Kimberly Stuart (8 page)

Andante

“Next week the Copland,” I said.

“Thank you, Ms. Maddox,” James said. Five weeks into the semester and with a burgeoning studio of students, James was one of my favorites. He wasn't a music major, which explained why he was so self-assured. James came from a long line of athletes, and Moravia paid his tuition in exchange for services on the basketball court. Music, he'd told me, was his guilty pleasure. A deep, easy baritone came naturally to James. And though I wouldn't have predicted it judging by those horrible nylon shorts hanging well below his knees in all kinds of weather, James had a poet's appreciation of language.

He shoved his notebook and
lieder
into a fraying backpack. Long, dark curls fell into his eyes. He pulled a strand behind an ear and straightened to his full six feet, six inches. He looked down at me wide-eyed and said, “Ms. Maddox, you were amazing in the faculty recital. My music friends can't stop talking about it.”

“You're too kind, James,” I said. The truth was that I'd forgotten about the recital until a few days before, when the insecure Norwegian had sent me a reminder e-mail. I'd chosen two tried and true encore arias and had met only once with the pianist. The reception, particularly from the students, had been very warm. I couldn't remember the last time I'd received such unfettered and thunderous applause. Too bad no one from the
Times
had been there to review.

“Dude, I know I'm a baritone, but I'd kill to have your pipes. Even as a guy.” James looked mildly confused by his own reasoning.

I arched one eyebrow. “James, I'm sure there are counselors on campus who can help you work through any gender issues you have.”

“Okay. All right.” His eyes twinkled. “I can take the sass. ‘Gender issues …'” He shook his head of curls in mock disapproval. “You're not exactly the typical professor, are you?”

I sniffed. “Not by a long shot. Practice hard and I'll see you next week.”

He grinned and ambled out the door. I propped it open behind him and looked down the hall. Mallory Knight, my elusive student assistant, held the next slot and was late yet again. Her initial Little Miss Can't-Do-Wrong impersonation with the neatly inked index card and syrupy smiles had been solely for the benefit of Ellsworth. I'd seen very little initiative from the girl since. Once, after two phone messages and three e-mails, I'd gotten her to photocopy some materials for my students. But the effort involved in coercing work out of her had prevented me from enlisting Mallory's services again. I'd thought about broaching the topic with Ellsworth but decided I'd rather get my own coffee and Xerox copies if I could avoid Mallory's incompetence and snobbery in one fell swoop.

I sighed to think of the half hour before me and headed back into my office. The view outside my window was pristinely white. We were well into February and had been hit by a series of snowstorms in the previous weeks. I'd come to prefer snow to the gray. Delicate white lines outlined the branches arching past my window. I watched a group of boys pelt each other with snowballs. A passerby ducked to avoid being hit.

“Sorry I'm late,” Mallory said letting the door shut with a bang.

I turned from the window.

Mallory flopped down with a thud on a chair by the piano, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“It's fine,” I said slowly, “though you'll end up with a shorter lesson.”

“Oh, well,” she said, smiling sweetly. “My loss, then.”

I sat at the piano. “Mallory, do you have a problem with being late to other classes as well?” I cringed even as the words came out of my mouth.

Her eyes widened. “You know what, Ms. Maddox? Now that you say it, I don't think I do. You're the
only one
I'm consistently late for.” She shook her head in bewilderment.

I studied her a moment. Chocolate-colored hair cut just above the shoulders so that it swung when she walked. Long lean legs, showcased today in an A-line skirt and tall boots. Olive skin, brown eyes, full lips, and straight teeth that matched the white Peter Pan collar peeking out from the top of a fitted sweater. Most of my students at Moravia were like James, sweet, compliant, deferential to the fact that I knew far more than they did about most things. But this tart before me was a test of my goodwill.

“Shall we then?” I said briskly. “Take out the Mozart.”

She riffled through a small stack of music.

If she couldn't bring herself to be civil, I thought as I waited, I'd just watch her flounder until forced to ask for my help. During our lessons in weeks prior, Mallory had fumbled through her assignments, clearly having neglected the many practice rooms in Kjellman. I knew she was double majoring in voice and viola performance, something I thought absolutely ludicrous and an indulgence that would be openly mocked at more prominent conservatories. Even with divided attention and demands on her time, or perhaps because of them, I expected her to bring her absolute best to my office. I'd been promised the cream of the vocal performance crop, and she was failing miserably.

I opened my score, glanced over the page, and couldn't help but smile. Kind-hearted educators probably ached in the face of their students crashing and burning, but I knew as I looked over this particular aria that a few moments of revenge were to be mine. This piece was a killer, with an Italian text that demanded an emotional maturity I was sure she didn't have. She'd picked the piece herself, though, and had lobbied for her readiness. I plunked out a few chords to set her up for the recitative and brought her in with a nod.

The beginning measures were a train wreck. Her eyes were glued to the score, she was unsure of the Italian pronunciation, and she had all the grace of a box turtle as she moved with the music. In my benevolence, I did not roll my eyes. As the recit drew to a close, I decided to let her continue into the aria, knowing within a few phrases of the coloratura, she'd bow out on her own.

Mallory put down her score and stepped away from it slightly. She drew in a slow breath from the diaphragm and began. I went from catty indifference to disbelief as my mouth hung open. Her phrases became languid and sweet, air moving through each line with energy and life. Her eyes came alive, sparking with the text as she described the betrayal of a lover. The diction was still shaky in parts, but as I finished the final few measures of accompaniment, I was weak from emotional involvement in her performance.

Silence fell. I looked up from the piano keys. “Mallory,” I said, “where has
that
been the last month?”

