Chapter 25
My Muse
What heartache sounds like
I assure Chase that I’m not here for the auction. Leaning in, I add, “Can I go to the suite?”
He looks at me apologetically. “Mr. Durov isn’t here.”
“I didn’t come for him.”
He seems confused and states, “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I need to play on the piano.”
“Ah…” Without questioning me further, he picks up the phone. “Miss Lane would like access to the suite and would like permission to play the piano.” He nods at me as he waits for an answer.
“Please let Maxim know it’s urgent!” I plead.
“I will pass that on,” he promises in a somber tone.
I watch him hopefully, praying that Maxim said yes. When Chase sets down the receiver and smiles, I sigh in relief.
“You have been granted permission, Miss Lane. Can I ask how long you plan to stay?”
“Until I complete what Anton commissioned me to do.”
He looks at me questioningly. “And how long do you expect it will take?”
“Until it’s done. I don’t have a better answer.”
“I will pass that along.” He steps out from the front desk to escort me to the elevator, telling the assistant to let me into the suite.
When he turns to return to his desk, I thank him.
“My pleasure, Miss Lane.”
I laugh nervously on my way up the elevator when I discover the chaotic condition of my hair after being in the breeze all day.
But I’ve been too preoccupied by the notes ringing in my head to remember to fix my hair or makeup or even to dress appropriately.
My brain feels like it might explode if I don’t play them on the piano.
When we reach the top, the assistant walks off the elevator with me and swipes her keycard to unlock the large red doors. Opening them, she turns on the lights inside and smiles at me. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“Blank sheet music and pencils, please.”
Even though I’ve given her an unusual request, she doesn’t bat an eye. “I will see to it.” She closes the doors on her way out, leaving me alone in the suite.
It feels strange not to have Maxim here to greet me.
The place feels hollow and cold without Rytsar’s presence here. But it’s the perfect setting for what I am about to do.
I walk into the music room and turn on the light. There she is…the magnificent “Pictures of an Exhibition” Steinway.
Every time I see this piano, it leaves me breathless.
Every detail on it is meaningful, honoring the Russian composer Mussorgsky, as well as the country of his birth.
Itching to sit down and play the music in my head, I force myself to take a moment to walk around the four-thousand-pound piano and admire it for the rare piece of art that it is.
But the instrument is calling to me, begging me to sit down on the red velvet stool and play.
Unable to resist that siren song any longer, I sit down.
The simple piece that began playing in my head when I left the lighthouse has grown more complex with the passing of time.
Placing my hands on the keys, I close my eyes and play the first dramatic chord.
The piano reverberates with the deep, rich sound, sending chills down my spine.
Diving into the cavernous depths of my father’s loss, I express every emotion without concern for myself.
I lay myself bare, tears streaming down my face, while each chord stabs at my heart and I pour out my grief in music.
The dramatic beginning speaks to his fiery death, my devastation in losing him, and the emptiness left in his wake.
The music then shifts to a minor key as I express the quiet and insidious permanence of death that haunts me.
I gulp for air, sobbing as I continue to play, mournfully accepting that I will never see my father again in this lifetime.
My fingers slow down, and I eventually stop playing to rest in this unbearable grief, accepting the hole in my heart and the dark loneliness that has become such a permanent part of me.
But I’m not finished.
Just as with O Fortuna, this will not end on a note of despair.
Thinking of my father’s love, the goodness he instilled in me, and his hope for my future, the music switches to a major key, and I pound out the chords, signifying my choice to honor his memory by fighting for a bright and better future.
I hear my father whispering in my ear, “Dance, Sophie girl, dance!” as my fingers fly over the piano keys. I swear it feels as if he is sitting beside me, and I laugh through my tears as I bang out the last few chords with the same intensity as the beginning of the piece.
Afterward, I sit in silence with my eyes closed, listening to the final chord vibrate through the room.
“I love you, Daddy.”
I don’t know how long I remain there sitting, in the uneasy peace that follows, but I’m startled when I hear a light knock on the door.
Standing up and tottering on knees weak from the explosion of energy, I slowly make my way to the front door and call out. “Who’s there?”
“I’ve come with sustenance and sheet music,” Mr. Onassis replies.
Quick to open the door, I invite him in and see that he’s carrying a covered tray with a box of sheet music balanced on top.
“I…didn’t expect to see you,” I sputter in surprise. I watch as he sets down the tray on the coffee table.
“I was told by Headmaster Wallace that you were too ill to attend the auction, but then I received a call that you had shown up at the hotel requesting this suite.”
He opens the box and hands me a large stack of sheet music and a set of sharpened pencils. “I trust this will suffice.”
I clutch them against my chest gratefully, guilt spiraling through me at the subterfuge. “I can’t thank you enough. The music won’t stop playing in my head, and I have to write it out or I’ll go crazy.”
