Malibu Music
By
Rosemary Hammond
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
MALIBU MUSIC
Gerry had promised Bianca that their friendship would be platonic. But for how long could a man like Gerry keep such a promise? And what was it he was hiding from her?
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First published in Great Britain 1985
by Mills & Boon Limited
© Rosemary Hammond 1985
ISBN 0 263 75180 5
CHAPTER ONE
Bianca Jameson set down the priceless violin, the thousand-dollar bow, closed the score of the Brahms concerto and started to pace from one end to the other of the vast living room in her parents' apartment.
She was close to tears, but Jamesons didn't cry, she reminded herself, and squared her shoulders. At the window she looked down at the bleak January landscape. Most of the trees in Central Park were bare, and down below on Fifth Avenue the crowds of pedestrians scurried forward with their heads bent down against the icy wind, their coat collars turned up, necks muffled with woollen scarves, their booted feet crunching on the frozen pavement.
New York in winter, Bianca thought, was a sight to make her depressed state even worse. The last snowfall had been a week ago, and the temperature had stayed below freezing ever since. Now the soft pristine white had turned a hard dingy grey, piled up and frozen solid along the curbs of the street, the paths through the park.
She sighed and made herself turn back to the music stand. Her spirits sank even lower. She couldn't face it. It was no use trying. Her fingers wouldn't move properly on the frets, the tempo was all wrong, her pitch bad. What was worse, she couldn't feel the music. One note followed another in a meaningless jumble of sounds every time she tried.
She gazed around the beautiful room which had been her home for as long as she could remember. Her home, that is, when the family was in New York and not following her father around the world in one of his conducting tours.
A small, cheerless fire flickered in the fireplace. She never had learned to make a proper fire. Over the mantel hung a portrait of her father painted by her talented sister, Laura. There were photographs of the rest of the family scattered about the room on tables: her oldest brother, Nick, at the piano, playing with the Chicago symphony orchestra; Tony, her other older brother, straddling his cello surrounded by the three other members of the prestigious Orion string quartet; her sister, Norma, dressed as Cio Cio San, making her triumphant debut at the Met in Madame Butterfly.
We all look alike, Bianca thought desperately, catching sight of her reflection in the ornate gilt-framed mirror over the sideboard. We all have the same dark hair and eyes, thin rather intense face and straight nose. Why, then, am I the only one without talent? Why do I have to be the only failure in the family?
The telephone shrilled loudly, cutting into the utter stillness of the apartment like a fire alarm. She jumped, then ran into the hall to answer it. It was her sister, Laura, calling from her home in California.
'How are you getting along there all by yourself?' came the cheerful voice.
Too cheerful, Bianca thought. Laura, although next to her in age, was still eleven years older and, like the rest of the family, insisted on treating her like the baby who still needed protection and checking on from time to time.
'Fine. Just fine.' Bianca tried to put a little spark into her voice. Yesterday her mother calling from Paris, today Laura from California, clear across the country. The family grapevine was still in fine working order, she thought drily.
'Good, good,' came her sister's hearty voice. 'How's the Brahms coming? Think you'll be ready to knock 'em dead up in Boston?'
She must know, Bianca thought. She could well imagine her mother's frantic call to Laura after their strained conversation yesterday. With both parents in Paris, Tony in London, Norma in Milan and Nick in Buenos Aires, Laura would be pressed into service to take care of little sister just because she happened to be in the same country.
Might as well tell the truth, Bianca decided. Surely she already knows. 'I'm thinking of cancelling the concert,' she muttered defensively. 'I'm just not ready. I went over all this yesterday with Mother. I'm just not ready,' she repeated, and was horrified to hear how her voice wobbled. She dreaded the family's pity.
'Well,' Laura said after a short silence, 'that's okay, Bianca. There's no law that says you have to do it. You're young.'
Sure, Bianca thought bitterly. I'm young. Only twenty-two. At that age Norma was already singing small parts professionally, Laura had had her first one-man show, and Nick and Tony were playing with major orchestras. Child prodigies, all of them. Except me.
'No, there's no law,' Bianca agreed. She ran a hand through her short unruly mop of dark hair. 'Just Jameson's law.'
'What's that?' Laura asked lightly.
'Oh, you know. Accomplishment. Success. Ambition.'
'Forget that,' Laura said firmly. 'That's a myth, and it isn't why I called anyway. Listen, I've received an offer from the Slade in London to teach there for a year.'
'Oh, Laura, that's exciting,' Bianca said in a rush, genuinely glad for her sister. 'But won't it interfere with your own work?' Laura was a highly successful portrait painter with a thriving clientele among wealthy Southern Californians.
'Not really,' came the reply. 'I've been thinking about giving up portraits and trying something more impressionistic anyway. This will give me a chance to experiment with my own work and still have the security of a paying job.'
'It sounds like a perfect opportunity for you,' Bianca said, her black mood gone. 'What will you do about your house while you're gone?'
