Page 74 of The Oscar Escape
With only a handful of measures left to play, Georgia abruptly folded her hands in her lap. Like dominoes falling, the other musicians followed suit, and the room went quiet.
Aria finished the piece, then glanced between the musicians. Were they offering her a chance to play a solo, or was this the part where they would banish her back to the inn to fake-clean more rooms?
“Are you brave enough to show us who you are?” Georgia asked.
The breath caught in Aria’s throat. She’d been quietly waging a tug-of-war with that question since the day she’d become a recording artist—an international star—like her parents and aunt and uncle.
Who was Aria Paige-Grant? Where was her place in this world?
Thoughts of Oscar and her parents and this island quieted the clawing whispers in the darkest corners of her mind. And in that stillness, she listened to her heart. Her fingers led the way as she filled the stretch of silence with the piece she’d composed in her notebook. But it wasn’t the music Georgia had seen a few days ago. Yes, there were similarities, but the piece had evolved. She’d tweaked it. Additions and alterations were inspired by the salty air and the jagged rock. By the autumn Maine sun and the glowing crescent moon.
By love.
By Oscar. By his kisses, by his touch, by his breath, warm against her neck as she fell asleep, safe and secure in his arms. It had only been two days—forty-eight hours—but her music had been transformed into a piece infused with Havenmatch Island’s charm. The scent of the ocean mingling with the heady aroma of Oscar’s Say Cheese Louise sandwiches hung in the air as she played her damned heart out.This was it.Her make-or-break moment with these people.
Breathless from exertion, she played the final chord, letting it linger, allowing it to expand, then contract. With practiced ease, she lifted her foot from the pedal. She pictured the final pink-highlighted measure of music jotted in her notebook. She saw the double bars denoting the end.
Why did it feel like the beginning?
Time stretched as far and wide as the sun-dappled sea. She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, then looked up and found Oscar standing next to the piano. She wasn’t sure when he’d come to her side. But he was there, staring at her hands—no,her hand. Her left hand adorned with his mother’s ring. She felt another presence. Was it Oscar’s mom? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that the man she’d loved for her entire life was by her side—and again, he didn’t look like his head was about to explode with frustration. That was always a plus.
“Aria,” he whispered, the word ripe with devotion as he looked at her like they were the only two people on the island, like they inhabited a bubble where nothing and no one could touch them.
But before she could utter a single syllable, the screech of chair legs scraping against the wood floor popped the serene bubble.
“What the hell was that?” Margo seethed. Her thick Maine accent slashed through the room as she came to her feet, salt-and-pepper curls bouncing, and cheeks flushed with her fists on her ample hips.
The rotund man with a red flannel shirt tight around his belly in the chair next to Margo frowned as his weather-worn features hardened.
Aria left the piano bench and did a quick check of the committee members. Clearly, she hadn’t won over Margo and the crusty guy beside her. Del stood a few paces from the table with his perma-scowl in place. He sure as hell wasn’t impressed with her little show.
But not all was lost.
She appeared to have four members on her side—or at least willing to hear her out.
The gentleman sitting next to Roberta’s empty chair at the table, the cellist, the violinist, and Roberta, the surprise kick-ass viola player, each sported curious glints in their eyes. Aria nodded to Etta. Mrs. Alden nodded back and relaxed into her chair. That made five people who didn’t look as if they wanted to put her on the next ferry. She surveyed the judge. The jowly man didn’t make eye contact. Laser-focused on the grilled cheese sandwich, the dude munched away like he’d been served ambrosia from the gods—which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth. She could peg him as neutral.
“Who exactly are you, Mrs. Elliott?” Margo hissed.
“I’m . . . Aria.” She glanced at Oscar. “I’m AriaElliott.”
“She’s clearly a gifted musician,” the judge remarked, then took another bite of his sandwich and hummed his pleasure. “I missed this,” he murmured, still more interested in his sandwich than her.
Margo fumed. “Why didn’t she mention that when she arrived?”
“Her husband did say she was in the entertainment industry,” Etta offered.
Margo scoffed. “I figured that meant she was an exotic dancer.”
Aria’s jaw went slack. “A stripper?”
“What were we supposed to think after that naked, delirious jaunt around town? Not to mention, you’re a criminal. You broke into my shop,” Margo blasted.
Aria reined in her desire to shut down the woman with a well-placed barb and went for sincerity. “I’m sorry, Margo. It’s Margo, right? I don’t mean to be so familiar, but I don’t know your last name.”
“It’s Lubec. Margo Lubec.”
“Mrs. Lubec,” Aria continued, “I wasn’t myself that night. But I’m asking you to put aside my offenses and let me help you promote your festival.”
