Malibu Music

by Rosemary Hammond

  During the next few weeks Bianca's days gradually settled into a natural and pleasant routine. In the mornings she shopped for groceries and did all her household chores. After lunch, she took long walks up and down the beach, which she had virtually to herself. It was still too cool for swimmers or sunbathers. In the evenings she built a fire in the living room and either listened to music or read.

  The weather remained blustery and damp, and now when she went down to the beach she wore a cap on her head and a waterproof jacket over her sweater. There was little heavy rain, as a rule, and even at its coldest, the climate was tropical compared to New York.

  She was eating well and sleeping like the dead. She knew that soon she would start practising again, not because she had to, but because she would want to. Several times she had taken her violin out of its case and run her hands over the smooth, mellow, old wood, and she realised that it was only a matter of time before she wouldn't be able to resist tuning it and trying it out again.

  It was so quiet in this part of Malibu, with only the roaring of the surf and muffled traffic noises coming occasionally from the road up above the house to break the stillness. Once in a while on her hikes she would run into other solitary walkers or joggers, but they rarely spoke to her beyond a brief, polite greeting.

  One night, however, after she'd been living in Laura's house for about two weeks, she was awakened out of a sound sleep by an insistent blare of loud music. She sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding, her mind disorientated by the sudden, unexpected intrusion into the quiet night, and looked around the darkened room.

  Had she inadvertently left on the stereo set? She listened carefully. No, not only did the sounds seem to be coming from outside, but she would never have put on music like that, a strident, pounding rock beat that hurt her musical sensibilities as much as her ears.

  She jumped out of bed and ran down the hall and through the living room to the wooden verandah. When she slid the glass door open, the intensity of the music hit her in an explosion of raucous sound. She went out on to the deck and stood leaning on the railing, peering out at the darkened beach below, thinking perhaps the music might be coming from midnight picnickers with a loud transistor radio.

  Then, out of the corner of her eye, her attention was caught by an unfamiliar sight. She turned and saw that the house next door was ablaze with light. Shivering in the cool night air, dressed only in flannel pyjamas, she hugged herself tightly and stared. The curtains had been pulled open, and she could see several people milling about inside the house and out on the wide verandah.

  Suddenly the music stopped, and she could hear loud voices raised in laughter and shouted conversations. It must be a party, she thought groggily, still dazed from her deep sleep. But no one lived there. Should she call the police? Perhaps a gang of kids had broken in. She hesitated, not sure what she should do.

  She gazed out into the darkness, trying to get a better look at the people. But the house was too far away, at least a hundred feet, and all she could make out were dim, moving shapes. There did seem to be a lot of them, and although they were very loud, there was no sign of violence or sound of breakage.

  Then the music came on again, a slower tune this time, one she recognised as having been very popular a few years ago. Like most serious musicians, Bianca could enjoy almost any form of music that wasn't merely a brutal assault on the senses, and in a few moments she found herself humming along with the lead singer.

  Finally, she decided she'd better just mind her own business and leave them alone. Possibly the tenants had come back from Japan and were throwing a welcome home party. She went inside, locked the door carefully behind her just in case, and went back to bed. Maybe she'd find out more tomorrow.

  The next day on her afternoon walk, when she passed by the house, she gazed up at it with a new sense of curiosity and interest, but it was exactly the same as it had always been, the curtains drawn shut, utterly still and silent, and seemingly uninhabited.

  She walked slowly towards it, closer than she ever had before, and stood for a long time staring up at the odd structure that seemed to be hanging in space, a puzzled frown on her face. There was absolutely no sign of life. Nothing seemed to be broken or out of place. Soon after she'd gone back to bed last night—it was not quite two o'clock— the noise had ceased as abruptly as it had started.

  Had she dreamt the whole episode? No, that was impossible. She remembered it quite clearly. It had been real. Had someone broken in? She stood there, wondering whether she should climb the steep wooden staircase from the beach up to the verandah to investigate.

