Want (2 page)

“
Anyway
, if that goes well, you’ll get a letter in about a month. These days they might let you know by e-mail. Not sure.”

“That all sounds great,” I tell him. “And I just want you to know, I’m willing to work hard. There’s nothing I won’t do to get into the NEC.”

Chapter Two

“So, tell me about Boston. Why did you leave?” I ask Mr. Laroche—Isaac—this question first thing every morning.

“Doesn’t matter. I live here now.”

“How old are you?”

“None of your business.”

“What did you minor in?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Didn’t you play with the Boston Symphony?”

“Might have.”

He won’t tell me a single thing about himself, so I’ve resorted to being a snoop. Our families run in the same circles, and it amazes me what people tell you when they think you’re harmless. He’s twenty-seven, which makes him ten years older than me—practically middle-aged. He minored in jazz studies. He’s played with a bunch of top-notch orchestras, including the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

I’m
totally
impressed. Like ooey-gooey, sop-me-up-with-a-biscuit impressed. Since his sudden return, he’s become a small celebrity in Mobile, one of a few people to actually leave to go north.

“Mobile Symphony asked him to be…guest performer this fall. He will also take over…at church,” Mr. Cline tells me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve pumped him for information, too.

For as long as I’ve been alive, Mr. Cline has been the pianist and organist at Chamberlain Episcopalian Church. If you’ve ever been to church in the Deep South, you know what a big deal this is, even for a Conservatory graduate. We had mega-churches before they became a trend in the rest of the country because everyone goes. Even if you don’t believe, you attend to maintain your social status
—
so you can flaunt your children’s monogrammed boutique clothes, your designer hat and your husband’s promotion. Then you get in your overpriced car and drive home where, miraculously, a full spread awaits.

An organist of Mr. Laroche’s status draws an even bigger crowd today. It’s his first Sunday on duty, and he doesn’t look fazed at all. In fact, he looks bored.

“Will you look at that,” whispers Mama as we slide into our usual pew, left side, five rows back on the outside aisle. “That man has groupies already.”

Mama’s running on normal this week, thank goodness.

I glance up and see the rows in front of us are all filled, which isn’t unusual, but now they’re filled exclusively with women.
And not just any women
—
young, well-dressed,
whispering women who openly admire Isaac’s profile as he begins the prelude.
The mix of strong perfume and constant chatter gives me a headache.

How rude
.
At least they could pipe down so the rest of us can hear the music. Er, worship respectfully. Whatever.

Reverend Landry stands to welcome the congregation and makes a few announcements. More than once, his gaze darts over the flock of clucking women.

“Are there any other announcements I missed?” he asks. Despite the air conditioning, I see a bead of sweat trickle down his sideburn into his cleric’s collar.

Mrs. Marcie Swann, my fourth-grade Sunday school teacher, stands and clears her throat. At the sound, Isaac jerks his head around. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

Mrs. Swann faces the congregation, so I give her my attention. She’s pushing sixty years old but manages to wear a short, lavender shantung sheath dress, a pearl choker and matching dangle earrings. She’s tanned to the color of camel leather, and her blonde bob is styled to perfection. It’s the same blonde bob Mama has.

I’ve always liked Mrs. Swann, but Mama says the meanest things about her. We all belong to the same Mardi
Gras
society, the Mystics of Dardenne, and she and Mama have butted heads more than once. Mama is always the loser in their arguments, but it wasn’t always this way. I remember Mrs. Swann’s daughter, Heather, would babysit
me and R.J. I’m not sure
when our mamas started to hate each other, or why.

“On behalf of the Ladies’ Worship and Music Committee,” Mrs. Swann drawls, “I’d like to welcome Mr. Isaac Laroche back to our congregation. As y’all know, his uncle and our former organist, Robert Cline, is still recovering from a stroke. Thank the Lord”
—
she cocks a perfectly drawn-in eyebrow
—
“Mr. Laroche has agreed to be his replacement and will now serve as our full-time organist and pianist as well as choir director. He recently returned to Mobile from Boston, where he went to school at the New England Conservatory, a prestigious music school.”

Mrs. Swann is what you’d call a handsome woman, but today her mouth looks like she’s sucking lemons.

“Please join me in giving him a warm welcome.” With that, she takes her seat and the congregation claps.

Isaac gives a cursory nod and begins the opening hymn before the clapping dies down.

Mama leans over and whispers. “Juli, what is his problem?”

“Maybe he’s nervous?” I doubt it. This is small potatoes for him. I mean, the man toured in Europe, for heaven’s sake.

“Did you see how despicably short Marcie’s dress is? She still dresses like a debutante. If I ever caught you in a dress that short
—
”

“
Mama!
” I hiss and bury my nose in the hymnal.

***

It’s the second full week of lessons, and Isaac drills me until my finger joints ache. All that work and you’d think we’d be over the awkward stage by now. You’d be wrong.

“So why did you come back to Mobile?” I ask for the hundredth time. While I wait for an answer that won’t come, I twirl a cinnamon-colored strand of hair around my finger. He only talks about music-related stuff. Ask him a personal question and he turns into a verbal mason. The brick wall goes up, and he changes the subject.

To my surprise, he actually addresses my question, if only a little.

“Didn’t so much come back to Mobile as leave Boston. Now, why don’t you
—
”

“Oh, c’mon, didn’t you play with the Boston Symphony? The Pops? I mean, how could you give that up?” I shake my head in disbelief. “I don’t get it. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

A small smile escapes his lips.

