Bennett — Age 24
The rumble of the approaching train had us all pressing forward, attempting to guess where the nearest door would stop.
We adjusted like we were one mass and waited for those exiting to get off so the rest of us could force our way on.
Not even attempting to find a seat, I held onto the vertical bar near the door, along with several others.
No one made eye contact with me, and I didn’t make eye contact with anyone else.
It was something I was sadly growing accustomed to now that I’d been in New York City for the past ten months.
When the train got to Lincoln Center, I maneuvered my way off and jogged through the station.
Maven’s concert was going to start in less than fifteen minutes, and I still needed to change out of my work clothes.
After going through security at the Juilliard School’s entrance, where my backpack was nearly confiscated because of its size, I found a bathroom and quickly changed.
The shirt was wrinkled and the tie creased from being in my bag all day, but I didn’t have time to care.
The theater lights were dimming just as I made it to my seat next to Maven’s mom.
“Great timing,” Sharon whispered.
The orchestra walked onto the stage to take their seats, and I glanced at the program Sharon had just handed me.
Jean Sibelius (1865–1957)
Violin Concerto in D minor, Op. 47
Soloist: Maven Walker, violin
Directly under the name of the piece was Maven’s name: Maven Walker. That was my wife! Of all the exceptional violinists at Juilliard, she had won the concerto competition. Pride welled in my chest.
The applause continued when the conductor came out and took his position.
Then came Maven. She glided onto the stage, her long blond hair pulled up into an elegant style.
I’d splurged and bought her a new gown for the performance.
The gold fabric hugged her frame in all the right places, and I suddenly pitied all the men in the audience who would never know what it was to love and be loved by Maven.
And that pity only grew when, after the orchestra began playing, she lifted her violin and moved the bow across the strings with precision.
But also, with so much feeling. For a person who couldn’t claim much musical knowledge, I felt transported when Maven played.
With each stroke of her bow, she evoked some new emotion in me.
Forty minutes flew by, and when the last note of her violin dimmed and the sound of applause erupted, I rose to my feet, clapping so loud my hands stung.
Sharon and I made our way out of the theater, standing off to the side while we waited for Maven.
“I wish Carson could have been here to see that.” Sharon’s smile was as full of pride as my own, and there were tears in her eyes. “She’s incredible. I can hardly believe she’s my daughter sometimes.”
I wrapped my arm around Sharon’s shoulder and pulled her to my side. “So much of who Maven is, is thanks to you and all the sacrifices you’ve made.”
Sharon nudged her shoulder into me. “I’m not the only one who’s made sacrifices.”
“To see her up on stage, it’s all worth it. Isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.”
The heightened volume of voices shifted our attention to an opening door.
Maven stood on the threshold, her eyes catching mine before the waiting crowd of friends and well-wishers pushed in on her to give their congratulations.
Sharon and I waited contentedly, watching Maven smile and accept all the love and praise she deserved before finally making her way to us.
“Hey!” She gave her mom a big hug, accepting her compliments before stepping next to me and wrapping an arm around my waist.
I set my hand on her back and leaned down, placing a kiss on the side of her head and lingering my lips next to her ear. “I’m not sure what had me more mesmerized: your playing or you in that dress.”
She smiled up at me, her whole face still aglow. There was nothing that Maven loved more than performing. And there was nothing I loved more than seeing her this happy.
“Ms. Walker?” A lean, middle-aged man with dark hair and a thick French accent stepped up to our group and reached out a hand to Maven. “I’m Jean-Paul Bénard.”
She smiled and shook his hand. “Hello.”
“First, I wanted to congratulate you not only on winning the concerto competition but also on an exceptional performance this evening.”
“Thank you.”
“Second, I wanted to introduce myself.” He reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a black business card with stark white and gold lettering.
“I’m a fixer—similar to what you’d call a music manager here in the States.
I find opportunities, temporary gigs, and job placements for freelance musicians.
Many of which are international. So, if that sounds like it might interest you, I’d love to chat more. ”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you.” Maven looked at his card before offering it back to him. “But my husband and I are moving back to our hometown once I graduate. I plan to teach.”
“Teach?” Jean-Paul was finding it difficult to hide his disbelief, and I felt like sending him on his way. “At a university?”
“No. Most likely at a high school.” Maven’s gaze slid to me, and Jean-Paul’s followed. “We haven’t made it that far in the planning process yet.”
The man reached out his hand toward me. “I suppose you are the husband?”
I gave his hand a firm shake and nodded. “Bennett Walker.”
“I’ve worked with a lot of remarkable musicians, and your wife has a rare talent.” His gaze flicked to her before returning to me. “I know it’s not my place to say as much, but she’s not meant for the classroom. She’s meant for the stage.”
My jaw tightened. He didn’t even know Maven. He didn’t know us. Who was he to say what she was meant for?
Maven’s hand came to my arm, and she gave me a soft smile before turning back toward the man. “Again, Jean-Paul, I appreciate your offer, I really do.” She extended his card back toward him. “But I won’t need this.”
Jean-Paul drew in a slow breath, then nodded. “Please keep it in case you know of someone who might.”
Maven gave a small nod. “It was nice meeting you.”
“The pleasure was mine.” Jean-Paul nodded his head in her direction before offering a parting nod to both Sharon and me.
“Well,” Maven said, the excitement in her expression dimmed slightly. “Should we go get something to eat? I’m starving.”
“Absolutely,” Sharon said a bit too brightly. “And it’s my treat.”
Maven intertwined her fingers with mine and looked over at me, searching my expression. “What do you feel like eating?”
“Whatever you want. It’s your night.”
“Greek sounds amazing! What about The White Olive?”
I forced out a smile and nodded.
“Lead the way.” Sharon linked her arm through Maven’s, and the three of us started forward.
As we made our way out of the Juilliard lobby, Jean-Paul conversed with a small group. His gaze met mine, and I looked away. If only I could so easily disregard his words still running through my mind: Maven was meant for the stage.