by Sahara Kelly
As they entered the Oakwood parking lot, Marianne made herself a promise. She’d live every day, make the most of every second. So what if she had nobody now, no great love to light her soul? She’d survive. And she’d make that survival joyous in every way she could. Life was indeed too short.
Filled with resolution, she untangled her feet from the blankets, grabbed the basket and stepped out into the autumn sunlight.
Chapter Nine
Maestro Chris Harvey peered around one of the smooth plywood proscenium arches at the audience. It was a good crowd, the chairs in the VIP section were full and the green swath of grass beyond was cluttered with blankets and lawn chairs where the rest of the attendees sprawled at their leisure, enjoying the sunshine.
He heard the muted clatter of wine glasses being filled from picnic baskets, laughter and a general buzz of conversation as they awaited the start of the concert that marked the last performance of this year at Oakwood.
Rubbing his palms down his smart black slacks, Chris realized he was sweating and it had nothing to do with the warm fall day. He was, for one of the few times in his life, fucking nervous.
Beethoven he could handle with his eyes shut. Ditto Stravinsky, Schumann, whoever. It was somebody else’s music with not a huge amount of allowance for variations in the conductor’s interpretation. Mostly it depended on an orchestra that knew its ass from its oboe.
The Oakwood Symphony orchestra had no problem telling the difference. They were young, enthusiastic and took direction well. Must be something in the country air, Chris decided, that had made rehearsals go like a dream.
Still, today was different. It was his symphony that was going to echo around the natural amphitheater. There would be no preconceived notions on the part of his audience. No eager anticipation for how he was going to handle the complex third movement, since nobody’d ever heard the complex third movement, which wasn’t that complex anyway.
He winced. He was gonna give himself a crashing headache if he kept this up and that was the last thing he wanted minutes before his performance. He had to keep himself focused. Backstage—or the hidden bits that functioned as “backstage” in an open-air concert hall—was buzzing with activity. Which was why he’d sought out this quiet nook for himself.
Absently, he gazed out over the crowd, trying to clear his thoughts. His eyes were drawn to one brightly colored blanket and the woman who sat there. For some reason, she seemed—familiar?
He squinted against the sun, trying to get a better look at her. Dark hair tossed around her shoulders and she was chatting with another couple as they shared a bottle of wine. He couldn’t place her. But there was something…
He turned away, slightly baffled at his odd fancies only minutes before he was to go on stage. It wasn’t like him to get distracted at this point.
An aide hurried to his side and passed him his baton. “Here you are, Maestro. Break a leg.”
“Thanks.” Chris nodded and took the baton, feeling his feet land on more solid and familiar ground. Just the comforting weight of the tools of his trade cleared his thoughts and brought him back to the present.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Fellow music lovers…” The music director was about to begin the introduction.
Chris straightened his shoulders, tugged at his white, open-necked shirt and checked his cufflinks. He liked conducting in informal attire better than his more restrictive tuxedo. One of the many reasons he’d chosen Oakwood to debut this particular piece.
“…from California.” The man sure loved the sound of his own voice. Chris grinned. Didn’t they all?
“It’s an honor to welcome him here to the Oakwood Concert Bowl and to offer you the debut performance of his new symphony. A fitting way to end our forty-third season here in these wonderful surroundings.”
There was a smattering of polite applause and behind the director the orchestra began their preliminary tuning noises.
“So, without further ado, I’d like to invite you all to join me in welcoming Maestro Christopher Harvey as he conducts the Oakwood Symphony Orchestra in the very first performance of…The Nightingale.”
The crowd rose to its feet as Chris stepped onto the podium and tapped his score.
*~~*~~*
The first movement was winding down before Jake, Renny and Marianne managed to get their mouths shut. Their gasps of surprise had been mutual, a synchronized triple jaw-drop along with three simultaneous indrawn breaths.
None of them had bothered to check the title of this new symphony and hearing it like that, out of the blue, from a strange man in front of a full orchestra—well, Marianne’s head spun and she wondered for a second or two if she was going to faint dead away.
The music drifted around her, but it took her quite some time to hear it past the buzzing in her ears. The little dots that were swimming in front of her eyes finally disappeared and the tingling numbness in her cheeks faded, leaving her stunned and staring at the stage.
The strains of the first movement died away, there was a brief spattering of applause and then the second movement began. As her heart rate slowed back down to something approaching normal and she realized she wasn’t going to fibrillate herself to death on the blanket, Marianne closed her eyes and began to listen—finally—to the music itself.
It was sweetly and delicately phrased, beginning with a soft duet for cello and oboe. Rich melodious harmonies began to build, telling Marianne a story of love, passion and eventually the climax of fulfilled desire.
She gulped. If she hadn’t known better, she’d swear this Maestro had orchestrated her dreams. There was something classical in the score, something that could have been right at home in the Regency. A styling, perhaps, a flourish here and there—whatever it was, it took her back into the past and painted pictures of days gone by.
