Page 101 of The Virtuoso
“I think she does love you,” Nick replied, remaining seated as Val rose and crossed the room. “And you certainly do love her.”
Val considered Nick’s words. They settled something inside him, in his head—where he planned and worked out strategies—and in his heart, where his music and his love for Ellen both resided.
“I do love her.” Val lowered himself to sit on the little stage enthroning the piano. “I most assuredly do. It’s helpful to be reminded of this.”
“Now I am going to cry,” Nick said with mock disgust as he crossed the room and once again sat right next to Val. “What will you do about Ellen?”
“About Ellen? I agree with you: We love each other. She believes her love for me requires us to part. I believe our love requires us to be together for whatever time the good Lord grants.”
“So you must convince her,” Nick concluded with a nod. “How will you go about this?”
“I have some ideas.” Those ideas were like the first stirrings of a musical theme in Val’s head. Tenuous, in need of development, but they were taking hold in Val’s mind with the same tenacity as a lovely new tune. “God alone knows if my ideas will work.”
Val remained sitting side by side with his friend pondering these ideas as the convivial sounds from the green eventually faded, leaving only the occasional burst of voices from the Rooster, until Darius appeared in the door, Ellen at his side.
“The coach is ready to take us home,” Darius said, “and I am ready to go.”
“You go.” Val rose. “I’m not quite ready. Ellen, pleasant dreams. I’ll see you in the morning.”
***
There was nothing brittle or dismissive in Val’s tone as he bid her good night. He sounded weary and resigned—kind, even. She’d seen him remonstrating the Bragdolls but not been able to hear exactly what was said.
“I’m not quite ready to go either,” she said, drawing her white shawl more closely around her.
“We’ll send Sean back with the coach, then,” Nick offered, eying them both.
“No need.” Val reached out to tuck the end of the shawl into the crook of Ellen’s elbow. “We can walk, if Ellen’s agreeable. It’s less than three miles, and it’s a pleasant night.”
“I do.” And if all it got her was a few more of those small gestures of caring, she’d count the tears worth the heartache.
“Good night, Ellen.” Darius kissed her cheek and touched her arm. Nick went one better, wrapping her in a careful hug. He kissed her forehead for good measure, then hugged Val and slipped an arm through Darius’s as he took his leave.
The single candle flickered.
Like my spirit, Ellen thought, eyes searching Val’s face for some clue to his mood. He’d been angry after their waltz, and so hurt, and she’d had little to offer him in the way of comfort.
“I have something for you,” Val said, extending a hand to her.
“You must not give me one more thing, Valentine.” Ellen linked her fingers through his. “You’ve given me too much.”
“Things.” Val shrugged. “A few nails and boards, that isn’t much, Ellen.”
“Not just the conservatory.” She used the back of his hand to brush the tears off her cheeks. “You’ve given me much more than that.”
“Barely anything worth mentioning,” Val replied, and his voice held a note of true humor. Ellen studied him closely as he tugged her onto the stage. “There’s one more small token I would leave with you. Forgot the bench.” He smiled at her and hopped down to retrieve a piano bench from against the far wall. His step was light, and Ellen realized the difference now as opposed to earlier in the evening was that he seemed to have gained a measure of peace.
Peace? She hadn’t told him the worst of her secrets yet.
He set the bench down by the little piano and patted the bench. “I do better with an appreciative audience.”
Ellen’s eyes flew to his. “But, Valentine, there are things I promised to tell you, hard, miserable things.”
“Yes, I know.” Val sat and pushed the cover off the keys. “Things to make me hate you until my dying day and wish vile fates upon you nightly.” He patted the bench again and offered her the sweetest smile. “I have made up my mind that I don’t need to hear them, Ellen. If you don’t want to tell me, I don’t need to hear them. If you do want to tell me, then I do need to hear them.”
She all but fell onto the piano bench, so taken aback was she by his words.
“You are not arguing,” he observed. “This is good, for I don’t want to argue. There are other things I must convey—things about myself—but to get them out properly, I will need the assistance of my little friend here. You can sit closer than that, can’t you?”
