Playing the Maestro

To all my musician friends.

Chapter One

Missing the Beat

Melody Mires plopped into the principal flutist’s seat in Easthampton’s illustrious Civic Symphony and buried her head in her hands. I’m never dating another self-centered, arrogant, egotistical musician again.

Bad date, huh? Carly ran her cleaning cloth through her oboe as her reeds soaked in a tiny shot glass on her music stand. Violins screeched around them while a French horn blatted arpeggios. It wasn’t exactly the best environment for discussing Melody’s dating habits.

Let’s just say two hours of listening to a guy talk about his Stradivarius is less than enticing.

Carly stuck her reed in her oboe and blew a tentative note. Ever since the board of directors had turned off the AC to save money, she’d pulled her pin-straight blond hair in a tight bun and wore shorts and sandals to rehearsal. Which one is he, Mel?

Melody considered letting the conversation drop. What did it matter? Every one of the musicians she’d dated was the same as her: burned out from practicing to beat the chair ahead of him, teaching five million lessons a day to make ends meet, scrambling for gigs two hours away on the weekends, so involved in a dying art form that he didn’t even know the Bruins were an ice hockey team.

What she needed was a nonmusician, a gorgeous firefighter or a clean-cut Gillette commercial model in a business suit. Yes, a lawyer who worked to defend the innocent would be nice, or a veterinarian for homeless and sick animals—someone who didn’t think the world revolved around him. But she didn’t travel in those social circles. She was stuck in the stuffy bubble of the classical music community.

So you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess? Carly set her oboe across her lap and shuffled through her sheet music.

Melody leaned over and whispered in her ear. Blake Templeton.

Carly gave her a shocked look. "Not Blake?"

Yup. She assembled her flute to try and look like she was warming up, thinking about the disastrous date with the orchestra’s personnel manager. Good thing it didn’t work out, or everyone would think I was dating him just so he’d tenure my position.

I’m surprised he’d ask you out, what with his sister and all…

Melody rolled her eyes. "Why would a flute prodigy from Julliard want this little Civic Symphony seat anyway? Seems to me a girl who played the Mozart G Major concerto in front of the New York Phil at age seven could get a seat in any orchestra. Age seven. When I was seven, the only thing I was playing was pretend flute on my toothbrush."

Carly shrugged as if she’d told her this flute whiz could tie her own shoes. You’re better than you think. You could give Blake’s sister a run for her money any day.

Thanks, hon. Melody twirled her dark curls behind her head and stuck a pencil in to hold the knot. Like I said. I swear never…

The orchestra quieted around them. A man with dark chestnut hair flowing in waves around his broad shoulders took the conductor’s podium and tapped his baton on the music stand. Blue eyes that reminded Melody of the Atlantic Ocean on a sunny day surveyed the orchestra. He pursed curvy lips framed by a strong-ridged jaw and gorgeously high cheekbones and gestured to Carly to give the tuning pitch.

Melody was glad the woodwinds sat in the back so he wouldn’t hear her audible gasp. Who the hell is that? She thought she knew everything happening with the orchestra.

Carly nodded to him and switched on her tuner, clipping a small mic to the bell of her oboe. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth. They just introduced him on the website this morning. Their latest surprise: Wolfgang Braun, the guest conductor from Berlin.

Melody stared in disbelief, thinking Chris Helmsworth’s Thor must have had a better-looking, long-lost cousin in Germany. Since when did conductors lift weights? She’d never have to force herself to look up for cues again.

Carly began her A, and Wolf crossed his arms, his large biceps stretching the fabric of his polo as the strings tuned. He creased his cool eyes as though every note was sour, personally offending his superior sense of aesthetic perfection. Then he winced as the older ladies in the back tried to tighten their strings.

Too bad he’s got a baton up his ass…

As the strings tapered off and the woodwinds began to tune, the new conductor locked eyes with Melody. Curiosity danced in his gaze as he sized her up from across the violas, and, her lungs deflating, she dropped her flute from her lips before her A fell twenty cents flat. Nerves she hadn’t felt since her conservatory days flooded her fingers.

What’s wrong with me? I’ve got no reason to be nervous. She could outplay any up-and-coming flutist, and she’d show him just how many hours she’d played her long tones, refining the clarity of her luscious flute sound.

Suddenly she missed the hunchbacked, half-blind Mr. Wallsworth, even though he couldn’t keep a steady beat. If only the founding father of the Civic Symphony had waited one more year to retire. He adored Melody’s playing, and she’d have her tenure no problem. But attendance at concerts was down, and the board had scrambled to find anything or anyone to boost turnout. Looks like they hit the genetic jackpot.

The tuning notes died away, and Wolf uncrossed his arms and opened his score. "Guten tag, my fellow musicians. He spoke in a thick German accent, each syllable strong and angular, like his face. The orchestra applauded tentatively and Mr. Hottie bowed. Not to be confused with Wolfgang Amadeus, you all can call me Wolf."

Wolf placed both arms on the conductor’s podium and leaned toward the orchestra. As you know, attendance has been less than desirable, so I’ve been working with the board of directors on a plan. We’re going to turn this orchestra around, and we’re going to start now.

Grunts of approval rang out, along with some worried looks from a few older ladies in the back. His words struck a dissonant chord within Melody. She never liked change, especially when it came to her orchestra. As long as it doesn’t mean replacing the current personnel.

Wolf gestured to Blake. Take it away, Concertmaster.

