Summer Symphony

By Brandon Shire

Martin Zoric, a maestro and composer in Croatia, had vivid dreams of fatherhood, of a small hand pressed to his, of pink dresses and girlish laughter. Then his wife had a stillbirth, and his world fell apart. He listened to the unwanted apologies, stood by his wife as was expected, and kept his façade strong and firm for the entire world to see.

But, he has never found the strength let go and grieve over the loss of his stillborn daughter. Now, he can’t feel his music and is obviously falling apart.

When renowned pianist Ren Wakahisa landed in Croatia for a summer concert series, he was hoping to escape the cultural pressures put upon him by his Japanese family. They wanted him to conform – to forsake love for familial duties. But Ren has other ideas about love and family obligation.

Over the course of the summer, Ren must decide whether he will yield to his family’s wishes or has the courage to be the man he wants to be.
Summer Symphony is a story of love and loss – a man’s perspective of what it is to lose a child. It is the story of how two men with exceptional talent and passion find answers in music and what they learn about strength, grace, and the endurance of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandon Shire
• Release date: Oct 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310237898

Brandon Shire

Great stories should not depend on gender or sexual preference of a character, but instead upon the strength of the characters and the honesty and urgency of the story.Brandon Shire proves he understands the complexity of writing LGBT fiction from two very different viewpoints – serious and smexy. His serious fiction is written for those who enjoy a book which explores life’s darker elements in a more literary form, while the smexy fiction is for those who enjoy a graphically erotic romance.Regardless of the differentiation above, Brandon writes for people who enjoy being challenged, and for those who strive to understand situations they don’t typically encounter. He pens raw, emotional stories about characters which readers will either love or love to hate.Life and love are pretty damned special, but neither is always perfect. Life can be painful, and real love hard to find. Brandon’s fiction is an exploration of the (sometimes) arduous search for the happiness we all desire.BRANDON SHIRE was chosen as a Top Read in 2011, Best in LGBTQ Fiction for 2011 & 2012, and won a Rainbow Award for Best Gay Contemporary Fiction.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 Brandon Shire

Cover: Aeterum Designs

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the below publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, people, places, schools, media, incidents and events are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 9781310237898

An age is known by its music

-Croatian proverb

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, who nearly seventy years on, still grieves for the sisters I never had. It is dedicated to all mothers who have wept over an unborn child, and to those fathers whose grief is still to be sublimated to society’s idea of what it means to be a man.

And finally, this book is dedicated to those who understand that love is a fluid thing, and that grief can be the dark cold which keeps love from finding the shape of its container, or the hammer which breaks it free.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks go to fans who have kept the fire under my feet hot enough to get this out in a timely manner. Also, without the significant help of Shira Anthony, Marija S., and Iva Silla this book wouldn’t have been possible. I am forever in their debt. Any mistakes are my own. Lastly, to my beta readers who give it to me raw and unedited in the nicest sort of way. They make writing a joy.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

About the Author

Books by Brandon Shire

Copyright

Chapter One

Martin Zoric and his wife had not made love in over a year. Instead, they suffered, peering at each other in guilt and remorse, the weight of their sorrow another millstone upon the many secret burdens they already shared together.

I’m done, Mirnela said as they sat for dinner. There was no emotion in her voice. It was a plain statement of fact.

Done? Martin was only half listening. He barely glanced away from the newspaper he was reading.

With us, she told him.

He looked up and nodded once. It was a curt gesture. He hadn’t seen this coming. He should have. She had been staring out the nursery window more and more, focusing on the empty street, her eyes as vacant as the crib behind her. If he called to her, she would flinch as if startled, and try to appear busy in a room that had nothing but misery trapped within its walls.

Why didn’t I pay more attention? he chastised himself.

But he was so worn, so emotionally wrung out. He had tried to be strong and move forward, even while he still felt the huge hole in his heart. Maybe he had pushed Mirnela too hard, too fast. Wasn’t that his duty in a situation such as theirs? He’d been told that often enough. Suppress his own grief and aid his wife with hers. But there was no room for him within those instructions.

I’m so sorry. I never meant…

She held up her hand. Don’t. Her face became a sudden storm of mixed emotions – frozen in sadness one moment, glittering in anger the next.

Martin snapped his mouth closed, his face a mix of shock and crushing realization. Mirnela didn’t want another apology, just as he didn’t. She wanted to move on. More specifically, she wanted him to move on. Not that it was ever fully possible for either of them, but she’d dealt with the blow better than he had. His pain was still visible, still hot and raw, and it wouldn’t let her heal.

He felt an instant rush of angry betrayal coursing through his veins. Hadn’t they suffered together? Hadn’t they subscribed to the same dreams of parenthood? He remained silent and forced himself to remember what she had been through.

He had a brief flash of Mirnela and himself in the hospital, their grief thick and suffocating. It overwhelmed his rationality, his passion, his music. It had emptied him in one sleek moment, and left an angry sorrow that had no means for outlet. All the small, but significant moments he had dreamed of, all the soft situations he had contrived – daddy's girl at his hand, the warm imprint of her soul on him as she kissed him goodnight, the infectious smile when she found him pushing his peas into the bin uneaten. They were tiny slices of time, life moments that never happened, or ever would happen.

