A Note Yet Unsung

by Tamera Alexander

  “Your father . . . he’s continuing to improve?”

  Tate found himself watching the curves of Rebekah’s mouth as she spoke, how her lips drew into a bow when pronouncing certain words, or the way her tongue lightly touched her teeth. And, sometimes, how she paused and pursed her lips when searching for the right thing to say. How he was ever going to let her go, he didn’t know.

  But he also knew he’d never wanted someone else to succeed and to be granted the desires of their heart as much as he wanted that for her.

  “Mama’s last letter said he’s slowly getting stronger. He still has days when he feels weak. But as Dr. Hamilton told us, those days are to be expected, particularly since my father was ill for so long. In the next few weeks, there’s a chance the fluid could return more swiftly than anticipated, and the doctor warned of the dangers should that happen. And of how quickly my father’s condition could deteriorate.” He fingered the rim of his cup. “But once he’s past that hurdle, his constitution should improve markedly. So . . . we’re choosing to be more optimistic in our outlook.”

  “I’m so glad, Tate. And so happy for you all.”

  He couldn’t be certain, but he wondered if she was thinking about her own father in that moment. And perhaps her mother too.

  A jingle of the bell above the door drew his attention, and a second glance at the clock told him it was time for them to get back. He paid the bill and they walked outside.

  He offered Rebekah his arm, but she hesitated.

  “Actually . . . ” She glanced in the opposite direction of the new opera house. “I’d planned to go see my mother this afternoon. But I’ll be back soon to help with anything you or the orchestra members need.”

  “Take your time. I’m glad you’re going to visit her. After all, we never know how long we’ll have our parents with us . . . do we?”

  Her smile came slowly, sadly. “No, we don’t.”

  Seeing the house ahead, Rebekah prayed for her current frame of mind. Sitting with Tate over lunch, she’d found herself comparing his family to hers, and hers had come up so short. But no use in dwelling on that now. Things were what they were. But as Demetrius would’ve told her, and she believed . . .

  They didn’t have to stay that way.

  She saw no sign of the carriage out front and continued on around back to the kitchen door. No Delphia inside either.

  Rebekah knocked, waited, then checked the doorknob. It turned easily in her grip. She stepped into the kitchen, a bit wary, as she always was when Barton might be near.

  “Delphia?”

  No answer. Large pots of water sat steaming on the stove. But it was the plate of cookies on the counter that truly drew her attention.

  Then she heard the distinct murmur of female voices—her mother’s and Delphia’s—and, marking the cookies for later, followed the sound upstairs to her mother’s bedroom. She paused in the doorway and watched Delphia and her mother arguing over a shawl.

  Her mother pushed the garment away. “I don’t want to wear that old thing. I want to wear my new coat.”

  “You wanna wear your new coat in the house, Miss Sarah? That don’t make no sense.”

  Rebekah curbed a smile. Her mother seemed more alert today than she had been during their last few visits. Although her mood . . .

  “I want to look nice for when Barton comes home. He always notices what I’m wearing. And that shawl is . . . shabby and dowdy looking. Something an old woman would wear!”

  Her mother said it as though she were repeating someone else’s words, and Rebekah didn’t have to think long about who that someone might be.

  Rebekah knocked on the open door, announcing her presence, and both women looked up, their reactions telling. Her mother’s features turned icily cool, while Delphia’s warmed in welcome.

  “Come on in here, child!” Delphia briefly widened her eyes as if trying to send Rebekah a warning.

  Rebekah’s mother simply sniffed and looked off in the opposite direction.

  “Hello, Mother,” Rebekah offered. “Delphia.” She returned Delphia’s look with one of her own. “How are you today, Mother?”

  “I’m cold and near freezing to death, but Delphia refuses to get me my coat.”

  Delphia, hands planted on hips, heaved a sigh, to which Rebekah responded with a discreet wink.

  “Here . . . Is this the coat you want?” Rebekah retrieved a beautiful royal blue coat hanging on a peg by the wardrobe. “I’m happy to get it for you.”

