Love at First Note

by Jenny Proctor

  “But you’re young, Emma. Opportunities like this won’t come along every day. I think your mother would really love for you to go.”

  “It’s just not that important to me, Gram.”

  “Truly? You aren’t interested in going at all?”

  It was a difficult question to answer. Had I not left Cleveland at all and the tour was just another responsibility in a symphony I was already a part of, I would have done it. Things about it would have made me uncomfortable, but yeah, I would have gone. But I’d spent a lot of time thinking about what Elliott had said and what Grayson had said and even more time reflecting on what was nestled in my own heart. Europe wasn’t enough of my dream to give up what I had in Asheville. I shook my head. “It’s not my dream.”

  “What if I said you aren’t needed here?”

  I slumped back into the sofa and folded my arms across a throw pillow in my lap. “I’d say you’re crazy. The last three months prove how much I’m needed. I’ve been over two, three, sometimes four times a week helping out.”

  “I know you have been. I know your mother needs the help. That’s why I’m moving in. I’m leaving Ohio. It’s time I be with your mother full-time.”

  “What? Gram, you can’t leave Ohio just because you want me to tour Europe. It isn’t that important.”

  “Emma Grace,” she scolded, “don’t be so self-centered as to think these decisions only have to do with you. Karen is my daughter. I want to be here.”

  “But I’ve been trying to take care of her. I even offered to move back in, but Dad wouldn’t let me.”

  “Do you know how proud your mother is of you?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know how happy it makes her to hear you play?”

  I nodded again. “I do, but I’m not going to pretend my playing is more important than Mom’s health. It’s not. Nothing is.”

  “Bug, if you don’t want to go to Europe, that is absolutely your prerogative. But you owe your mother a conversation. I know you’re trying to spare her the guilt you think she’ll feel if you discuss the career choices you aren’t making, but your distance is only hurting her more. The two of you are long overdue for a conversation where you can bare your heart about what you really want and give her the chance to do the same.”

  The reality of Gram’s words settled on my shoulders hot and a little heavy. She was right. I was trying to protect Mom. Whether I wanted to go on tour or not, Mom deserved to know my true feelings on the subject. “Are you really moving?”

  She nodded. “Just after the first of the year. There’s nothing left for me in Ohio, not with your grandfather gone, your uncle moved to California, and you down here. It doesn’t feel like home anymore, not when all my family is so far away.”

  “And Mom needs you.” I couldn’t hide the hurt in my voice. I’d made a lot of sacrifices to be around for Mom, and while I wasn’t necessarily hurt by the idea of Gram’s moving in, I was a little disappointed that I’d failed.

  “You’ve done beautifully the past few months, Bug. But she does need me. She needs someone who can be here full-time. And that’s too much to ask of you right now when your wings are just beginning to stretch.”

  I pulled my feet up under me and leaned into Gram, resting my head on her shoulder. “Do you think I should go to Europe?”

  “It might kill some time till that man of yours gets his emotions in order.”

  Before I could answer, my phone dinged in my pocket, and I pulled it out. There was a text from Lilly. Turn on the TV NOW. Channel 13. They’re going to talk about Elliott after the commercial. Hurry!

  I dropped the phone and scrambled across the living room to the television. “Where’s the remote?” I said to myself. “Where’s the stupid remote?”

  “Calm down. It’s right here,” Gram said. She held it up.

  I lunged back across the room and scrolled through the channels until I found the right one.

  “Fans of the Talent Hunt sensation Elliott Hart are going to have to wait a little longer for his highly anticipated third album. We’ve just gotten word from Blue Bridge Records they’ve parted ways with the pianist, citing creative differences and a lack of shared vision for future projects. No word on whether any new record deals are in the works for Elliott. But for anyone listening, here at Inside Hollywood, we sure do hope so. Elliott’s team has declined to comment on the split.”

  I sank back onto the sofa. “Poor Elliott,” I said more to myself than to Gram.

  “He’s lost his record deal? Did I hear that right?”

  I nodded. “I can’t believe it. He must be devastated.”

  “Maybe you should call him? See if he’s okay?”

  It was a terrifying thought, but she was right. I did need to call him. I stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  Grabbing my phone off the corner of the couch, I raced down the hall to my old bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I sank onto the bed and pulled out my phone, my hands already shaking.

  Maybe because it was all I’d gotten the last time I’d called, I expected his voice mail. But he picked up on the second ring. When he did, I barely managed to choke out a response. “Hi,” I finally stammered. “I . . . sorry. I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”

  “You caught me at a good time. How are you?”

  I closed my eyes and savored the sound of his voice. “I’m okay, I guess. I’m at home for Christmas.”

  “Me too,” he told me. “The whole family is here.”

  “Uncle Elliott, then.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s been pretty fun.”

  “I heard about your split with Blue Bridge. I’m sorry, Elliott.”

  He breathed out a sigh. “Thanks.”

  “What happened? Do you mind if I ask? The news called it creative differences.”

