A Note Yet Unsung Page 31

  Even though she didn’t want to finish that sentence, even in her mind, she knew that her choosing not to give it voice didn’t make it any less true. She loved him. She knew it. Maybe she’d known it for a while now but had ignored it.

  Tate never looked her way, but she suspected he already knew she was there. Nothing seemed to escape his—

  “Stop!” he thundered, the anger in his voice harsh, even for him. And like crystal glasses knocked from a tray, the music—only seconds earlier beautiful and soaring—crashed against an imaginary brick wall and plummeted and shattered onto the floor of the stage.

  “Why are you not responding to my cues?” he yelled. “Horns, are you asleep? I cued you and you did nothing. Nothing! Just kept playing. Flutes, you . . . ” He ran both hands through his hair and threw his baton to the ground. “We’re done for the day.” He stepped from the dais and strode offstage—straight toward her.

  Rebekah darted out the side door and ran as fast as she could back to the office. She plunked down on the piano bench and opened the music where she’d left off yesterday—only to discover huge Xs slashed through most all of her changes. No . . . correction. Through all of the changes she’d suggested.

  Heavy footsteps portended the storm, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t come in early after all. Had something happened in Chicory Hollow following her departure that had—

  Oh, no . . . his father.

  Something had happened to Angus. That had to be it. Her heart ached as she imagined the grief that Tate, his mother, and siblings must be enduring at his passing. And, of course, Tate would choose to dive back into his work, using anger as a shield and distraction.

  He entered the office and slammed the door behind him. “Don’t even pretend you weren’t there. I saw you the moment you arrived.”

  Rebekah rose, tears threatening. “Tate . . . I’m so, so sorry.”

  “I doubt that, otherwise you wouldn’t do it repeatedly.”

  She stared, stunned, and thrown a little off-balance. But she knew how difficult he could be at times, so she reached for patience, and tried again. “Tate, I know you’re angry right now. And hurting. But what I’m trying to convey to you is my sympathy over your—”

  “I need your sympathy like I need another . . . Darrow Fulton.” He exhaled. “With him for a concertmaster, I’m doomed. We all are.” He cut her a look. “You accused me of being addicted to laudanum? To morphine? Look no further than—”

  “Tate!” she interrupted.

  He fell silent.

  “If you’ll stop ranting for five seconds—” Heart pumping, she crossed the room to stand before him. She took a quick breath. “I’m trying to express to you how sorry I am about your father.”

  “My father,” he slowly repeated.

  She nodded.

  His eyes narrowed. “What about my father?”

  “About his—” Then she hesitated, wondering now if she’d misread the situation. “Wait. Is Angus . . .”

  Confusion clouded his features, and she suddenly shared the same uncertainty.

  “Tate, is your father still alive?”

  His eyes widened. “When I left Chicory Hollow yesterday, yes. He was. Why, have you heard something?” He paused, his confusion swiftly overrun by concern. “Did a telegram arrive?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “No telegram. I haven’t heard a thing. I simply thought that since you were so upset, something must have happened.” She stopped and briefly firmed her jaw. “Tate, what is it that has you so angry? That has you in this . . . state of mind?”

  An inexplicable emotion flickered behind his eyes. Then he looked at her as though she were touched in the head. “You were there just now, Rebekah. You heard them. There are no crescendos. No decrescendos. The entire orchestra ignores my every cue. It’s as if I’m not even standing up there conducting. And you have to ask me what’s wrong?”

  She backed away, so angry with him in that moment that she thought her hands might act of their own volition, wrap themselves around his throat, and squeeze. “Tate”—she managed a civil tone—“you’re telling me that all of this anger, this yelling and baton throwing is because of—”

  A sharp knock on the door jarred the already fragmented moment.

  “Come in,” Tate finally said, still staring at her.

  Rebekah returned to the piano bench, sat, and picked up the music, but saw only a haze of red as the door opened.

  “Excuse me, Maestro Whitcomb. I’m here to get the music, as you instructed during the rehears—”

  Recognizing the voice, Rebekah wished she could disappear. But she lifted her head. Judging from the disapproval on Darrow Fulton’s face, his feelings about her had changed about as much as hers had about him.