  Apparently, her mother had ceased wearing mourning garb. But Rebekah wasn’t about to criticize. She brought the coat to her mother, who promptly turned away.

  “I’ve changed my mind, Delphia. I would like to wear that shawl.”

  Shaking her head, Delphia slipped the garment around her mother’s shoulders while Rebekah returned the coat to its peg, recalling the wise counsel from beloved Demetrius. “As long as there’s breath in a body, a person can change.”

  She claimed the chair opposite her mother’s. “The last time I stopped by, you were out shopping. Did you have a nice time with your friends?”

  Her mother waved off the question. “That’s been so long ago, I can scarcely remember.” She reached for a cup of what looked to be hot tea from the side table and drank liberally.

  Courting a smile, Rebekah determined not to be drawn into an argument. “I’ll do my best to come by more often. I’ve simply been so busy lately that I—”

  “I know what you’re doing. You’re working at the opera house. Barton told me.” Her mother grimaced. “Do you know how that made me feel? My own daughter doesn’t even tell me where she’s working.”

  Rebekah opened her mouth to defend herself, then promptly closed it, recognizing the slippery slope. Meanwhile, her mother drained the teacup and filled it again from the matching pot resting on the side table.

  Not even close to giving up, Rebekah tried again. “May is almost here, Mother, and I know how much you love spring. Perhaps you and I can plant some flowers out back this year, like you and Father and I used to do when I was a little girl.”

  Unexpected warmth slipped into her mother’s eyes, as if a cherished memory, all but forgotten, had resurfaced, and her mother smiled. Actually smiled. Rebekah watched in amazement at the transformation.

  Then her mother blinked and her gaze reconnected with Rebekah’s, and in the space of a heartbeat, the chill returned.

  “Flowers don’t grow very well back there anymore. It would all likely be for nothing!”

  Weighing the negative-spirited woman before her with the glimpse of a woman she remembered, Rebekah realized her mother was still there, behind a wall of some sort. Grief, perhaps? Bitterness? Regret? Whatever had built the wall, all Rebekah needed to do was find a way to scale it.

  “Miss Sarah,” Delphia interrupted. “I’m gonna fetch the rest of your bath water, ma’am. I be right back.”

  Rebekah’s continued attempts to engage her mother in conversation proved fruitless. So they sat in silence, her mother staring off into the distance, her eyes almost closing at times before she would snap them back open and glare at Rebekah again, as though suddenly remembering she was still supposed to be angry.

  Delphia finished filling the tub in the adjacent room, then helped her mother out of the chair. Rebekah stood but knew better than to offer her assistance.

  “Good-bye, Mother. I’ll come by again soon.”

  Her mother simply turned her head the other way. “Delphia, I hope the water’s not too hot.”

  “It’s not too hot, ma’am.”

  “And do you have that soap I like? The pink one?”

  “You know I do.”

  “And my robe, I like to have my robe.”

  “Done got it in there, Miss Sarah.”

  Rebekah caught Delphia’s eye and mouthed a silent “Thank you.”

  Delphia tossed her a reassuring look. “You be sure and get some of them cookies in the kitchen,” she said over her shoulder
.

  Waiting until the door had closed, Rebekah finally gave release to the heavy sigh that had been building inside her. As she turned to leave, she could barely make out the muffled voice of her mother as she continued to ply Delphia with questions, and Delphia’s as she answered.

  Rebekah closed the bedroom door and hurried downstairs and to the kitchen, eager to get to rehearsal. She quickly searched the drawers in the worktable for a sack or tin for the cookies, and found Delphia’s stash of cinnamon candies, a stack of clean, starched aprons, and Grandmother’s set of butcher knives. But not a sack or tin anywhere.

  So she wrapped half a dozen cookies in a napkin and stuck them in her skirt pocket. As she turned to leave, she heard the back door open.

  35

  Rebekah, my dear.” Barton closed the door behind him, a suitcase in his hand. His gaze traveled leisurely up and down her body. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Rebekah smelled the cherry laurel from where he stood, and her stomach turned. Seeing the look in his eyes, she quickly gauged the fastest way out of the room and ran, screaming for Delphia.

