Love at First Note (24 page)

I closed my eyes and savored the sound of his voice. “I’m okay, I guess. I’m at home for Christmas.”

“Me too,” he told me. “The whole family is here.”

“Uncle Elliott, then.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s been pretty fun.”

“I heard about your split with Blue Bridge. I’m sorry, Elliott.”

He breathed out a sigh. “Thanks.”

“What happened? Do you mind if I ask? The news called it creative differences.”

“Is that all they said? That’s a pretty kind explanation of what really went down.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“The short version is that I kept pushing to at least get some of my original songs
on the album. I was fine doing some covers and some mash-ups, but I wanted a few tracks that were mine alone.”

“And they wouldn’t do it?”

“We went back and forth for weeks, but then Brian brought over the final track list, and it was all covers, all from the same album.”

“They wanted you to cover an entire album song for song?”

“You ever heard of Starting Over?”

“The boy band?”

“It was their last album. I guess they wanted
to piggyback off their success. They wanted piano versions of all their songs, and that was it—my entire album.”

“That’s completely unfair.”

“I thought so too. So I walked.”

“Wow. Are you in trouble at all? Are they bugged about you breaking your contract?”

“They’re not. My attorney put some pressure on
, and they agreed
to just let the agreement dissolve, which is nice, but at the same
time, it doesn’t send much of a message to the rest of the industry.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re basically saying it’s easier to cut me loose than actually
work with me.” He hesitated, his next words a little quieter. “They’re
saying I’m not worth it.”

Pain sliced all the way to my core. Those were
my
words—my slimy, awful, untrue words. I swallowed.
“So what happens next? Will you sign with a new label?” I pushed my forehead into the heel of my hand. Why couldn’t I just apologize? Why couldn’t I just tell him how wrong I’d been?

“I don’t know. My agent is looking, but I’m a hard sell these days.”

A beat of silence passed between us, heavy with all the words I wanted to say but had no courage for.

“Elliott, I’m sorry I hurt you,” I finally blurted. It wasn’t the apology he deserved or even the apology I wanted to give. It sounded too final, like I was sorry I hurt him, but now I was happy to be moving on. But it was all I could manage through my nerves.

It took so long for Elliott to answer I almost wondered if he’d hung up. When he did
finally speak, his voice was so soft I almost didn’t hear him. “I have to go. Thanks for calling.”

He hung up before I had the chance to respond.

I collapsed back onto my bed and pulled a pillow over my face. Stupid words. Stupid, stupid words that never worked and never said what I wanted them to say.

Mom found me in my room an hour later, curled up under the covers, reading a worn copy of James Herriott’s
All Things Bright and Beautiful.

“Can I come in?” she asked from the hall.

I nodded.

She steered her motorized chair through the doorway and stopped just beside my bed.

“You’re really starting to cruise in that thing,” I said.

“I know! Didn’t hit the wall or a doorjamb once coming down the hall.” She pushed herself up onto wobbly legs and motioned with her hands for me to move. “Come on. Scoot over.”

I scrambled to make room for her, grabbing an extra pillow to prop behind her once she settled beside me on the bed.

“Gram said you were going to try to call Elliott,” she said.

“I did call him. We talked.”

“How’s he doing?”

I closed my book and dropped it onto the nightstand. “I don’t know. We were talking about things and work and his music, but then I apologized for hurting him, and he said good
-bye. No explanation. He was just gone.”

“So he’s still convinced you don’t think he’s worth it.”

“Or maybe he’s just decided I’m not worth it either.”

For nearly an hour, we rehashed every detail of my history with Elliott, from our awkward first encounter to the beer festival to our monumental kiss at Grayson’s wedding. Somewhere about halfway through, Gram joined us on the foot of the bed, then Ava wandered in, surprising us all when she curled up right next to me. I kept talking anyway. I was sharing far more personal details about my life than I’d ever thought I’d want my sixteen-
year-old sister to know, but there was something magical about the circle of women on my bed—three generations who cared about me and loved me and wanted me to be happy.

Eventually I got all the way through to the end of my Elliott history: the phone call I’d ended not two hours before. “And then he just said he had to go, and that was it.”

