The Maestro, Page 2

  During my group interview, I’d sidestepped questions from the staff about how it’d been to work for Kieran. The music community was tight, so if asked today, I’d keep everything I said upbeat. Many of the people I’d work with were subscribers to the symphony, and I wanted them to keep attending.

  I put my coat and bag in the closet in the music room. Right after the school intercom announcements, the first question came at me from my boss, Brendan.

  He smoothed his receding gray hair. “I hear the Maestro is planning to guest-conduct next summer. What do you think of that?” He folded his hands over his tan sweater and rounded belly.

  Despite my mental plans to play it cool and avoid talking about Kieran, the mention of him hit like a brick to the gut. Instead of wincing, I smiled. “He could be a guest conductor. The Maestro is very talented.”

  Almost no one called the Maestro Kieran to his face, and though I did in my head, I called him Maestro out loud, like everyone else. He’d earned the title, being the youngest conductor to ever take charge of a major symphony orchestra.

  “When he walks on stage, I feel like a rubber band that’s been snapped. I sit up in my seat and wait. I know whatever he gives, it’ll be amazing. That you worked with him really put your application over the top. The school board insisted we get you in here to share your experiences and talents. Our students and parents will love knowing you worked with him.”

  Great to know, even if I’d suspected it when I’d been offered the job. “He was a good boss.”

  Brendan must’ve sensed that I didn’t want to talk about Kieran as he moved the conversation along to less painful topics, like the location of the teachers’ lounge and how to handle parents who believed their children were gifted musical artists, but who had zero willingness to practice. Topics I was comfortable with and excited about.

  The longer we talked, the further out of mind I nudged Kieran.

  * * *

  New York’s a big city, but music lovers, especially patrons of classical music, are a small community.

  By Friday, everyone knew that I’d left Kieran for the Monarch School. Some thought I was crazy to have left him to teach children to play instruments. Others thought I was crazy to have lasted five years with one of the most egocentric and eccentric characters in music. That was Kieran. A musical genius. Conductor, composer, artist. Unpredictable and crazy. Not crazy like lock-him-away-in-an-asylum. He wouldn’t hurt anyone intentionally. Just crazy erratic and wild.

  Those who knew the truth, that I was hopelessly in love with him, thought I was brave. I could count on one hand the number of people who knew I loved him: my sister, my best friend from high school, and my mother. They were cheering me on in my new job, and my sister had mentioned her hope that I’d find an actual social life, which, in her point of view, shouldn’t be hard in NYC.

  Friday nights were big for music in New York, and I had tickets to the opening performance of La Traviata.

  “You’re totally sure he doesn’t have tickets?” I asked my friend, who worked in the opera house box office.

  “I’m sure. I checked the database twice.”

  “Thanks for the intel.”

  Kieran wouldn’t be there. It’d be safe for me to go and enjoy the opera without being on edge about running into him.

  After a week apart, I desperately wanted to see him again and know that he was okay. Actually seeing him would destroy the wall I’d been mentally building between us.

  He hadn’t called. Glory hadn’t reached out again. They’d respected my decision.

  Why did it feel unsettling?

  My worry was affecting my psyche. I kept seeing Kieran places, and then realizing it wasn’t him.

  Ridiculous. I had to get it together.

  It was hard to predict what Kieran felt about me. He might be furious at me for the way I’d left or feel betrayed that I’d quit.

  He might not care. He might’ve worked things out with his new assistant.

  The idea of him sailing on with a new assistant without a blip bothered me. I wanted her, or him, to struggle the way I had. Kieran wasn’t easy to work for. Learning his moods and communication style had been like mastering an art, and we’d both had to change and compromise. Mostly me changing and compromising, but Kieran had too.

  I’d made it a firm rule that when I was in the bathroom, he had to wait outside. He’d once barged into my hotel bathroom in Venice while I showered and started talking to me—because he’d had a great idea. There’d been an opaque shower curtain, but it’d made me feel weird to be naked in the same room with him.

