Chapter 9
W ith my back straight and my legs spread, my wrist angled just so and the fingers on my opposite hand ready to move, I suck in a shaky breath and wait for my cue.
My heart pounds in my chest at least two measures faster than the music.
Not an uncommon occurrence for me in this position, but tonight is different and my body is acutely aware of it.
I’ve been anxiously anticipating while simultaneously dreading this night for three weeks now.
Since the moment I accepted this position and moved back to a city I swore I would never live in again.
Life is funny that way. We swear we’ll never do a lot of things again and yet, more often than not, we break those promises.
Like me with drinking tequila.
But I was pretty damn adamant about never returning to Boston with the exception of random, short, stealthy visits. Life had other ideas for me and now here I am.
A jolt of adrenaline spikes through my veins as the violin in the seat behind me hits its final note and now it’s my turn.
Breathing through the nausea, my eyes close, and I focus my thoughts.
There is nothing else, I tell myself. No stage lights, no applause from the audience or other performers crowded in around me, listening intently to my playing. Waiting for me to fuck up.
No. There is nothing except the music.
The piano accompaniment begins and it’s with that my body takes over—practically from muscle memory—hitting every note with confident precision. As with every time I play, I’m carried to a higher plane of existence. And all those nerves and their accompanying jitters transition to euphoria.
Even with the looming notes that plague the back of my mind.
Saint-Saens’ “The Swan (Le Cygne)-Carnival of the Animals” is such a lovely piece and playing it for a charity event as a first chair cellist for the Boston Symphony Pops Orchestra in my home city with my father as well as Dr. and Mrs. Fritz—who are essentially my second parents—in the audience is like the brass ring of a career that by all means should just be starting considering I graduated from The Conservatory in London only four short months ago.
It’s bittersweet. A lot of ups and downs, but I’m proud of where I am now.
The places I’ve played—concert halls I only dreamed of as a kid—over the three months prior to me moving back here.
The piece comes to a close, the final notes of the symphony resonating through the air leaving a rise of gooseflesh on my arms, and my hands rest, my head tucked into the side of my instrument.
Expelling a breath, I open my eyes to the sound of thunderous applause throughout the symphony hall.
I nod in gratitude when our conductor motions for me to rise and take a formal bow.
Bastard knows I hate that crap, but I do it all the same, holding the neck of my cello, Azrael, in my right hand while bowing forward along with all the other soloists who join me.
Thankfully, the rest of the orchestra stands, all of us taking our curtain call with our conductor Antonio last.
A sense of elation swims through me as the curtain falls, shielding us from the exiting audience. Giddy bubbles swim up from my stomach, peeling an epic smile up my lips. I made it through. My first performance here as a soloist.
Now if only the rest of the night could go this smoothly.
I congratulate my fellow soloists, hugging and kissing the cheeks of everyone I pass, gliding across the stage and heading for the back rooms. Desperate to put Azrael away, clean up a bit, and get out of here as fast as I can.
Unable to stop the fresh wave of unease as it sours in my gut like curdling milk.
Not tonight. Please, not tonight. Not on my perfect night.
Catarina, one of our oboists, squeezes my arm, giving me a wink as she passes. I return the gesture. She and I have gotten very friendly in the weeks I’ve been here. “Slammed it, bitch.”
“You too!”
“I’m sure your dad loved it.”
I snicker under my breath. My father pretends to enjoy classical music as many proper Englishmen do, but secretly, he listens to heavy rock.
Says it reminds him of his MI6 days, but no one knows about that except the Fritz family he works for.
Well, and the British government. “I have no doubt he did.”
“See you back there?”
“In a minute.”
Another hug and a few more congratulations and I push my way through the lingerers to the back room I share with a few of the other female performers.
“Ah! The star has arrived, burning hot and stunningly gorgeous.”
I roll my eyes at Catarina as I tuck my baby into her case, zipping her up.
She laughs, putting the final piece of her oboe into its case. “Truly, though, kitten, it was beautiful. I know you were nervous about tonight, but you played it to perfection.”
“Yes,” Quill, an English violinist, agrees. “You were brilliant. Why were you so nervous anyway? If I had half your talent, I’d rub it in everyone’s face just to watch them pee themselves with envy.”
