Читать книгу The Special One - James Griffin - Страница 6

“Rhetta? Lorhetta? Your father’s already out in the car! Hurry, dear! I’ve got your music… just please hurry down, will you? The show starts in twenty minutes!”

“Oh bother, Mom! The library’s a whole two blocks away.” Rhetta mumbled to herself as she slipped the second dark red barrette into her long wavy brown hair. Then came the lipstick, matching the red of the barrettes as well as her nails. Pursing her lips twice, then blotting them with tissue, she sat back on the vanity seat in her bedroom and considered the vision looking back at her in the mirror.

“This dress is so not appropriate for a concert, but I don’t care; it looks so good on me I’m wearing it anyway.” With her fingertips she puffed up the shoulders a bit, which were already gathered together into coral-colored floral shapes, reminiscent of peonies. Matching coral piping ran the lapel’s borders, the rest being polka dots on a white background. The top button was meant to be left open, but the next one down was about an inch lower than her mother would appreciate. The 21 year old Rhetta Sweeney knew fair enough ahead she’d hear about it once in the car, but by then they’d have no time to switch. Batting her eyelashes, she smiled into the mirror. She should have; she was a knockout and knew it. A knockout with talent.

Sure as shootin’, her mother shook her head in bewilderment as Rhetta climbed into the back seat of the blue 1950 Plymouth Clipper her dad had just polished up. Turning around to look at her daughter, May Sweeney blew air upward, her lower lip pouting. “Lorhetta, is that a proper dress for a piano concerto?”

Rhetta covered her smile with the back of her hand, looking out the window as her dad pulled the car into the road. She knew he cared more about the shine his almost-new car had more than what his daughter was wearing. And Daddy always got his way… almost always.

It was the summer piano concerto competition at Codman Library. As flippant as she might have appeared, Lorhetta Sweeney was a fierce competitor, and she had done her homework. She actually relished putting people at ease with her demeanor, lowering their level of expectation with her appearance and comportment, then dazzling them with her raw talent. After all, the girl practiced more than just the piano all those hours each day of her young adult life. Yes, this Boston girl was well aware of the fact that how one walked up to and sat down at a piano could be just as influential as what she did after sitting down. And she didn’t go to lose.

There were nine contestants, ranging in age from 16 to 24. The orchestra was one of the two from Boston College. Two of the boys who played violin she had met at previous engagements. In each of the four corners a large fan was on, blowing out across the auditorium to cool the crowd. It was a sold out day, as it was each year, looking like an Easter Sunday, except everyone was in attendance out of desire, not duty.

Rhetta walked to the door several paces behind her parents, swishing her dress’ pleats as she did so. Once inside, both parents hugged her good luck, her mom handed her the folder containing her sheet music, and they parted ways. She was finally on her own.

The contestants were backstage, the orchestra and conductor already warming up. With the contestants was only the MC, an older gentleman from the local Knights of Columbus. He introduced himself as Mr. Larsen, but asked to be called just “Danny”. He was at least forty years old and, strangely, wore a VFW cap along with his otherwise nice matching seersucker suit.

Rhetta found a program on a wooden folding chair, so she busied herself with that; she didn’t want to look any of her competition in the eye. Let them look at me instead… she thought. The list of judges was short: two women and one man. Good. In my favor. The contestants? Ditto. Seven female, two male. Even better.

The nine would perform according to age: youngest first, eldest last. Rhetta was next to last. She read that program at least thirty times, trying as hard as she could not to hear the music of the other pianists. But her ear had to hear it, and it was very good. She started to feel sweat form on her upper abdomen, under her arms, and at her temples, but most of all she felt it on the palms of her hands, which she wiped on the sides of her dress repeatedly. She tasted metal in her mouth and her heart beat at twice the normal speed.

Yet she was confident. This was not her first competition, nor her last. She’d been nervous before and won; this would be no exception. She was better than the competition; she had to be. After all, her daddy said so.

When they called her name she rose from her chair, smiling broadly, letting the program that was on her lap float onto the maple floor, unnoticed. Stepping toward stage in wide steps, her black patent leather pumps caught each color of every gown and light there. As she scanned the faceless crowd she opened her big brown eyes widely, batting them as if she were being photographed by reporters; after all, she imagined she was. Just before seating, she looked over at the judges, bowed slightly to them, nodded and smiled at the conductor, then sat, tucking her pleats under her twice for good measure.

