The Bridegrooms (36 page)

“Neither did I,” Lisette added with pure wide-eyed innocence.

“They do, but they had a previous engagement this evening—a little gathering in our home. I was hoping to ask your father’s permission to take Lisette by after the concert to meet them.”

Vada fought to keep her face straight. If everything Dave Voyant said was true, Lisette would cap off her evening in a most unexpected way. To her credit, she had a look of mild terror on her face.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too soon for me to meet your parents, Kenneth?”

“No, my darling.” He kissed her hand. “No I don’t.”

“I don’t know,” Vada said, enjoying this bit of power, “that’ll have her out awfully late.”

“I’ll have her in by midnight. You have my word as a Spider.”

“Very well. How could I doubt something as auspicious as that?”
The couple looked at each other in pure glee, then to Vada in gratitude. “Now, Althea’s in our seats sitting alone. It would be nice if you two would go join her. I’ll be there directly.”

If Lisette had captured people’s attention alone, her coupling with Kenneth proved even more enticing, and more than one head—men and women—turned to follow their progress.

One man in particular took note—Dave Voyant. But when he looked up and saw Vada, his eyes seemed full of appreciation for her alone.

“My, my, my Miss Allenhouse. And how I do wish you were
my my my
Miss Allenhouse.”

“You need to be careful, Mr. Voyant, or one of these days I’m going to take you up on your offer and make an honest man out of you.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t think there’s enough good in you to do that.”

“And I don’t think there’s nearly as much bad in you as you want people to think.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning close and putting his hand right on her bare shoulder, “but wouldn’t it be fun to find out for sure?”

The shiver that ran through her for a moment made her think that, yes, it would, but when she held up her hand to push him playfully away, she caught the scent of roses from her corsage, taking her back to the last time she fell for such temptation.

“More fun for you, I think, Mr. Voyant, than for me.”

He pulled away, thrusting the stub of his pencil into his lapel like an arrow. “Ouch! You wound me, Miss Allenhouse.”

“Good thing my father’s a doctor then, isn’t it?” She started to walk away but turned around and said, “Stick around after the concert and I’ll see if I can’t get you an interview with Herr Johann.”

“Please tell me he’s an international jewel thief living as a conductor to escape Scotland Yard.”

“Sorry. I’m afraid he’s a washed-up Austrian musician trying desperately to keep his delusions of grandeur alive.”

“Ouch!” The pencil was back. “This time it’s mortal!”

Vada laughed, as she always seemed to do whenever she talked to him, and she wished they
could
love each other.

Her ears quickened to the sound of the tuning orchestra and her heart too. Her feet followed suit as she zipped through the side doors leading backstage. Though the sound coming from the stage was full, a few musicians still milled about like so many wasps in cheap black suits. Some matronly wives were here too, licking their fingers to slick back thin, wayward hair and holding more than one irritated child at bay.

“Ten minutes!” barked Mr. Messini, the head usher also engaged in the task of managing the backstage. It was the only warning the orchestra would get; from here he would go from one octogenarian to the next, yelling, “Ten minutes!” in their ears too.

Vada peeked through the back curtain, delighting at the cacophony within. Oboes chased flutes, scales skipped from violin to cello and back. Bows rose and fell with no discernable pattern. Garrison sat among them, erect and proper in his third chair, staring straight ahead.

Not caring what Herr Johann’s reaction would be, Vada walked onto the stage, crossed behind the seats, and came right up to Garrison’s row, the
tap-tapping
of her silk evening boots lost in the wayward noise. She ignored the disapproving glances, sat right down in the vacant first chair, and—much to his surprise—leaned across the jowly Mr. Pennington to whisper in Garrison’s ear.

“Are you nervous?”

He didn’t startle at the sound of her voice, merely turned his head slowly, his eyebrows rising above the rims of his spectacles as he took in the vision next to him.

“Darling!” He scrambled across Mr. Pennington, temporarily trading seats, and placed both of his hands on her bare shoulders, his thumbs gracing the straps of her dress. “You’re a vision.”

“Well, thank you.” She tugged at his white bow tie. “You look quite handsome yourself.”