“That’s some lovely imagery there.”
Quill winks at Catarina, blowing her a kiss.
Catarina turns on me, pointing a finger as if she just came to realize something vital. “You know, she does have a point. Why were you nervous?”
I lean against the long counter, taking a towel and blotting at the sweat on my chest and the back of my neck.
No one knows I occasionally get stage fright—friends or not, admitting that sort of weakness is career suicide.
My fellow performers are how it all began in the first place at a time when I was already going through a rough patch.
I’ve battled through it. Worked to move past it.
And for the most part, I have. Occasionally, on days such as today, it reacquaints itself with my more fragile side.
But that’s not why she’s asking that question.
I open my mouth to respond when there’s a knock at our door. “Yes,” I call out, using the distraction for what it is. Taking the pins out of my updo, I let my heavy mane of ink-colored hair fall around me.
“I have a flower delivery for Ms. Raven Fairchild.”
That. That’s why I was nervous.
Fuck. I knew this would happen. I knew they would come. I shouldn’t have come back here. I should have run for the exit the first chance I got. Now it’s too late and I have an audience to boot. Dammit! Cold tentacles of dread snake around my throat, strangling me.
“I… uh.” I shake my head, raising my voice so the guy can hear me through the door. “Um. Just a moment.” Crap. I need to think. No way can I escape now.
“Those are the flowers, aren’t they?” Quill asks, her voice painted in unmistakable awe as she says the flowers . “I’ve heard about those.”
I spin around in place, my incredulous eyes wide, my breath stalled. “You have?”
She nods enthusiastically with a Cheshire grin. “Oh yes. Everyone has heard about them because everyone has heard about you, love.”
“The infamous hand-delivered, anonymously given flowers,” Catarina exclaims, jumping in beside Quill as if she’s telling her a secret, though her voice carries throughout the small room. She fans her face. “The speculations run wild.”
“ I heard they were from a real-life prince whose heart you stole only to leave him behind.”
“Oh! I heard they were from a mysterious billionaire who fell hopelessly in love with you only to then break your heart.”
I glare, mystified by this. Sort of amused but mostly horrified. Both assumptions are partially true in one aspect or another, though I have no clue how the rumors and speculation ran this rampant. Not that I know with absolute certainty it’s been him who has been sending the flowers.
At least that’s the lie I told myself every time they came.
I knew it was him.
There is no one else, and anyone else they could have potentially been from have denied it. No, the man loves messing with me. Attempting to shove and insert pieces of himself in any remaining cracks or fissures in my healed wounds he can.
“They asked you about them in that interview after the award show,” Catarina continues. “You claimed you never knew who sent them to you even though they’ve shown up after every major opening night performance, no matter where in the world you were performing.”
I’m impersonating a goldfish as I stare at the two women before me.
It was one interview. Two years ago. After I won an International Classical Music Award for one of my original pieces and an enormous bouquet showed up. But…
“Bring them in!” Quill calls out, prancing happily to the door. “We’re all decent in here. Let’s see what you have for our fair Fairchild.”
“No!” I cry out, my body seizing as my heart rate shoots through the roof. “You don’t—” Only my panicked words are cut off as Quill flings open the door and in walks a tall, broad man wearing black slacks and carrying a ginormous bouquet of exquisite purple and white orchids in a crystal vase.
Orchids this time. Always different. Always beautiful.
And instantly my greatest fears surrounding not only the flowers but with returning to Boston are mercifully squashed as the bouquet is lowered to chest height and there stands someone I’ve never set eyes on before. I blow out a sigh of relief.
What on earth would I have done if it had been Luca standing there? Other than smash the bouquet over his pompous head, of course.
“Are you Raven Fairchild?” he questions.
A frown glues the corners of my lips down and when I don’t answer, Quill does it for me. “That’s her.”
I hate the flowers. I hate all they represent. I stare at them, beautiful and fragrant in his hands while a strange and unwelcome pang twists up my gut.
“These are for you.”
I step back, waving my hands back and forth, refusing to accept them. He doesn’t look surprised by my refusal as he sets them down on the counter.
“Who are they from?” Catarina plows past me, rushing over to the flowers and digging through them. “I don’t see a card.”
“I don’t want them. Please take them back.”