She was having a visceral and visual response to this music, something that surprised her enormously. With her eyes shut and her mind open, she could see drifting images behind her eyelids. Images of lovers, of moonlight, of sensual moments that defied verbal description, but were easily created by the notes of a violin.
The third movement began, echoing the melody that ran through the piece, but this time with an undertone in a minor key, a foreboding harmony that sounded poignant, yet passionate. Short, but vivid, it built to a crescendo, a cascade of liquid beauty that brought tears to Marianne’s eyes.
Raptly she gazed at the back of the conductor. What talent. His body swayed and writhed as he coaxed these musicians into producing sounds of incredible beauty and complexity. He seemed to grow taller before her eyes, his dark hair flying loosely around his head, his white shirt a splotch of brilliance against the black t-shirts worn by the entire orchestra.
It was dramatic—this chiaroscuro of light and dark—a theatrical staging that perfectly suited the beauty of the symphony. For a few seconds, the sun’s rays picked him out, dancing across the front of the stage and highlighting him in an aura of brilliance.
Marianne had to blink to focus. It was dazzling, a multi-media experience coupling the vision of this talented conductor, highlighted by the sun, with the music he’d created from a mere thought.
There was more applause this time at the end of the third movement and Marianne could sense the involvement of the audience now, as lost as she was in the magic spells woven by this wizard with a baton.
He ignored it, though, remaining frozen for an instant as he raised his arms in preparation for the final movement.
And it began, a soft sound, a flute piping plaintively melancholy notes into the air of a warm New England afternoon. Silence fell like a blanket over the audience and Marianne found herself holding her breath along with everybody else.
Then she realized what she was hearing and her hand blindly fumbled for Renny’s arm. Grabbing it tightly, she held on.
“Marianne? You okay?”
Marianne shook her head. “No. That tune…” She swallowed convulsively. “Do you know what
that is?”
Renny leaned to her. “What?”
“It’s—” She could barely form the words. “It’s the song of the nightingale.”
Renny’s gasp was soft, but audible. “You sure?”
Marianne nodded. “How could I possibly forget it?” She stared at the stage. “I’ve heard it too often to make a mistake.”
She realized Renny was sharing this information with Jake and released her arm to brush her hand over her eyes. Without her knowing it, tears had already formed and were stinging the corners. Once again, the melody echoed around the audience and out into the setting sun. It grew more distinct, picked up by different instruments, tossed back and forth now in an increasing counterpoint, developing a richness and a depth that only the full orchestra could bring.
Marianne’s heart ached fiercely as the too-well-remembered song of the nightingale flew from the stage into her soul and touched the pain within.
Unchecked now, the tears began to fall, the agony of her loss finally breaking through her reserve, unlocked by the key created by a stranger. Marianne wept silently, letting the music flow around her, releasing her grief and offering a strange kind of comfort.
Renny’s arm slipped unnoticed around her shoulders, but the other woman remained silent as the waves of the final movement swept over them. There was nothing to be said—this moment had to arrive, Marianne knew. She had to face her agony and deal with it.
And now, thanks to a symphony and one simple motif within it, she could.
She didn’t care if anybody saw her cry. She didn’t care about the brilliance of the performance or the skillful composition, or the juxtaposition of themes and the intriguing use of the lower registers in the final movement.
She didn’t care about any of the things the critics would probably rave about. Nothing mattered to her at that moment except for the song of the nightingale.
And the man she had loved for eternity.
She barely realized that the music had ended. Scarcely heard the sound of applause as it rang out with cheers and whistles and went on for some time. She could not see the stage through her tears, nor get a good look at the conductor as he turned to accept the plaudits of his audience.
She barely heard Renny as she whispered softly to her. “Take all the time you need, Marianne. Jake and I will meet you at the car.”
Marianne managed a weak nod. “Thanks.”
Wrapped in her grief, she rested her head on her knees and sobbed.
*~~*~~*
Dammit.
Chris muttered to himself as he searched his score for his page of notes. He must have left it on the podium.
With an exhausted sigh, he strolled back out onto the empty stage to retrieve it, knowing the audience had long gone. It had been a fabulous performance and he was still a bit buzzed with euphoria.
Though not enough to join the gang backstage where champagne corks were popping, laughter and jokes were being exchanged and phone numbers tossed around all over the place. These musicians would reunite elsewhere, or if not, meet again next year when the Oakwood season opened once more.
But for Chris, this was the zenith. No longer just a Maestro, he now felt himself a real composer, a real musician. He was complete.
Almost.
Ignoring the nagging feeling that there was just one thing missing, something unfinished, Chris found the page on the floor at the very front of the stage. As he picked it up, he noticed that there was still one blanket left on the grass. Still one audience member left.
It was the woman he’d noticed earlier—and she seemed to be crying. He could hear the soft whimpers thanks to the acoustics of the landscape and they grabbed at his heart in a strangely odd way.
Scarcely realizing what he was doing, he put the paper on the conductor’s shelf and walked toward her. He couldn’t leave her there, not when she was in such evident distress.
