Love at First Note

by Jenny Proctor

  “You need him like you need a make-out session? Or you need need him for real?”Both. Definitely both. “I need him for real. The symphony needs him.” I told her about the call from the symphony’s music director.

  “And you can’t just call Elliott and explain all of this?”

  My shoulders slumped. “I can’t. The next thing Elliott hears me say needs to be ‘I love you.’ I can’t call him about this when I haven’t figured out how to say that.”

  “So call him and say I love you, then wait twenty-four hours and call him back about the concert.”

  “No! Even a day later, my motive would still be suspect. He’ll think I was only saying I love you so he’d agree to come.”

  “For real, Emma? You gotta give the man a little more credit than that.”

  “What if I really just want to say it in person? I don’t know that I can fix stuff over the phone, but if this gets him here, I’ll have the opportunity to try. Face-to-face.”

  She leaned against the counter and nodded her head. “Okay. I see your point. So why don’t you call his agent? If you didn’t know Elliott personally, the agent is who you’d call to set up stuff like this anyway, right?”

  Call his agent. It was an incredible idea. “Yes! I need to call his agent! Brian. What’s his last name? Brian Jenson. How do I get ahold of Brian Jenson?”

  “Emma, take a breath. Google will help us. Just chill.”

  Five minutes later, I had the main office number for Spectral Media, the agency Brian worked out of, written on a sticky note beside my phone.

  “So what are you going to say?” Lilly asked. “You’re going to have to be pretty convincing to get his agent to help. I mean, this is Asheville. It’s not like playing with the symphony here is going to help his career or anything.”

  I looked at Lilly, my eyes wide, my brain already hatching the beginnings of a plan. A big, amazing, probably impossible plan. “That’s it,” I said.

  “What’s it?”

  “I have to make the concert help his career.”

  “Slow down, turbo. Give me the how.”

  “I don’t know exactly, but if I can just get a few key people into the audience, a record producer who does classical music, maybe, or I don’t know, a conductor from a big symphony, once they hear him play, they’ll know what he’s truly capable of. They’ll want to sign him.”

  She looked skeptical. “It’s a nice thought, but again, this is Asheville. Not L.A. What kind of record producer is going to hop on over to North Carolina for a concert with the Asheville Symphony?”

  “I haven’t figured that part out yet.” I pushed my hands through my hair and willed my thoughts into some semblance of order. “But this is Elliott Hart we’re talking about. Surely his name has some kind of pull, even if he doesn’t have a current record label. Plus, I have a few connections I can reach out to. My time in Cleveland has to mean something.” Then the biggest piece of my plan fell solidly into place. I did have connections in Cleveland. And I knew exactly what I could do to get them to help me out.

  I left a message on Brian Jenson’s work line, stressing the importance of his getting back to me as soon as possible. Then I sent an e-mail through the generic Contact Us link on the agency’s website, providing the same information and practically begging for a response. After that, there was nothing else to do but wait.

  By Sunday night, three days later, even though I’d sent two more messages to Spectral Media and called the front desk once more, I was positive there was no way Elliott would be in Asheville by Wednesday. If I didn’t hear anything by Monday night, I decided I had no choice but to call Elliott and explain everything myself.

  Monday morning at seven, Brian finally returned my call.

  “I’m looking for Emma Hill,” he said when I answered.

  “This is Emma.” I sat up in bed, trying to sound like I hadn’t been asleep. I glanced at the clock, noting with mild curiosity that it was 4:00 a.m. in California. Regular business hours for Brian?

  “Emma, Brian Jenson with Spectral Media. You called about an opportunity for Elliott Hart?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “I want you to know I only called you back as a courtesy. It was you, right? That was in the photo with Elliott at the wedding? I’m sorry about what happened to you career-wise. Elliott said you took quite the beating.”

  “No, it was fine. It wasn’t a problem in the end.”