  Tate motioned. “The music is on the piano, Mr. Fulton. Have it ready by Friday. And please, for Chopin’s sake, learn the meaning of adagio.”

  Darrow crossed to where Rebekah was seated, his eyes never leaving hers. She resisted the urge to look away first, knowing it wouldn’t do for him to sense her unease. If he did, he would go for the jugular, like he always had.

  Tate motioned, as though having had an afterthought. “Allow me to make introductions. Mr. Fulton, this is my assistant, Miss—”

  “Rebekah Carrington,” Darrow finished for him, smiling an enemy’s smile. “Yes, I already have the pleasure of knowing Miss Carrington. She and I . . . grew up together.”

  Tate stilled. “Well . . .” His tone revealed surprise. “That’s an interesting bit of news of which I wasn’t aware.”

  “Yes, it’s true, Maestro Whitcomb.” Rebekah hurried to fill the silence. “Although . . . those childhood years feel quite distant these days. Do they not, Mr. Fulton?”

  Darrow’s smile only widened, the effect like venom, and Rebekah readied herself for the bite.

  “Have you played for the maestro yet, Miss Carrington? After all, as I recall, it always was your dream to become part of an orchestra, wasn’t it?”

  Pulse rapid, breath trapped at the base of her throat, Rebekah tried to think of a response. Darrow was referring to her playing the violin, she knew. And yet, if she answered No to his question, that would be a lie, and Tate would know it. Because she’d played the oboe for him.

  But if she answered Yes, then Darrow might question her further, thereby revealing she played the violin—and then what she’d vowed to keep hidden would be revealed. Either that, or her Yes might in some way divulge that she actually had auditioned for Tate, which could put Tate in a most awkward position with the symphony board.

  She looked past Darrow to Tate’s appraising gaze and thought again of how important this job was to her. To her future. How important Tate was to her. And of how quickly all of that was about to fall—

  “Miss Carrington is my assistant, Mr. Fulton.” Tate joined them. “So of course she’s played for me. Do you think I would hire someone who wasn’t familiar with music?”

  In an instant, Darrow’s smugness fell away. “Well . . . no, Maestro, of course not. I . . . I wasn’t implying that. I only wanted to see if she’d—”

  “Here’s your music.” Tate picked it up and handed it to him. “Will there be anything else?”

  It was then that Rebekah noticed the slight tremor in Darrow’s hand as he took the music. She thought of what Tate had just said, and though it hadn’t registered at the time, it did now. And putting two and two together . . .

  “No, Maestro Whitcomb.” Darrow ducked his head. “Thank you for the music, sir.”

  Rebekah sensed Darrow’s parting glance. But pencil in hand, she feigned immersion in the sheet music, and only once the door had closed did she breathe and look up again.

  Tate was watching her. “Childhood sweethearts, I presume?”

  She stared. “What?”

  “You. And Darrow Fulton. His discomfort was obvious. So therefore, I’m assuming there was some sort of . . . romantic connection between you. Albeit, as youths.”

&n
bsp; She scoffed, then shook her head. “You really are something. Do you know that?”

  “So you’re saying that you and Mr. Fulton—”

  She stood. “Darrow Fulton would no more look at me in a romantic sense than I would him. The man was the bane of my childhood existence. His goal was to torment me. And he was good at it! So what I am telling you, Maestro Whitcomb, is that Darrow Fulton and I have never been—”

  Tate took her in his arms and kissed her, his lips gentle at first. Then slowly, deliberately, as he wove his hands into her hair, his kiss grew more insistent, his breath quickening as did hers. Rebekah had thought the moment they’d shared behind the ticket office had robbed her of composure, but this—

  She felt herself melting into him, keenly aware of where she ended and he began, but her desire for him begged her to lessen that distance. She wrapped her arms around his neck just to make certain she stayed upright.

  “Rebekah,” he whispered against her mouth.

  He tasted of mint and something else sweet.

  “What,” she said softly.

  “Are we still arguing?”