'Well, that's the main reason I'm calling.' There was a short pause. 'You probably know Mother called me from Paris yesterday,' she went on cautiously.
'I guessed as much,' Bianca replied in a dry tone. 'Listen, I appreciate everyone's concern, but I do get a little tired of my role as the problem child of the family. I'm a big girl now. I'll be okay. I'm just a little—I don't know—burnt out, I guess, trying too hard to keep up with the rest of you. I think I want a rest, to get away from music for a while.'
'Darling, you are not the problem child of the family. We love you, silly, and only want what's best for you. And I think you're very wise to take a little vacation from your music. When Mother told me about your—your burnout, if that's what you want to call it, the whole thing fell into place.'
'What are you getting at?' Bianca asked cautiously.
'I don't want to lease my house,' Laura went on excitedly. 'These Hollywood acidheads would tear it to pieces. But I can't just leave it vacant. I want you to come out here and stay in it for the year I'm away in London.'
A warm glow, a flood of relief washed over Bianca. California. Sunshine. Her sister's charming house on the beach
at Malibu. It sounded like heaven.
'Are you there, Bianca?' came Laura's worried voice after a few moments.
'Yes, I'm here,' Bianca breathed at last. 'When do you want me to come?'
She could hear Laura's audible sigh of relief over the wire and thought, so what if it is just charity? At this point I'll take whatever crumbs she wants to throw my way.
'How about Wednesday?' came the prompt reply. 'Is that too soon? Today is Monday. I have to leave Friday. I can pick you up at the airport.'
'No. That's not too soon. I'll call right away for reservations and let you know when the plane arrives.'
'Good. That's all settled, then. See you Wednesday.'
Two days later, Bianca was on a plane winging her way across the country. By the time they touched down at the airport it was late afternoon, the western sun barely visible through the thick covering of smog. Smog or not, Bianca thought, as she strode along with the other passengers into the terminal, at least it was sunshine. Even in January, Los Angeles was balmy compared to the frozen East Coast. Her red woollen suit was a perfect choice for the temperature, which was cool, but not bitterly cold, certainly far above the freezing weather in New York.
Laura was waiting for her at the baggage counter. She was dressed casually, Southern California style, in jeans, white turtleneck jumper and a good-looking tweed hacking jacket. At the sight of her sister's familiar face, Bianca felt the tears sting her eyes, and she ran to embrace her, clinging to her solid, comforting warmth.
Laura pushed her back a little after a few moments and held her at arms' length, giving her a long penetrating look as though to assess her true condition.
'You look terrible,' she stated flatly at last.
'Thanks a lot.' Bianca gave her a weak smile. 'That helps my morale considerably.'
'Sorry,' Laura said briskly. 'You know me. Heart of gold and foot in mouth. Let's get your baggage and get out of this rotten smog. At least at the beach the air is clear.'
When they had collected Bianca's two large suitcases, they walked down to the car park where Laura's little red BMW was installed.
'I see you've brought your fiddle,' Laura remarked casually as she stowed Bianca's baggage in the trunk of the car.
Bianca glanced down at the black violin case she had carried with her on the plane. She had fully intended to leave it behind when she'd left the apartment that morning, but at the last minute she had changed her mind. Not only was the instrument too valuable to leave in the untenanted apartment, but she felt almost naked without it.
She made a face. 'Yes,' she said shortly. 'It's like an albatross. If the parents hadn't paid so much money for it, sometimes I think I'd like to toss it in the ocean.'
They got into the car and Laura started the engine. 'Why don't you just sell it and be done with it, then?' she asked as she edged her way into the freeway traffic.
Bianca stared fixedly down at her hands in her lap. 'I don't know,' she mumbled. 'Guilt. Fear. Hope.'
'Guilt about what? Hope for what?'
Bianca shook her head miserably. She glanced at her sister's profile, so like her own, yet with so much more confidence in the determined lift of the chin. The dark eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead as she wove expertly in and out of the heavy traffic. There was a little smudge of paint on her forehead, another on her strong brown hand.
'I'm sorry, Laura,' she said at last, 'to be such a drag. I know I'm whining, and I hate that. Let's forget about me. The California sunshine will cure whatever ails me in time. Tell me about your new job.'
She forced a smile and tried to concentrate all her attention on her sister's excited plans for her year in London. She wanted to rejoice with her. She was honestly happy for her. There had never been any jealousy in the family. Each member was encouraged to develop their own gifts, but was always ready to admire the others' accomplishments.
Bianca loved her family with all her heart and was intensely proud of their considerable successes in the fields they had chosen. When Norma made her debut at the Met, Bianca had been in the family box, cheering loudly for her sister's beautiful soprano voice. When Nick had cut his first solo recording, she had run out and bought ten copies to give to friends. She tried to attend as many of Tony's quartet's performances as possible, and was their most ardent fan.