  We’d agreed that couldn’t happen again, and it hadn’t.

  I had decent tickets to the opera, balcony seats, but not prime location balcony, more out-of-the-way balcony. I’d asked a neighbor who’d held the door for me once when I was carrying in groceries to attend with me. Greg was about my age, his brown hair shaggy but combed, and his clothes out of style but clean. Barrel chested and average height, he still had a good six inches and at least fifty pounds on me. He’d been surprised by my invitation, but he’d accepted. We hadn’t spoken much in the time I’d lived in that building, and I was hopeful we had chemistry and the entire night wasn’t a series of awkward pauses and uncomfortable silences.

  I wore the dress I’d donned for opening night of the orchestral season the previous fall. Kieran had picked it out. He’d called me lovely that night. I’d twisted my heavy blonde hair behind my head and off my neck and had secured it with a hundred bobby pins. He’d touched the side of my neck, brushing away the strands that had broken free. A physically affectionate man, he showed emotion easily when he wanted to. That made it harder for me to keep a lid on my feelings for him.

  After I’d realized I was in love with him, every time he’d touched me, even a casual brushing of his strong hand to my petite one, my entire body would go up in flames. I’d craved him, wanted more, found it utterly distracting to obsess about my boss touching my hand.

  I had to get a grip.

  I had to stop thinking about Kieran touching me and recalling what he’d thought of what I’d worn. He wouldn’t remember the dress. It was a minor detail that’d barely registered. To purge every connection to him, I’d need to throw out a good number of expensive articles of clothing bought for me by Kieran. It wasn’t as if he’d bought them as gifts per se. On my salary, I couldn’t have afforded to wear much of anything to the performances, and he didn’t want me to wear the same black dress every night. That was what I’d done when I’d first started working for him, and he said it reflected badly on the symphony.

  I doubt anyone had noticed what I wore, but it’d really bothered him, so I went along with it.

  Whenever he’d given me a compliment about my appearance, it’d kept me going for weeks. I’d thought of myself as typical, nothing remarkable about my hair or the blue eyes I’d gotten from my mother, or her petite frame I’d inherited that grew curvier with age. But when Kieran spoke to me, I felt gorgeous.

  As I sat in the opera house with Greg, my date for the night, conversation flowed. I enjoyed his tales and began to think this could be the start of something real. A friendship and maybe more. The physical snap and pop were missing, but those might come in time.

  Since he’d agreed to accompany me to the opera, I assumed we had that interest in common. I couldn’t date a man who didn’t enjoy music.

  “Thanks again for inviting me,” Greg said.

  My heart galloped, as much from excitement at hearing the opera as from spending time with someone new. “I’m happy you could make it.”

  Greg and I shared the same wide-eyed expression as we looked around the opera house. My cheeks felt hot, and I removed my jacket, helplessly fascinated by the glitz and glamour around me. As the seats around us filled, I relaxed into my chair, ready to sink into an incredible performance.

  Out of nowhere, I sensed him.

  Kieran was in the theater. Or maybe the music made me think
of him. I craned my neck and frantically searched the crowd, needing to know if Kieran was there, and if so, how I could avoid him. I should’ve sunk lower in my seat, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  Today was the seventh day since I’d left his employ.

  Had Kieran pitched a tantrum and then accepted the change? He could be like that. Explosive emotion, then he’d get it together, toss his anger away, and focus on the music.

  “Did you see someone famous?” Greg asked.

  Blood hummed in my ears. “Curious who’s here. Everyone with influence sits down there.” I pointed over the balcony.

  Greg joined me in surveying the crowd for famous faces.

  I scanned for dark hair and dark eyes, olive skin uncharacteristic of the Irish. The Maestro was a head taller than average, well proportioned, with wide shoulders and slim hips, and the few times he’d touched me, those powerful hands had made it hard to think clearly. When he played an instrument, it was easy to imagine being caressed by him. He had an aristocratic face, and almost everything he wore was stylish.

