Page 73 of The Oscar Escape
The cellist nodded.
But this mini-concert wasn’t over yet.
She returned the cello to its spot on the rack, then eyed an upright piano. She recognized it, but from where? It didn’t matter. It was time to crank up the wow factor. While she could play just about any instrument, she truly excelled at the piano. Cocooned in a melodic embrace of the cello’s low, resonating ribbon of sound, she rested her hands on the piano’s keys. And there it was again—that connection to another time.
A connection that whispered, “Play me. Make beautiful music. Touch souls with your melodies.”
Aria caught the cellist’s eye as the last note dissolved into the air. “Do you know Georgia Winstegan?” She couldn’t hold back. The music was in control, and it called for her favorite modern composer’s work. The work of the pianist and former conductor of the Denver Symphony Orchestra and the New York Philharmonic, Georgia H. Winstegan.
A slip of a grin tipped the cellist’s lips. “I do know Georgia Winstegan.”
“‘Of Sea, Sand, and Driftwood,’” Aria called, naming her favorite Winstegan piece. It was written for piano, cello, viola, and violin, but the piano-cello combo could work. She started to play when a woman settled on the bench beside her.
A terrific sign! She needed to get these people on her side.
She scooted over to make room for the newcomer as her fingers caressed the keys. She closed her eyes, channeling gentle delicacy into the music. Georgia Winstegan’s pieces often began quietly—pianissimoin music speak. Then, all at once, the music swelled like a building wave.
And that’s when the music transformed from simple notes printed on a page to a thunderous cyclone. Winstegan’s compositions embraced a metamorphic quality. Going from docile to a banging crescendo, her compositions crashed. They thrashed. They rollicked. And when it seemed like the music was out of control, like the notes had gone haywire, and the wave of melodic passion was about to explode into a billion tiny droplets, the intensity receded enough to tease one into thinking the piece was coming to a close. With a roar, it returned. It ebbed and flowed like the sea. One didn’t listen to Georgia Winstegan’s compositions. They experienced the journey with each precisely placed note.
“Are you familiar with Georgia Winstegan’s music?” Aria asked, posing the same question to her bench companion.
“Quite intimately,” the woman answered, her voice thin, airy, and oddly familiar. “I would venture to say I know her pieces better than anyone.”
Aria bit back a grin, feeling damned confident that nobody knew Winstegan’s music like she did. “That’s quite a claim to make.” She didn’t mean for her comment to contain a dash of skepticism—okay, maybe she did.
“Not really,” the woman offered breezily. “I am Georgia Winstegan.”
What?
Aria’s eyes fluttered open like somebody poked her with a cattle prod. She couldn’t stop herself from staring at the profile of the woman with dark hair, a prominent chin, and high cheekbones. The woman reminded her of a prima ballerina. And then it clicked. Georgia Winstegan was the woman who’d passed in front of the window. No wonder she thought she’d recognized her. This was the first time she’d seen the composer in person. Georgia Winstegan had been missing in action for decades. Without explanation, she’d abruptly left the music world over twenty years ago when Aria was a little girl.
Still, from Aria’s studies, she knew that even when Georgia Winstegan was performing and conducting, she was an enigma and furiously guarded her privacy. That’s what drew Aria to her at a young age. Her aunt and uncle did their best to shield her from the spotlight when she was a kid. But Harper Presley and Landon Paige were both superstars, as were her parents. The world was curious about her. Growing up, having photographers pop up at the most random moments had become a way of life.
Georgia Winstegan had served as an escape. While the world knew about the Paiges and the Grants, Georgia Winstegan’s secret personal life intrigued her. She’d found the old Winstegan recordings in her aunt’s grandmother’s attic in Denver. Among the bits of dust and dander dancing in the sliver of sunlight from the attic’s lone window, she’d listened to Winstegan play the piano and mooned over her work as a conductor. She’dabsorbedthe music. Most people thought that she’d become a musician because of her family. Of course, they played a part. However, the first time she’d listened to “Of Sea, Sand, and Driftwood,” it had tipped the scales and sent her on the path of dedicating her life to music. As a neurodivergent learner, reading wasn’t always easy for her. Nevertheless, her desire to learn about the pianist turned conductor turned composer compelled her to spend hours poring over articles. She’d read as much as she could about the woman and had formed a one-sided connection with her.
But there was one question that begged to be asked.
What the hell was Georgia Winstegan doing on Havenmatch Island?
Then again, she was born in Maine. That was one of the few facts Aria had uncovered regarding the woman’s early years.
“Shall we continue?” the actual freaking Georgia Winstegan asked with the ghost of a grin, clearly amused.
Unable to speak, Aria nodded. She played the Winstegan piece along with the cellist while Georgia joined in and wove in another melody.
A familiar melody.
An Aria Paige-Grant melody.
“Not bad,” the woman commented.
“That’s my music,” Aria got out. It was a damned miracle she could speak and move her fingers with a legend sitting beside her.
“My husband shared it with me. It’s good—quite good.”
“Husband?” Aria murmured.
Holy shit!Georgia had to be referring to the judge. And if that revelation wasn’t enough to get her head spinning, more stringed instruments joined in the classical jam session. Aria looked over her shoulder. Roberta sat next to the white-haired cellist. The woman who’d scowled at her from inside the chocolate shop now played the viola like a freaking boss. And that wasn’t all. The white-haired older gentleman who’d been seated next to the cellist at the table jumped in on the violin. And he was a freaking boss musician, too. It was as if she’d entered a fever dream. But this wasn’t a figment of her imagination. This was happening.
