Duet (19 page)
“Never mind giving it back, it’s yours,” the proprietor replied. “We’ve been keeping it safe for you for generations. Welcome home,
Mael Caluim
.”
Staring quizzically at the odd pair, Billy corrected, “No, it’s Malcolm. William Malcolm Byerly. My friends call me Billy.”
S
EATED
in a comfortable chair backstage, Billy mulled over the afternoon’s bizarre events.
Mael Caluim
? Why did the peculiar inflection of his name seem familiar? Why did it roll so easily from his tongue? Why, when closing his eyes for a moment’s rest, did he hear the name whispered in his subconscious by a lovely, lilting voice that sent chills racing up and down his spine?
And why did a two-hundred-year-old violin that he’d never seen before seem like it belonged in his hand?
“Billy? Are you all right?”
Billy turned toward the anxious face of his manager and friend, attempting a reassuring smile. “Yeah, Neil, I’ve got a touch of, you know, nerves.”
Neil didn’t appear convinced, kneeling in front of the chair and locking serious eyes with Billy’s. “Look, Billy, you haven’t had an anxiety attack before a performance in months. I have to admit, I’m getting concerned. You’re usually animated before playing. What’s wrong? You’re quiet—too quiet.”
“Oh.” Billy couldn’t contain a wholehearted smile. “I have a new violin. I can’t wait to play it.” He still couldn’t believe the magnificent creation was his or that the shopkeeper refused to accept payment.
Neil scowled. “Are you sure that’s wise? Playing an unknown instrument at a concert?”
Billy gave Neil’s arm an affectionate pat. “Wait ’til I play it, then you’ll understand.”
They both looked up when a young boy approached. “Mr. Byerly?” Billy nodded. “My da let me come get you.” The boy reared his shoulders back and smiled, revealing two missing front teeth.
Billy’s heart melted. Something about the boy tickled a memory that skipped out of reach when he attempted to latch on.
“Go get ’em, Tiger,” Neil said from a million miles away.
Billy shook himself out of a daydream of the child struggling to read a book, guided by an older boy.
The pulse beating a sharp staccato in his ears supplied an internal metronome to set the pace. Billy stood and gave his tuxedo a final smoothing before approaching the curtain separating the backstage sanctuary from a fantasy world of lights and music. He followed the grinning boy, his heartbeat growing louder with each step he took.
Time to give the performance of a lifetime. Vision tunneling, he stared out onto the stage, empty except for a baby grand placed slightly left of center. Leon, his pianist, waited behind the keyboard. The harsh glare of the spotlights hid the audience from view, concealing their number. One person or one thousand; Billy couldn’t tell.
Playing was his life, as essential as breathing. Without the creative outlet, he fully believed he’d shrivel and die. Emotions he couldn’t put into words he easily expressed through musical scores, transporting him to another dimension, far away from the modern world where he felt out of place. Ironically, an audience offered both a blessing and a curse, and pure strength of will pushed him out onto the stage, for their opinion could make or break his career. He was at the mercy of a very fickle populace. Or rather, that’s how he normally felt.
Tonight seemed different. Tonight, he stepped out into the spotlight with an ally in the form of an exquisite antique violin. Normally, he’d agree with Neil about bringing an untried instrument to a concert; however, this was no ordinary violin. The scant hours spent putting it through its paces in the shop while selecting a bow left him with a sense of utter confidence.
A few short steps put him into position, yet it seemed miles of polished wood flooring must be crossed to reach his mark. He waited for the inevitable rush of panic that, surprisingly, didn’t come. Unusually calm when taking his position, he swept unruly curls away from his face with one hand before tucking the violin beneath his chin. He closed his eyes, exhaling a heavy breath. The touch of the instrument felt like the embrace of a long-lost friend. Slowly drawing the bow over the strings, he threw open the door to the magical realm that only existed when he played. Caught up in the music, he placed no significance on the collective gasp of the crowd who’d come expecting the time-honored traditional pieces listed in the program, nor did he register the thunderous applause when each piece ended.
