'Hello.'
'Tom, it's Bianca.'
The low masculine voice warmed immediately. 'Bianca. I was hoping you'd call. How's it going?'
'Not bad. Listen, Tom, I won't keep you. I just wanted to ask if you were serious about coaching me.'
'Of course,' was the quick reply. 'I'm free on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, if that suits your schedule.'
She laughed. 'I have no schedule. I'm on vacation, remember? Any time that's convenient for you. Do you want me to come to your studio at the university?'
'No. That won't be necessary. I need to get away from the amateur screechings around here anyway. Today is Tuesday. How about Thursday afternoon?'
'Sounds great. Can you come for lunch?'
'I'd love to. Around twelve, then?'
'Fine. See you then.'
As she replaced the receiver in its cradle, Bianca smiled to herself. So much for Gerry, she thought. That unsettling little scene last night was just what she'd needed to get her back on the track and show her what it was she really wanted. And what she definitely didn't want was an involvement with the arrogant, conceited playboy next door.
She walked to the sliding glass door leading on to the verandah and slid it open. A warm breeze blowing up from the blue sea fanned her short dark hair back from her- face. The little black kitten she had adopted scooted past her, sniffed the air delicately, then gracefully stretched out on the warm wooden flooring in the sunshine.
'You've got the right idea, Midnight,' she murmured. 'Soak up the sun while it lasts.'
She turned back into the house and walked briskly down the hall to the bedroom. Dressing hurriedly in a pair of white shorts and a blue halter top, and slipping a pair of sandals on her bare feet, she went back out on to the sunny verandah to stretch out on the padded chaise next to Midnight.
After half an hour of facing the sun, she began to feel cooked and rolled over on her stomach to toast her back. She didn't want to overdo it and end up with a bad burn.
She closed her eyes and let her mind drift. It was good to have a sense of direction again, she thought. If Tom could help her two days a week and she practised hard in between, in a few months she'd be able to start performing again. Maybe a group at first, a quartet or small orchestra. The literature for chamber music was virtually endless, from the baroque style of Vivaldi and Pachelbel through all the romantics like Mendelssohn, Brahms, Beethoven, clear up to the modern dissonance of Shostakovich and Bartok. Every great composer wrote chamber music, it seemed, and there was something about the intimacy of playing with a small group that was far more satisfying than solo or symphony work.
She didn't realise she had drifted off to sleep until a gentle, sensuous stroking motion up and down her bare back suddenly jolted her awake. Disorientated for a moment, her eyes shot open and she lay motionless trying to collect her thoughts, to place in her mind the source of that pleasant sensation.
Then an alarm rang in her head, and she twisted around to see Gerry sitting beside her on the chaise, a tube of suntan cream in one hand, the other moving rhythmically along her rib cage, and a self-satisfied smirk on his good-looking face. His dark eyes were half shut, and if he'd been a cat he would have been purring.
'What do you think you're doing!' she cried, brushing his hand off her bare skin.
He looked at her. 'I'm administering first aid,' he said with a complacent grin. 'You were turning an interesting shade of red, and I didn't have the heart to wake you up.' The hand returned to her midriff.
Bianca firmly removed it and sat up to face him. 'You've got some nerve,' she breathed angrily.
'I was only trying to help,' he said in a hurt tone.
'I don't need your help. I thought I made that clear last night.'
She glared at him. He was sitting there as though he owned the world, dressed in dark bathing trunks and a white short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned down the front and revealing a wide expanse of smooth, beautifully tanned masculine chest.
Unbidden, the image flashed into Bianca's mind of the day she had seen him standing at the window of the house next door dressed only in his white undershorts. What had impressed her then at a distance was now seated dangerously close to her, and she didn't at all like the disturbing sensations his nearness created in her.
He was sitting in a relaxed posture, his knees apart, ankles crossed, the roaming hands resting now on his muscular, hair-roughened thighs. She glanced at the broad shoulders, the smooth chest, then down to the flat stomach where a light covering of dark hair disappeared into the waistband of the brief, low-slung shorts.