After one more slight nod to the conductor, who was awaiting her signal of readiness, Rhetta put her “game face” on. All the pretty girl manifestations were immediately dropped for the serious musician to show through, and it was the real thing. She had picked a Bach concerto, and it was aggressively difficult. Even march-like in parts, it sounded almost masculine in its German way. She chose it specifically for this reason: to play off her soft exterior façade.

It went very well. Not a single note was off, and the applause seemed louder for her than for the others that came before. Rhetta got up, bowed again, then walked off stage, passing the last contestant on her way backstage as he took his place at the piano.

It was now safe to look at the others as she was done. So she did so, looking right into the face of this young man as he passed her. She was surprised to see him smiling, too, but not at her. No, he wasn’t even looking at her at all, but at the crowd. She hadn’t counted on that.

His choice, as it sounded from backstage, was the opposite of hers. It was a Mozart concerto, delicate and feminine, and she knew it to be deceivingly complicated to master. Yet he did so, to perfection. Rhetta thought she’d never have picked that piece when there were so many easier ones to choose from, some that even sounded harder, but weren’t. She then knew the truth, the awful truth, even before the judges had released their verdict.

Under normal circumstances, Rhetta would have made excuses, albeit silent ones, why she hadn’t won. But not this time, for this young man was clearly the more accomplished pianist of the entire group, she included. So when she came back with the others on stage she did clap, and did so with sincerity. He did win, in all ways.

Afterward, there were sodas and cookies offered on long tables in the library’s foyer. Rhetta was standing quietly next to one of these tables, in the shadow of her father who was shaking hands with a couple from church. She was sipping a ginger ale, looking at the polished granite floor, thinking whether this young man would be competing next year, and if so, what she’d do to beat him.

“Lorhetta?” she heard someone say softly.

“Hmmf?” she answered, right after biting into an oatmeal cookie.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your performance. You were excellent out there today.”

Rhetta turned on her heel to see this young man looking down at her, from well past the six feet of her own father. She caught parts of the crumbling cookie in her hand as it went all over the place in her surprise.

“I’m sorry… that was my fault! I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that. Here, let me help.”

He bent down and swept the cookie parts onto a napkin with his bare hand, then rolled them all up and placed them in his pocket. “There. Good as new. May I introduce myself? My name is Mike Strathmore.”

Chasing her cookie with a sip of her soda as quickly as she could, Rhetta smiled automatically and looked up at the contest’s winner directly, shaking his hand gently with her fingertips as she did so. He was broad shouldered, yet thin as a rail. Unlike the younger contestants, he wore a bow tie to their regular long ties, and it looked good on him, natural. His hands were long and his fingers thin, his manicure crisp, short, and perfect. Upon closer inspection, the suit was actually a tuxedo, and it didn’t look like a rental. His eyes were dark brown, as were her own, and his light brown oiled hair hung down lazily across his brow. But his smile…those dimples and those dazzling white teeth, was dream-like. Now the huntress had become the prey, and as with the competition, Rhetta conceded to her better.

“Nice to meet you, too, Michael. I’m…”

“I know, remember?”

“Oh, sorry… I forgot. Silly me! But could you please call me ‘Rhetta”? The other name makes me feel like I’m in trouble for something.”

“And should you feel so?”

“Umm... What do you mean?”

“If you have to ask, the answer doesn’t need articulation, now; does it?”

“Uh, umm… Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made me afraid to ask anything.”

“Ha! I’m just kidding you. I’m a kidder. Always kidding. And please, call me Mike. ‘Michael’ makes me feel as though I’m in trouble for something.”

“And should you feel so?”

“Absolutely. But hey, Rhetta, I’ve gotta run. My mom’s waiting out in the car with my brothers. I don’t want to be rude. I just wanted to say hi and to… meet you.”

Before she could answer he was off, running out the big double doors. She clasped her right hand in her left, squeezing her own fingers until they turned white. It was as if he hadn’t even been standing there ten seconds earlier.

“Seems like a nice boy, huh, dear? asked her mother.

Rhetta didn’t even hear her mother’s question.