  She had just about decided that she would, when the wide expanse of curtains were suddenly pulled open, and she found herself gazing up at a figure framed in the window. Quickly, instinctively, embarrassed at being caught goggling like that, she turned and hurried away up the beach. But not before she had received a clear glimpse of a tall dark man dressed only in very brief white jockey shorts.

  With her cheeks flaming, even in the cool breeze, she bent her head and plunged forward, not daring to look back. Had he seen her? She was glad she'd worn her windbreaker and woollen cap. It constituted a sort of disguise.

  On her way home, half an hour later, when she passed by the house next door, she hunched her shoulders forward and kept her eyes averted. If he was still there, she didn't want to see him. There had been something faintly menacing about that tall solitary figure standing at the window, virtually naked, and Bianca's pleasant peaceful existence seemed oddly shattered by the mere brief glimpse she'd had of him.

  She picked up an armload of driftwood and kindling from the protected storage cupboard on Laura's verandah on her way into the house, and, miracle of miracles, after soaking for half an hour in a warm tub, she did manage to get a respectable fire burning. Maybe the porous wood, bleached white by the sun, burned more easily, she thought as she sat drying her hair in front of the steady blaze.

  She had put some music on the stereo set, a recording Tony's group had recently made of Schubert's Trout Quintet, with her brother, Nick, at the piano. As the lilting, rippling strains poured into the room, Bianca felt a new surge of pride at both her brothers' fine artistry.

  The telephone rang. She turned down the volume on the stereo and went into the bedroom to answer it.

  'Bianca?' came a masculine voice. 'Is this Bianca Jameson?'

  'Yes, it is,' she replied cautiously. The voice was vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn't quite place it. It wasn't Tony or Nick or her father, and no one else even knew she was here.

  'It's Tom. Tom Schiffren.'

  Bianca tightened up and scowled at the telephone. Her family was at it again. She deeply resented this intrusion into the solitary world she was enjoying so much.

  'How are you, Tom?' she said stiffly. 'I thought you were in Paris.'

  Tom was the concertmaster of the orchestra her father was touring with and had been her teacher and coach for many years. What was he doing in California? Surely her family wouldn't go to such lengths to check on her? She'd only been here a few weeks.

  'The orchestra finished up the Paris engagement, and we all came home. Your father is going on to Budapest as guest conductor.'

  'What are you doing in California, Tom? Just passing through?' She was still suspicious.

  He laughed. 'Hardly. No. Some time ago I was offered a job on the faculty of the music department at UCLA. I'm a California resident as of yesterday.'

  'I see,' she said slowly. 'That's wonderful, Tom.' She was torn between genuine liking for the man who had taught her so much and her desire to be left alone.

  'How about you?' he asked. 'Still working hard and practising like a good girl?'

  'I'm taking a little vacation from playing,' she said carefully, then, feeling guilty, she added lightly, 'But I do intend to keep up on my practising, teacher.'

  He chuckled. 'That's good.' There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Then, his voice low and cautious, he wen
t on. 'I heard you cancelled out of the Boston concert.'

  'Yes,' she said shortly. 'I wasn't ready.'

  'Hey, Bianca, it's okay. Not to worry. It happens to all of us, and sometimes even the most dedicated musician just has to get away from it for a while. You're too good to give it up altogether, though. I hope you realise that.'

  'No,' she said. 'I won't ever give it up, although I'm not sure I'll ever pursue solo performing again. I don't think I have the right temperament for it. You're right, though. I did need to get out from under the pressure for a while.'

  'Good. Well, I just wanted to let you know I was in the area and available to help when you decide you're ready for some coaching.' He paused. 'I won't push, Bianca, but I would like to see you.'

  'Maybe later on, Tom. Right now I'm really enjoying just being by myself. There are some things I have to sort out.'

  'Sure, I understand.' He gave her his phone number. 'Call me if you need anything. Later on maybe we can have dinner or go to a concert. You might like to visit my studio here at the university. I've got some fine students, and the set-up is fantastic.'