'Like what you see?' he asked pleasantly. Her eyes shot up to meet his, dark and faintly mocking. 'I'm enjoying the view myself.'
She flushed deeply as the hooded eyes travelled insolently down her body, knowing the flimsy halter top was scant covering for the high full breasts beneath. The white shorts also seemed to reveal far too much long, smooth, slightly reddened leg.
'Listen, Gerry,' she said, leaping to her feet and standing over him. 'I don't know what game you're playing here, but whatever it is, I'm not interested.'
He looked up at her, a faint smile hovering about the sensuous mouth. What did it take, she wondered wildly, to discourage him? Then, slowly, he unwound his ankles and stood up facing her, not two inches of space separating them. She had to shift her position to look up at him, and somehow his height and all that muscle seemed to give him a superior advantage over her.
'I only came to invite you to a party,' he said at last.
She folded her arms in front of her and gave him a scornful look. 'Are you kidding? I've already heard one of your brawls, and believe me, I want no part of them.'
He gave her a long appraising look, the dark head tilted a little to one side, his expression inscrutable, probing, assessing.
'You know what your trouble is?' he said at last in a conversational tone. 'You're a snob.'
She stiffened at that and opened her mouth to protest, then realised he was only baiting her. What she wanted was to get rid of him, not defend herself against his accusations. What did she care what he thought?
She smiled coolly. 'Very well. I'm a snob. Then you certainly don't want me at your party. In fact, if I were you, I wouldn't want to bother with me at all. Now, goodbye. I have work to do.'
She turned away, pleased to see the uncertain frown gathering on his handsome face, and started walking purposefully towards the sliding glass door into the house.
'You really mean it, don't you?' came his stunned voice.
She turned to face him. 'Yes,' she said firmly. 'I really do.'
She was amazed, and a little touched, at his crestfallen expression. He was obviously a man quite unaccustomed to resistance to his blatant practised charm, and for a moment she had a brief glimpse of the real person underneath that monumental ego.
He scratched his dark head thoughtfully. 'I apologise,' he said at last, somewhat stiffly. 'I guess I'm so used to playing games I don't know how to handle the real thing when it comes along.'
She didn't know how to reply to that, and almost felt sorry for him. There was a long silence. Gerry continued to stare past her at some unseen object. She watched him carefully. He really was a terribly attractive man. The slight puzzled frown on his face made him seem so vulnerable, and the dark waving hair fell casually over his forehead, giving him a boyish look, that she found less threatening, even quite appealing. She found her eyes straying dangerously down to that half-bare chest again, and made herself look away.
Finally he spoke. 'Well, Bianca, you don't want to play games with me, and you won't come to my party. What do you want?'
She sighed. 'Gerry, you have to understand. I don't dislike you, and I want to be a good neighbour, friends even, if it's possible. I really am serious about my music. I come from a family of dedicated artists of one kind or another. It's the way I was raised. It's in my genes. I don't belong in your world.'
'What is my world, Bianca?' h
e asked quietly. 'You don't really know anything about it.' He made an impatient gesture. 'I'm not sure I know what it is myself.' He gave her a long look. 'I won't bother you again.' With that, he turned and left.
Bianca spent the next two days improving her suntan gradually and working harder than she ever had in her life. Tom had extremely high standards of musicianship, and she wanted to be ready for him when he came on Thursday. She dropped, exhausted, into bed each night, her fingers sore, shoulders aching, and her mind full of trills and arpeggios.
Although she found her mind wandering to thoughts of the strangely compelling man next door on several occasions, she was still able to dismiss him from her mind. He may be intensely appealing, she decided, whether in the macho image he liked to project or the vulnerable little boy she had seen last time they met, but in either role, she knew, he was dangerous to her. The time to cut him out of her life was now, before he could find a place in her heart. She knew instinctively that the kind of relationship he so clearly wanted from her would damage both her career and her own equilibrium. She couldn't afford to risk getting close to him.