  He caught her before she could get out of the kitchen, his grip viselike around her upper arm. She fought and kicked and screamed.

  “Now, now, Rebekah . . . ” He shoved her hard against the worktable, then pinned her from behind. “Is this any way to greet your loving stepfather?”

  Rebekah reached for a cast-iron skillet atop the table, but he shoved it away. She fought him, tried to scratch and bite, but she was no match for his height and strength.

  “Mother and Delphia”—she could hardly breathe—“are in the parlor.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” He laughed. “Or they’d be in here by now. No, your mother’s typically upstairs this time of day. I know her schedule better than she does.”

  He leaned close and smelled her hair, and bile rose in the back of her throat. She screamed again and looked for anything to use as a weapon . . . then remembered.

  “I was drunk that night,” he whispered in her ear. “But not so drunk that I don’t remember what you tasted like, what you felt like beneath my hands.”

  The drawer wouldn’t budge.

  “And looks like nobody’s coming to your aid this time. Especially not that two-bit nigger friend of yours. Oh, I took care of him, Rebekah.” He laughed. “You should’ve seen him after I . . .”

  She tried to open the drawer again, but at this odd angle . . . Oh, God, please . . . Her hands were shaking so badly, she could scarcely—There! The drawer budged.

  Barton grabbed her by the shoulders and whirled her around. Rebekah spit in his face, and the veins in his neck corded tight. He lowered his mouth to hers, and she turned away—just as her grip closed around the wooden handle. She brought the butcher knife up with as much force as she could muster.

  He cursed and let go of her and clutched at his arm. Rebekah dropped the knife and ran.

  Tate stayed after the rehearsal and met with several members from various sections of the orchestra, answering questions and discussing the music. Afternoon rehearsal had gone relatively well, except for the fourth movement. All sections were still struggling with it, as was Darrow Fulton with the violin solo. But something had occurred to him in recent weeks that had somewhat altered his outlook in this regard.

  A great deal of his harshness with the orchestra had, no doubt, been influenced by his hearing loss. Meaning the fault—at least at times—had been his, not theirs. It was a humbling realization. So as he answered every one of their questions, he again committed to being more patient and slower to become angry.

  And as the minutes ticked by, he watched for Rebekah.

  She’d said she would only be an hour or so at her mother’s, yet it had been much longer. He’d already gathered that she and her mother weren’t close, which might have explained the apprehension he’d sensed in her before they’d parted ways. But perhaps the visit had gone better than she’d anticipated and that was the reason she wasn’t back yet. He hoped that was the case.

  He took the back hallway to his new office to retrieve his suit coat, and to see if Rebekah was there. She wasn’t. Boxes and crates littered the floor—so much to be done yet. Moving was a wearying business. But between them all, it would get done.

  He and Rebekah had discussed finishing up in the old office together after today’s rehearsal. Perhaps she’d gone there instead.

  On his way out of the building, he heard his name and turned. And when he saw who it was, he felt himself tense but then remembered what Rebekah had said to him days earlier about offering encouragement. But . . . how to make it sincere?

  Darrow Fulton approached, violin case in hand. “Maestro Whitcomb, a moment to discuss the violin solo, if you could, sir.”

  “All right, Mr. Fulton. But first, let me say that your arpeggios today . . . showed improvement. I can tell you’ve been working on those measures.”

  Fulton blinked, and stood a little straighter. “Thank you, Maestro. I appreciate that. And I have been, most vigorously. It’s a difficult piece.”

  “Yes, it is. But I trust you’re up to it.” Tate didn’t wait for the man’s response, eager to be on his way. “Now, your question?”

  “Yes, sir. . . .” Fulton briefly glanced away. “It’s about the interlude. In my solo. I’m simply wondering . . . and please know, before I say this, that I admire your work greatly. This doesn’t alter that in any way.”

  Tate sensed a but coming.

  “But . . . the interlude doesn’t seem to share the same nuance as the rest of the symphony.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fulton. That’s why it’s an interlude.”

