A Song for the Road Kathleen Basi (good summer reads TXT) 📖

one day going, ‘Now what? I have everything, and I have no one.’ Eventually I got married, and … well.” He cleared his throat. “Meeting Blaise gave me a purpose. I realized this is what I want to do with the rest of my life. Help kids who don’t have the advantages I grew up with—kids with potential. But when he died … I know it makes no sense, but I felt like my dream died too. Until a few days ago. I was in Atlanta to meet with a movie director about a soundtrack, and I heard a PSA about the concert coming up, and they mentioned Blaise’s sonata. I realized I probably had your phone number, so when I got home today, I went looking.” His energy was returning. “I have sponsors lined up. My friends in the film industry love the idea. We’re starting a foundation. We’re putting on a big concert gala in a couple months to kick things off, and I’d like to use Blaise’s sonata.”

Of course he wanted something. This vague disappointment was irrational. “Why not use some of your own music?”

“Oh, you know my music?” He sounded unreasonably pleased.

“Everyone knows your music.”

He laughed. “Well, not everyone knows who wrote it. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised you do. I understand you’re involved in music yourself.”

Nothing stung like damnation by faint praise. “I’m a church musician.”

“But you write music—I read online somewhere that you were going to finish the sonata. A blog—Atlanta Attaché, I think it was called.”

So. He’d seen a picture of her, and he still didn’t know who she was. Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised. But it was humiliating.

“Is it finished?” he asked now. “The sonata, I mean? Because—I mean, I’m sure you want to premiere the sonata at your own concert, but afterward, if it turns out well, will you let me use it for mine? We’ll publish it, distribute it, under his name or yours—whatever you want. I have the contacts. I’m not worried about the money. It’s yours. You do whatever you want with it. My lawyer can set up a fund, a scholarship fund for young artists—I just want to record it.”

It was a stunningly generous offer, characteristically grandiose, yet his casual stipulation—if it turns out well—made her writhe. Her mediocre accomplishments stood in the wings, laughing at her. “Well, I don’t really feel comfortable talking about that until it’s finished …”

“So it’s not done.” He sounded disappointed. “But your concert is soon, isn’t it? So you must be close. The second movement was just lacking a recapitulation, and then it just needed a third movement. It wouldn’t take much.”

Just another movement. Her work, these past years, had impacted a lot of lives, but it paled beside Gus’s achievements. She felt her old competitive instincts heating up again. Now she had another reason to finish Blaise’s sonata. “I’ll get it done,” she said.

“Wonderful! I’m glad to hear it.” In the background, Miriam heard a feminine voice. “Oh, that’s my wife calling. I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you.”

“Sure—”

“Good night, then.”

Miriam pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the call ended screen. He’d changed in some ways, but the man still thought he was the center of the universe.

And she was like a moth; even knowing what happened when one got too close to Gus von Rickenbach, she craved his notice.

If it turns out well? She’d show him. She’d write something worthy of Blaise if it killed her.

No time like the present. She’d seen a piano in the lounge downstairs. Maybe she could sweet-talk her way into using it until the late-night crowd came in.

Miriam leaped up and heaved her suitcase onto the bed, digging to the bottom for Blaise’s music. She shoved aside scarves and artfully wrinkled blouses until she saw the edge of the file folder peeking from beneath a swatch of crinkled black fabric splashed with red flowers. Even the contents of her suitcase were determined to underscore her failings.

Miriam yanked the music out and slammed the suitcase shut. She stalked out the door, sending Dicey a text on her way downstairs.

The lounge was quiet, and the manager gave her permission to play. But Miriam felt more stuck than ever. Derivative, Gus had said of two measures on the second page, but she loved them just as they were. She’d keep every note her son had written. Take that, Gus von condescending Rickenbach!

Except something about the seam between Blaise’s clean, deliberate script and the few measures she’d written in her messy scrawl caused her to freeze up.

He’d had problems with that spot too. The paper was worn by multiple erasings, the layers of pencil marks still faintly visible. In its current form, the music charged over a cliff and stopped. Blaise had left half a page blank and gone on to the recapitulation. But he hadn’t gotten far there either.

She played it again. Maybe it was just because she’d been thinking of Gus, but tonight she thought she heard something of Gus’s compositional style in these measures.

Miriam tried another variation. It should be so simple: restate the original themes, except without changing keys. Maybe it was simple for Gus, but in her current emotional state, Miriam found it baffling.

“If it turns out well.”

“… remember those two fairies at science camp?”

“Can’t fight with someone who has no heart.”

Amazing sounds were coming from the piano, melodies that riffed quite nicely on Blaise’s themes. But the moment she focused on them, the path forward, which a moment ago had seemed inevitable, disappeared.

She chased it backward, but like a dream, it evaporated too quickly to catch hold of, despite her hands suspended above the piano, poised to hitch a ride on the slightest inspiration.

“Excuse me, young lady.”

Miriam glanced up to see an elderly man in a suit. “Hi?”

“Are you taking requests? It’s my anniversary, you see. I’m wondering if you could play ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’ for us. It’s my wife’s favorite song.”

“Um …