Oblivious to the tunes, he opened his heart and soul, letting the music take control, each and every arrangement rocking him to his core. When the last notes died, he returned to the mundane world, surprised by the deafening roar. Stunned, he blinked owlishly against the curtain of light separating him from the audience. A hissed “More!” came from backstage. Billy glanced over at a frantically gesturing Neil. After a moment his meaning sank in. A standing ovation. The audience gave him a standing ovation, and he needed an encore.
Once more, Billy put bow to strings. The emerging melody spoke of pure sorrow, the violin’s strings crying for a lost love. A sickroom came to mind, a tragically ill man slipping away. The tune changed, the tones lightening, hope triumphing over pain. He felt a soul-deep craving for something he couldn’t name. When he opened his eyes, Leon sat at the piano staring, mouth hanging open and fingers hovering motionless over the keyboard.
The pianist quickly vanished from Billy’s mind, along with the rest of the waking world, the music taking possession and sending him to his own private universe.
When he finally worked his way offstage following two more encores, his manager, who’d heard him play since college, wiped teary eyes. “Billy,” Neil gushed, “I’ve always been your biggest fan, you know that. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never played so brilliantly. And those songs!” He punched Billy lightly in the arm. “You’ve been holding back on me. And here I was fretting about your new violin for nothing.”
Billy, in a euphoric postperformance trance, allowed Neil to lead him backstage to meet the press, tired yet satisfied. A stagehand rushed forward with his violin case. Horrified, Billy snatched the new double case from the man’s outstretched hands. It contained his other violin, the one he’d brought with him to Scotland. No one touched his violins!
He shot a warning glare at Neil. “S… sorry, Billy, I forgot to tell them,” Neil stammered, a touch of color flushing his cheeks.
After tucking the antique violin away with his usual one, Billy reached for an offered bottle of water and took a healthy gulp. He stifled a growl when the stagehand tried to take the case, and cradled it protectively against his chest. In the midst of blinding camera flashes, he stood his ground and dutifully answered the same questions always asked: “Where did you study music?”, “When can we expect a new CD?”, and “Is it true that you…” followed by the latest rumor.
Tonight, for the first time ever, the reporters seemed genuinely interested in the answers—and avoided the rumors.
“Mr. Byerly. Amazing performance tonight. Tell me, were you debuting tracks from an upcoming release?” came from a tiny woman in a blue suit.
“I…,” Billy started, unable to choke out a reply. He loved playing, exploring the world, and touring; however, the audiences and reporters scared him senseless, triggering his fight-or-flight instinct. Only Neil’s comforting hand on his back kept him immobile long enough to please the press.
When he failed to answer, much to his relief, Neil answered for him, with a wink and a coy grin. Billy withered in crowds, Neil thrived. “Ah, we can’t go giving away our secrets, now, can we? William will be back in the studio at the end of this tour, however, and you can rest assured you’ll hear tonight’s songs again.” He raised a brow and gave Billy an uncertain smile that said, “They will, won’t they?”
Billy nodded, and the questions continued, some he answered with one or two words, others he left to Neil.
When he’d had enough, he yanked his friend’s sleeve. Neil, in full manager mode, stepped forward. “Ladies, gentlemen, it’s getting quite late. We thank you for coming and hope you’ll come to Inverness for the next performance. Thanks again, and good night.” He steered Billy down a seemingly endless hallway and into the cool evening where a rented vehicle waited. The driver got out and circled the car to open the door.
Billy buckled the violin case in the back seat before collapsing next to it, eyes closed. His hair, sweat-plastered to the crown of his head, fanned out against the seat back like a cloak. Totally exhausted, he’d expended every ounce of energy on his performance.
“If you can survive without me tonight, I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.” Instead of getting into the car, Neil stood on the curb, hands rammed into his pockets.
Billy opened one eye. “You’re not coming with me?”