  “Good, good. Glad to hear it. So listen, Elliott is free to play wherever he chooses at this point. There’s not a label anywhere that cares where or what he plays, so it’s fine by me. You go ahead and set everything up, whatever you need to do.” His voice was clipped, not harsh but definitely no nonsense.

  More than ever before, I wanted my words to work. I needed to say the things that would convince Brian he wanted to help me, and that wouldn’t happen if my stupid nerves kept my tongue tied in knots. I closed my eyes, imagining myself on stage, violin at the ready, and tried to will the peace and confidence I felt into my voice. “Actually, it’s not that simple. I think this opportunity could be more than a concert. I think it could be Elliott’s ticket to another record deal, except this time, for the kind of music he actually likes.”

  “Why’s that? What’s so special about this opportunity?”

  I’d been thinking about how to answer all weekend. Asheville was a small city with a relatively obscure symphony. It wasn’t the kind of place where anyone who would further Elliott’s career as a classical pianist would just happen to be. But it had taken only two simple phone calls to give me the confidence I needed to make Brain a guarantee. “Asheville Symphony is a great orchestra,” I began. “And it’s a wonderful piece of music that I know Elliott can play. Playing this concert would be good for him.”

  “Good for him? My job is to care about what’s good for his career.”

  “But if we could get a record producer into the audience, someone who would see this is the kind of music he needs to be playing . . .”

  “Listen, if I had the ability to get a record producer into a concert hall to hear Elliott play, don’t you think I’d be doing it? He’s a contemporary artist with a little bit of YouTube fame that just got dropped by his label. He’s not exactly on everyone’s list of favorites right now.”

  “But he should be. He’s so much more than what people are giving him credit for.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m not sure it matters now. Sure, he’s had a good run, but it’s over. He can retire on what he’s made so far. He needs to celebrate that and move on.”

  “Please don’t say that.”

  “You must be a good friend to reach out like this, but I’m just not sure I see the point.”

  I closed my eyes. Brian was going to make me play every card I had. “If you can get Elliott to Asheville to play with the symphony,” I said, “I can get Richard Schweitzer into the audience to hear him.”

  Brain paused, the beat of silence before his words straining my nerves almost to breaking. “Schweitzer? With Academy Records?”

  Schweitzer wasn’t the only name I was hoping to pull in, but he was definitely the most impressive. “He worked with the Cleveland Orchestra a few years ago on an album of Beethoven’s favorites. He does a lot of classical recordings.”

  “And he’ll be in Asheville?”

  I hope. I pray. If I’m lucky. “Yes.”

  He paused, and I held my breath, the weight of all that was in the balance hinging on his next words.

  “Have you talked to Elliott about this? Is he willing to come?”

  I collapsed back onto my pillow. I didn’t exactly want to get into the finer points of my relationship with Elliott, but I really needed Brian to be on my team.

  “I haven’t talked to him. We aren’t exactly speaking right now. But I don’t want this to be about us. This just needs to be about getting his career back on track so he’s making music he actually loves. That’s all I want from this. Just for him to find h
is music again.”

  He sighed and mumbled something about lovers’ quarrels. “Which is why you’re calling me. So his big, bad agent can boss him into flying back to Asheville.”

  “By Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Wednesday, day-after-tomorrow Wednesday?”

  “The concert isn’t for two more weeks, but he needs to perform for the conductor by Wednesday.” I crossed my fingers.

  He sighed again, this one a little longer, a little more pronounced. “Agggh, all right. If you can promise Schweitzer, I’ll get Elliott to Asheville by Wednesday. I can’t make him talk to you though. You’re on your own in that regard.”

  “Thank you,” I said, relief flooding my chest. “This is going to work,” I told him. “I promise this is going to work.”

  As soon as I hung up, I texted Greg.

  If you can help, I’m in for the tour. Let’s make this happen.

