Page 34 of The Matchmaker's Melody
She was a woman who would suffer no fools.
And she was coming tonight.
Gordon was diligent about his music. Despite his career being in engineering, he still practised the piano every day. Half an hour of technique before work was as essential to his morning routine as was his coffee. This past week he had extended that to an hour, as well as going over his music for the selections after his dinner. His poor neighbours must be quite sick of it by now. But being able to play his piano at any time had been the reason he’d chosen a fully detached house, rather than a townhouse or condominium unit for his home.
He arrived at the arts centre earlier than usual to make sure everything was in order. The piano was in tune, and all the lights were working properly. Rob had the chairs set out, and had found a comfortable seat for their guest as well, possibly borrowed from Elise’s office down the hall.
Gordon ran his fingers across the keys, warming up with some scales and arpeggios, and then some tricky passages from the songs, and he waited and watched as the choir members filtered in.
Emma strode in just before ten to the hour. She always arrived at the same time. Did she time herself? Gordon chuckled at the thought. She was dressed perfectly, as always, her clothes just trendy enough to be sharp, but not over-the-top or distracting. Her long blonde hair was held back by a colourful scarf that brought out the blue in her eyes, leaving it loose down her back, a cascade of golden light. God, she was beautiful.
She worked the room like a socialite, smiling here and dropping comments there, and then, to his surprise, she walked over to where Ashleigh was rummaging through her tote bag, and stopped to talk. From where he sat by his piano at the far end of the room, Gordon couldn’t hear a word of their conversation, but it seemed, from what he saw, to be uncomfortable for Emma, welcome to Ash, and relieving to both.
Before he could do anything, Randall arrived at his side to confer about one or two aspects of the music, and then the rehearsal began. But just before the choir members settled into their places for the warm-up, Emma turned her lovely head to look at him, and her expression was one that would stay with him forever. ‘I’m sorry,’ it said. ‘I’m trying.’
He returned a warm smile. ‘I know.’
They sang theirmi-mi-misand theirma-ma-mas, and then went over the sections that had given them problems the previous week. Ashleigh sang her notes perfectly. Gordon knew she would. Last week had been unlike her, and he was fairly sure that whatever had been troubling her so much then had now been resolved. In fact, she looked calmer, happier, than Gordon had seen her in a while.
Catherine Berg was in for a treat.
At last, the lady herself arrived, just as the choir was finishing their break. She didn’t appear like too much of a terror. She was of medium height, with a rather striking face. She wore a smartly cut skirt suit in a light beige, to suit the warm spring weather, and her matching shoes and purse were tasteful and practical. This couldn’t be too bad.
Randall went over to welcome her, and he called Gordon and Emma over as well.
And that was when Gordon’s stomach dropped to the floor.
The scent was overwhelming. Catherine Berg was practically swimming in perfume. She smelled like she had been doused in a bucket of attar of roses, and Emma was terribly allergic to roses. Beside him, Emma’s eyes went wide, and she tried to excuse herself, but the older woman grabbed her hands and spoke at great length about the importance of posture while singing and how it was best to take deep, lung-clearing breaths, while exhorting Emma to follow her example.
“I really shouldn’t…” Emma began, but her nemesis huffed in response.
“None of that. Show me. If you’re a singer, you must breathe. Breeeeaaaattthhhhe. Show me. I must see it if I am to expect to hear great things.”
Randall, for his part, looked blithely on, encouraging Emma to do as commanded, while Gordon did what little he could to shorten the torture. Poor Emma’s eyes were going red, and eventually he succeeded in calling their attention to the time.
Emma went running for her water bottle, before sliding into her seat, ready for the command performance to begin.
They sang through one of the opera choruses beautifully. The tone, the dynamics, the pitch, the articulation, were all there, all perfect. Gordon couldn’t hear Emma’s voice as clearly as he often did, but she must be making an extra effort to blend in the group. Then they moved to one of the folk songs, the one that they had battled with the previous week. As when they went through it earlier this evening, it was note-perfect, one of the prettiest songs the choir had sung, and performed to perfection.
Their adjudicator had what almost looked like a smile on her face.
Now one last song remained, ‘The Queen of the May’, with Emma’s solo. She really did sing it beautifully. This would bring Mrs Berg to her feet.
He played the introduction, and the choir began to sing. Verse one, transition, verse two, then the solo.
Emma stood up straight, opened her mouth, and…
Nothing.
Nothing came out. Not a sound. She stood there like someone had smacked her on the head with a frying pan, her face shocked, panicked, disbelieving.
Her solo came at the end of an interesting piano riff which would sound just fine repeated, and so he played it again, as if it were meant to be that way. And again, Emma opened her mouth.
Beautiful singing filled the room. The very walls resonated with the sound of a rich, lush, soprano voice, warm and full of the emotions and exuberance of May. Except it wasn’t Emma’s voice.
It was Ashleigh’s.
Ashleigh stood there beside her, singing the part as if she had practised it with the ensemble for months, every note a jewel, until the short solo was over and the choir took up the rest of the song.
