Chapter Thirty-Seven
THE FINAL strains of Ivo Antognini’s “O Magnum Mysterium” faded to nothingness.
Just as Callum hoped, the choir froze.
Behind him, the audience was completely still. No coughs, no shuffling paper, nothing.
For this one magic, suspended moment, there was nothing but silence. The music was so beautiful, the choir’s performance so effective, that they had done the impossible.
They had made time stop.
Finally, Callum lowered his arms and beamed at the choir, and the audience burst into applause. His gaze, inexorably drawn toward the piano, found Blair, and her sunny smile was all the approval he needed.
Turning toward the audience, he acknowledged the choir and bowed. When the applause died down, he approached the microphone, its stand buried in Christmas greenery and softly glowing white lights, all of which extended over the entire front of the stage.
“Thank you. Thank you all.” The last smatterings of applause faded, and Callum looked out over the audience, his heart hammering. “We have a last-minute addition to the program this evening. A couple of them, actually.”
A barely audible murmur swept the packed, darkened auditorium.
“As many of you may know, earlier this semester Ms. Emerson and I discovered a piece of music in the choral library. Written by hand, unsigned, unfinished . . . and it was brilliant. I’ll tell you all more about it after we sing it, but first I’d like for the music to speak for itself.”
Without another word, he turned back toward the choir and retook his spot on the podium.
Excitement and emotion shimmered in the students’ eyes.
They were in on the surprise, of course, but no one else was.
Callum had sworn them all to secrecy, and to their credit, as far as he knew, they’d all kept their promise.
He raised his arms, his hands trembling slightly with the import of the moment, and cued the downbeat of Iris Wallingford’s composition.
He had made absolutely no changes to her score. No editing. No text. The choir just sang the notes on an “ooh.”
Because it was unfinished, the music lasted less than a minute. But the final chord—unresolved, appropriately—hung in the auditorium. Once again, the audience stayed silent, save for a couple of sniffles.
Even after he lowered his arms, the audience remained frozen.
He turned to face them, and still everyone stayed still.
The lights made it challenging to see facial expressions, but the emotional impact of the piece permeated the atmosphere of the auditorium.
The audience was so moved they couldn’t even applaud.
Callum approached the mic, his eyes stinging. “That piece you just heard was written by Iris Wallingford.”
The audience gasped.
“Iris was a senior here at Peterson, set to graduate with the class of 1970, but her life was cut short three months before graduation. Police originally ruled her death a suicide, but as many of you now know, Iris was murdered by her family’s maid.
She died before she could complete the piece.
And unfortunately, Iris’s murder was not the only crime perpetrated against her. ”
A hushed murmur swept through the audience, and Vic Nelson, sitting in the center of the auditorium, shot Callum a look that could’ve melted lead.
Callum had been prepared for this from the moment he’d hatched his idea last month.
Vic never missed a Peterson choral concert, and although he couldn’t face legal ramifications for his plagiarism, he could face consequences to his legacy.
That was why Detectives Stanton and Valentine were in the audience, directly behind Vic.
And why Chief Stephens had also attended, along with several other Peterson officers, all in plain clothes.
In the event Vic reacted poorly, Peterson’s finest were more than prepared.
“Iris wrote several other pieces,” Callum said. “And nearly all of them were published . . . under the name Victor Nelson.”
The murmur grew louder.
“Vic Nelson shamelessly pirated Iris’s ideas, put them into his own compositions, and passed them off as his. We know him as a wonderful choral composer, but a big reason he has that reputation is because of Iris Wallingford’s music.”
Nearly every head in the auditorium swiveled toward Vic, who bolted from his seat.
“This is slander!” he shouted. “How dare you try to assassinate my character! And after all I’ve done for you!”
Detective Valentine put a firm hand on Vic’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Scowling, Vic sat back down.
Righteous indignation coursing through him, Callum pressed on, forcing calm into his voice.
“It’s true that Vic has been a friend to me.
A mentor. He’s part of the reason I have this job in the first place.
But Iris Wallingford was one of the most brilliant composers of her generation.
She deserved to have the kind of career Vic had.
And she deserves to be remembered for what she wrote. She deserves credit for her work.”
The audience applauded, as did the choir behind him.
“Fortunately, there is one untouched completed work remaining, and the choir would like to perform it for you now. Iris submitted this piece under Vic’s name to the Whitehall Conservatory.
It would have gotten her in had she been honest, and would have launched her career had she lived.
The composition professor at Whitehall mailed it back to us last month.
So without further ado . . . here is the world premiere of ‘I Am My Beloved’s,’ by Iris Wallingford. ”
In all her years playing piano for choirs, Blair had never cried during a concert. She wasn’t much of a crier in general, but particularly not when she had a job to do.
But tonight, in the holy atmosphere of the Christmas concert, after the speech that had put Vic Nelson in his place and had the kids singing their hearts out, giving their all to the memory of someone they’d never met, her eyes stung and the music blurred.
Good thing Iris had written a piano part on the simpler side.