  But Greg… Greg was good too. Nice, sweet, and he listened to me. He had hooded brown eyes and brown hair streaked with strands of red, although his face lacked the rough-cut angles of Kieran’s. He and I were having a genuinely good time sharing our love of music.

  I focused on Greg.

  “Is that Clara Mendel?” Greg asked, pointing to the famous oboist, a redhead in a spectacular dress.

  I’d seen Ms. Mendel play, and though she wasn’t in tonight’s performance, a shiver of excitement wound through me. She wouldn’t attend a performance unless she’d heard it was top-notch, and now Greg and I got to have the same experience. “I think it is!”

  “I hope it’s okay to talk about this on my podcast.” Greg worked as a journalist for an online media site, and he had great stories about the rich and famous of New York.

  “Of course. That’s part of the fun.” If nothing else, at least he’d have some material to work with from tonight.

  The overhead lights dimmed. No Kieran sighting, just that one odd sensation that he was around. Probably my psyche screwing with me. I mentally shuttered my thoughts.

  I would let myself be swept away by the music. The performance would start shortly, and I’d revel in every minute of it. In this huge place, I wouldn’t see the Maestro tonight. I ignored the spear of disappointment and pretended it was relief.

  Then it happened. Like lightning striking, our eyes connected across the room. Time switched into slow motion. Kieran’s gaze held mine, then he glanced at Greg, then back to me with an impact that knocked the wind from me. He mouthed my name. Rae. My name on his beautiful, perfect lips.

  I couldn’t tell if he was attending the performance alone, but he hurried from the expensive VIP section toward the back of the theater. He must want to speak to me. Whereas the hallways could be confusing for a newcomer, Kieran would know where my seat was. He could’ve considered the fact that I was avoiding him and I was on a date, and stayed in his seat, but that wasn’t him. His needs came first.

  That realization shot a dart of anger into my heart.

  We’d been in this theater for performances before, and I’d sat through the entire show picturing how it’d feel for Kieran to take my hand and kiss the back of it. Distracting and utterly fanciful.

  “Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom,” I said and stood.

  Greg glanced up at me. “Do you want me to take you?”

  “I’ve got it covered.”

  I rushed from the balcony. Let him think I had diarrhea. I’d fix it later, but talking to Kieran would ruin the night.

  I should’ve bought one of those magic crystal dolls being sold on the street corner, the ones that were guaranteed to keep people away or bring someone back or repair the heart. How many crystals would I need to fix my love life? All of them?

  Once I was in the empty hallway, I realized my mistake. No place to hide. No crowds. Everyone had taken their seats for the performance. Where could I run? I’d acted as impulsively as Kieran, and while his impulses usually worked out for him, mine ended in disaster.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Sensing his approach, I did the most mature thing I could. I ducked into an alcove where a bust of Sir Francis Scott Key was set. Since I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to touch it, alarm bells were probably going off somewhere, and security was likely dashing toward me to escort me from the theater. Maybe I’d be apprehended before I had to talk to Kieran. Somehow, that seemed preferable.

  I wore black. Red would’ve blended better with the carpet. Or gold. I hadn’t noticed the gold wallpaper before. It reflected the light, making it brighter in the hallways. I needed dimness. Utter darkness would’ve been welcome.

  Kieran had rounded the corner and now stood in the hallway. I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking if I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. Mature, I know.

  I opened one eye as he entered the balcony where I’d been sitting. Murmurs of excitement seeped into the hallway. Kieran had a way of making that happen. He was a beautiful artist, interesting and smart, and brought all the ladies to the terrace.

  I bolted from my hiding place, knocking the stand with the bust a little too hard. Fingers crossed it wouldn’t fall over and break. If I had to save up enough to replace it, I’d never be able to move from my tiny apartment. At my current salary, I’d be paying for the bust well into my nineties.

  I flew down the stairs, wishing I’d worn flats instead of heels. My heel caught on the carpet, and my foot bent at an unnatural angle. Pulling the heel free, I rubbed my aching ankle.

