Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4)

by Jerica MacMillan

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chatper Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  Playlist

  Book Club

  About Jerica MacMillan

  Other Titles on Amazon

  Chapter One

  Downbeat: the first beat in a measure, usually the strongest beat

  Tonic triad: the chord built on the first note of a scale

  Damian

  Yes. Perfect.

  I loosen my bow and stow it in its slot before sliding my cello into the upright case that stands by the door of the practice room, satisfied with my progress on the Dvořák concerto for the night. I’ve been slow-playing the concerto to get it under my fingers. My goal is to get it up to tempo by midterms, in plenty of time to add the polish and finesse before the recorded audition is due for the Gem State Concerto Competition on December 1.

  It’s getting late, almost ten, and I’m one of the few diehards still in the practice rooms—those of us who prefer practicing at night rather than during the day. A handful of students will be in the computer lab, mostly sophomores working on their compositions for Dr. Paulsen and upper classmen who are taking the composition track classes. I’m sticking with Forms and Analysis and Music History and giving things like Counterpoint a pass. I have no illusions about where my talents lie. Composition is not my forte. Dr. Paulsen gave me decent grades on my dance forms and my sonata last year because they met the technical requirements of the assignments. They were boring. I was bored writing them. But they were the best I could manage.

  No, performance is where I shine. Something about stepping on stage, my cello propped between my knees, its body connecting with mine … I become someone else in that moment. Something else. A conduit for the music. My cello becomes my voice, my soul, and I no longer exist as myself.

  Those are the moments I live for.

  Opening the door of the tiny practice room, I slip my arms into the backpack straps of my hard black case, becoming a beetle with a cello-shaped shell. Ever since I read Metamorphosis in an English class, I’ve always felt like I was channeling Gregor Samsa whenever I walk around with my case on my back. The difference being that once I stow my cello in its locker for the night, I’ll just be Damian. Long-haired, glasses-wearing cellist. The quiet guy who’s always drawn to the bright sparks in any room.

  But bright sparks are drawn to other bright sparks so they can start a conflagration. Gabby and her boyfriend—fiancé I guess I should say—are the perfect example of that.

  Lauren is another bright spark. We went on a date once, and I got my hopes up that she’d be willing to illuminate my world, at least for a little while. But no. She’s looking for her own bright spark. And my introverted, overthinking self is not that. I know it. But I still haven’t managed to get over the idea that she might change her mind. The longer she goes without dating anyone else, at least not seriously, the more my heart holds onto the hope that she might turn and see me again. So when I hear a violin playing while I walk down the practice hall, I wonder if it’s her.

  I dismiss that thought as soon as I recognize the piece the violinist is playing. It’s a student concerto. I can’t remember the name of the composer, but I’ve heard it enough times in Strings Seminar to know it’s part of the standard progression for new violinists in Dr. Davis’s violin studio. Definitely not Lauren.

  A piano playing a slow, haunting progression of chords catches my ear as I near the end of the hall. The piano majors have three practice rooms reserved for their use. Two have baby grands shoehorned into them, their dimensions slightly larger than the other practice rooms. The third room is even bigger, with just enough space next to the piano to fit another person so the piano majors can practice with the other students they sometimes accompany.

  The light glows in the narrow window of the middle room’s door, one of the tiny ones, and that’s where the music is coming from.

  It’s a simple chord progression, but elegant for its simplicity. The chords slide seamlessly into one another, with at least one note staying consistent between each change.

  Instead of passing by the practice rooms on my way downstairs to the instrument storage room, I stop, lingering outside, listening. It’s not a song. Not really. There’s no discernible melody. No real rhythm. Just one chord morphing into another. They’re not all minor, but the overwhelming feeling is one of sadness. Or maybe nostalgia. I start to pick out a pattern, a tonal center, which makes some of the chord changes all the more surprising. Yes, they’re simple chords, but I don’t recognize the style at all. At first I thought maybe Debussy. It has a similar floating feeling of skating chords. But no. It’s too … I’m not sure. Not Debussy, though.

  My familiarity with piano repertoire is lacking, so I have no more guesses. Curiosity has me peeking in the little window, even though I hate when faces appear in the window of my own practice room. Enough that now I practice with my back to the door so random eyeballs and noses popping into view don’t distract me from working.

  Hopefully whoever is practicing is absorbed enough that they won’t notice me.

  Stepping closer, I angle myself so I can see the pianist sitting in profile to me. Short dark hair falls forward as she leans into the next chord, her foot working the pedal. Glasses sit folded next to the music stand on top of a pile of sheet music and technique books. No music sits on the stand, though.

  It’s Charlie, Lauren’s new roommate. We met a few weeks ago before classes started when Lauren invited a bunch of us over for pizza and a movie. Charlie’d been quiet at first, but had grown more animated as she relaxed, asking questions about the department and what to expect in her classes.