Waves of emotion crashed through her. Vindication for Iris. Sadness at what Vic turned out to be. Pride for how wonderful the kids sounded, how they had given this piece the absolute best they had to offer.
And love for Callum.
Oh, how she loved him.
He met her eyes then and mouthed the words of love from Iris’s text, taken directly from Song of Songs.
His arms still faced the choir, and she knew him well enough to know that the bulk of his attention was there as well, but him singing these lyrics to her .
. . it was the most beautiful moment of her life.
She poured all the love she felt for him into the piano keys and prayed he could hear it. That he knew she played for him.
She was meant to be with Callum. She wanted that more than anything. Whatever being with him meant for her future, wherever she had to go, if it was with him, she’d go. She would rather be in outer Mongolia with him than in Peterson without him.
She’d always thought Peterson was her home, but that no longer rang true. It was only home as long as he was there. And when he left here, wherever he went, that would be home.
Her home was Callum.
Because the way he watched her, the emotion that turned his eyes a brilliant shade of emerald, the tender passion in his gaze, the intent with which he mouthed the words .
. . no one had ever looked at her like that.
When the piece ended, so did the concert.
The audience leaped to their feet, and Blair wiped away her tears as she took her bows.
At least she wasn’t the only one who needed a tissue.
Several kids had red, watery eyes, and even Callum surreptitiously dabbed the corners of his eyes with a fingertip.
When the choir had filed off the stage and the crowd had dispersed, she gathered up her music and walked to the wings, where Callum waited for her.
When she reached him, he kissed her. A deep, dramatic, sweep-her-off-her-feet-into-a-dip kiss with an impulsiveness she didn’t know he possessed. Her startled laugh was smothered by his lips, and she relaxed into the strength of his arms and melted into his kiss.
“That was magnificent,” he murmured against her lips, then raised her back to her feet.
A circle of students surrounded them, mouths agape and eyes enormous.
“Whoa,” Makayla said.
“Are you guys . . . together?” Thalia motioned back and forth between them.
And the always-on Jake and Brayden Comedy Hour had apparently encountered technical difficulties, because both boys had lapsed into stunned silence.
“Yes, indeed.” Callum wrapped his arm around Blair and pulled her close.
“It’s true,” she said.
A handful of kids cheered, Thalia beamed, and Jake finally peeled his jaw off the floor and elbowed Brayden. “You owe me ten bucks,” he said. “I told you they’d end up together.”
After a few moments, the jubilant kids headed back toward the choir room, no doubt eager to spread the word, leaving Callum and Blair alone.
She linked her hand with his as they strolled down the backstage hallway. “I hope you felt that I was playing for you. I hope you felt the love in it.”
His eyes shone. “I did.”
“Because you know I love you.” Her voice shimmered.
“I love you with every fiber of my being. And whatever that means for the future, I’m down.
” She gripped his hand and turned to face him.
“I know you want to go back to Boston, and . . . and if you do, I’ll go with you.
Leaving here would hurt, but leaving you would be impossible. ”
Callum gazed into her eyes and trailed his fingers through her hair.
“Blair, I adore you. You’ve brought me back to life.
From the moment we had our first argument, you sparked something in me that has fanned into flame, and I don’t expect that flame to ever go out.
I love you. And I want to do whatever it takes to prove that love to you. ”
Any more words like that, and she’d melt into the floor.
Callum glanced around, then turned back toward her. “Hey. So, okay, since this was the Christmas concert, I guess I can give you your present early.”
“My present?” Blair’s brows arched. “I . . . I didn’t know we were doing presents.”
“Yeah, well . . . surprise.” Grinning, he slid a plain white envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
“What in the world?” She stared at him, then slipped her finger beneath the seal and pulled out a single white sheet of paper.
When she saw the words on it, she gasped. “Callum, this is a contract. For next year. For here.”
“Yeah.” A smile slid over his face. “I convinced admin to let me sign it early.”
The truth finally sank in, and she flung her arms around him. “You’re staying. You’re staying.” She smothered his cheek with kisses. “Oh, Callum. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Her wildest dreams—for the kids, for the program, for herself—had come true.
“Of course.” His arms tightened around her waist. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be here forever.
But I can guarantee I’ll be here for a while.
Because I belong here, Blair. I didn’t think I would, but I do.
You’ve got a darn good bunch of kids here, and I love them more than I ever thought I could.
They’re talented, hardworking, just plain good kids, and they deserve a director who will invest in their future.
” He slid from her embrace, mischief in his eyes.
“Plus, I didn’t think it’d be fair to rip their pianist away either. ”
Blair searched his face. “Is this what you want? Truly? You don’t want Boston?”
“Boston isn’t home for me anymore, Blair. Peterson is.” He shook his head and tightened his grip on her waist. “No, that’s not quite right. You are. Wherever you are . . . that’s home.”
He lowered his head and kissed her again, a kiss full of passion and promise.
And music.
Because where words failed, music always rushed in.