His hands shook as he fussed with his jacket buttons. “Look at that. I may need you to take my place.”

“Sorry, darling. I left my violin in the carriage, just so I wouldn’t be tempted. Don’t tell me you’re nervous?”

“Not nervous really. I just—” He leaned closer, taking her in confidence. “I just want to do well.”

“That’s you.” She was surprised at the hint of tears she felt. “Always wanting to do the right thing.”

“Is that bad?”

“No.” And she meant it. “It’s quite admirable, actually. But remember, I’ve been listening to you for weeks now. You’ll do fine.” She leaned over to Mr. Pennington. “You all will.”

Garrison took her hand and noticed the corsage. “You got my flowers.”

“Oh yes! Forgive me for not thanking you yet. Thank you, from all of us. They’re quite lovely. Lisette is wearing hers in her hair, Althea has hers pinned to her dress, and Hazel…”

“Yes?”

“It’s a long story, there. Suffice it to say that Hazel’s escort is wearing hers as a boutonniere.”

His gaze intensified, seeking more information, but it was clear none was forthcoming. “You’ll have to tell me that story after the concert then.”

“I hope I will.”

She could see Erik Vlasek, first chair, glowering from the wings. He tapped his bow against his leg with a simmering impatience, and she knew Herr Johann could not be far off.

“I’d better be going.”

“Wait. Where are you sitting?”

“Fifth row. Seat three. Like always.”

“Because I look for you, you know. If I get lost, or if I’m not sure—”

“You need to look to Johann.”

“I love you more than I love Johann.”

Vlasek’s expression now could only be defined as furious, and Herr Johann came up behind him, looking Vada straight in the eye as he raked his baton across his throat in a threatening gesture.

She gave Garrison a quick kiss on his cheek before running offstage in a most unladylike manner. When she reached the wing, she ran right past Vlasek and paused just long enough to give Herr Johann a kiss in kind, then continued running before he could either protest or return the gesture.

She went through the door that opened out to the back hallway, then out through the lobby, pleased to see the crowd greatly dispersed, and when she walked through the door into the theater, equally pleased to see the house nearly full.

“Vada!” Her name carried on a guileless whisper, and she turned to give an encouraging wave to Hazel and Barth, who seemed quite cozy in the back row.

Vada made her way down the aisle, spotting their seats not only by the decorative flags, but also the distinct style of Lisette’s hair set off by the beautiful white roses. Kenny sat on the aisle, and like a gentleman, he vacated his seat allowing easy passage for Vada to take the third seat, in between Lisette and Althea.

Soon, the curtain opened and the discordant sounds of the orchestra’s tuning continued. She loved that sound. It seemed to herald such an impossibility. How could all those instruments, all those sounds ever come together in anything close to cohesion, let alone harmony? But they always did. Every night, even though from time to time there might be a slight problem. One musician playing too fast, another too slow, another with an instrument out of tune. But those moments were fleeting, and by the next measure, the problem was solved. The difference undetectable. Chaos given over to harmony once more.

Was that what just happened onstage? As she listened, she couldn’t help but think of the chaos of the past few days. Eli gone from the world. Althea in isolation. Barth clear across the country; Hazel in despair. Alex Triplehorn looming. Lisette submerged in a sea of flirtation while Kenny waited for her on shore. And she? Floundering through her own music. Out of tune, missing the constant steady beat that was Garrison. He alone remained constant.

Then silence, until the auditorium echoed with the footsteps of Erik Vlasek. By day he taught music at Cleveland High School, and here he was, violin and bow tucked under his right arm, holding the second most powerful position in the orchestra. Oh, how Garrison hated him.

Still, she clapped along with the audience as he gave a twirling flourish of his left hand as he bowed. He signaled the oboe player to play an A. The woodwinds echoed the note, followed by the brass, and finally the strings. It was Garrison’s first official note in front of an audience, and she clutched her sisters’ hands, beaming.