“That’s so dumb,” Ava said.

“What?”

“Y
ou love him, and he loves you. But you’re here, and he’s
there. And neither one of you is going to say anything to the other that would just fix all of this.”

“I don’t know that he loves me,” I said.

“Oh, whatever. Of course he does.”

“You need to tell him,” Mom said. “Plainly, clearly. Just tell him you love him. He won’t be able to argue with that.”

“But I tried! Just now on the phone, I tried to tell him. Y
ou know how bad I am with words. Stuff never comes out right.”

“But you didn’t try to tell him,” Ava said. “‘I’m sorry I hurt you’ is not enough to undo ‘You’re not worth it.’ And that’s the last thing he heard.”

It was a surprisingly astute point from someone with so little experience.

“Have I ever told you the story of how I met your grandfather?” Gram asked.

I nodded. “He drove a delivery truck, right? He brought something to the house . . . a new refrigerator or something.”

“That’s right. My mother was there too when he came walking
into the house, pushing that big old box, and she never liked him.
She didn’t love the idea of me marrying a working man. She’d rather I
found someone with an education who would work with numbers
and books. I was too good for a blue-collar worker like your grand
father.”

“What did you do?”

“I married him anyway. It was four years to the day before I had my first baby—your mother. And four years and three weeks before my mother stepped foot inside my house.”

“She didn’t come see you for four years?” Ava asked.

“She didn’t even talk to me for four years. She was hurt,” Gram said. “
In her eyes, I’d made a mistake marrying someone so different from her family. I’m not sure she ever changed her mind about Charlie, even up to the day she died, but I’ll tell you this much: I’d make the same choices all over again. I loved your grandfather, and that’s what we do for people we love. We make sacrifices. We move mountains if we have to.”

“So I need to tell him how I feel.”

“Yes!” all three shouted at once.

I knew they were right. A
ll I needed was the courage to do something about it.

Four days after Christmas, a
package arrived on my doorstep—
tiny, wrapped in brown paper, and postmarked from Colorado.

I pulled off the paper to find a small white box wrapped in silver ribbon. There was a card taped to the outside of the box with a note only one sentence long.

No regrets. Love, Elliott

I opened the box and pulled out an iPod, knowing immediately
what I would
hear as soon as I pushed play. I raced to my room
and grabbed my headphones, plugging them in as I settled on my bed.

I recognized the melody from the very first notes—the same first notes I’d heard Elliott pick out all those weeks before on the night of our first kiss, when they were nothing more than the shadow of a melody. The piece continued, lilting and light but with undertones that added a depth that spoke of something more. It was joyful but not exultant-joyful. More like humble-joyful. The first time I
listened all the way through, I sat on my bed and cried. I mean,
I was there when Elliott had
picked out the very first notes on his piano. To hear it whole and complete, with depth and movement and harmony—it was perfect.

Hours later, I’d listened to it enough times I could pick up my instrument and play the violin part without missing a note.
Elliott’s note,
No regrets
, might have read like it was a final statement, like he was moving on and he wanted me to move on too, but that song didn’t sound like no regrets.

It sounded like hope.

* * *

Thursday morning, I was in the kitchen eating breakfast when my phone, still charging in my bedroom, started to ring. I scrambled
across the apartment, trying to reach it before my voice mail picked up. I made it just in time.

It was a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Emma, it’s Ron Williamson.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“Listen, we’ve had a slight kink with the January concert. Baronovsky can’t make it.”

“Oh no. What happened?”

“It’s the most dreadful thing. He closed his hand in one of those antique rolltop desks and broke three of his fingers. It’ll be months before he can play again.”

I balled my hands into fists at the thought. Broken fingers were
every musician’s worst nightmare. “That’s terrible.”

“We can’t do the Prokofiev, not with Baronovsky out, so I was
hoping you’d have something in your repertoire we could feature.
We’ll just headline you as the soloist instead. What about the Bartok
Concerto you played when you auditioned?”

“Sure. Cleveland even owns the parts if we need to borrow the music. I could do the concerto.”

“Good, good. I hate to lose the Prokofiev. It’s one of my favorites to conduct, and i
t goes so nicely with Dvorak’s Seventh, but I think
the concerto will be an acceptable replacement.”

