Reverie Read online

  Suddenly, he has our undivided attention.

  “We usually have one McInnes Conservatory student make it into the competition.”

  “This year, we do not have one.”

  An audible stir of disappointment crosses the entire orchestra like a wave. The Maestro waits until he once again has the full attention of the one hundred musicians before him, then he gives us a sly smile.

  “I’m so proud to report that we don’t have one student in the running, we have three!”

  He shouts the number with an excited little hop that makes his hair shift slightly to the left.

  “Please stand up so we can recognize you…. Calvin Burridge, French horn! Stand up, Cal!”

  All heads swivel to the back of the orchestra and the horn section. Always calm and composed, Cal stands up, still holding his horn and gives a brief wave to his cheering colleagues. Everybody loves Cal. He’s working on his doctoral degree and he’s not just talented, he’s a decent guy. I’m really happy for him.

  When the applause has died down, the Maestro continues.

  “Congratulations to ANOTHER horn player, Jeremy Corrigan!”

  If Jeremy is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He simply stands and nods smugly as if to confirm what he has known all along. Now we all face front again to hear who the Maestro will call next. It’s so quiet that I can hear Mila’s stomach rumble next to me.

  “And then there was one!” Hagen teases with an impish smile on his face. He looks around the orchestra, from one section to the next until he cannot contain his excitement anymore.

  “And finally, please join me in congratulating…. our principal cellist, Miss Julia James!”

  Wait. Did he just say my name? Everyone has turned to look at me, so I must have heard him right. I can feel the warmth rising from below my collar up to my forehead. I’m sure I must be turning a lovely shade of scarlet as the people around me applaud and whistle. I’m shocked, thrilled, and terrified. Mila has to give me a push to get me to stand up.

  Don’t look down at your feet; don’t look down at your feet.

  But there is no controlling the blushing. I notice one of the girls in the violin section pointing and whispering to her stand partner. I pretend not to notice them giggling at me.

  I hear someone call out “Mouse!” I hate that nickname.

  “All right! Congratulations to the three of you! I expect you will represent us well, and I hope you will all make it through to the next round!”

  Finally, our cue to sit down once more.

  “You made it!” squeals Mila.

  “Yes, I did,” I mumble under my breath as I open up the Tchaikovsky.

  4

  French toast. It’s all I can think about in my last hour of practicing. I realize why when I glance at my watch– I’ve worked through lunch and dinner. Now that I’ve cleared the first hurdle, I have less than a month to put together a program to play as I compete against two- dozen other cellists. Time, as they say, is of the essence.

  It’s after midnight, and I’m absolutely starving. But this is nothing new. The waitresses at the diner across from Lincoln Center know me by name now. They give me the booth in the back where there’s extra space for my cello.

  “Hi, Leslie!” I say with a wave to the matronly, gray-haired woman who’s been serving me midnight breakfast for years now.

  “Hey there, sweetie! Have you been over there at the school practicing again?”

  “Always,” I groan. “And I’m starving. Any chance you’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get myself seated,” I say, starting to head for the back.

  Leslie leans over the counter toward me and speaks in a stage whisper.

  “Julia, I’m sorry but there’s someone in your usual spot. If I’d known for sure you were coming…”

  I wave a hand at her dismissively.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll park this beast somewhere else,” I say, patting the case on my back.

  As I turn the corner to look for an alternative booth I stop in my tracks. Sitting there is none other than the dashing Jeremy Corrigan. He’s writing something in a notebook when he looks up suddenly and spots me. Damn. No stealthy retreat possible. It’ll look rude if I turn around now. Won’t it?

  I give him a small smile of recognition and a nod to acknowledge that I know him.

  Okay, that was fine.

  He cocks his head as if trying to place me and I see the sudden light of recognition cross his face.

  I’m about to slide into a booth a few down from his when he decides to speak to me.

  “You’re out late,” he says.

  “Oh, it’s still early for this one!” Leslie pipes in as she arrives with a pot of coffee and a fresh cup. “Where did you decide to sit, honey?”

  “Uh- I think over here…” I gesture to the spot I’ve picked but he interjects.

  “Please, join me,” Jeremy says.

  I must be looking at him funny because he says:

  “Unless, of course, you’d rather be alone…”

  Now he and Leslie are both waiting for me to say something. Well, I might not ever get an opportunity like this again.

  “Sure, thanks. The company would be nice.”

  And then he bestows upon me a beautiful, gleaming, crinkly-eyed smile. I think it’s maybe the nicest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s warm and welcoming, friendly and familiar. With this one expression he makes me feel as if he’s been here, counting the minutes till my arrival. I like this smile very much.

  I set the cello down in a corner and slide in across the table from him.

  “The usual?” Leslie asks as she pours my coffee.

  “Yes, please.”

  When she’s gone, I have no choice; I have to look at him.

  “Julia, right?”

  “Uh.... yes....”

  “You don’t sound so sure about that.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch up and his smile turns teasing.

  “I am. Yes. Julia. Sorry…”

  “I’m Jeremy,” he says, as if I don’t know.