She shrugged. “I guess I connect with this piece.”

I nodded slowly. “It shows. Your lines are like taffy. You draw out emotion in places most singers your age would skip right over. And while I've always thought your tone was pleasant, today it was magnificent.” I shook my head, mostly to myself. “I thought you'd fall flat on your face.”

Her face hardened instantly. “Why? Because I'm at a no-name college instead of at Juilliard or Eastman?” She started gathering her things even though we still had ten minutes left.

I stood up and put both hands firmly on the top of the piano. “Actually, because you have given me no reason to believe otherwise. Your treatment of me and of the music you've been studying has been, at best, mediocre. But today, for a dramatic change, you were excellent.”

She let out a short laugh and tossed her music into a bulging purple backpack. She hefted it onto a bony shoulder and stood in front of me. I saw in her face one of the many reasons I'd never regretted having children, so many of whom end up hating their parents anyway. “Ms. Maddox,” she said, “I'm glad you liked me today. But guess what?” She enunciated much more clearly in English than Italian. “I'm only studying with you this semester because my voice teacher requested it of me. She thinks I harbor secret longings for a career in New York, though I've never said anything to that effect. She thinks studying with you will
inspire
me,
motivate
me to want fame like the great Sadie Maddox.” She said my name like the words might infect her. “She's wrong. But I'm here anyway. Let's just make the best of it, shall we?”

She turned to go and I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Listen, missy,” I said, my voice low. “
I
am the one making concessions here.” I could feel my heart pounding and my hands starting to shake. “Do not presume to tell me you're doing me a favor.” I stepped between her and the door and looked at her, eye to squinty little coed eye. “Come
every
week with your A game or I'll transfer you right back to Sweetie Pie Voice Teacher who doesn't know New York talent from a cockapoo. Are we agreed?”

For the first time in our relationship, Mallory looked impressed with me.

“Got it,” she said, blinking once.

I moved aside and let her leave.

The rumble of Mac's truck filtered through the heavy front doors of Kjellman. I buttoned my coat and pulled on a pair of cinnamon gloves with matching beret. Using all my body weight, I persuaded one of the doors to open and stood for a moment under the roof. The world was awash with lumbering, wet snowflakes that dropped unceremoniously from a milky sky. Mac strode up the walk like it was seventy degrees and sunny instead of fifteen and a personal injury lawyer's dream. He offered me his arm without a word. We moved slowly down the walk, my pointy-toed heels making triangular, sliding tracks in my wake.

“You're not one for practical clothes, are you?” Mac muttered, visibly annoyed with our snail's pace.

“But think of the dividends in how good I look.”

Mac grunted, completely missing his opportunity to flatter a woman. I shook my head under the beret. It was no wonder the man was single.

I pulled myself up into the warm cab of Mac's pickup. In the weeks since I'd arrived in Maplewood, I'd become a veritable cowgirl in my ability to scale large vehicles.

Mac threw open his door and shoved the gearshift into reverse in one smooth motion. In the course of our morning and evening commutes, Mac and I had settled into a comfortable arrangement. We'd converse if the mood hit us but did not feel compelled to fill the air with mindless banter. He let me listen to my iPod, make notes to my students or on my scores, and take calls when necessary. I was content to leave him to his brooding silences and to an extent, his country music, as long as the volume didn't interrupt my train of thought.

We crept around the town square, even the snow-adept drivers of Maplewood using extra caution on the roads that evening. I watched the flakes erase the brown of winter, stubborn and still staking its claim at the end of February. A whiny woman on the radio crooned about tight jeans and red lipstick, all the things her man loved.

“When does spring arrive in Iowa?” I asked, watching a woman shuffle down the street clinging to a paper bag of groceries.

Mac shrugged. “Sometimes the beginning of March, usually by the end April.”

I sighed. “I don't know how you stand it. Spring can be elusive in New York as well, but at least there are distractions from the dismal weather.”

“And what, Sadie Maddox, are your favorite distractions?” He kept his eyes on the road but there was a smile in his voice.

I cleared my throat. “My distractions.
Hmmm.
I love going to dinner with friends, attending concerts, exhibits, galas—”

“Galas?”

“Charity functions, fund-raising balls, black-tie affairs. I like to dress up.”

“Wouldn't have guessed that.”

“In addition,” I said pointedly, “I like to dance. Not the way you do it here, but the old-fashioned way. I like ballroom dancing.”

Mac stole a glance at me. “That right?”

I nodded. “It's so elegant. Of course, everything depends on the man. If you have a useless male leading, it's impossible to resurrect a dance from death.”

Mac shook his head and chuckled. “Just tell me how you feel, now. Don't be shy.”

I laughed, too, and was still smiling when my phone rang. It was Richard.

“Richard, how are you?”

“Fine, darling. You sound bubbly. Smell of manure getting to you?”

“You know, I believe the stench has subsided. Or perhaps I'm more fully evolved than you thought I was.”

“So self-evolution is connected to pig droppings?”

“Richard, I'm in great spirits,” I continued without pause. “I'm on my way home in a snowstorm but perfectly safe in the hands of Mac Hartley, pickup driver and line dancer extraordinaire.”

“Oh, yes, Mac. Of course,” Richard said. “Give the guy a slap on the back for me, won't you?”

I pulled the phone away. “Mac, Richard says hello.”

Mac nodded curtly and kept his eyes glued to the road.

“Mac says hello, too, Richard. He's busy saving me from a tumble into the ditch.” A flock of lights flickered in the distance. Mac slowed the truck and rolled down his window to talk to a state trooper parked on the opposite side of the road.