No, she thought, half-listening to Laura as they drove along, I'm not jealous. I just wish… What do I wish? she asked herself. The honest answer was that she wished she didn't feel she had to keep up with them. She was only partly joking when she told Laura she'd like to throw her violin in the ocean. She enjoyed playing it, but she hated the competition, the constant striving for achievement.
The truth was, however, that having been born into such a talented family, there seemed to be no other recourse for her. How would she live without the unremitting struggle for artistic success? No other life seemed possible. It was heresy to even consider giving it up.
She just needed a rest, she told herself, that's all. A few months of sunshine and solitude and she'd be ready to tackle her career again in earnest. She wouldn't rush things. After all, she was a serious musician. She just hadn't been ready, emotionally, mentally, musically, for the concert in Boston and had been right to cancel it.
They were driving due west now on the coast towards Malibu. The sun had just set, leaving a reddish glow over the horizon and lighting the blue of the ocean with a golden path. There was a slight breeze, a few whitecaps on the water, and the air smelled fresh and clean after the oppressive haze of the interior.
The wide boulevard was lined with beach houses, some opulent mansions with a stark modern architecture, others smaller, more old-fashioned, with the typical red-tiled roof and stucco exterior of Southern California homes. Tall, ungainly palm trees were set in rows on either side of the road, and in the front gardens, bright geraniums and roses still bloomed in the mild climate.
Laura's house was one of the older beach cottages, but in the five years she had lived there she had done extensive remodelling, so that it had become, inside and out, a unique expression of her own vivid personality.
The BMW pulled now into a wide paved area just off the road. They got out of the car and walked towards the front door.
'Well, here we are,' Laura said, unlocking the door. 'Home, sweet home. I'll miss it.'
'I don't blame you,' Bianca said. 'I can't get over the flowers blooming in January. It seems almost sinful.'
Laura laughed as she led the way down a wide flight of stairs to the main level of the house. The whole rear wall was glass and looked out on to the sea. Just outside was a wide wooden verandah set up on heavy wooden support beams above the sandy beach, and another narrow staircase led down from the far edge to the beach. Beyond was the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
Bianca opened the sliding glass door and went out on to the verandah. Leaning against the railing, she stood there for several moments listening to the pounding surf as the giant foamy waves broke on the shore, and drinking in the salty tang of the evening air. A few gulls still scavenged along the tidewater line, screeching and scolding each other, and in the distance she saw a family of sandpipers strolling nonchalantly up the deserted beach.
She knew she had done the right thing to come. Already, her heart was more at peace, her jangled nerves calmer, her confused mind more rested than they had been for months. The sea and the solitude and the sunshine will heal me, she thought, and in a year I'll know what I must do.
Early Friday morning, Bianca deposited Laura at the airport, bade her a tearful goodbye, then drove back to the beach in the BMW with a sense of joy and liberation.
She checked the mailbox before she went inside the house. The middle one was Laura's and had Jameson printed on it in bold black letters. The one on the left looked newly painted, with the name Richards scrawled lightly on it with a felt-tipped pen; the one on the right had the name Emory in neat block letters. Laura had told her that the Emorys were an elderly retired
couple who kept to themselves, and that the house on the left was vacant, its occupants in Japan for several months. This meant that there would be virtually no neighbours at all with whom she'd have to share the stretch of beach. This suited her purposes perfectly.
It was cooler today, slightly overcast and with a brisk breeze stirring up the whitecaps on the ocean. After a light lunch, Bianca put a heavy Aran turtleneck sweater on over her cotton shirt and jeans and went down for a walk on the beach.
The breeze was much stronger down here by the water, and she found herself wishing she had worn a scarf or cap on her head. The wind blew her short dark curls in every direction, and she shivered as she walked along, her hands in the pockets of the jeans, her thin shoulders hunched forward.
The roar of the ocean and the loud screeching of the gulls filled her ears, and soon a light spattering of rain began to beat against her face. She was tousled, cold and beginning to get wet, but as she trudged forward far up the empty beach, she felt better than she had in months, freer, more light-hearted.
It isn't just the sunshine that's going to heal me, she thought contentedly as she lifted her face into the wind and rain, but this sense of liberation, this beautiful solitariness, where there's no competing, no struggle to achieve. A few weeks of this and I'll want to play again, she thought.
Thoroughly soaked by now, she decided it was time she went back to the house. She had walked far down to the left, and as she retraced her steps, the wind at her back now, she glanced up at the bluff to her right, curious about Laura's neighbours.
The house immediately next door was a large imposing modernistic structure, all wood and glass, that jutted out precariously over the bluff, supported by cantilevered beams. There wasn't a sign of life. Light-coloured curtains were drawn across the expanse of glass that faced the sea. These were the people who were in Japan, she thought, and wondered how long they'd be away. It was foolish to leave such an obviously expensive house vacant, but for her own sake she hoped it would be a long time before they came back.
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