Preludes, page 9
Still, for all his invitations and flirtation, he was the perfect gentleman at all times. Anne grew accustomed to his friendly peck on the cheek, and reciprocated in kind, but other than a gentle hand on her elbow or the touch on her shoulder, he made no physical overtures whatsoever. The more she thought about it, the more she found it odd.
Did he know about her past with Fred? She had heard no rumours about herself and the new conductor, for all that she was not plugged into the local rumour mill. Still, it would not take a lot of digging to learn that she and Fred had been together all those years ago. If William had looked into her background even a bit, he must know this. But of course, even Sophia didn’t know. Or at least, she didn’t know the details. Neither she nor Fred had been famous then; no one cared about who impoverished grad students dated or lived with. It really could be that there was nothing to find.
Was William being a gentleman out of consideration? Was he giving her the time and space to decide when—if—to take their relationship further? Or, she now wondered, was it a relationship at all? Was he, perhaps, just being friendly, with no other intentions at all? By day, she looked forward to their next outing, but by night, when she was alone with her thoughts, she analysed them, perhaps a bit too much.
She flopped down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Marie was right. It has been so long since she had been involved in anything like a relationship, she hardly knew how to read the signs anymore. Those long walks, the dinners out, the cosy conversations—all seemed to suggest that William had a romantic interest in her. Perhaps he was just taking things slowly. Perhaps she should make the first move.
But… the awareness hit her. She was happy as things were. Did she want there to be a move? Did she want things to progress? Or was this gentle friendship enough for now? If she was honest with herself, Fred’s actions still hurt more than she wanted to admit. He had come to her, had made love to her, and then left her without a backwards glance.
Her heart was not ready for another amour. She did not want William to move any more quickly than he was, for all that she enjoyed being with him. She would take his friendship as it was offered, and if, in time, he suggested becoming something more, she would consider her heart then.
Still, for the moment, he seemed as happy as she with a friendship, and from time to time their photographs would appear on the About Town pages of one or another of the local newspapers. If she did not find them, Sophia made a point of telling her.
As Anne and William were seen about town together, so were Fred and Louisa, the horn player from the orchestra. Fred was more of a public figure than was Anne; his very career propelled him into the greater world, for he worked his art in front of the crowds. As such, his social life was somewhat under the public lens. Where Anne and William made only an occasional appearance in the newspaper and on social media, images of the conductor and musician were more common, and someone had even set up an Instagram account just to document where they had been and had been seen. Sophia sent Anne these links all too often; she likely meant well, but had no idea how much it hurt to see Fred, whom she had loved so much, cavorting with another woman before the eyes of the city. And Anne would not tell Sophia to stop. That would involve baring her heart, which she had no intention of doing.
Louisa had changed her image somewhat. The bright blue hair was now a darker burgundy shade, still vibrant and edgy, but veering more to the elegant than the playful. She was dressing up too, if the photographs could be believed, putting on the glam to match Fred’s natural style and good looks.
With every photograph that passed under her eyes, Anne felt her heart ache, but she was determined no longer to let the conductor under her skin. He had made his choice. He made it eight years ago, and he made it again earlier this summer, and she would not suffer for it any longer.
Her life was hers to live and enjoy, and enjoy it she would. She tried to convince herself of this every day.
So it was that when an unexpected email appeared on her computer screen at the end of July, she was delighted.
* * *
From: Jasmine Smith
To: anne.elliot@torontomusicians.net
Subject: Reaching out, was Jasmine Hamilton
Hello Anne,
I hope you remember me. I’m Jasmine Hamilton, and we were friendly at university all those years ago during our undergrad. You were majoring in performance and composition and I was in the music education program, and we studied music theory and history together. Wow, that seems like a long time ago.
I saw the exposé on you in the Times-Tribune a few months ago, and I’ve been thinking ever since that I should reach out. I kept second guessing myself, but I finally decided to do it.
I hope you don’t mind. Your email was on the orchestra’s web page, so I thought it would be alright.
I’m looking forward to hearing from you if you want to reconnect,
Jasmine
A hundred memories all sprang up at once of the bubbly young violinist. She had been pretty and slightly chubby, with that thick black hair that Anne could only dream about. They had never been particularly close, but they were certainly often found together after class or sitting together on the lawn outside the music building with their books open and ignored around them as they chatted about everything under the sun. Perhaps Jasmine had never been one of her closest soulmates, but she had been a lovely person to hang out with and all of Anne’s memories were good ones.
Smith… So Jasmine had married. What else was she up to now? If Anne was to embrace a new attitude to life, where better to start than by reconnecting with an old friend, a link back to an earlier time when they had all been happy and carefree?
She poured herself a glass of iced tea and sat down to reply.
* * *
From: Anne Elliot
To: Jasmine Smith
Subject: Re: Reaching out, was Jasmine Hamilton
Jasmine!
What a wonderful surprise to see your email. Of course I remember you. After all those hours trying to figure out those harmonic progressions, how could I forget? I’ve thought about you often over the years and I’m so pleased you reached out.