  “Yes . . .” She grinned. “And I’m winning.”

  He laughed. “If this is how we argue . . .” He kissed her again. “Then I’ll let you win every time.”

  She broke the kiss and drew back slightly. “You’ll let me win?”

  The gleam in his eyes told her his comment had been intentional.

  She laughed softly and searched his gaze. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

  “I missed you too. But why are you here so early?”

  “The Cheathams extended their stay in Murfreesboro, so I came in to get a jump on things. I managed to get a lot accomplished yesterday afternoon, but”—she turned and reached for her notes—“imagine my surprise when I came in and found this.”

  She held up the pages of notes that he’d X’d out.

  He stepped back. “Rebekah, I was frustrated when I came in and saw that first thing this morning.”

  “If you don’t agree with a change or suggestion I make, all you have to do is say it. You don’t have to—”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” He reached for the notes. “Let me look at what you wrote again.”

  He did, rubbing his right temple as he read through her comments, and she wondered if it was wise for her to return to their previous conversation.

  “As for the orchestra earlier, Tate.” She chose her words carefully. “I know you strive for perfection . . . and I don’t fault you for that,” she added quickly. “It comes with the territory, as they say. But I do think that, at times, you could listen more carefully. Because there were crescendos and decrescendos. I heard them.”

  His expression hardened, almost as if a door had been slammed shut between them.

  “Now,” she continued, “perhaps the escalation in volume is not to your standards, which are high. As they should be.” She softened her tone, thereby trying to soften the words. “But I do believe the orchestra is attempting to follow your lead. That’s all I’m trying to—”

  The door suddenly opened.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Maestro. But to celebrate your return from guest conducting this weekend, I made breakfast for us again. Including your favorite muffins and—” Miss Caroline Endicott looked up and stopped stone-cold, her expression swiftly turning likewise.

  26

  Oh . . .” Miss Endicott looked at Rebekah and affected a laugh that came out flat and unconvincing. “How wonderful to see you again, Miss Carrington. I didn’t realize the maestro and I would have company this morning.” The sparkle in the woman’s eyes narrowed to a glint. “What brings you in so early?”

  Rebekah forced a smile. “Good morning, Miss Endicott.” Knowing she should say more, the comments “made breakfast for us again” and “favorite muffins” struck a shrill note inside her, and it took effort to coerce some kindness into her expression while also trying to make it appear genuine.

  After all, she’d kissed Tate twice—she could still feel his lips on hers, for heaven’s sake—and she didn’t know the man’s favorite muffin! Much less had she made breakfast for him. Working to form a response, she opened her mouth, but Tate beat her to it.

  “Good morning, Miss Endicott! Miss Carrington’s usual morning tutorial was canceled. So she very graciously came in early. Which is good, because there’s plenty of work to do.”

  “Well!” Miss Endicott’s grip tightened on the baskets. “How marvelous for us all.”

  “It’s very kind of you to bring breakfast . . . again.” Tate’s voice gained a gentility it lacked before. “But as I’ve told you, that’s not necessary.”

  “I know it’s not.” The young woman turned her full attention—and charms—toward Tate. “But I like taking care of you, Maestro. And I know you don’t eat as well as you should. So why don’t I set this up on your desk, like we did last time.” She threw Rebekah a look. “I’m certain Miss Carrington won’t mind. She has plenty of work to do, as you said.”

  “Miss Endicott . . . ” Tate stepped forward. “I don’t believe that’s—”

  “Of course, I don’t mind.” Rebekah didn’t know whether or not her smile looked genuine, but the jealousy twisting her insides certainly felt real enough. And she didn’t like it. The jealousy. Or the fact that Tate spent two mornings a week with this woman. She’d known Miss Endicott was a flirt. But she hadn’t known to what extent those flirtations reached. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t thought it through. Either way, she hadn’t cared that much.

  Until now. But care she did. Yet she tried hard not to show it.