A sudden thought buzzed through my brain, a rush of adrena
line filling my veins and my heart and every ounce of my being.
Elliott knew the Prokofiev. He’d told me as much when we’d talked about Baronovsky coming to play. Who better qualified to replace Baronovsky than one of his own students? “Ron, what if I can find us another soloist?”

“For what? The Prokofiev
?”

“Yes. I know someone. He’s a friend and a brilliant pianist, and
I know he can play the piece.”

“But is he soloist quality? Lots of people can
play
Prokofiev. He would need to be capable of more than that.”

“He is. He absolutely is. He even studied with Baronovsky in
Russia. I wouldn’t recommend him if I didn’t think he could do it.”

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to at least give him a listen. Can you bring him in to play for me?”

So maybe I hadn’t thought through all the details. “You’ll have to give me a few days. He’s not in town right now, but . . . yes, I think I can.”

“It will have to be
soon if we’re going to have time to get programs printed. Plus, we’ll need time to get the music from Cleveland if we end up doing the Bartok. When can you get him here?” Ron asked.

“I’m not sure. By the end of next week?”

“That’s not quick enough.”

“Please, Ron. You’re going to love him. He’s perfect.”

He paused, then sighed. “Fine. Wednesday next week
, but that’s the longest we can wait before we have to make a decision.”

“Wednesday.” That was less than a week away. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

I couldn’t call Elliott. I needed to call Elliott, but calling him for
this, when I still hadn’t managed to call him to say, I don’t know, hello
and I love you, felt lame. Like I wasn’t really calling because I wanted to talk to him, only because I needed him to save our concert. But I
couldn’t get him to Asheville if I didn’t call and explain, which meant
I was utterly and completely stuck.

When Lilly came home an hour later, I was still standing at the counter, staring at my phone like maybe it would figure out what to do and just do it for me.

“What are you so stressed about?” Lilly asked.

“I’m not stressed,” I said. “Okay, no, I am stressed. I need to get Elliott to Asheville,
and I don’t know how.”

“You need him like you need a make-out session? Or you
need
need him for real?”
Both. Definitely both.
“I need him for real. The symphony needs him.” I told her about the call from the symphony’s music director.

“And you can’t just call Elliott and explain all of this?”

My shoulders slumped. “I can’t. The next thing Elliott hears me say needs to be ‘I love you.’
I can’t call him about this when I haven’t figured out how to say
that
.”

“So call him and say I love you, then wait twenty-four hours and call him back about the concert.”

“No! Even a day later, my motive would still be suspect. He’ll think I was only saying I love you so he’d agree to come.”

“For real, Emma? You gotta give the man a little more credit than that.”

“What if I really just want to say it in person? I don’t know that I can fix stuff over the phone, but if this gets him here, I’ll have the opportunity to try. Face-to-
face.”

She leaned against the counter and nodded her head. “Okay. I see your point. So why don’t you call his agent? If you didn’t know Elliott personally, the agent is who you’d call to set up stuff like this anyway, right?”

Call his agent. It was an incredible idea. “Yes! I need to call his agent! Brian. What’s his last name? Brian Jenson. How do I get ahold of Brian Jenson?”

“Emma, take a breath. Google will help us. Just chill.”

Five minutes later, I had the main office number for Spectral Media, the agency Brian worked out of, written on a sticky note beside my phone.

“So what are you going to say?” Lilly asked. “You’re going to
have to be pretty convincing to get his agent to help. I mean, this is Asheville. It’s not like playing with the symphony here is going to
help his career or anything.”

I looked at Lilly, my eyes wide, my brain already hatching the beginnings of a plan. A big, amazing, probably impossible plan.
“That’s it,” I said.

“What’s it?”

“I have to make the concert help his career.”

“Slow down, turbo. Give me the how.”

“I don’t know exactly, but if I can just get a few key people into
the audience, a record producer who does classical music, maybe,
or I don’t know, a conductor from a big symphony, once they hear
him play, they’ll know what he’s truly capable of. They’ll want to
sign him.”