  'Yes, I'd like that. Thanks so much for calling, Tom. It's good to talk to you again.'

  They said goodbye then, and Bianca walked slowly back to the fire. It had been good to hear a familiar voice, but she was relieved that he seemed to understand her need to be alone. She'd call him in a few weeks.

  At one time, when Bianca was a gawky teenager, she'd had a violent crush on Tom Schiffren. Because of her family's intense dedication to art, her formative years had been extremely sheltered, almost abnormally so. While other girls her age were going out on dates, she was practising scales. It had seemed like a perfectly normal situation to her at the time. Her brothers and sisters had been raised the same way, almost as monks and nuns, with singleminded dedication to their chosen work.

  The schoolgirl crush on Tom had been an embarrassment to him as well as to her family, and when it was over, she had been terribly ashamed of the stupid things she had said and done to attract his attention. Miraculously, they had ended up good friends and, ultimately, the experience strengthened Bianca's commitment to cultivate her musical gift.

  The next few days were warm and balmy, and Bianca began to make full use of the wide verandah for sunbathing. She sat out there in the late afternoon when the sun was hottest and before the evening breeze began to blow. Her pale skin was beginning to tan from the exposure. She felt wonderful and knew that soon she would succumb to her own instincts and start practising again. Then she would call Tom.

  She also began taking her walks in the opposite direction and had met the Emorys, a frail elderly couple who welcomed her to the community and issued a vague invitation to stop by for tea some afternoon. She still hadn't seen any more sign of life from the other house, and when she asked the Emorys about the tenants, they had looked vaguely at each other, then at her, and said that they didn't even know they had gone to Japan.

  After a few days, she began to think she was being silly to avoid that whole stretch of beach to the left on the slim chance that she would encounter the man in the window. Whoever he was, he seemed to be gone by now anyway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After a lovely week of blessed sun, Bianca woke up one morning to an overcast sky and the threat of a storm in the air. Too bad, she thought, as she dressed in jeans and heavy sweater again. She had enjoyed the warm weather and had hoped she could discard her heavier clothing for good.

  She stood at the kitchen counter now, eating her breakfast of toast and coffee and gazing out the window at the grey, dismal day. It was still only early February, she thought philosophically, and the Emorys had mentioned that it would be April before the weather stabilised into the famous consistent Californian sunshine.

  Right after breakfast she went out on the verandah to get more firewood and sweep a little before it started to rain, but when she opened the glass door a sudden gust of wind struck her. The sea was churning with whitecaps, the tide breaking violently on the shore, and out on the horizon there was a bank of black clouds moving in fast.

  Not a good day to be out, she thought. She quickly gathered up an armload of wood and was just about to go back inside the house when she heard a faint crying sound coming from underneath the verandah. She stopped, listening carefully for a moment, and then she heard it again.

  It had started to rain, a light spattering now, but soon there would be a deluge. She ran inside to get on her cap and windbreaker, then harried back to the railing and leaned over the side.

  Then she saw it. There, under cover of the overhanging verandah, sat a little black kitten, its nose lifted in the air, mewing loudly and pitifully. With a cry of alarm, Bianca started down the stairs, intent on rescuing it, but before she reached the bottom, she was startled by the sound of loud barking coming from the beach. She looked up to see a large golden-haired dog come bounding up towards the house, obviously bent on routing the little cat, who had turned to face the intruder, hissing and spitting, its skinny back arched against him.

  'Oh, no,' Bianca cried. She flew down the last few steps brandishing the broom she still held in her hands, ready to fight him off if she had to, and calling, 'Shoo, shoo,' loudly at him.

  The dog continued yapping and dancing wildly, kicking up great sprays of wet sand, but after a few moments, Bianca realised that he was only a pup, albeit a very large one, and seemed to be more playful than dangerous.