  Tate caught her gaze, and his eyes communicated something she couldn’t quite comprehend. So she simply smiled, then plunked back down at the piano and looked at the page where she’d left off. She saw, for a second time, the huge Xs he’d slashed through her suggested changes, and she wished she could slash through something of his at the moment. Instead, she busied herself with transcribing, doing her best not to listen to the conversation going on six feet behind her.

  “You just sit right down, Maestro. There you are! And I’ll do everything for you.” A twitter of laughter resembling that of a drunk magpie interjected the woman’s sickening sweetness. “Here’s your napkin. Let’s tuck that in. And I brought the bacon you liked so much last time. Fried all nice and crispy.”

  “This is very nice, Miss Endicott. But I really have a lot of work to do, so perhaps—”

  “And I’ll help you get every bit of that work done, Maestro. Once you’ve had a good breakfast.”

  Rebekah was going to be sick. Right there. On the piano. And it would serve Tate right. Letting the woman fawn over him like that. Ridiculous!

  “And here’s your muffin. Buttermilk spice. Buttered just like you like it.”

  Buttermilk spice was his favorite? Rebekah vowed never to eat another one again.

  “Once you’re finished with breakfast, Maestro, if you’d like for me to rub your shoulders like last time then—”

  She’d rubbed his shoulders?

  “Miss Endicott, that will not be necessary, I assure you. As I’ve told you before.”

  A simpering sigh. “Whatever you say, Maestro. As long as you’re still coming to dinner this week. Mother and Father are looking forward to spending time with you again. Mother’s asked our cook to make the braised lamb you liked so much last time. And I’ll make sure to give you a personal tour of our winter garden as well.”

  Having heard all she could stomach, Rebekah rose. “If you’ll both excuse me, I need to play these measures aloud. So I believe I’ll use the piano down the hall.”

  “Rebek—” Tate started. “Miss Carrington. There’s no need to . . .”

  But Rebekah was already out the door. She hurried down the hall, despite not hearing any footsteps pursuing her. She spotted Mrs. Bixby at the desk at the end of the hallway.

  “Mrs. Bixby, would it bother you if I were to use the piano in the ba
ck room?”

  “It wouldn’t bother me a bit, dear. But I’m afraid it hasn’t been tuned in ages. However, the grand on the stage is available.” The woman leaned forward, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. “Why not play that one? No one will mind. At least, no one who’s here right now.” She winked. “Mrs. Murphey is gone for the morning.”

  Rebekah smiled. “Remind me to hug you later.”

  Mrs. Bixby frowned. “Why wait for later?”

  Rebekah laughed, skirted about the desk, and hugged the woman tightly. But it was the way Mrs. Bixby rubbed and patted her back—much like a mother would her daughter—that coaxed her emotions to the surface.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bixby,” she whispered, finally drawing back.

  “Oh, my dear . . .” Mrs. Bixby looked into her eyes. “Is everything all right?”

  Rebekah nodded. “It will be. Once I start playing that grand.”

  Mrs. Bixby nodded and squeezed her hand.

  Rebekah let herself onto the stage via the side door. All the wall sconces had been extinguished, but the high-arching windows at the back of the aging hall let in ample light for her purposes.

  She sat on the bench, arranged the music on the stand before her, and placed her hands on the keys, her thoughts firing at rapid speed. What kind of man was Tate Whitcomb, truly? The man she knew here in Nashville? Or the man she’d seen in Chicory Hollow? Or were they both Tate Whitcomb, and he merely adapted to his surroundings? Or to the various women surrounding him?

  But she knew better than that. . . . Didn’t she?

  Wanting to silence the questions, she began playing, but something entirely different from the music on the page flowed from her fingertips. A piece she’d committed to memory years ago, shortly after moving to Vienna. And as she played, she let the beloved music soothe the hurt—and the jealousy, which she detested in herself.

  Herr Heilig had happened upon her playing this piece late one evening on the family’s piano in the central parlor. He’d given her permission to play the beautiful instrument as often as she wished. So she had. He’d paused briefly inside the doorway. “Do you know, Fräulein Carrington, that Chopin wrote this when he was no more than twenty? Splendid talent that man possessed. And gone too soon from this world. You honor him in your playing. He would be pleased.”