Page 32 of Echoes of a Silent Song
“Hence the need for chaperones.And I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.Or at all.I’ll just wear my blue dress.”
“That boring navy thing you trot out for everything that doesn’t require concert black?”Joy shook her head.“Sweetie, I love you more than life itself, which is why I’m telling you that dress ages you at least ten years.”
“So?”
“So it’s something you’d wear to a funeral.And Callum Knight will be there.”
“Again, so?”Another shiver.
“So I’m almost positive that man absolutely smolders in a tux.And heknowsit.”Joy fixed Blair with an intense expression.“Are you gonna let him outshine you?”
Her competitive urge kicked in.“Good point.”Shewouldwear that bronze dress.The one she’d almost bypassed as being “too much.”Urgedby the saleslady and an uncharacteristic impulse, she’d tried it on and had never felt more beautiful in all her life.
“As always.”Joy smirked.
Blair shot her friend a halfhearted glare.“I hate that you know me so well.”
“Hate it and love it.”
Callum retreated to his office.When he dropped into his chair, glitter spilled from his invitation-slash-prison-sentence over the keyboard of his school-issued laptop, still open to the glut of emails about homecoming week.
During his own high school years, homecoming week meant little more than popularity contests he ignored and dances he avoided.It seemed the universe would have the last laugh, though, because now he couldn’t avoid homecoming if he tried.Themed spirit days.Pep assemblies that screwed up the schedule and cost him rehearsal time.And Difference Makers Day, whatever that was.He hadn’t read the email thoroughly yet.Doubtless still more rehearsal time down the drain, time they couldn’t afford to lose with the fall concert rapidly approaching.
Callum gripped a fistful of hair and let out a groan.How had it come to this?What his old self would think of him now.The twentysomething dynamo who’d, given enough coffee, could function fine on four hours of sleep.The one who’d spent his days and nights making a name for himself in the composing world.Who’d had so many ideas he could cheerfully toss them around like preteen pranksters toilet-papering a tree.Who’d even heard one of his works on a Boston-themed Netflix series, which had led to Ralph taking him on as a client.The one who’d planned a future with Rayne and had easily been able to afford the diamond to prove it.
Well.He might not have his conducting career back yet.Might not reassemble the Cambridge Chamber Chorale anytime soon.But at least his composing brain had come back online, at least in part.That idea Blair had inspired was taking shape into an actual piece.Nowhere nearfinished—not yet—but it was there.Percolating.That alone wouldn’t be enough to get him out of Peterson and back to Boston, but it was a start.After five years of wandering in the desert, he’d take that start and run with it.
He tossed the homecoming invitation to the side, where it landed near the yellowed page of staff paper covered with Iris Wallingford’s pencil scratches.
Iris.Callum reached for the score, then leaned back in his chair and studied it for what must’ve been the hundredth time.The girl could’ve been a legend had she lived.And if she and Vic had known each other, if they’d been able to collaborate on music?Callum ached thinking of what the choral world had missed out on.
But had Vic truly not known her?That seemed to stretch the bounds of credibility.Both talented composers, both in the same graduating class, both residents of the same small town.Plus that yearbook picture and those cheesy grins.How could henothave known her?
Maybe Vic’s memory really was failing.Shame if that were true.Or maybe discussing Iris was too painful.Callum could certainly relate to that.He’d made progress in his grief, but he still didn’t talk about Rayne much.Even if Callum were able to move on someday, to rebuild his career, to eventually love someone else—if such were even possible—Rayne Driscoll would forever be tattooed on his innermost being.
Music bloomed in his heart the way it always used to, and Callum’s breath caught.The harmonies moved forward, the melody full of urgency and passion.Exactly what his piece in progress lacked.He set Iris’s score back on his desk, next to the to-do list that would have to wait, and wheeled his office chair toward the upright piano.Fumbling for his iPad, he turned the recorder on and set it on the stand, then pounced on the keyboard, his fingers finding the notes surfacing in his mind and heart.No, that wasn’t ...Oh.Yes.There it was.There.And oh, there it went, tumbling down a musical pathway like an overeager dog yanking on a leash.Callum had no choice but to follow and hope his hands could keep up.
The phrase came to a natural end a few moments later, and Callum breathed a sigh of relief, turned off the recorder, and listened back tohis musical exploration.He’d have to tinker around with it, see how he could develop it, but the secondary theme he’d needed had finally arrived.He’d nicknamed the first one “Blair,” since she’d inspired it.Should he call this one “Rayne”?Had his memories of her caused it to take shape?
No, this didn’t sound like anything she’d inspired.Those motives were always ardent and full of yearning, as though his subconscious somehow knew his dreams involving her were doomed to an early death.
This one was full of determination.Hope.Forward motion.
“Moving On.”That’s what he’d call it.Because he intended to do exactly that.And this rapidly forming piece would begin that journey.His skills were coming back.He might even be able to fulfill that commission for the University of Illinois after all.In fact, this piece might be perfect for it.
He wouldn’t call Ralph just yet, though.Not until he knew for sure that his muse had returned.
But for the first time in years, that possibility seemed more than just a pipe dream.
Chapter Thirteen
November 1969
MY SHOEScrunched through a pile of dead brown leaves beneath the tall oak on Sixth Street.Beside me, Victor’s shoes crunched in a slightly different rhythm, but not the usual syncopation with mine.Usually we fell into step every fourth beat.Our very own downbeat, as I’d started to think of it.Victor called it a sign of our deep connection.How even our footsteps made their own music.
But today he took a faster tempo.Our steps aligned irregularly.I’d even tried to come up with a mixed-meter pattern for them, but if there was a pattern, I had yet to see it.
And those fast footsteps were the only sound he’d made since he’d picked me up at my house to walk downtown for a soda.