  “Yes, Maestro.” Fulton laughed nervously, his upper lip glistening. “But what I’m trying to say—”

  “Would, perhaps, be easier to say if you would simply come out and say it.”

  Fulton took a breath, then glanced about them as though making certain no one else was listening. “Part of the interlude sounds a little like . . . yokel music to me, sir.”

  Tate didn’t even attempt to smile. “Yokel music, Mr. Fulton?”

  “Yes, sir. Or . . . backwoods, as some people call it. It’s similar to the music you might hear played on a street corner by commoners. Or even”—sweat beaded on the man’s forehead—“a little like . . . Negro music, Maestro,” he whispered, repugnance in his tone. “I don’t mean to be offensive, sir.”

  “Why would I be offended, Fulton? You’re simply comparing my music to that of commoners and Negroes.”

  Tate enjoyed watching the man’s face pale.

  “No, sir! Not the symphony as a whole. Only . . . the violin solo does possess a quality reminiscent of that. And I’m simply wondering if that’s for the best, considering the caliber and prestige of our patrons.”

  Tate stared, able to see through the man as clearly as a paned window without glass. Not only was Fulton clearly still struggling with the violin solo, as was proven in rehearsal earlier, but it also appeared as though he was embarrassed to play it. And although Fulton appeared to be less jittery and on edge lately, Tate still wasn’t convinced the man wasn’t an addict on some level.

  Tate narrowed his gaze. “You were right to come to me with your . . . concerns, Mr. Fulton. Now allow me to allay them, not in part, but in full. The interlude in the violin solo is the heart of this symphony. It is the inspiration from which the very seed of this music was born. And if the interlude sounds like the music of commoners to you, then I find deep satisfaction in knowing I have achieved my goal in that regard. Because while this symphony is about the complexity and diversity of music, from Bach to Beethoven, it is also about the struggle . . . and triumph of the common man. The sort of people of which”—Tate felt a warmth in his chest—“I am most proud.”

  Nearly half an hour later, Tate opened the back door to the old opera house and stepped inside, willing his frustration with Darrow Fulton to fade in the silence and calm. If only women could play in symphonies. Correction�
��if only women could play in the Nashville Philharmonic.

  He smiled at the thought, and the fact that he’d had it.

  The waning afternoon sun stretched fading beams of light through the upper windows and illuminated a thousand dust motes as they drifted and danced across the dusky corridor. He recalled the first time he’d ever seen Rebekah, standing there in the hallway outside his office, her eyes bright with determination, the depth of which he’d sorely underestimated.

  He’d never met anyone as driven as he was . . . until her.

  A lamp still burned bright on Mrs. Murphey’s desk, telling him that she or Mrs. Bixby, or both, were still there. Bless those women. What would he do without them?

  He continued to his office, not melancholy over leaving this building so much as he felt a deep sense of gratitude for the purpose it had served through the years. He turned the corner and paused, disappointed to find his office door still closed and the slit beneath it dark.

  Where was she?

  He opened the door and crossed to his desk, fumbled for matches, and lit the lamp. The soft glow fell across stacks of boxes and crates, revealing a chaos similar to the one he’d left in the other building. He was eager to get—

  Sensing more than seeing something move in the shadows in the corner, he held up the lamp. And saw her, sitting on the sofa in the corner.

  “Rebekah, what are you doing sitting here in the dark?” He set the lamp aside and went to her, then saw her red-rimmed eyes.

  36

  Rebekah, what’s wrong?” he whispered.

  Her earlier tears having dried, Rebekah felt her fragile, pieced-together composure beginning to slip. “I . . . I didn’t know where else to go.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

  Tate slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Rebekah . . . tell me what’s wrong.”

  She leaned into him, the tenderness in his voice nearly her undoing. But how to tell him . . . And how would he react?

  “You remember . . . meeting my stepfather.” Even in the dim light she saw his jaw go rigid, and she squeezed his hand tight, thinking of Chicory Hollow and their kind of mountain justice. “Before I tell you what happened, Tate, promise me that you won’t leave this room until we’re both ready to leave together.”