At thirty, Neil was several years older than Billy, but his sheepishness brought to mind a mischievous child. “Lisa is flying in tonight to meet some of my mother’s side of the family.”
“Better her than me,” Billy quipped, happy for his friend even if the news that he’d be alone tonight wasn’t welcome. He hated being alone. “Give her a hug for me.”
“Will do.” The door closed on Neil’s toothy grin.
The car pulled away from the curb, heading for whatever hotel Neil arranged for the night. Billy had known both Neil and Lisa, Neil’s fiancée, for years, and would never dare confess to being jealous of their relationship. For an openly gay man who spent three quarters of each year traveling, forming a partnership was an impossible dream. Oh, he could find plenty of available men, especially when playing at parties and other social events. Unfortunately for them, a quick fuck wasn’t what Billy wanted.
After finding the violin in Edinburgh, he’d spent an hour choosing the right bow, an unheard of feat. Normally, the painstaking process took days. It seemed the instrument knew its counterpart and led Billy to its mate, lying right inside his own violin case. Against incredible odds, his usual bow proved the perfect match for the antique, and he left the little shop with a committed couple, and a new double case.
Partners, like his bow and violin, made the sweetest music when the two seemed made for each other, and he compared the pairing to finding the perfect lover. He occasionally accepted casual offers—they never lasted long. Something was always off, like his violin would be without the right bow.
The car pulled under the awning of an innocuous chain hotel. Having traveled all the way to Scotland from the US, Billy hoped to stay somewhere, well… Scottish. A converted castle or whatever. Until he made the big time, he supposed he should count himself lucky to be in another country at all.
Entering the establishment wasn’t a problem; from the looks of it, no one milling about the lobby seemed the type to attend a concert where the normal mode of dress leaned toward black tie. The other guests appeared to be foreign tourists, or more local vacationers, judging from their casual attire, and none spared much notice for a tuxedo-clad man carrying a violin case.
Despite the crowded lobby, Billy managed to make it to the elevator quickly, relieved when the doors closed behind him without anyone else stepping in. He really was too tired to deal with strangers’ inevitable attempts at small talk. It could be a good thing Neil had other plans and that Leon made his own arrangements to play tourist with his wife while in Scotland. The buttons lit up one by one, marking the elevator’s ascent, until the door opened on the fifth floor. Billy trudged down a long hallway, locating his room tucked into a corner, away from high-traffic areas like the elevator or vending machines.
The two-room suite met his approval, if nothing to write home about. Most importantly, the facilities were clean and relatively quiet. His baggage had been stacked neatly by the door. Too tired to unpack, he decided to leave settling in for later.
He crossed through the tiny living area and into the bedroom, smiling when he saw the two beds, grateful Neil had remembered. Ever so carefully, he placed the violin case in the exact center of the bed farthest from the door. It made him nervous to have the tools of his trade out in the open, without the protection of the alarm system at home, but didn’t dare store them in the hotel safe. They rarely left his sight.
Billy removed and hung the tuxedo in the closet and, with a contented sigh, slid between crisp sheets. He was asleep and dreaming within minutes.
Twelve
S
INCE
rousing, the spirit of Aillil Callaghan had grown increasingly restless. He explored every nook and cranny of his home, noting the differences, before venturing outside. A light breeze carried him along to visit the place where his love rested. The lone grave lay nestled in the midst of the sacred grove, exactly as remembered from the last time he’d awakened. Tears blurred his vision when he gazed down on the rock marker, inscribed in two languages, “Forever.”
True to Old Maeve’s word, twice
Mael Caluim
had been reborn and returned to Scotland, only to die again shortly thereafter. Aillil’s own lonely spirit remained. Why they couldn’t inhabit the afterlife together frustrated him no end, but in quiet moments like these, he felt a niggling of things to come: the heartbeat of the earth, the moment before dawn, the budding of spring’s first bloom, and wished whatever he’d been waiting for would get on with it.
