10. Montana
10
Montana
F aint echoes of quick heels clicking on granite floors ahead of me echo in the open hallway. Turning behind me, I sweep the music building’s foyer with my eyes, hearing nothing but the dissolving clops in the distance, fading until it’s ghostly quiet. When I approached the building from the bus stop, I couldn’t ignore the feeling of being watched. I’d chalked it up to my nerves just feeling displaced, making me overthink everything at the moment, but now that I’m inside, the feeling has only intensified.
Swallowing my unease, I stride forward, now in total silence but for the shuffle of my shoes trudging past numerous rooms, some with closed doors, some open and pitch dark. I pass one more room, the murmur of a violin escaping the sealed door, before I finally arrive at Conductor Hopkins’ office.
I stretch my hand out, then pull it back, curling my fingers into themselves. My teeth rattle together, and I inhale a deep, calming breath before knocking twice.
“Yes, come in!”
The soft, friendly tone isn’t what I was expecting. Harsh, cruel, strict; words I’d imagine would encompass a man of his magnitude. But the easy smile and rosy cheeks from the seemingly simple man behind the desk is what I’ve walked in on.
“Ah, yes! Montana Rowe, it’s truly such a pleasure! Come in! Come in!”
I smile amicably, my lips twitching as he ushers me in. We shake hands before I make my way to the round chair before his desk. Rubbing my palms together as I sit, I consider asking what hand cream he uses. Whatever it is, it’s working well. Soft and smooth, unlike the horrors of mine. Vigorous use of any instrument is sure to callous you up.
“Thank you for allowing me the audition—”
“He told me you were talented,” he interrupts. “He said you were determined. But he forgot to mention your adorable nature.” He smiles again. “Wesley is a lucky man.”
Sitting back in his seat, he folds his arms over his stomach, the fabric of his crisp button-up taut against his shoulders. He harbors a confident air about him. Intelligence and determination beneath his seemingly small stature. His direct gaze never leaves my eyes, and within there lies the challenge.
I keep my chin raised, my lip quivering into a half grin as I resist rubbing my palms on my knees.
“Thank you, sir. But as adorable as I may be, I assure you, the wickedness of these fingers is what got me in this office.”
He chuckles to himself, eyes going back and forth between mine as he absentmindedly reaches for a pen. He taps it a few times on the wooden desk before saying, “I couldn’t agree more. After viewing the audition clip with the rest of the staff, I nearly grounded Wesley for not sharing you with me sooner.”
“I didn’t want to—”
“I know, I know…you didn’t want it to seem as if your talents weren’t enough to get you in the door. That my son had something to do with it. Truthfully, I understand. And I admire your tenacity for going about this authentically.” He shakes his head. “They can say what they will, but rest assured, once we get you before the rest of the members, it won’t take more than a few notes before they see what the rest of us do. Unteachable talent. Raw skill, birthed from the true passion of such a tiny, unassuming girl.” He grins admiringly.
I return the smile, a blush filling my cheeks.
“Which is why I’m excited to bring you directly into rehearsal with the rest of the members.”
Inhaling a silent yet deep breath, I slowly let it slip from my nose, working to keep my breathing calm despite how erratic it feels.
“As you may know, Mick Geigon is retiring from his chair and our need for an exceptional cello player to fill that space is now.” He pauses, thinking for a moment. “It bewilders me…why, it’s almost as if this was planned. The timing is perfect.”
My lips press tightly together as I work to neutralize my expression.
Swiveling in his seat, he bends to pull a folder from a file cabinet behind him, and I finally breathe a little easier. He places it on the desk before him, pushing it halfway across the mahogany toward me. Sitting forward in his seat, he rests his elbows on the wood, steepling his hands against his lips. “Learn the first twelve sonatas by tomorrow. We’ll see how wicked those fingers are by eight a.m.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
This time, he doesn’t gaze into my eyes. Instead, he watches my hands reach for the folder, dragging it closer until it’s finally in my possession, my arms curling around it.
His satisfied grin grows into a healthy, friendly smile that warms his entire face.
“Use the studio rooms at your will. They are for the orchestra members only, and can be used at any time, night or day, as long as you sign in on the reservation board,” he comments before standing.
I take this as my being excused, so I mimic his stance, reaching out my hand for his again.
He grips my palm, but it’s gentle—almost reassuring. Neither of which I would suspect a brilliant man in charge of a large-scale musical production to be. If Wes said anything, I’d hate to be looked at differently by the rest of the professionals simply because this is my boyfriend’s father, but Conductor Hopkins has made it clear that their overall decision came from the raw talent I possess.
“I assure you’ll use your time wisely.”
“Of course.” I nod. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”
As I head for the door, his voice stops me.
“Montana?”
I turn to face him, my heart nearly in my throat. I was so sure he wouldn’t put it together. That he wouldn’t remember.
“You should come over for dinner some night. I’ll speak with my son and see what his schedule is like.”
I nod, trying to rein in my eagerness for that exact opportunity.
“That sounds lovely. Thank you, sir.”
When the door to his office closes behind me, my chest shudders, and I lean against the wall beside it, needing the support. But then the faint echo of those heels returns, and I straighten, gripping the strap of my cello case before finding my way to one of the open studio rooms to get to work.
Twelve sonatas by tomorrow? I’ve done far more work with my hands in less time.