and rumors that always seem to be whirling around me. You’d think staying above the fray would make people respect me. Not so much. Instead, they call me ‘The Mouse’ behind my back.
For now, I just pretend to be invisible and make my way quickly and quietly through the halls, up the stairs, and into one of the oldest, dingiest practice rooms in the city. Since they constructed new ones downstairs, very few people bother to come up here anymore. I’m alone as I slip into my usual spot at the far end of the hall, and unpack my cello. I don’t bother with the music stand, because I won’t need it for this little exercise. Once I’m settled, bow in hand and instrument between my knees, I reach over to the light switch on the wall behind me and turn off the buzzing fluorescent lights above. I’m sitting in complete darkness.
If I can’t see the music to read it, then I have to recall it from somewhere deep inside of me. I have to play it by feel, rather than sight. With a breath and a nod, my fingers begin their journey up and down the fingerboard. Bach makes me stretch, and reach and work for every note. But it’s not just about hitting the right place on the right string at the right time. It’s also about how you land on that string. The passages can be quick, which means I have to be decisive. My fingers are committed, moving deftly across the four strings in a blur; then there are the melodies that linger on each string. The bow in my right hand draws them out, but it’s the left hand that does the heavy lifting, each finger rocking in place or, almost imperceptibly, from side to side, giving that long bowed note the most delicate of vibratos.<
br />
Here, in the darkness, it’s almost as if the cello and I are a single entity. I supplement the instrument’s delicate panels of wood, and tough lengths of gut string with my own flesh, blood, and breath. I inhale every phrase, and my entire body moves in a circular pattern, cello lovingly embraced between my knees. It takes me to places I don’t usually allow myself to go, places buried deep in the back of my mind. My mother lives here, in this place where the music brings me. She’s a young woman, not much older than I am now. I can see her pretty, fair face. She has freckles like me, and a head full of coppery curls. I imagine her leaning over me and tucking me in. She brushes the hair from my forehead and tells me to have sweet dreams. But they are not sweet at all. As my bow slices across the strings, I hear her and my father yelling through the night. I dig into the Bach harder, recalling the crash of objects hurled and the smack of a hand on someone’s face. Whose? I don’t know. My fingers move frantically now, recklessly. The music could break apart and shatter in an instant. But it doesn’t. It slows and begins the lament. The crying. Her tears. There it is. He slapped her, this time. The cello is a wordless voice, heaving and sighing with the weight of her sorrow. The bow carries my fear with it as it swings to each string in turn. They are so volatile. My parents cannot hold our fragile life together. It just spirals out of control, picking up speed again, until it reaches a fever pitch.
Without warning, my hand slips across the D string, lurching forward and sending my bow flying across the room. It hits the floor with a sickening ‘thwack,’ returning me instantly to the tiny, pitch-black room in which I have lost myself once again.
I mutter obscenities under my breath as I carefully lay the cello on its side and drop to my hands and knees to find the bow. I’d turn on the lights, but I’m afraid I’ll step on the damn thing and turn it into a three-thousand-dollar pile of toothpicks before I can get to it. I fumble blindly until I find it under the piano bench. I’m done. It’s a dangerous thing, to open yourself to this kind of emotion, and it’s possible to go too far if you’re not careful. I’m very careful.