Page 59 of Echoes of a Silent Song
“Victor’s going to make it one.”An idea crystallized in the center of my chest.“And so am I.”
Mother arched a brow.“I see.And how are you planning to make this happen?”
“We’re applying to the Whitehall Conservatory in Chicago.”Never mind that I just gave Victor my audition piece.I could write another one.I still had almost twenty-four hours before the postmark deadline.“It’s very exclusive, and tuition-free for those who are accepted.”
“Mmm.Then they must not accept many.”
Courage hummed through my veins.“They don’t.But we’ll both get in.And we’ll soak up all the knowledge we can, and then we’ll go on to graduate school.Maybe we’ll even get doctorates.Become university professors.Well-known composers.”
Mother patted her hairdo.“You think this is the life you want, Iris?Then go make it happen.But you’d better get into that conservatory, because if this is the direction you’re choosing to take your life, you’ll not get a penny from us.”
I’d already started up the back stairs.“I don’t need your money, Mother.I’ll make it in music with or without your support.”
“And just where do you think you’re going, young lady?”Mother demanded.
“Upstairs.”For the first time all day, something felt right.“Give the Stuarts my regards.I have an audition piece to write.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE AUDITORIUMwas dark and empty when Callum arrived for the concert an hour and a half before curtain.Good.He’d come early enough, because the auditorium was the way he wanted it.Devoid of any human presence but his own.
Aided by his phone flashlight, he found and activated a series of buttons on the back wall, flooding the house with golden light.The wicked noisy stage lights he’d save for later.Those things made such an unholy racket that he didn’t want to deal with them any longer than he had to.If he were going to be here long-term, he’d march into the next school board meeting and demand they do something about the lighting situation.As it stood now, he’d just grit his teeth and put up with it until May.
Standing here, at the back of an empty hall on concert night, brought a wave of nostalgia and an unexpected lump to his throat.He’d always shown up early and alone before concerts in the past, practically giddy as he walked the aisles, praying over the patrons, the podium, and the piano.Concerts were the culmination of weeks and months of hard work.He’d trusted the choir and they’d trusted him, and that combined with years of experience on everyone’s part had resulted in performances that were as close to heaven as anything he’d ever encountered.
Back then his heart was bursting with joy and hope and the dazzling possibilities his future presented.Rayne was alive and well.His creative cup was full to overflowing.The world was his oyster.
Then those news reports surfaced—some weird new virus in China—and it all came crashing down.Faster than he could’ve ever imagined.
Now here he stood, alone at the back of a hall, wearing a tux, preparing for a concert.Green tendrils were shooting up from the blackened, ashy soil of his former life.He had a choir again.He had inspiration again.
But those tendrils were still a far cry from the forest that had once been there.
Looking back on his past with new perspective, though, had that forest been as thick and lush as he’d once thought?His prayers had been little more than surface-level thanks.A formality.A superstitious ritual to put the finishing touch on his concert preparation.He hadn’t truly depended on God, because he hadn’t felt like he needed God’s help.He’d trusted far more in his and the choir’s preparation, their professionalism, than in God.No, back then prayer had been a mere rubber stamp.A good luck charm.Nothing more.
Now he was moments away from a concert with high schoolers.Immature, inexperienced, unpredictable high schoolers.He couldn’t depend on them to come through for him the way his Boston professionals had.And his faith in himself had taken a beating too.For the first time in his entire career, God was his only hope.
His prayer was a simple one, but it came from the very depths of his being.
Jesus, help.
The door at the rear of the auditorium opened, and his head snapped up.
It was Blair, clad head to toe in concert black, carrying her blue binder full of choir music.She looked as startled as he felt.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”She brushed a lock of red hair away from her face.“I ...didn’t expect anyone to be here yet.”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets.“Well, that makes two of us.”
“I usually warm up before concerts.In here.”Alone.She hadn’t said that last word, but it hung in the air just as clearly as the last echoes of a final chord.
“Then I’ll get out of your way.”He turned and strode up the aisle, catching a crazy-making whiff of her shampoo as he passed her.A moment later, scales filled the auditorium at a near-dizzying pace.
Her technique was so crisp and clear.Mozart and Haydn would’vebeen right up her alley as a soloist.Early Beethoven too.By contrast, his piano teachers had quickly realized that he excelled at things like Rachmaninoff.Thick, juicy chords and a ton of passion.
But Blair’s delicate precision worked for her.Disciplined and exacting, just like her personality.