“Excuse me. Miss?” He spoke as he walked, so as not to scare her. “Are you all right?”
She hadn’t heard him, apparently. “Miss? Hello? Can I help you?”
Slowly she raised her head from her knees, tears glistening in the dying rays of the sunset. Her gaze met his—and Chris gasped.
It was like a punch to the gut, a visceral charge of heat that shocked him to his core. Dark brown and shining with tears, her eyes fixed on his face, then widened as he drew closer to where she sat on her blanket.
“What’s the matter?” He knew he formed the words, but wasn’t sure if he’d spoken them or not. “I know you.”
That was unexpected. He hadn’t thought of saying it, had no idea where it came from. But something in the recesses of his brain forced him to speak. And it was the truth.
“I know you.” He repeated it, staring at her as she gazed up at him. “Who are you? How do I know you?”
Awkwardly, she struggled to her feet. “I don’t know. But I know you, too. I know your music. The song of the nightingale…” Her gaze heated as she took in his features, glancing here and there as if drinking him in. “It’s—him. It’s Christian. And me.”
He frowned. “My name’s Christopher.” His brain whirled slightly as he fought to hold on to something that was inside there, but just out of reach. “And you’re…you’re…M—M—”
He knew her name, goddammit. He just couldn’t recall it.
“Marianne.”
“Marianne.” Chris repeated it, savoring it, tasting it on his tongue like the familiar sensation he got from the first sip of a favorite wine. “Yes. Marianne.”
Tentatively, she reached out and touched his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Her hand felt right, warm, as erotic and as sensual as any passionate caress he’d ever received.
“Your music. The nightingale. It brought back some memories for me.” She was fighting, Chris could tell. Fighting to recover her balance, to pull herself back from whatever agony she’d been suffering.
Her hand fell away and Chris felt the loss like a blow. He reached for her wrist and brought it back to his face. “Touch me again. It feels good.”
They had drawn nearer to each other, Chris realized. Near enough that he could smell her fresh scent. He breathed her in, another sense of familiarity sweeping over him.
It was his turn to reach out and slip his fingers through her mussed silky hair. “What’s happening? Why do I feel like I’ve known you forever?” He tightened his grip and pulled her nearer. “Why is this like…like…coming home?”
Slowly he eased their bodies together, a perfect melding of curves and planes, a blending of heat that nearly took his breath away.
“I feel it, too.” She licked her lips as their faces moved inexorably closer.
The kiss was inevitable.
Chris brushed her mouth with his, barely touching the soft fullness. But it was all it took. Like dry tinder, his senses exploded and he crushed her body against his as he kissed her once more. This time she welcomed him, parting her lips for his tongue, moaning a little as he took what she offered and delved deeply into her sweetness.
Her breasts crushed into his chest, nipples beading as he held her tightly against his body. Chris was beyond himself, lost in the myriad of sensations ravaging his sanity. When she slipped her arms around his neck and wrapped them tightly, hanging on to him for dear life, he nearly came right there and then.
His cock fit into the heated softness between her thighs as if they’d been made for each other, her shapely buttocks filled his palms as he slid them down to cup her and if it hadn’t been for the vague awareness that they were in public, Chris knew he’d be buried in her up to his balls and pumping his life into her.
What the hell was happening?
Slowly their lips parted and they stared at each other, panting and flushed. Then a soft smile curved Marianne’s kiss-swollen mouth.
“Hello, Chris.”
He smiled back. “Hello, Marianne.”
Then she said something odd. “This time, we’r
e going to get it right.”
And the sweet sound of a bird serenading the arrival of dusk drifted around them as they stood, still embracing each other, on an empty sweep of grass.
It wasn’t a nightingale, of course…but it could have been.
Epilogue
For those who absolutely have to know what happened next…
The success of Maestro Chris Harvey’s symphony, The Nightingale, made quite a splash in the entertainment sections of the newspapers. The sections devoted to highbrow things like classical music, of course, since a new movie released the same weekend, featuring lots of blood, gore and a popular actor—naked. Naturally naked movie stars got a lot more press than a symphony.
However, when that same Maestro was seen around Boston with the best-selling author, Maura Donner, a few more footnotes appeared in both the entertainment sections and the social news sections.
The latest Maura Donner novel rose to prominence shortly thereafter and was described by her fans as being “one of her best yet”.
The marriage between the Maestro and the author was also duly noted. Although more quietly, since the affair had apparently taken place somewhere off the radar of the tabloid journalists who might have been tempted to snap a few unauthorized photos of the whole thing if they’d known about the country home of Dr. Jake Corvo and his wife Renny.
Fortunately, they didn’t.
After relocating to California, Maura Donner continued to write her novels, enjoying the ocean and the company of her husband who was, so it was reported, hard at work on his next opus.
They were both tickled pink when a film production company optioned one of Maura’s novels, lured most probably by the thought that they could also nab a score for themselves by one of today’s most promising composers.
The movie was a runaway hit, earning award nominations for both Maura Donner and her husband, Chris Harvey, in the screenplay and music categories respectively.