  Apartment-bred, Bianca had little experience of animals, but she sensed from the way the excited dog was wagging its long, plumed tail and crouching down on its front paws, that in his canine mind, anyway, the encounter with the black cat was more a game than the outbreak of hostilities.

  Still wary, Bianca continued to hold the broom up defensively in front of her as she began cautiously to move towards the brave little kitten, whose pure black coat bristled on end with fury.

  Then, with all her concentration fixed on the two animals, she dimly heard a man's voice calling from the shore.

  'Hey, kid, put that damn broom down, for God's sake. He won't hurt you.'

  Startled, she obeyed instinctively, then looked in the direction of the voice. A tall dark-haired hatless man, dressed in jeans and heavy woollen jacket was striding towards her. She stood, open-mouthed, staring, the broom hanging loosely in her hands. It had to be him, she thought, the man in the window, and her face flamed hotly.

  As he came towards her, he began to whistle shrilly and to call the dog. 'Come here, Barney,' came the firm command.

  But Barney, caught up in the joy of the game, ignored him completely and continued barking and dancing, never, however, coming one inch closer to the snarling, hissing cat.

  Bianca glared at the man. He glared back. He had reached the ecstatic dog by now and had a firm hold on his collar. He knelt down and snapped on a leather leash, patting the dog and scolding him at the same time for not obeying his earlier command.

  Then he stood up and gave Bianca a withering glance. 'Listen, kid, don't you know a playful pup from a vicious dog? You should never threaten a barking dog that way, friendly or not.'

  Kid! Who did he think she was, Bianca thought hotly, some juvenile delinquent who went around tormenting dumb animals?

  'I wasn't going to hurt him,' she muttered in a low voice. Then, on the principle that the best defence was a good offence, she lifted her chin and said loudly, 'There's a leash law here in Malibu, you know. Dogs aren't allowed to run loose on the beach.' She wasn't sure about this, but it seemed logical.

  The man frowned. His heavy dark eyebrows lowered and he took a step towards her, peering down at her in a long appraising look, his manner slightly menacing, so that Bianca had to make an effort not to back away from him.

  'You're a girl,' he said at last in a surprised tone.

  'Yes,' she snapped, still glaring.

  'I had control of him,' he announced in a flat voice.

  'Some control!' she said scornfully. 'I did
n't notice him leaping obediently to your side when you called him.'

  He continued to scowl at her, then suddenly he reached up to scratch his head and grinned broadly.

  'You're right,' he admitted with a sigh of mock despair. 'I've spent a fortune and uncounted hours trying to get him obedience-trained, but he has a formidable mind of his own.'

  Bianca found the smile totally disarming, and it suddenly dawned on her what an attractive man he was. He was heavily tanned, and his crisp shiny black hair was beautifully, professionally cut so that it waved thickly over his ears and forehead in a longish style. His eyes were dark, too, almost black, so heavily fringed with coal black lashes that they seemed hooded and oddly secretive. The cheekbones were high and prominent, and the smile on the wide full mouth was lazy, even faintly challenging.

  To cover her confusion, Bianca turned away from him and marched over to the kitten, who was sitting calmly by a heavy post and daintily taking a bath. When she reached down to pick it up, the cat hissed and a black paw shot out and raked Bianca's hand painfully.

  'Oh,' she cried, as she stared at her hand and saw blood ooze up from the long scratch marks, 'you ungrateful little beast!' She reached into her pocket for a tissue and while she dabbed at her bloody hand, she became painfully aware that the man was laughing.

  She whirled around, then, ready to do battle, but the wide grin on his face was more friendly than mocking, and the anger drained out of her as suddenly as it came. Besides, the fickle kitten, having asserted its supremacy over everyone present, was now rubbing up against her leg, purring loudly, and when Bianca reached down cautiously to pick it up again, it fell limply into her arms, allowing itself to be held. Snuggling warmly on her shoulder now, it looked down triumphantly at the panting dog, who sat patiently by his master, firmly held in place by the restraining leash.