  Chapter 26

  Wednesday morning I got a text from Brian with Elliott’s flight information. He landed in Asheville at three twenty, which gave him just enough time, if he drove straight to the performance hall, to play Prokofiev for Dr. Williamson before the conductor had to leave for dinner at five.

  “I can’t be late for dinner,” he told me. “If this friend of yours is going to play for me, he better be here by four.”

  I debated whether I should be there for Elliott’s audition. He had to know I’d been involved in bringing him back to Asheville. I had no idea how much his agent had told him, but even if he’d been told nothing, he was smart enough to piece everything together. Asheville was my symphony. He was invited to play because of me.

  In the end, I hid in the shadows offstage, watching as Elliott entered the auditorium, shook my conductor’s hand, then moved to the piano. He rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and sat down, his eyes focusing on the keys. To see him after so many weeks apart made my entire body tense, every nerve ending on high alert. I ached to touch him, to breathe him in. Once he began to play, the feeling only intensified.

  He was incredible. I was biased. Of course I was biased; I was completely in love with the man. But his ability to turn music into a living, breathing, feeling thing was beyond anything I’d ever experienced before. And I’d been around a lot of musicians.

  I slipped out the side stage door and walked to the back of the auditorium so I could sit in the last row. Through the first movement and into the next, Elliott played the Prokofiev with unwavering skill. That he’d had so little notice and was still able to walk up and power out twenty-plus minutes of a piano concerto with no music and no orchestra to back him up was mind-boggling. He was the consummate professional. Truly, he was the best I had ever seen.

  When he finished, I held my breath, hoping Dr. Williamson agreed.

  The conductor stood from his seat in the front row and clapped his hands, the singular sound of his acceptance echoing through the empty room. “Bravo,” he said simply, nodding to Elliott. “Bravo.”

  I waited for Elliott at the back of the auditorium. He stopped a few feet in front of me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Hi.” He spoke without smiling.

  I swallowed. “Hi. You sounded really good.” Understatement of the year, but fine.

  “Thanks.” He was uncomfortable, which only made me more uncomfortable. All I needed were some words, some good ones that made sense and were clear and concise and easy to understand. But there was no mental violin strong enough to channel peace and confidence into this conversation. I was a complete wreck. My tongue felt like rubber wrapped in Velcro, my head full of sentences there was no way I would ever have the courage to say. I stared at the floor, my cheeks flaming red, frustrated by my inability to just talk already.

  “So thanks for setting this up for me.” He motioned over his shoulder to the piano. “I guess my agent is bringing in a producer from Academy Records to hear the concert, so . . . I don’t know. Maybe something good will come of it.”

  Wow. I was annoyed at first that Brian would try to take the credit for getting Schweitzer to the show, but after a moment’s consideration, I decided it was probably better if Elliott didn’t know I was involved. At least not beyond the effort I’d made to secure him an invitation to play. I wasn’t trying to buy his affection or earn back his good opinion. I loved him. I wanted him to be happy, and I really, really hoped he was in love with me too. But even if he wasn’t, if there wasn’t a single hope of us ever winding up together, I wouldn’t change anything. I’d still be doing the very same thing.

  “It was nothing,” I said. “I was happy to do it.” I looked toward the door. “Can we talk for a minute? Want to go for a walk?”

  He glanced at his phone. “I only have an hour or so. I have to get back to the airport.”

  I tensed. “You’re leaving?” He wasn’t supposed to be leaving.

  “I’ll be back in time for the concert. Before that, probably, so I have time to pack everything up at the apartment.”

  No, no, no, no! Tears sprang to my eyes, and I turned so he wouldn’t see. I headed out the door of the auditorium and through the lobby, making it several paces down the sidewalk before he finally caught up.

  “Emma, wait. Please!”

  I stopped walking, but I couldn’t look at him. I knew the minute I did every bad, sappy sentence filling my brain would find a way to escape. Stupid words.

  “Emma,” he said again. He spoke from somewhere just over my shoulder, his tone gentle, his words soft. “I meant it when I said no regrets. I wouldn’t take back a single minute of the time we spent together.”