Score one for Juli!

“You sound like me ten years ago. Couldn’t wait to get out and then couldn’t wait to come back. But giving me the third degree isn’t going to help your audition.” There’s a hard edge to his voice. He smiles to let me know he’s not being ugly, but I can tell his patience is wearing thin. “Let’s go back to the fugue.”

Ugh. Shut down
.

I try a couple more times to broach the subject of his mysterious return, but he deflects my questions every time. I suppose I’m being rude
—
okay, there’s no
supposing
about it
—
but I’m curious. I spend hours a day with him. He’s hiding something, and I bet it’s juicy.

I let my imagination run wild. I’d rather make up stories about his life than look too closely at mine. Maybe he’s involved in a love triangle, and he’s the loser; maybe he’s secretly a drug dealer and got chased out of Boston; or he’s on the run from the mob. Rumors are rampant, and I’ve got to know his story.
Knowledge is power,
Mama always says.

Then one day, an ordinary Wednesday morning, something changes. I find a chip in his brick wall.

“So, Mr. Laroche
—
Isaac
—
did you murder someone in Beantown? In the library with a candlestick?” I smile sweetly. “Was Colonel Mustard there?” He stares at me like I have three heads
,
then recognition spreads across his face. The result is another small smile.

That’s two!
Not that I keep track.

He leans on the piano with his arms crossed and looks down at me from his impressive height. Today he wears khaki cargo shorts with a white-collared shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to reveal tanned, muscled forearms.

Not that I notice.

“Hardly,” he says. “It was Miss Scarlet in the foyer with a wrench. Since when do you know about Clue?”

I flutter my eyelashes. “I downloaded an app with a bunch of old-school games. Plus, I used to play it with my granny.”

“That’s funny. I used to play that with my gran, too.” He smiles. This is the most I’ve seen him smile in the weeks he’s been here. “Beat me every time. She’d never let us grandkids win; had to earn it. You probably never met her, huh? She sat in the section right by Uncle Robert at church when he played.”

And just like that,
the
storm moves in, his face clouds over, and I know he’s done. I turn back to the music and pick up where I left off.

Several hours later, I try my best to sleep, but it’s sticky as a swamp in my room. The air conditioner can’t keep up with the humidity, made worse by the summer thunderstorm that pounds outside. I give up and kick off the twisted sheets. My bedside clock says it’s after midnight, though lightning flashes so frequently that it might as well be broad daylight.

When I can’t sleep, I sit in my window seat and read with a flashlight. I’ve done this since…well, since I’ve been able to read, I guess. I grab my paperback off the dresser and settle in so Mr. Darcy can propose again.

Between the streetlight outside and the lightning, I barely need the flashlight. One look out the window tells me there’s a light on in the garage. Did Daddy forget to turn it off? I know
better. I tiptoe down the steps to the kitchen, look out across the yard and, sure enough, her arm goes around and around in perfect circles, buffing away impurities.

My mama’s waxing her SUV at two a.m. in a rip-roaring thunderstorm.

***

Morning brings more rain. Isaac and I discuss my strengths—dexterity and technique—as well as my shortcomings—interpretation and emotion.

“It’s probably because you’re used to Uncle Robert, but, Julianne, you need to loosen up. Mechanics will only take you so far. The Conservatory panel wants to see
you
—
your
interpretation of the piece. These composers are all dead. They’re not gonna come after you for tweaking their stuff.”

The only composer whose work I can come close to making my own is Rachmaninoff. I tell Isaac this. I watch as he transforms from a full-grown adult into a kid on Christmas morning.

All in one breath, he says, “Okay, see? We can work with this. We can incorporate some of his pieces into your audition. What are your favorite ones? Could do the second or third symphonies. Probably not the Prelude in C Sharp Minor, it’s overplayed.
Along with the
Paganini
.
But the
Etudes-Tableau
or the
Moments Musicaux
.”

“Jeez, who plugged you in?”

He paces back and forth like a maniac, then stops abruptly and swivels to face me.

“‘Without color it is dead.’”

Uh?

“What?”

“‘So you make music live. Without color it is dead.’ Why didn’t I think of this before? Rachmaninoff was talking about interpreting and performing other composers’ works. Said he could approach their stuff better because he was a composer too and knew the composer’s mind. ‘You can make contact with their imaginations, knowing something of their problems and ideals. You can give their works
color
. That is the most important thing for me in my interpretations,
color
.’”

“And?”

“And you’re going to compose. Your interpretations lack color, so invent some. If I can’t make you feel other composers’ works, we’ll see if you can feel your own.”

“Um, okay.”

“By tomorrow.”

“Are you kidding me?”

That’s so unfair.

“Nope. Look, I know you spend all hours of the day and night out here. Put that time to good use
—
”

“Whoa, wait. How do you know how much I’m in here?”

“Have to drive by your house to get just about anywhere. Nine times out of ten, your light is on.”

“Creeper much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m usually late getting in from the symphony rehearsals, and I do have a life.”

Yes, a life you won’t tell me anything about.

“Don’t change the subject. There any Rachmaninoff you can play right now?”

“I’m a little rusty, but I can give it a shot.” I take a deep breath.

This is my moment to impress him. If I do, maybe he’ll let me in.