Blake stood, cradling his precious Stradivarius in the crook of his arm like a baby. "The bottom line is, we need to replenish our trust fund. Donors are getting scarce, and the price for renting the hall, the music, and paying all of you union wages is taking its toll. The last thing the board wants to do is close this orchestra, but if we don’t see big numbers—and fast—we’ll all be out of a job. I’ve chosen a dynamic program for our July Fourth concert in two weeks. Each ticket will be selling at twice the price. We need, I repeat need, to sell out this event. There will be a fund-raising auction one week prior to the concert, and all of you are required to attend."

Melody’s blood pressure shot up as Blake spoke. She’d auditioned for other orchestras in the past and had gotten on the sub lists, but no one ever retired, and she’d only received one playing call in the past five years since graduation. Not only that, but orchestras were going out of business left and right. The Easthampton Civic Symphony was her only claim to fame, and if that went down, so did her career.

Looking beyond her own personal problems, her heart went out to all the older retirees who would never play in an orchestra again.

Blake tapped his bow on the podium to quiet the murmurs racing through the group. One more thing. The annual concerto competition winners will perform during this benefit concert. Usually we open the spots to anyone playing in the orchestra. But this year, to create buzz, we’re going to open auditions to the community. Anyone who plays an instrument can enter.

Melody’s hands tightened around her flute. What if Blake’s sister entered? Her stomach dropped. As much as she hated memorizing entire concertos, she knew she needed to enter.

Wolf nodded to Blake and the violinist sat down. We can do this, but we’ll have to give a show no one’s ever seen before. He tapped his baton on the podium. On that note. Let’s begin with the Hiefinger.

It took Melody several seconds to register the name of the composer, but when she did, she felt like a fire engine had just barreled down on top of her, horn blaring and all. She hadn’t heard of him. Ever.

Carly shuffled through her music and brought out a hand-scribed piece of music with the name Hiefinger scrawled on the right corner. Melody frantically flipped through everything in her folder. Don Juan, a copy of Beethoven’s fifth from the last concert, an old letter from the board of directors, a page from her niece’s Disney princess book scribbled in pink crayon, and her orchestral excerpt book. No Hiefinger.

Her heart threatened to burst. Carly! she whispered and pointed to her stand. Where did you get that?

Carly’s face fell. You mean you didn’t get the music in the mail?

Blake Templeton, you forgetful bastard. One check over her shoulder told her everyone else had the music, even the second flute. Everyone but her.

Wolf’s arm came down, and a beautiful chord emanated from the strings.

Feeling like a kindergartener who’d forgotten her homework on the first day, Melody raised her hand and cleared her throat. Hold on.

The chord died into silence and Wolf stared at her icily. What is the problem?

Every single violinist turned around in his and her seat to gawk. Melody’s cheeks blazed like fire. I don’t have the music, sir.

Don’t have the music? He blinked as if the fact somehow gave him an allergic reaction.

She could tell he was already thinking she’d left it at home, lost it, or was too totally inept to even recognize the page in the first place. Her eyes shot to Blake and her voice grew hard, accusatory. I never received it.

Blake squinted his eyebrows. I sent everyone their parts on May first, along with a list of the concert order.

"Well, I didn’t get the Hiefinger or the list—"

Wolf held up his hand, silencing Melody. It’s mistakes like this that explain why the orchestra isn’t doing well.

She fumed in her seat like a baked potato, a million nasty names filling her mouth. Great. The king of all the self-centered, arrogant, egotistical male musicians on planet Earth and he’s my boss.

Either Blake was a bumbling idiot too caught up in his own playing to notice, or he was a devious plotter wanting to make her look bad for his flute goddess of a sister. And to think, he did this before our date. Had it even been a real date at all, or was he just trying to get information from her?

Annoyance flashed across the conductor’s rigid features before he hid it under a calm and gorgeous facade. Is there something we can do? Blake?

Blake sighed and picked his way through the violin section. I’ll check the library for duplicates.

Very well. There’s no sense in starting without the principal flute and one of the first violins. Wolf rubbed his forehead with his fingers, as if he questioned his decision to conduct an irresponsible American orchestra. He leaned back and crossed his arms again. We’ll wait.

Melody sat in humiliation while the entire orchestra fidgeted. The second flutist tapped her foot and clacked her keys up and down the C major scale, the violinists in the back raised their eyebrows and fingerpicked through their parts. One of the trombonists emptied his spit valve. Carly whispered to Melody. You sure you never got it?

She hadn’t earned the position of principal flutist by being irresponsible. Impulsive, yes, but not disorganized. She growled under her breath. I’m sure.

Melody wasn’t going to voice her suspicions about Blake and his ulterior motives with everyone around. And mentioning his sister would make her out to be crazy, insecure, or delusional. No, it was better she keep her mouth shut and pray to the sheet music god they had a spare first flute part.

Yup, this went down as #2 in the most embarrassing moments of her life, right along with throwing up at her sister’s wedding (#1) and driving into a curb while trying to read show times in front of the movie theater on a blind date (#3). She’d had a flat tire, but at least the most gorgeous musician of all time wasn’t breathing down her neck.

Blake returned with papers, which was a good sign. He nodded to Wolf and plopped the handwritten scrawl on Melody’s stand. Good luck sight-reading. It sounded like a challenge. Melody glanced at the page of black thirty-second notes littered with accidentals. Solo was written on top of almost every measure. Her stomach