She looked skeptical. “It’s a nice thought, but again, this is
Asheville. Not L.A.
What kind of record producer is going to hop on over to North Carolina for a concert with the Asheville Symphony?”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet.” I pushed my hands through my hair and willed my thoughts into some semblance of order. “But this is Elliott Hart we’re talking about. Surely his name has some kind of pull, even if he doesn’t have a current record label. Plus, I have a few connections I can reach out to. My time in Cleveland has to mean something.” Then the biggest piece of my plan fell solidly into place. I
did
have connections in Cleveland. And I knew exactly what I could do to get them to help me out.

I left a message on Brian Jenson’s work line, stressing the importance of his getting back to me as soon as possible. Then I sent an
e-mail through the generic
Contact Us
link on the agency’s website,
providing the same information and practically begging for a re
sponse. After that, there was nothing else to do but wait.

By Sunday night, three days later, even though I’d sent two more messages to Spectral Media and called the front desk once more, I was positive there was no way Elliott would be in Asheville by Wednesday. If I didn’t hear anything by Monday night, I decided I had no choice but to call Elliott and explain everything myself.

Monday morning at seven, Brian finally returned my call.

“I’m looking for
Emma Hill,” he said when I answered.

“This is Emma.” I sat up in bed, trying to sound like I hadn’t been asleep. I glanced at the clock, noting with mild curiosity that it was 4:00 a.m. in California. Regular business hours for Brian?

“Emma, Brian Jenson with Spectral Media. You called about an opportunity for Elliott Hart?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“I want you to know I only called you back as a courtesy. It was you, right? That was in the photo with Elliott at the wedding? I’m sorry about what happened to you career-wise. Elliott said you took quite the beating.”

“No, it was fine. It wasn’t a problem in the end.”

“Good, good. Glad to hear it. So listen
, Elliott is free to play wherever he chooses at this point. There’s not a label anywhere that cares where or what he plays, so it’s fine by me. You go ahead and set everything up, whatever you need to do.” His voice was clipped, not harsh but definitely no nonsense.

More than ever before, I wanted my words to work. I needed to say the things that would convince Brian he wanted to help me,
and that wouldn’t happen if my stupid nerves kept my tongue tied in knots. I closed my eyes, imagining myself on stage, violin at the ready, and tried to will the peace and confidence I felt into my voice. “Actually, it’s not that simple. I think this opportunity could be more than a concert. I think it could be Elliott’s ticket to another record deal, except this time, for the kind of music he actually likes.”

“Why’s that? What’s so special about this opportunity?”

I’d been thinking about how to answer all weekend. Asheville was a small city with a relatively obscure symphony. It wasn’t the kind of place where anyone who would further Elliott’s career as a classical pianist would just happen to be. But it had taken only two simple phone calls to give me the confidence I needed to make Brain a guarantee. “Asheville Symphony is a great orchestra,” I began. “And it’s a wonderful piece of music that I know Elliott can play.
Playing this concert would be good for him.”

“Good for him? My job is to care about what’s good for his career.”

“But if we could get a record producer into the audience, someone who would see this is the kind of music he needs to be playing . . .”

“Listen, if I had the ability to get a record producer into a
concert hall to hear Elliott play, don’t you think I’d be doing it? He’s a contemporary artist with a little bit of YouTube fame that just got dropped by his label. He’s not exactly on everyone’s list of favorites right now.”

“But he should be. He’s so much more than what people are giving him credit for.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not sure it ma
tters now. Sure, he’s had a good run, but it’s over. He can retire on what he’s made so far. He needs to celebrate that and move on.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“You must be a good friend to reach out like this, but I’m just not sure I see the point.”

I closed my eyes. Brian was going to make me play every card I had. “If
you can get Elliott to Asheville to play with the symphony,” I said, “I can get Richard Schweitzer into the audience to hear him.”

Brain paused, the beat of silence before his words straining my nerves almost to breaking. “Schweitzer? With Academy Records?”

Schweitzer wasn’t the only name I was hoping to pull in, but he was definitely the most impressive. “He worked with the Cleveland Orchestra a few years ago on an album of Beethoven’s favorites. He does a lot of classical recordings.”

“And he’ll be in Asheville?”

I hope. I pray. If I’m lucky.
“Yes.”