What are you doing these days? Are you teaching? Do you have a family? If you are still in town, perhaps we could meet for a coffee and talk in person. I’d love to see you again.
Best,
Anne
Jasmine wrote back within the hour. She was back in Toronto after several years out of town and was very pleased to make plans. They settled on the coming Thursday afternoon near High Park, where Anne and William had gone for their first… date? Outing? Photography walk. It was an old but vibrant neighbourhood, and if the coffee shop proved too noisy, there would be plenty of places to walk around outside.
On Thursday, Anne dressed carefully. Her closet was a forest of dark blues and blacks, even her summer clothes, and she decided it was time to buy something a little brighter. Time to be a little brighter. Still, with the options before her, she chose a smart silk t-shirt in the dark blue that Sophia liked on her and paired it with a mosaic print broomstick skirt. Smart, but not fussy. Casual but still put together. A pair of gold stud earrings and a chunky necklace completed the look.
Then she went to the bathroom and found the blush she had bought for her outings with William, and dusted a bit on her cheeks. It was a soft pink, more a hint than a colour, but it helped her feel a bit more like the young musician Jasmine would have known all those years ago. A quick swipe of tinted lip gloss and a touch of mascara and she was ready. Easy but put together.
Still, she had changed a lot over the years, and not for the better, and she hoped Jasmine would recognise her.
When she entered the coffee shop, she knew Jasmine in a moment. If the years had been hard on Anne, they had been more so on her friend. But despite the drawn look about her mouth and eyes, her face was still pretty and her amazing hair tumbled down her back in an ebony waterfall, with not a streak of grey in it.
The moment their eyes met, Jasmine rose, and the two hugged each other like long-lost friends. Which, of course, they were.
After some preliminary how are you’s and the necessary ordering of lattes and snacks, they settled in to catch up with each other.
“You’re looking good, Anne.” Jasmine should have been a singer with her melodic voice. It was a gentle mezzo soprano, all smooth caramel and lilting cadences. “The photos in that newspaper spread were good, but they made you look older than you look in person. I guess the photographer wanted to emphasise your experience rather than your youth.”
“My youth!” Anne laughed. “That, my friend, has flown.”
“Ahem, but I’m three years older than you, and I still consider myself a babe, so you must be young. I’ll hear nothing else.”
Jasmine did look older. But it would not do to comment. Instead, Anne said, “So what have you been up to? I can’t believe it’s been so long.”
The other woman shook her head. Her smile was sad. “It’s been… it’s been a bit rough. I won’t lie. I went back to India for a while after I got my MEd. I had grand ideas of teaching music in the schools there.”
Of course. Jasmine inherited her British last name from her English father, but her complexion and features from her Indian mother. If Anne recalled, her grandfather had been the concertmaster of the New Delhi Symphony Orchestra—a venerable heritage for her violinist friend.
“Was your time in India what you hoped for?”
Now the smile was lighter. “Yes. I lived with my aunt and cousins and really loved it there. But when my father became ill, I moved back to Canada. He died two years later, and I stayed.”
Anne mumbled the appropriate condolences.
“Then I met Connor. That’s the Smith part of my name. We’ve been married for six years. No kids, before you ask.”
“You don’t seem happy.” In Anne’s limited experience, a wife should smile when talking to somebody about her husband for the first time.
“Oh, I am. That is… we are. Look, I won’t bore you with these messy details. Connor is great and I’m very happy with him, but we’ve fallen on some rough times and it’s taking its toll. But enough about me. We didn’t get together after all this time to listen to me moan.
“You! Annie Elliot, my study buddy, are a world-famous composer. I should ask if I can rub your hand. I want to hear all about you! Tell me about this new piece the newspaper article mentioned.”
And so, Anne told her about the composer-in-residence position and her symphony. “The real joy,” she added, “is working with the orchestra, having them as a partner in the process. What I hear in my head isn’t always what I hear from the stage, and their comments are helping me shape this symphony into something I’m very proud of.”
From here, they drifted into reminiscences of people they had known back in school. Anton, the cellist, Christina the guitar player, Monica the soprano. She had gone far—her fabulous voice now rang from some of the world’s best concert stages, not bad for a girl who grew up singing in her church choir in a small town in the Maritimes.
“What about that fellow you were dating? Fred. He was a couple of years ahead of us, right? He’s also made it big. He’s back in town too, isn’t he?” Jasmine’s eyes were wide. Did she really not know? “You two seemed made for each other. I guess it didn’t work out, eh?”
No. She didn’t know. Jasmine had done her master’s degree in education rather than in music and had rather disappeared from Anne’s life by the time she and Fred…
Anne swallowed a sigh and searched for the appropriate version of the tale. “We were together for a while. All through grad school, really.” That sounded okay. “But life took us in very different directions, literally. He went to Europe and I didn’t, and that was the end.”
Jasmine pinched her lips, her head shaking slightly. “That’s too bad. Is it strange having him back in town? You’ll be working with him at the orchestra, won’t you? Or are your roles so different that you don’t really have much to do with each other?”
A sip of coffee. Her usual avoidance technique.