  “But?”

  “But you were right. It’s not worth it. I can’t ask you to sign up for a life that makes you uncomfortable.”

  “So you’re leaving instead?” I could feel him moving closer, close enough that if I turned and reached out, I could touch him, feel him, breathe him in.

  “It wouldn’t be good for either of us if I stayed. I can’t live across the hall and see you every day. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  I scoffed. “When is life ever fair?”

  “But it doesn’t have to be this kind of unfair. I care about you, and I want you to be happy. Even if that means letting you go.”

  It sounded like a canned speech, like a stupid line from a stupid movie where a stupid therapist tells some stupid guy what to say. If I really love you, I have to let you go. No. If he really loved me, he’d stop the crazy talk about moving out of Asheville and just kiss me already.

  “I didn’t mean it,” I whispered. I turned to face him. “Elliott, I didn’t mean it. I was scared and overwhelmed, and I didn’t know what I was saying. You are worth it. You’re worth everything.”

  He took several paces away from me, then turned, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his jaw clenched. “Don’t say that.”

  “But it’s the truth. I’m not proud of what I said, and there were some things I definitely had to figure out. But I realize now my life only has to be ruined by a meddling media if I’m willing to let it. I don’t have to. I don’t have to play their game. In hindsight, the only significant fallout from that stupid photo was that I lost you. And that’s way harder than anything the media could ever throw at me.”

  He breathed out a frustrated sigh and shook his head. “No. It took me weeks to get my head in a place where I could even think about standing this close to you without it killing me. I told myself I had to let you go, that it was the best thing for you, and I did. I did let go. Please just let me do that.”

  “But it’s not what I want. It’s never what I wanted.”

  We weren’t exactly fighting in the middle of the sidewalk, but we were definitely having an emotional conversation, the kind that would draw attention regardless of celebrity status. But Elliott was a celebrity. Which meant we didn’t just get attention. We got people turning our conversation into a photo op. A camera clicked and flashed from across the sidewalk, the woman behind it not even making an attempt to hide he
r curiosity.

  Elliott reached for my arm and pulled me down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. “But you don’t want this either.” He motioned behind him to the woman with the camera.

  “Shouldn’t that be a decision I get to make myself? You’re not even asking me what I want. You’re telling me. Why don’t you stop and ask me how I feel.” A sharp wind tossed my hair into my face and made my breath catch. I’d left my coat inside the performance hall, and the chill cut right to my bones. I wrapped my arms around my middle, my shoulders hunched against the cold.

  Elliott shrugged his coat off and held it out. “Here.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t need it.”

  “Please, just put it on.”

  I jerked it out of his extended hand, annoyed that even in the midst of our argument, he still had to be so nice. He watched until I’d pulled the coat tightly around my shoulders, my hands pushed into the pockets. It was almost enough to kill me—wearing his coat with the smells and the lingering body heat. It was the worst kind of unfair.

  “You just don’t understand, Em. You’re too good to be pulled into the world where I’ve built my career. I don’t want to expose you to the ridicule and curiosity. I saw how that photo hitting the tabloids affected you. And if you’re with me, I am powerless to stop the same thing from happening over and over again. I hate that I wouldn’t be able to protect you from all of that.”

  “Did you hear anything I just said? What if I don’t need protecting? Shouldn’t I be the one who gets to decide? Shouldn’t I get to decide if I think you’re worth it?”

  “It’s easy to say as much when you’ve only been through it once. But I’ve seen it wreck people. I’ve seen this business wreck relationships and ruin families.”

  “So, you’re just going to be alone forever? Because you’re so self-sacrificing and magnanimous that no one should ever have to endure the chore of loving you because it might mean some stranger snaps a picture with their cell phone?”

  He scoffed. “If that’s what it takes, then yeah.”

  “Boy, you are jaded, aren’t you?”