By Thursday, when Tom Schiffren came to lunch, she had managed to avoid Gerry by the simple expedient of not going down to the beach. She knew he wouldn't be coming back to the house after their last encounter when she had dismissed him so firmly. Nor were there any signs of the party he had invited her to, and she wondered if he had just made up that invitation on the spur of the moment to get her attention.
When Tom came, her mind was so concentrated on her work, she easily forgot all about her disturbing neighbour. It was good to see Tom, she thought as she greeted him, but she was surprised at how much older he looked than she remembered him. It had been at least four years since they'd met.
He was a slight fair man, only a few inches taller than Bianca's five feet seven, with a slim build and a thin, sensitive face. A dedicated musician, he was a fine violinist in his own right, as well as one of those rare teachers who sought not to impose his own will and musical interpretations on his students, but only to evoke what was best in them.
After lunch, she took out her violin, tuned it carefully at the piano and turned to him.
'Well, teacher, what do you want me to play?' she asked lightly. Her hands shook a little, and she realised she was more nervous than she would have thought possible.
'How about a few warm-up scales,' he suggested with an encouraging smile.
She returned his smile. He was sitting in an armchair near the piano, and she stood before him at the music stand, violin tucked under her chin, bow at the ready.
He listened attentively as Bianca went through several scales, major, minor and chromatic. His long tapering fingers drummed silently on his knees, keeping time, and his eyes were fastened on her flying fingers as they moved over the strings.
'Okay,' he said when she had finished. 'Now try a C major scale slowly, very, very slowly, drawing out each note, up to the highest treble octave you can reach comfortably.'
She nodded. Holding the violin firmly in place with her chin, she wiped her damp palms on the legs of her jeans and took up the bow again to start the difficult exercise, one that would test not only the steadiness of her touch, but the tone quality of each note.
When she had finished, Tom sat for a long time staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Bianca stood waiting for him to speak. Finally, he lifted his hands and made a nervous, impatient gesture in the air.
'You're rusty, Bianca,' he said severely at last.
She flushed. 'I know.' Her voice was low, almost inaudible.
He darted a quick glance at her red face. 'Your technique is all right, but something's missing. Play Bach's Air for G String for me now.'
Bianca cleared her throat and sought for the familiar music in her mind. Then she played the short, hauntingly beautiful melody with all the skill she could muster. When she was through, she waited again for him to speak.
First he frowned, deep in thought, then he nodded and stood up abruptly.
'Yes, the technique is fine, but you know as well as I do that anybody who's willing to practice hard can develop a good technique. What separates a fine violinist from a mere fiddler, however, is in here'—he pointed at his head—'and in here,' and he placed his hand over his heart.
He started pacing the room, moving in jerky nervous strides, his hands in the pockets of his tan trousers. Finally, he came back to stand before her. His expression was serious, almost pained.
'I don't want you to be just a fiddler, Bianca,' he said softly. 'There's more to you than that.'
'I wonder,' she murmured. She was crushed at his criticism, but knew in her heart that he was right, that the flaws he saw in her interpretation were the same ones she had already recognised in herself and which had led her to cancel the Boston concert in despair.
'Now, we're not going to have any self-pity,' Tom said in a firm voice. 'You've got the makings of a really top-notch musician, and you are not going to run away from it. I won't let you.'
Bianca was shocked at the urgency in his tone and stared at him, open-mouthed. He looked almost angry. Suddenly, out of the blue came the memory of the girlish crush she'd had on him so many years ago, and the thought occurred to her now that perhaps it hadn't been as one-sided as she'd imagined.
Looking at him now, the sensitive features, the smooth fair hair and expressive grey eyes, she wondered how old he was. There were fine lines on his forehead, deeper ones running from his nose to his thin mouth. Close to- forty, by now, she guessed.