Vlasek, satisfied, took his seat, and Herr Johann came onstage, getting taller and taller with each step, as if elevated by applause. It died down as he turned his back and took his place. All around her, programs fluttered as the audience lifted them to read the title of the first piece. But
not Vada. She knew this one by heart. She knew it so well, she could be on that stage in minutes with her violin and play it along with the men. Bach’s
Brandenburg Concerto no. 5
.

Three taps on the music stand. Baton poised. Such an eternal, excruciating moment, as everyone—audience and musician alike—held a single breath. All bows primed, lips graced precious silver and brass, mallets held inches above taut, stretched skin—all ready to touch down at one command and make music.

Then…

Oh, it was lovely, and perfect. The sound of a beautiful creation. More beautiful now that it was received by the people who loved such a thing. She scanned the musicians, her heart full of love for each of them—accountants and clerks, dock workers and tailors. And lawyers. Well, one in particular.

His pale brows knit together in concentration, his thin frown, his long fingers holding the bow with that soft grip. A few tendrils of his thin hair floated straight up from his head, and she wished she’d been one of those women with the right to paste it down.

Because she loved him.

Oh, Lord
, she offered up from her seat,
I love him
.

And when she brought up her hands to wipe away her tears, the scent of the roses brought only one memory—that of a handful of new spring lilacs pilfered from a neighbor’s yard.

She moved to the edge of her seat. All those moments of the past few days when he’d been excluded from her thoughts came in a flood as she could see, hear, think of nothing but him. His nubile fingers dancing up and down the violin’s neck, his elbow at that peculiar akimbo angle he favored, maneuvering the bow across the strings.

She longed for the touch of those hands, to walk with her hand in the
crook of that elbow. More than that, she wanted a life in harmony with him, his steadfast nature to counter her impetuous one. His love so firmly rooted in his faith in the future God planned for them.

Slowly—as if she were coming out of a five days’ sleep—the image of such a future took hold. She didn’t see a partnership. She didn’t see a house. For the life of her, she didn’t even see her veiled self walking down an aisle. Every person on the stage and around her disappeared. For her, the entire concert—the whole world—receded behind the third chair violin.

And then, with all the abruptness of that first glorious note, the music stopped. Not all of it, just him. Somehow, something had gone wrong, and there he sat, a world away, his bow suspended over the strings, useless.

He was lost.

If it were rehearsal, Herr Johann would be pounding his fist on the podium, screaming, “Does the third chair need an invitation to continue? Shall I punch your ticket?” But no such outburst would do now. Only Vada knew the meaning behind the new sharpness in the conductor’s gestures, the
jab, jab, jab
as if spearing the notes with his baton. At the end of this piece, Herr Johann would probably make Garrison leave unless something happened.

Look at me
.

Onstage, his eyes were glued to the floor, and her fellow patrons, who just moments ago were lost to her, began shifting in their seats.

Garrison! Look at me!

His fellow musicians labored valiantly on, the music swelling all around him. He lifted his eyes, and Vada leaned forward. But he didn’t look to the house. Instead, he focused his gaze on the music, but by now he was hopelessly behind.

To her left, Lisette snickered into her hand; to her right, Althea slouched down into her seat. Behind her, people wondered what was wrong with that man. In front of her, they shifted from left to right.

On the conductor’s box, a murder was being plotted.

Please! Look at me! Lord, let him look at me!

Forgetting all protocol, she braced her hands on the seat in front of her and stood. Now, there was commotion all around her—most of it quite unkind. Lisette covered her face with her hands, and Althea slunk even lower. Certainly, if he didn’t look to
her
, he’d look to
this
.

Soon, maybe four or five measures away, would come the point in the performance when all violins would cease, save for Vlasek, who would carry on the part alone, and that’s when he would—

Everything in her stopped as Mr. Pennington, jowls quivering, took that brief respite to poke first Garrison, then Garrison’s music with his fleshy finger. That was all it took. Seconds later, right on cue, his bow touched strings, and all was as it should be.

Onstage, at least. The fifth, sixth, and probably seventh rows were all in a lather. She should sit down, join Garrison in feeling sweet relief, but she couldn’t. He hadn’t looked to her. Hadn’t even tried. This one thing they shared. The one part of his life he let her fill, and she’d been given over for Mr. Pennington’s fat finger.