Bee-tween the Music (Love in Maplewood #4)

Prologue

Dmitri

The lights of the Marian Anderson Hall heat the stage, making it feel as if we’re performing on the city streets instead of a climate-controlled venue.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow as the audience’s applause erupts.

A few whoops and a high-pitched whistle pierce the air.

The crowd at the last concert of the season always seems a little more boisterous.

I chuckle and smile at Sebastian Lee, the concertmaster and my boyfriend.

He lifts his square chin like a reprimand, his expression every bit as severe and scornful as when he plays.

My smile falters and I catch Zemira’s eye.

She rolls hers. As the associate principal cellist, she sits opposite me on the other side of the stage, and after years of playing together, we’ve developed our own language simply with the tweak of an eyebrow, the flutter of an eye, or the scrunch of a nose.

And Zemira is currently telling me she thinks Sebastian is an egotistical, albeit talented, asshole who should take the stick out of his ass, learn to have some fun, stop worrying about what everyone else thinks, and start treating me the way I deserve.

Yes, I get all that from one look because, as my best friend, I’ve had years of training in all her looks.

It also helps that those are the exact words she said to me last night over one too many chocolate martinis when I told her that Sebastian insisted being seen out together for a romantic dinner celebrating our anniversary at a restaurant where I’d had a reservation for the last three months was too risky.

Instead, he brought over takeout Thai. He lit candles and brought a lovely bottle of Dom Perignon, and it was quite romantic, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit disappointment dampened the evening.

That he knew the trouble I went to get the reservations only made it worse.

It’s lingered like an ocean current dragging on my limbs in the week since.

I understand his point of wanting to keep our personal life personal since we not only work together but are concertmaster and associate concertmaster.

But we’ve proved we can remain professional, so keeping our romantic relationship secret seems unnecessary and has been a point of contention between us lately.

The applause continues as more and more people rise from their seats.

Joska Morales, who took over as conductor and music director of the Philadelphia Orchestra a year and a half ago after the much beloved Elora Yarrow left us for London, strides back onto the stage.

The tails of his tuxedo whip with each crisp step.

From the streak of silver in his dark hair that makes going gray look cool, to his long fingers and lean form, to his pompous air and demanding way, he was born to be a conductor.

Joska throws his arms open wide and flicks his wrists.

We stand on cue and, if possible, the applause grows louder.

Another whistle. As one, we bow. More whistles as bravos swell over the ovation.

Joska bows, then clasps his hands together like he’s in prayer, shaking them at the audience as if he is undeserving of such acclaim.

It’s a nice act, because humble is not in the man’s vocabulary, but being the professional I am, I refrain from snorting my derision.

There was a time when the joy of the interaction between the audience and musicians was everything.

Like a living entity, breathing life into my soul.

I loved sharing music. Loved connecting with an audience in a world that existed only for that particular performance.

No two performances are ever the same and the thrill of that was akin to a religious experience.

But that joy has slowly been sapped out of me under Joska Morales’s leadership.

I’ve considered leaving, but I’ve been in Philadelphia long enough that it’s become my home.

Or as much as a home as any place can be when you travel as much as I do.

I’m hoping Joska won’t be here for the long run.

Philadelphia isn’t big enough for him. We’re simply a stepping stone for what he sees as bigger and better orchestras.

He steps down from the conductor’s podium and shakes Bash’s hand, then mine.

“You were late coming in on line 54 in the third movement,” Joska says through his pasted-on smile.

Asshole.

Fury spins in my gut and I grit my teeth to keep from speaking my thoughts aloud.

To the audience, it appears the conductor is congratulating or giving encouraging words.

But to Joska, encouragement equals coddling and “brilliant musicians are a result of hard work and brutal honesty.” Which is just his way of justifying his assholeness.

I nod. His hand is like a slimy dead fish I can’t drop fast enough.

He turns his grin to Sebastian one final time, but before he can stride off the stage again, Bash drops to the polished wooden floor.

I lurch forward to catch him. If he’s fainting, I don’t want him to hit his head or land on his violin.

But Tiffany, the fourth chair who sits directly behind me, rests her hand on my arm, stopping me. Her face is alight with excitement.

And then, it’s my stomach that is lurching.

Sebastian hasn’t fainted. He isn’t at risk of cracking open his head or shattering his violin. No, Sebastian Lee, the man who woke up in my bed this morning, the man who kissed me goodbye before he left to “run errands,” is on one knee. Holding a black velvet box.

But he’s not smiling up at me. Nope. My boyfriend is smiling at Joska, who is clutching his chest with one graceful hand, nodding, yes, yes, yes .

My ears buzz with static and the hall—this beautiful hall that has been my sanctuary for the last ten years—spins. I cup my hand over my mouth as my stomach sours, then roils. Without seeing it, I know the platinum band with four diamonds lining it is what Sebastian is presenting to Joska.

Two months ago, I stumbled across the ring when I was at Sebastian’s place. He’d asked me to get him a clean shirt from his dresser. I—stupid, stupid me—thought I would be the recipient of the ring.

Sebastian slides the band onto Joska’s finger, then rises to his feet. The audience cheers, and Joska takes Sebastian’s face in his hands, kissing him in front of the orchestra, the audience, and me.

Bile surges up my esophagus, burning its walls and settling in the back of my throat.

The buzzing in my head grows louder and all I can do is stare.

Stare at Joska and Sebastian embracing. Stare as Sebastian’s gaze meets mine.

Stare as the corner of his mouth tips up in a what-can-you-do?

tilt. Stare as Joska takes Sebastian’s hand and kisses his knuckles while the audience continues to clap and cheer, thinking they have shared in a beautiful moment of love.

Move.

I have to move.

And that’s what I do, spinning on my heel, pushing between chairs.

Someone calls my name, but my feet move faster and faster.

A timpani drum pounds in my head, and my heart cracks like a violin left out in the Atacama Desert.

My eyes sting and every breath is a serrated knife slicing into my lungs.

A hand around my arm tries to stop me, but I fling it off.

My only thought: Get the hell out of here.