  “Is that all they said? That’s a pretty kind explanation of what really went down.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “The short version is that I kept pushing to at least get some of my original songs on the album. I was fine doing some covers and some mash-ups, but I wanted a few tracks that were mine alone.”

  “And they wouldn’t do it?”

  “We went back and forth for weeks, but then Brian brought over the final track list, and it was all covers, all from the same album.”

  “They wanted you to cover an entire album song for song?”

  “You ever heard of Starting Over?”

  “The boy band?”

  “It was their last album. I guess they wanted to piggyback off their success. They wanted piano versions of all their songs, and that was it—my entire album.”

  “That’s completely unfair.”

  “I thought so too. So I walked.”

  “Wow. Are you in trouble at all? Are they bugged about you breaking your contract?”

  “They’re not. My attorney put some pressure on, and they agreed to just let the agreement dissolve, which is nice, but at the same time, it doesn’t send much of a message to the rest of the industry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re basically saying it’s easier to cut me loose than actually work with me.” He hesitated, his next words a little quieter. “They’re saying I’m not worth it.”

  Pain sliced all the way to my core. Those were my words—my slimy, awful, untrue words. I swallowed. “So what happens next? Will you sign with a new label?” I pushed my forehead into the heel of my hand. Why couldn’t I just apologize? Why couldn’t I just tell him how wrong I’d been?

  “I don’t know. My agent is looking, but I’m a hard sell these days.”

  A beat of silence passed between us, heavy with all the words I wanted to say but had no courage for.

  “Elliott, I’m sorry I hurt you,” I finally blurted. It wasn’t the apology he deserved or even the apology I wanted to give. It sounded too final, like I was sorry I hurt him, but now I was happy to be moving on. But it was all I could manage through my nerve
s.

  It took so long for Elliott to answer I almost wondered if he’d hung up. When he did finally speak, his voice was so soft I almost didn’t hear him. “I have to go. Thanks for calling.”

  He hung up before I had the chance to respond.

  I collapsed back onto my bed and pulled a pillow over my face. Stupid words. Stupid, stupid words that never worked and never said what I wanted them to say.

  Mom found me in my room an hour later, curled up under the covers, reading a worn copy of James Herriott’s All Things Bright and Beautiful.

  “Can I come in?” she asked from the hall.

  I nodded.

  She steered her motorized chair through the doorway and stopped just beside my bed.

  “You’re really starting to cruise in that thing,” I said.

  “I know! Didn’t hit the wall or a doorjamb once coming down the hall.” She pushed herself up onto wobbly legs and motioned with her hands for me to move. “Come on. Scoot over.”

  I scrambled to make room for her, grabbing an extra pillow to prop behind her once she settled beside me on the bed.

  “Gram said you were going to try to call Elliott,” she said.

  “I did call him. We talked.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  I closed my book and dropped it onto the nightstand. “I don’t know. We were talking about things and work and his music, but then I apologized for hurting him, and he said good-bye. No explanation. He was just gone.”

  “So he’s still convinced you don’t think he’s worth it.”

  “Or maybe he’s just decided I’m not worth it either.”

  For nearly an hour, we rehashed every detail of my history with Elliott, from our awkward first encounter to the beer festival to our monumental kiss at Grayson’s wedding. Somewhere about halfway through, Gram joined us on the foot of the bed, then Ava wandered in, surprising us all when she curled up right next to me. I kept talking anyway. I was sharing far more personal details about my life than I’d ever thought I’d want my sixteen-year-old sister to know, but there was something magical about the circle of women on my bed—three generations who cared about me and loved me and wanted me to be happy.

  Eventually I got all the way through to the end of my Elliott history: the phone call I’d ended not two hours before. “And then he just said he had to go, and that was it.”

  “That’s so dumb,” Ava said.

  “What?”

  “You love him, and he loves you. But you’re here, and he’s there. And neither one of you is going to say anything to the other that would just fix all of this.”

  “I don’t know that he loves me,” I said.

  “Oh, whatever. Of course he does.”

  “You need to tell him,” Mom said. “Plainly, clearly. Just tell him you love him. He won’t be able to argue with that.”

  “But I tried! Just now on the phone, I tried to tell him. You know how bad I am with words. Stuff never comes out right.”

  “But you didn’t try to tell him,” Ava said. “‘I’m sorry I hurt you’ is not enough to undo ‘You’re not worth it.’ And that’s the last thing he heard.”

  It was a surprisingly astute point from someone with so little experience.

  “Have I ever told you the story of how I met your grandfather?” Gram asked.

  I nodded. “He drove a delivery truck, right? He brought something to the house . . . a new refrigerator or something.”

  “That’s right. My mother was there too when he came walking into the house, pushing that big old box, and she never liked him. She didn’t love the idea of me marrying a working man. She’d rather I found someone with an education who would work with numbers and books. I was too good for a blue-collar worker like your grandfather.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I married him anyway. It was four years to the day before I had my first baby—your mother. And four years and three weeks before my mother stepped foot inside my house.”