  Then I heard my name from behind me carried by his voice. Softly, like a whisper of wings. “Rae.”

  I used the anger and hurt to steel myself against what would come next: the overwhelming desire to throw myself into his strong arms. To tell him everything, everything, how much I’d missed him and loved him and wanted to be with him.

  If I could forget my heart, I could pretend that being his assistant was enough and that being close to him would somehow be fulfilling and complete me.

  But instead of getting over him, the time away from him had made me miss him.

  I ached.

  I turned and met his unyielding gaze. He moved toward me the way he always did, predatorily, his white button-down stretching across his chest with the movement of his arms, his thigh muscles flexing under his black pants. He could’ve had me right there on the steps, kissed me or pulled me into his arms, or whatever he wanted. Except he’d never do that.

  As many women as he’d slept with over the years, I never, ever fit into that category. It was a frequent blow to my ego to know he didn’t even consider me a possibility when contemplating bedroom playmates.

  One frustrating week, he’d actually been pacing the house for days, and he’d called an ex-girlfriend, left the house for two hours, and came back smelling of sex. I’d been in his house the entire time, but he’d left to have sex with a crazy lover instead of propositioning me.

  I’d tried at different points to get his attention in that way. Worn sexy lingerie under my clothes. Perfume. Oils. Jewelry. Straightened my hair. Curled it. Worn makeup.

  He’d never seemed to notice the changes, and a slipped bra strap hardly ranked as a distraction. Nothing, nada, drew his attention to me.

  His eyes searched mine. “Why are you running from me?”

  That voice, a deep baritone that flowed over me like honey. He’s an amazing composer and conductor, but he could sing too. Not like the professionals at the opera tonight, but the orchestra had once gone out for karaoke, and he’d blown everyone away. I’d dreamt of that voice serenading me for months.

  My knees knocked together, and I held on to the bannister to keep from falling down the stairs. “Do not touch me.”

  I had to say that first. If he took my hand in his or caressed my cheek, I’d fall apart. As it was, I can promise, I was not the picture of a put-together woman. My blue eyes had to
be wild and flashing, like a cornered animal’s. He could do anything to me, and I’d break. A week apart from him had worn away my resolve.

  He stopped walking toward me and held up his hands. “Okay. I won’t. I’ve always respected you as a person, as a woman. I’d like for you to tell me why you left me. I’ve thought about it all week, and I cannot understand.”

  Left him. Left him? A jolt of outrage surged inside me. As if I hadn’t been hopeless for him for years, following him around, doing everything he’d asked. He’d left me. Rejected me. Not chosen me. “I have a job.” If I said that enough times, would it make sense as if it was the correct explanation?

  “I’ve heard people talking about how great you are at the school. They say you’re already being noticed. Is that what you wanted? Acclaim? Music of your own?”

  How could he know me so little? “Not acclaim. No one owns music.”

  He liked that response. Despite his creativity, he wasn’t possessive about his work. The music began playing in the theater. We were missing the performance, and having a seat on the main floor meant Kieran wouldn’t be allowed to return to his until a break.

  “You’re beautiful. I liked when you wore that dress last year too.”

  He remembered I’d worn this dress? I considered myself humbled. “Thank you.”

  “Rae, please.” He touched his heart. There hadn’t been many moments when I’d seen Kieran express himself outside his music. This was one of three times.

  The first time had been the night I’d finally admitted to myself I was in love with him. He’d danced with me, and when our eyes met, for a second, I’d almost thought he could love me in return.

  The only other time was when his mother had died. I’d been at his side through that, and I’ll never forget how close it’d brought us. It’d changed our relationship. I’d listened. I hadn’t asked anything of him. I’d picked up the slack for him because he’d needed time to grieve. His music had been therapeutic for him. He’d mourned her deeply and had seemed so isolated. He didn’t seem close with any family members, ignoring the attempts of his paternal aunt, Hilda, when she’d reached out to him.