As though aware of the direction of her thoughts, he turned away from her and began pacing again. When he was across the whole length of the room from her, he turned around.
'Have you ever been in love, Bianca?'
Totally nonplussed, she could only stare. Then she thought, he really seemed to want an answer. She searched her mind and heart as honestly as she was able.
'No,' she said at last. 'Not really.'
She thought he flinched slightly at that, but if so, he covered it immediately with a slow smile of satisfaction.
'I didn't think so. You might be one of those artists who can't really create until they've suffered, and, believe me,' he added feelingly, 'an unhappy—or unrequited—love is the most excruciating pain known to man.'
She smiled. 'You say that as though you've had first-hand experience.'
He seemed to flinch again, but then chuckled gently. 'You don't get to be my age without a few hard knocks in that direction.' He became serious then, and began walking towards her. 'I mentioned two places, Bianca. Heart and head. We'll have to let nature take care of the heart aspect, but we can do something about the head.'
He went to the pile of music stacked on the piano and flipped through it. 'Here,' he said, pulling out a folder, 'here's a good example. Take this Brahms concerto.'
She went to his side and watched as he pointed out certain passages to her, concentrating, trying to grasp the point he was making.
'You must always ask yourself what the composer intended. Each passage makes a statement. Concentrate especially on the dynamics. Think about them. Use your intelligence. Why does Brahms mark this passage piano?' he asked, pointing. 'And the same passage a few bars later fortissimo? Why does he put an accent on this B flat, and not that one? Why is the tempo picked up so abruptly in this movement? Why is one arpeggio played legato, another staccato!' He looked at her. 'Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'I think I'm beginning to,' she said slowly. 'I've concentrated so hard on perfecting my technique, I guess I've never really thought through the composer's meaning.'
He smiled. 'That's only natural. Technique is indispensable. It's got to be there before you can do anything else. It just isn't everything.'
'Yes,' she said breathlessly and looked at him with shining eyes. 'I see now what you mean.'
Their eyes met. They were standing so close now that their arms were touching. Suddenly, the room was very still, and
for a brief moment, Bianca had the distinct impression that Tom was going to kiss her. Before she could make up her mind whether she wanted him to or not, however, he turned from her and set the music back on top of the pile.
'I'm going to give you some homework,' he said stiffly. 'Keep on practising an hour or two every day so your technique doesn't get rusty, but I want you to concentrate on thinking about the music. Let's focus on the Brahms. Get a good biography. Listen to his other music. Symphonies. Piano works. Get inside his head and heart. Be Brahms. Think Brahms. That's the way to go.'
By the time he left, Bianca's head was whirling. He had opened up a whole new approach to music. At last there was something she could do, and she was determined to give this new world of musical experience her best.
Later that evening, as she sat out on the verandah watching the sunset over the broad ocean, she thought about the odd moment that afternoon when she had been so sure Tom was going to kiss her, wanted to kiss her. What would her response have been if he had?
She finally had to admit she didn't know. She was fond of Tom. At one time she'd been more than fond of him. She thought, too, about his question whether she had ever been in love, and it occurred to her with a sudden blaze of insight that she could have Tom now if she wanted him. Did she want him? Did she want any man?
She wondered about her sisters, both of them so much older than she. She knew nothing about their personal lives. Laura had lived in Malibu alone for years. Norma spent her life travelling the opera circuit. Both were fine artists. Had they had love affairs?
Then, out of the blue, she thought about Gerry, comparing him in her mind to Tom. Two men could hardly be more different. She and Tom had so much in common, and she'd known him forever. She felt so comfortable with him, and still found him attractive. Gerry, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity, totally outside her experience, her world. She found him profoundly disturbing, even dangerous.
The sun had set, filling the western sky with bright streaky patterns of orange and gold. The first stars began to appear as the sky darkened, and she sat quietly, listening to the gulls screeching at each other.
Malibu Music Page 4