  “She didn’t come see you for four years?” Ava asked.

  “She didn’t even talk to me for four years. She was hurt,” Gram said. “In her eyes, I’d made a mistake marrying someone so different from her family. I’m not sure she ever changed her mind about Charlie, even up to the day she died, but I’ll tell you this much: I’d make the same choices all over again. I loved your grandfather, and that’s what we do for people we love. We make sacrifices. We move mountains if we have to.”

  “So I need to tell him how I feel.”

  “Yes!” all three shouted at once.

  I knew they were right. All I needed was the courage to do something about it.

  Chapter 25

  Four days after Christmas, a package arrived on my doorstep—tiny, wrapped in brown paper, and postmarked from Colorado.

  I pulled off the paper to find a small white box wrapped in silver ribbon. There was a card taped to the outside of the box with a note only one sentence long.

  No regrets. Love, Elliott

  I opened the box and pulled out an iPod, knowing immediately what I would hear as soon as I pushed play. I raced to my room and grabbed my headphones, plugging them in as I settled on my bed.

  I recognized the melody from the very first notes—the same first notes I’d heard Elliott pick out all those weeks before on the night of our first kiss, when they were nothing more than the shadow of a melody. The piece continued, lilting and light but with undertones that added a depth that spoke of something more. It was joyful but not exultant-joyful. More like humble-joyful. The first time I listened all the way through, I sat on my bed and cried. I mean, I was there when Elliott had picked out the very first notes on his piano. To hear it whole and complete, with depth and movement and harmony—it was perfect.

  Hours later, I’d listened to it enough times I could pick up my instrument and play the violin part without missing a note. Elliott’s note, No regrets, might have read like it was a final statement, like he was moving on and he wanted me to move on too, but that song didn’t sound like no regrets.

  It sounded like hope.

  * * *

  Thursday morning, I was in the kitchen eating breakfast when my phone, still charging in my bedroom, started to ring. I scrambled across the apartment, trying to reach it before my voice mail picked up. I made it just in time.

  It was a number I didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Emma, it’s Ron Williamson.”

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “Listen, we’ve had a slight kink with the January concert. Baronovsky can’t make it.”

  “Oh no. What happened?”

  “It’s the most dreadful thing. He closed his hand in one of those antique rolltop desks and broke three of his fingers. It’ll be months before he can play again.”

  I balled my hands into fists at the thought. Broken fingers were every musician’s worst nightmare. “That’s terrible.”

  “We can’t do the Prokofiev, not with Baronovsky out, so I was hoping you’d have something in your repertoire we could feature. We’ll just headline you as the soloist instead. What about the Bartok Concerto you played when you auditioned?”

  “Sure. Cleveland even owns the parts if we need to borrow the music. I could do the concerto.”

  “Good, good. I hate to lose the Prokofiev. It’s one of my favorites to conduct, and it goes so nicely with Dvorak’s Seventh, but I think the concerto will be an acceptable replacement.”

  A sudden thought buzzed through my brain, a rush of adrenaline filling my veins and my heart and every ounce of my being. Elliott knew the Prokofiev. He’d told me as much when we’d talked about Baronovsky coming to play. Who better qualified to replace Baronovsky than one of his own students? “Ron, what if I can find us another soloist?”

  “For what? The Prokofiev?”

  “Yes. I know someone. He’s a friend and a brilliant pianist, and I know he can play the piece.”

  “But is he soloist quality? Lots of people can
play Prokofiev. He would need to be capable of more than that.”

  “He is. He absolutely is. He even studied with Baronovsky in Russia. I wouldn’t recommend him if I didn’t think he could do it.”

  “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to at least give him a listen. Can you bring him in to play for me?”

  So maybe I hadn’t thought through all the details. “You’ll have to give me a few days. He’s not in town right now, but . . . yes, I think I can.”

  “It will have to be soon if we’re going to have time to get programs printed. Plus, we’ll need time to get the music from Cleveland if we end up doing the Bartok. When can you get him here?” Ron asked.

  “I’m not sure. By the end of next week?”

  “That’s not quick enough.”

  “Please, Ron. You’re going to love him. He’s perfect.”

  He paused, then sighed. “Fine. Wednesday next week, but that’s the longest we can wait before we have to make a decision.”

  “Wednesday.” That was less than a week away. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I couldn’t call Elliott. I needed to call Elliott, but calling him for this, when I still hadn’t managed to call him to say, I don’t know, hello and I love you, felt lame. Like I wasn’t really calling because I wanted to talk to him, only because I needed him to save our concert. But I couldn’t get him to Asheville if I didn’t call and explain, which meant I was utterly and completely stuck.

  When Lilly came home an hour later, I was still standing at the counter, staring at my phone like maybe it would figure out what to do and just do it for me.

  “What are you so stressed about?” Lilly asked.

  “I’m not stressed,” I said. “Okay, no, I am stressed. I need to get Elliott to Asheville, and I don’t know how.”