No, she would not hide anymore. No more fumbling to protect her damaged soul. She sat up straight and looked her friend in the eye.
“It was uncomfortable at first, but we have established a good working relationship. We’re both in it for the music, so we’re on the same side. I wish him well in his life, wherever that leads him.”
Jasmine reached over to cover Anne’s hand. “You were always such a good egg, Annie. I’m so thrilled we’ve reconnected.”
They talked for an hour before Jasmine made her excuses. “I’m really sorry I have to go. I have my violin students coming. That’s how we’re making ends meet these days. But can we get together again soon? I’ve missed you.”
“Of course! I have my work, but my time is more flexible. Let’s make another date quickly.”
Both drew out their phones and in a matter of moments, a second coffee date was scheduled, to both women’s satisfaction. Perhaps, Anne considered as she walked back to the subway, the rest of the summer would not be so dreary after all.
Her prediction was accurate.
No sooner had she arrived home when her phone binged its notification of a text. It was from William.
Heading up to see the new development tomorrow. Join me?
She stared at the phone for a moment. Was this the move on his part that she had been wondering about? Until now, they had met in public near to their destination. She was usually coming by public transit, he by car. She had never been alone with him in his vehicle, other than the occasional quick drive home; at most such offers she had demurred and had returned by bus or subway. Perhaps that was the reason he had held back so much. Now that she thought about it, she was definitely sending messages that she was not ready to be alone with him for anything more than a few short minutes.
This invitation, though, was something very different. There was no question of her getting there by herself. Even if some sort of regional transit were available—a bus or a commuter train—the final leg of the trip would have to be by car. She could rent her own vehicle, she supposed, and drive herself, but that seemed contrary to the intent of the request.
William had always been everything polite and proper. What was making her so nervous?
She ignored his message for the time being and called Sophia instead.
Her friend answered on the first ring.
“Annie! You’ve been the busy creature of late. I was thinking you’d forgotten your old friends.”
“Hi Soph. I could never forget you! But you’re right. I’ve been out a lot recently.”
“Making up for lost time? The grapevine tells me you’ve been seen with William Barnett a lot.”
“Mmmm. He’s very attentive and we seem to have a lot in common.”
“And handsome. Don’t tell me that doesn’t make a difference.”
“You’re teasing me.” Pause. “That’s actually why I called. What do you know about him?”
On the other end of the line, Sophia hemmed for a moment. “I don’t know a lot, really. Just what I’ve seen on the official biography from the orchestra and the few minutes I’ve had to talk to him. Give me a moment.” Anne heard the phone being set down and then the sounds of somebody rustling around in the background, followed by the familiar clicks of hands tapping at a computer screen. Then Sophia’s voice was back, the tinny sound suggesting she had put the phone on the speaker setting.
“Right. He’s local, born in Toronto, educated in the UK and Montreal, thirty-eight years old, married once.”
Oh.
“You didn’t know?” Sophia sounded surprised. Had she heard Anne’s surprise over the phone?
“No. We’ve never really talked about our pasts that much. Mostly, we discuss art and our plans and ideas.”
It was true. Was this also a sign that his interest in her was purely platonic? Or was he once more giving her the space to bring up the past? Why were men so confusing?
Sophia clucked over the phone. “I see. Well, that’s fine. Better to know where a man is going than where he’s been. Do you want to know about his wife? If he hasn’t mentioned it… But then, it’s hardly a secret. A quick web search will tell you everything you need to know.”
“Just the basics, I guess.”
There were a couple of moments more of hemming, then Sophia continued. “She was from Montreal, from a wealthy and well-connected family. Part of the circles most of us never aspire to. Friends with the You-Know-Whos.” She didn’t elaborate, but Anne could imagine her eyebrows rising suggestively. The You-Know-Whos were probably some big political dynasty or something.
“It doesn’t look like it was a very happy marriage. Hmm…. from what I’m reading, they spent more time apart than together. You know the thing, she’s in Cancun, he’s skiing at Tremblant, that sort of stuff. But that’s when he started really getting involved in the big development projects he does now.”
“Yes. I know about that. We’ve talked about some of his developments. So, when did they divorce? I guess he got enough of a start that he didn’t need her money anymore.”
“Oh, they didn’t divorce. She died. Car crash. It was one one of those trips she took. Her car went off some mountain road. Sort of like Grace Kelly, but in Saint Lucia and not Monaco. It left him sitting pretty. Whatever she had, it’s all his now.”
Oh. “No wonder he’s never brought it up. Those must be hard memories to relive. Was he with her?”
“Give me a moment.” Another moment of hemming while Sophia clicked at her keyboard. “No. He was visiting some building site near Vancouver. She was with… let’s see… a friend. A man. He also died. I can’t find anything else right now. It was just one of those tragedies, I guess.”
“Wow. I wouldn’t want to talk about that either. But he’s okay? He’s asked me to go to see one of his developments up north tomorrow.”
“You’re being very Victorian, Anne. Are you asking if you can trust him? Of course you can. He’s on the board of the orchestra. The last thing he needs is for something to happen to the best thing that’s happened to the organisation in years. You’re his bread and butter right now.”