Mr. Onassis then lifts the lid of the tray to reveal a bowl of porridge and a steaming cup of pink tea. “I was told by Durov that Kasha and Raspberry tea were the appropriate remedies for a sick stomach.”
“You spoke to him?” I ask in surprise.
“Yes, I called to inform him that I would check on you.”
I blush, unwilling to tell him I was sick due to stress because of my humiliating encounter with Leōn’s twin. Instead, I ask, “Were you able to find Nash? Is he all right?”
“Headmaster Wallace spoke with him last night. Apparently, he must have caught the same 24-hour stomach flu, because he seemed well tonight and left with the others for the auction.”
I frown. “Did the Headmaster ask him about my tires?”
“He did, but Mr. Nash denied any knowledge of it. Until we have verified evidence stating otherwise, we have to take his answer at face value.”
I sigh in frustration, certain he’s lying.
“We take your safety seriously, Miss Lane. Until this matter is resolved, we would like to hire an escort for your protection. The staff feels it would be prudent, and I can arrange it with your consent.”
“An escort,” I say. “Is that like a…bodyguard?”
“Private security,” he explains.
Although it seems a bit extreme, I agree. “I’d appreciate that.”
I glance at the music room as a new refrain starts playing in my head, stealing my attention away.
“Is there anything else I should be aware of, Miss Lane?”
I turn back to him and shake my head.
He looks at me knowingly. “I trust you will be well enough to attend Monday’s class.”
I pick up the hot tea from the tray and take a sip. “Yes, I’m sure this will help my stomach settle down.”
Once he leaves, I run back to the piano and set the sheets on the music rack.
The music playing in my head is deafening, and I rush to keep up as I write down the melody.
Page after page, I scribble in notes, then go back and play it on the piano again.
Each time I play the edited piece, I tweak it some more, making slight changes—driven to replicate the music I can hear as much as possible.
The weekend becomes a blur as I remain chained to my muse, willingly reliving the pain again and again as I perfect the vision in my head. The hotel staff keeps me hydrated and fed as I work. The process is cathartic, bringing my buried pain into the light and pouring it out for the world to hear.
Early Sunday morning, when it is finally complete, I make an audio recording of it to send to Anton later. Afterwards, I collapse on the antique divan beside the piano and succumb to my exhaustion.
I wake up at nine on Sunday evening, momentarily disoriented, then drag myself off the vintage sofa.
Picking up my music sheets, my heart starts to race as I read through them.
It’s hard to believe I’m the one who penned this, because it so perfectly captures everything I’ve suffered, as well as my newfound hope for the future.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever created, and the first person I want to hear it is Gwen—my ride or die since childhood.
Maybe it’s my lack of sleep, but I’m struck by an idea that I can’t let go of.
Totally disheveled, I leave the hotel and head to my apartment.
I’m alarmed when I notice a car following me…
until I remember my conversation with Mr. Onassis on Friday night.
I feel both relieved and embarrassed to have a guy tailing me, knowing what I’m about to do.
After grabbing my portable Bumpboxx, the one I use with my students sometimes, I head to Gwen’s apartment.
Taking a page out of a cheesy romance movie we once watched, I stand outside her apartment. Holding up the Bumpboxx, I turn the volume full blast and play my composition on repeat for her.
I’m not surprised when several people open up their windows and yell at me to shut it the hell off.
I am also acutely aware of the escort sitting in his car, watching me make a fool of myself.
I expect the police will be showing up any minute, but my eyes remain locked on Gwen’s apartment window.
Before long, I notice that her neighbors have stopped protesting and are standing still, listening to the music.
Drawn to it like a moth to the flame, Gwen walks up to her window and stares down at me standing under the streetlight.
I hold my breath, silently begging her to listen.
After the third rendition, she disappears from the window without a nod or any kind of acknowledgement, and my heart starts to sink.
I lower my arms and turn it off, overcome with a wave of hopelessness.
To my bewilderment, I hear applause start up from her neighbors and several bystanders on the street. I lower my head and hurry to my car before I start to cry in front of everyone.
You can cry later, I tell myself once I’m back in my car.
It was an idiotic idea anyway. But I look up at her empty window, hoping against hope to see her.
Nothing.
With my hope dashed, I pull out my phone and send Anton the audio file hoping he’ll appreciate the effort. Hearing a light tap on my window, I turn to see Gwen’s beautiful face all blotchy and red with tears.
I open my window, sobbing, “I’m sorry, Gwen!”
“Shut up and get out of there,” she mutters in a teary voice.
As soon as I do, the two of us wrap our arms tightly around each other and have a good cry.
“You wrote that music, didn’t you?” she whispers in my ear.
I simply nod, unable to speak.
She pulls back and looks me in the eyes, her voice breaking with emotion, “Your dad would be so proud.”
I squeeze Gwen hard as I bawl a flood of happy tears.
Being with her again feels like I have a part of my soul back.