  “Yeah…”

  This is getting worse by the second. He must think I’m a total idiot.

  “Congratulations on making the Kreisler list,” he says, by way of an icebreaker.

  “Um, thanks. You, too.”

  “Are you just leaving the practice rooms now?” he asks, glancing down at the watch on his wrist.

  “Yes. How come you’re out so late?”

  “I was covering for a friend in one of the Off-Broadway pit orchestras. Just got out a little while ago and I’m starving. I love breakfast for dinner.”

  He leans forward and says this last part softly, as if he’s letting me in on his deepest, darkest secret. It makes me smile.

  “Me, too. I’m a regular here,” I say.

  “I could tell when she asked if you want your usual. What is your usual, by the way?”

  “French toast- on the thin bread, not the challah, with warm syrup and crispy bacon.”

  “Now I’m sorry I ordered the eggs and home fries.”

  Again he leans forward conspiratorially.

  “And you know, I’m a big fan of warm, sticky syrup.”

  Now he looks a little… what? Impish? Naughty? Sexy as hell is what he really looks like, and I’m fairly certain he isn’t talking about breakfast food anymore.

  Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush.

  “You don’t say much, do you?” he asks when I ignore the comment and sip my coffee.

  “Oh, sorry! I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just wiped out from practicing all day.”

  And I’m totally tongue-tied by your rugged good looks. Did I mention my knees are knocking, too? Being this close to him has made me a nervous wreck.

  “So, do you know what you’ll play for the next round?” he asks, steering my thoughts back into safe territory.

  “Bach
for sure, I’m still consulting with my teacher on the rest. What about you?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m thinking one of the Mozart Concertos. Oh, and there’s the Villanelle for piano and horn. That’s an option, too.”

  “Oh, I love that Villanelle. I heard you play it at your senior recital last year. It was amazing!”

  My sudden enthusiasm seems to take him aback. His dark eyebrows knit together as if he’s trying to remember something.

  “You were there? At my recital?”

  I nod and take another sip. The coffee cup has become a life raft that I’m clinging to in an attempt to keep from drowning. I take a quick look around. Where is Leslie? I’m going to be fake-sipping soon if she doesn’t get me a refill quick.

  “How could I have missed that?”

  “Missed what?” I ask, turning back to him.

  “You.”

  Oh.

  “I’m easy to miss,” I say in my usual breezy, self-deprecating manner.

  But he doesn’t smile back at me. In fact, every bit of humor has left his face. Oh, hell. What have I said now? This isn’t going well at all.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “What?”

  He sighs exasperatedly.

  “You think you’re easy to miss?”

  I look down at the table in front of me, hoping he won’t notice the redness I can feel in my cheeks.

  “Apparently,” I mumble.

  “Meaning what?” he asks, suddenly sounding a little defensive.

  I look up. I can tell I’m irritating this pretty boy, but there are some things that even quiet little Julia can’t let go by.

  “Jeremy, we’ve been playing in the same orchestra and sitting in the same classes for five years. Five! And you weren’t even sure of my name until just now.”

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t respond for what feels like the longest time, and just keeps his eyes squarely on mine. Hazel. They aren’t brown after all; they’re definitely hazel.

  Dammit! Focus, Julia! I have to will myself not to look away. Not this time.

  Finally, to my utter shock, Jeremy is the one to look down.

  “You’re absolutely right, Julia. And I apologize, I won’t make that mistake again.”

  I’m spared from having to respond by Leslie, who brings our plates out and sets them down in front of us. She catches my eye, gives a little gesture toward Jeremy with her eyebrows and winks at me.

  We prepare our food in awkward silence. He slaps the bottom of the ketchup bottle. I pick up the syrup, look at it and put it back down again.

  “What?” he asks, noticing.

  I giggle a little.

  “What?”

  “You’ve made my syrup seem… dirty,” I say with a smile.

  He looks perplexed for a moment, and then a sly grin crosses his face.

  “Then I’ve done my duty for the night.”

  I shake my head and smile, the tension suddenly broken. Mila is never going to believe this.

  “So how are things back in the horn section?” I ask, moving on to a more neutral topic. “Is it weird with you and Cal Burridge both in the running for the horn slot at the Kreisler’s?”

  He shakes his head as he chews a piece of rye toast.

  “Nah. No more than usual. I’m not worried about it anyway.”

  “Oh? Are you that certain you can beat him out?”

  He shrugs.

  “Is he a good horn player? Absolutely, one of the best in the country for sure. Is he better than me? I don’t think so. But, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what the judges think.”

  “Huh.”

  The single syllable comes out sounding a little more snarky than I had intended.

  “You disagree?” he asks, picking up on my disapproval.

  “Disagree? No… Well, I guess a little. It’s just so different from the way I look at things.”

  “Okay, so what’s your thought process then? You’re the top cellist at one of the most exclusive conservatories in the country. What did it take, mentally, for you to get here?”

  “It wasn’t a mental process for me,” I say with a shrug.