  She’s our age, but she’s a freshman. She’d neatly changed the subject whenever anyone asked about her past, saying that she’d been traveling with her parents the last few years as to why she hadn’t started college at eighteen. That answer seemed to satisfy the others, but only piqued my curiosity more.

  And now, here she is, making herself even more intriguing with her complete absorption in her music and playing something interesting enough that it makes me stop. That complete focus and dedication makes me wonder if she might be more like me than I first suspected.

  Charlie’s slight frame pulls a lot of sound out of her instrument. As I watch, transfixed, she builds a crescendo, playing each chord over and over, like a fist hammering on a door, growing louder with each repetition.

  At the peak, she stops, removing her foot from the pedal at the same time she removes her hands from the keys. A faint vibration echoes in the sudden silence.

  And her head lifts, her pale blue
eyes locking with mine.

  She must be farsighted, because it’s clear she recognizes me, even without her glasses.

  Swallowing hard at being caught staring at her like this, I try for a friendly smile and lift a hand to wave at her through the window.

  She gives a tentative smile in return, standing and squeezing around the piano to open the door. Unlike the other practice rooms, these doors open out. With the pianos inside, there’s not enough room for them to open in.

  I step back as her hand lands on the door handle, giving her room to push the door open.

  “Hey,” she says, sounding a little breathless. “What’s up? Did you need something?”

  “Oh, uh,” I swallow again and scratch the back of my neck, unable to meet her eyes anymore. “Not exactly. I heard someone playing and thought it sounded interesting. I was trying to figure out if that was Debussy or someone else.”

  She lets out a laugh. “Ah, no. Definitely not Debussy.”

  “Yeah, I decided that. Is that something you’re working on for your lessons? Twentieth century stuff already?”

  Another burst of laughter, and she bites her lip, her eyes sparkling with more life. And it strikes me that she still hasn’t put her glasses on, but her focus is as clear up close as when I was farther away. She must not need a very strong prescription.

  “Twenty-first, actually.” Her voice sounds more clear, less husky than when we first met a few weeks ago.

  I adjust the straps of my cello on my shoulders. “Oh yeah? Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  Her head tilts to the side. “Um, you could say so.” The smile she’s been biting back overtakes her face, and she looks … like another shiny spark.

  And I know I’m in danger of getting burned. But like a moth, I lean in closer. Waiting for her to reveal the mystery composer. “Who?”

  She turns so that her hip is holding open the door and executes a little bow, complete with a wrist flourish. “Me,” she says as she straightens. “It’s not anything. Just me messing around.”

  I take an involuntary step back in my surprise. “Wow. I didn’t realize you compose. Does living with Lauren make everyone a composer? Got an extra bedroom? Maybe I could get some writing mojo too.”

  “Composing sounds so fancy. I don’t think I’d go that far. And no. We’re not in the market for another roommate, but I’ll let you know if there’s an opening.”

  I grin back, unable to help my response to her. She’s light and charming, and I want to keep her talking so I have an excuse to stay near her.

  Her eyes trace the line of the cello case sticking up above my head. “You heading out?”

  “Yeah. I try to be done by ten thirty. I’m a late night practicer. It’s quieter. Not as many distractions.”

  She nods, her gaze returning to mine. “Yeah. I’ve noticed that. I tend to be here later, too.”

  “Maybe we could play together sometime.” The words are out before I can think to stuff them back down. She has that same infectious brightness as Lauren, and I’m powerless to resist when it’s sitting in front of me. I force my jaw closed, not letting any more words of witless explanation escape so I can retain some dignity when she inevitably turns me down.

  But to my astonished pleasure, her eyes light up like she can’t believe her good fortune. “Yeah. That sounds like fun. We could jam sometime. Like, do you want to schedule something or just see when we run into each other again?”

  My smile finds its way back to my face, unable to stay repressed since she’s excited. “Tomorrow? I’m not sure about jamming. But I could dig out some piano and cello sonatas that could be fun.”

  “Yeah. That sounds good. Nothing too technical, though. Dr. Gomez assures me that while my musicality is better than most students my age, my technique is worse than any freshman he’s ever taught. And since I’m an old freshman, it’s even more dreadful.”

  Since her words are delivered with an edge of self-deprecating sarcasm, I give her shoulder a squeeze. “Dr. Gomez likes to tell everyone their technique is appalling. Or dreadful. Sometimes horrifying. Don’t take it too personally.”

  She rolls her eyes, but her smile remains in place. “Yeah. One of the other piano majors mentioned that Dr. Gomez told him the same thing, more or less, his freshman year. It’s funny, though, because that sounds like such an insult, you know? It should be upsetting, but he’s so nice and he sounds so concerned when he tells me how awful I am that instead of getting angry or sad, it just makes me want to try harder.”