  One of those arch-y eyebrows shoots up skeptically. Really? He wants to debate philosophy of success over eggs? Fine. I may be reserved when it comes to a lot of topics, but music isn’t one of them.

  “It was… it is a physical process for me. I practice until I have calluses on my fingers. Most days I’m running on five hours of sleep so I can spend the rest of the time prepping for rehearsals and lessons. I have a cello teacher, an accompanist and an audition coach. In other words, I work my butt off. That’s my process.”

  “Okay, so hard work is how you got there. Fair enough. But let’s take the music out of the equation…”

  “What?”

  He holds up his palm.

  “Please, just indulge me for a second. You beat out a lot of fine musicians to become principal cello at McInnes. There must be a dozen of them who would love to see you lose. You’re not naive, you know that they’re gunning for you.”

  He pauses and looks at me quizzically.

  “You do know that, don’t you?”

  I shrug.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he presses, looking at me with an intensity I didn’t know he possessed.

  “I’m not naive. Nor am I an idiot. Of course I know that. Hell, Mila Strassman would skewer me with her bow to move up a chair if she thought she could get away with it.”

  “She’d never get away with it,” Jeremy interjects. “That girl can’t keep her mouth shut. She’d be telling everyone what she’d done in under thirty seconds.”

  I give in to a tiny chuckle because he’s right, but I want to finish my thought.

  “As I was saying, I am aware. I just choose to ignore it.”

  “Ignore what? You don’t think they all talk about you, behind your back? Don’t forget, I sit behind you, Julia, and I’ve got a great view of your section. I see the other cellists snickering when you’re singled out to demonstrate how something should be played. I was in Maestro Hagen’s office when Tom Carson came in to complain about you last semester. I think you were out sick or something, and that idiot was petitioning to take your spot!”

  He has become louder and more animated. In the mirror on the wall next to me I can see Leslie look up from where she’s clearing another booth. I purposely drop my volume a little lower, hoping he’ll get the hint.

  “What do you have to be so indignant about?” I ask with a half-smile. “The cello crazies are my problem. And the truth is, Jeremy, that if the Maestro doesn’t think I deserve my spot, he’ll demote me. If any of them is a better cellist than me, they deserve to sit first chair. That’s the way it is.”

  He starts to jump in, but I’m on a roll.

  “And you know, for a guy who didn’t recognize me when I walked in the door, you seem to pay very close attention to what people are saying about me.”

  “I pay very close attention to what people are saying about everybody,” he says coolly.

  “Life can be unfair,” I begin slowly, “even tragic at times. There are things far worse than people talking about you behind your back.”

  Now I’m done. And I’m immediately sorry to have been sucked into this debate with a guy I barely know.

  “Such as?” he asks, his voice trailing off.

  “Such as what?”

  “What ‘far worse’ things have you encountered?”

  Nope. Not going there.

  “You know, Jeremy, maybe you should leave the cello section drama to me and focus on the other four players in the horn section. They hate you. Seriously hate you.”

  I’m not totally surprised when a wide, brilliant smile passes across his face.

  “That, Julia, is exactly the effect I’m going for.”

  I sigh in exasperation and flag down Leslie for the check. I think it’s about time to wrap-up this bizarre late-night rendezvous. Besides, my
French toast is gone and I’m feeling a sugar coma coming on.

  He opens his wallet and drops a few bills on the table as a tip.

  “I’ve got this,” I say, as Leslie approaches.

  “Absolutely not,” he says, plucking the black folio out of her hand before I can even reach for it.

  “No, really, thanks, but you don’t have to…” I protest but he shakes his head at me resolutely.

  “Not gonna happen,” he says as he pulls more cash out and tucks it in with the bill.

  I sigh in exasperation. I guess this is one of those “pick your battles” moments.

  “Well, thanks,” I say getting out of the booth. “That was very nice of you. I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow…”

  I can’t even get the sentence out before he’s on his feet, grabbing the cello case and swinging it over his shoulder.

  “Oh, no, thanks, Jeremy, I can…”

  “Are you nuts? You’re all of five feet tall. You think I’m going to let you walk home alone in the middle of the night with an expensive instrument hanging off your shoulder? My mother raised me better than that, Julia,” he says with that crinkly smile.

  How do I argue with that? I nod reluctantly, and follow him as he leaves the diner with my instrument in tow. I practically have to run to keep up with his long stride.

  “Someone waiting up for you?”

  “Nah. My roommate is asleep by now.”

  “That’s Matthew Ayers, right? He knows my brother. Good violist.”

  “He is,” I agree.

  We’re about to dash across the busy street when he seems to realize he doesn’t know which direction to go in.

  “Which line are you on?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The subway. I want to get you to the subway station, at the very least.”

  “Oh, no. I live just around the corner, right off of West 62nd.”

  He gives a long, low whistle.

  “Pretty steep rent over there.”

  “I just rent a room. It’s Matthew’s apartment.”

  We are on the move again and I fall in beside him quietly until my building comes into view.

  “I can take it from here,” I say.

  Jeremy stops, looks around and then up.

  “What, here? You and Matthew live in the Strathmore Building?” he asks incredulously.