  My fingers slide over the bare skin of her arm as I let go. “I know what you mean. I had him as a chamber music coach last year. He was like that with us too. But by the end of the semester we were playing better together than we would’ve ever thought possible at the beginning. And he’s as free with his praise as his criticisms, so you know when you’re really getting it. He’s fun to work with.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” She glances back in the room before looking at me again. “Let me grab my stuff, and I’ll walk out with you. I need to head home and get through some homework tonight.”

  “Sure.” I reach out and hold the door for her while she slides on her glasses and swipes the pile of music off the piano. Once we’re outside, she stops and locks the door with a key she pulls from her pocket. The piano majors’ practice rooms stay locked, that way random people don’t go in and mess with the nice pianos.

  I shorten my steps so she can keep up with me easily. She doesn’t quite come up to my shoulder. When we get to the bottom of the stairs, she stops and glances at the door to the parking lot. “Do you take your cello home? Or leave it here?”

  “I usually leave it here. I have a locker. I don’t play at home. I made a deal with my roommates, Zeke and Jason, that we’d all practice at school so we don’t start hating each other for practicing while the others are doing homework or trying to watch a movie or whatever. Jason’s the worst, since he drums on everything. He can’t really practice at home, though. His instruments are all here. But I don’t want to listen to Zeke on the trombone anymore than either of them wants to hear me playing cello.”

  She nods. “Makes sense. Lauren and I don’t have anything that formal worked out, but so far she only practices here. I have an electric keyboard that I sometimes play, but it’s not the same as the baby grands. I really miss the full size grands. One of these days I’m going to sneak into the recital hall and practice in there.”

  She flashes a grin, and I grin back, mesmerized by her smile. “Invite me along. I’d love to hear you play in the hall.”

  Her head dips in a brief nod. “Sure. We can do it together. Play one of those sonatas you find.” She pulls her phone out of the pile of papers and books she holds against her chest, wincing at whatever she sees on the screen. “I really do need to head home and do homework, though. If I don’t get started soon, I’ll be worthless tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, me too. Want to grab dinner tomorrow, and then we can play together after?” I hold my breath on the inhale after that impromptu question escapes. Something about her has me asking for things I’d normally deliberate over for days before tentatively bringing up. Instead I’m just vomiting them out. But she was excited about my suggestion that we play together. Maybe dinner’s not such a stretch.

  Her eyes find mine. “That sounds great. Meet here at five?”

  “Sure. Yeah.” I sound like a moron, stumbling over my agreement as though I didn’t suggest dinner. “It’s a date.” Oh shit, did I just say that out loud?

  But her smile pulls wide again. “It’s a date.”

  Chapter Two

  Diva: a famous female opera singer; a famous female singer of popular music

  Charlie

  My phone vibrates in my hand again after leaving Damian in the lobby of the music building. And once again, I decline the call, sending my mother to voicemail.

  She left me alone for the first couple of weeks I was here, but she’s started calling daily. And now multiple time
s a day. I talked to her the first time she called, and it didn’t go well.

  “When are you coming back?” she demanded when I answered.

  “Maybe in four years?”

  Things had gone downhill from there.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. This was the reason I’d kept her in the dark about all my plans until everything was set. I dropped the bomb that I was enrolling in college and taking an indefinite break from touring and recording, leaving her spluttering in the living room of my childhood home.

  She thought I needed time to cool off. I guess she’s decided I’ve had enough time.

  Sliding into my car, I sigh as I see she’s left another voicemail. I play it on speaker as I drive back to the house I share with Lauren.

  “Charlotte, you’ve made your point. You’ve been invited to perform at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and we need to give them an answer soon. You also have invitations for New Year’s Rockin’ Eve and the Super Bowl. You need to call me back so we can discuss the terms of the contracts and what you’ll be performing. I know you want a break from touring, but surely some occasional appearances shouldn’t be a problem. This is urgent. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

  The voicemail only lasts thirty seconds, leaving me the rest of the drive home to stew over her presumptuousness. It sounds like she’s already agreed to these performances without even talking to me, which before August, I wouldn’t have balked at. But now?

  I made it clear that I was taking a break. No performances. No new albums. No collaborations. Nothing. I need time for myself, to explore music on my own, and decide if this career is something I even want anymore.

  By the time I get home, I’m so worked up that I delete the voicemail and then empty my mailbox so there’s no evidence of it at all. Tapping the screen extra hard doesn’t give my righteous indignation any sort of satisfaction, and even though the thought of blocking my mom’s number briefly flits through my mind, I can’t bring myself to do it.