When the nurses let him in to see her, Mirnela had her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, as if trying to protect their baby daughter, who had already been lost. Martin had never felt like such a failure in his entire life. This child, his little Marta, though unborn, had already become a part of him, had already ingrained herself upon his heart. He hadn’t needed to feel her heartbeat thrumming within himself for that connection. He hadn’t needed to feel the movement of her limbs under his skin. It was there already, from the first moment he knew of her existence. They were linked, hooked in time and space across a vast expanse. Father and daughter. And then the link was gone, extinguished.

I’m sorry, Martin had whispered in the hospital, over and over, and over again, as if the words could take away the agony of the loss.

He pushed that painful memory away and studied Mirnela as they sat across from one another. They were friends once, for many more years than they were married. Maybe they still were. He wasn’t sure. Their childhood friendship led to their marriage and eventually, to the intimacies that gave rise to his unborn daughter’s conception.

Mirnela pulled in a long breath and slowly released it as she smoothed her shirt and wiped the emotion from her face. I’m sorry, she offered quietly.

He looked away, embarrassed at his own anger. He had no right to be angry at her. She shouldn’t be apologizing. It was he who had proposed that third time, he who had initiated their first passionate kiss, and he who had run wild with the news of an impending new life.

But then, nearly six months after they found out she was pregnant, they didn’t have a child coming into the world. They didn’t have dreams; didn’t have hopes and plans. Instead, they had a closet full of small, unused clothes. They had pain and a solid shared burden of immense grief that weighed them down to the very pit of despair.

Where will you go? Martin asked. There was no question over who would leave the flat. It had been passed down in his family for three generations. He had planned on willing it to his daughter. That dream was gone too.

Paris, she answered with a steady gaze.

Paris? Surprise lit his face. She loved to travel, but it was usually quick trips along the Croatian Coast, and that was the response he’d expected – some small flat overlooking Dubrovnik or Split where she could watch the tide bring in tourists from around the globe.

He didn’t think she would run as far as Paris.

When? he asked. She had given him seven years, and in return, asked for nothing. He owed her a clean break.

Today, she replied, her tone dry and factual once again.

He glanced at the newspaper, unable to meet her gaze any longer. The sweat from his hands had warped the paper into a tight knot of smeared words and lumpy editorials. He put it flat on the table and tried to smooth it with his palms. Do you need a ride to the airport?

No, the taxi will be here within the hour.

He stopped pressing the paper and looked at her directly. She was a thin woman with haunting blue eyes and long dark hair, both products of her Romani heritage. When she was a child, she had been a stunning beauty who everyone knew would be a striking woman. But the years had been hard and, though beautiful, Mirnela hadn’t become the woman Martin saw within the child he knew. He reached for her hand and gently took it into his own, caressing her knuckles with his thumb.

Her lip trembled. "It wasn’t my fault, Martin. It wasn’t anybody’s fault." Her words were a whisper, a plea. She pulled her hand from his grasp as sadness crept into her face. It was a sadness deeper than their years together, deeper than the childhood friendship that had bound them, and deeper than their lost child.

I never thought that, Martin murmured. "Never." And he meant that with every part of his soul.

Mirnela had been cautiously excited about the pregnancy because he had been utterly exuberant. But she had lost several children through miscarriage before Martin was ever in the picture. He knew this, and knew how much those small ghosts haunted her. And still, above her own misgivings, she had offered an anxious smile at Martin’s elation.

She let out another shaky breath, stood and went to the bedroom. She didn’t leave the room until the taxi appeared out front.

When it pulled away, Martin stood on the curb, his hands indented with the handles of her suitcases, a forlorn look on his face. He stared at the empty road for a moment, before he went back into the flat and searched for the dusty bottle of rakija he had hidden away.

He didn’t know what else to do with himself.

Chapter Two

When Ren Wakahisa came in from his night out in the Ni-chōme district of Tokyo, his mother was sleeping on a chair in front of his bedroom door. The sun was barely touching the horizon and he had yet to pack for his trip. He put his hands on his hips as he looked at her, his head shaking slightly. She was a small, round woman with big feet. A fact his father had always loved to tease her about. But they had argued before he left for the club, and if he woke her now, they would argue again, likely waking his younger sister, Emi, in the process. Still, he couldn’t let her stay undisturbed; he needed to get moving if he was going to make his plane.

Mother. He nudged her. Go to bed.

Her eyes fluttered open. What time is it? She came to her feet before he could answer. Her movement was fast and furtive like she was ready to rekindle her previous objections to his trip. You’re drunk.

He raised his palms, denying the accusation. No, just late. I told you I wouldn’t be drinking. I have a flight to catch. I’m going to sleep on the plane.

She huffed. When Ren travelled outside the country, she made a full traditional meal before he left, each and every time. It didn’t matter the time of day; she would feed him before he boarded any plane. You need to eat before you go, she admonished and hurried toward the kitchen to begin cooking, neither waiting for his response, nor likely to listen to anything he had to say on the matter.

It’s too early to eat. Go to bed, he told her, his voice hushed so he wouldn’t wake Emi.

Tea then. I can’t sleep now. My neck... She rubbed it and twisted her head back and forth as she went to the kitchen. See what you do to me? I could be in bed, but I have to wait up. And why didn’t you go to Germany? You could have done much better there and you wouldn’t be gone so long.

He rolled his eyes as he followed her. At least she was whispering her disapproval instead of shouting it. She had her own reasons for wanting him to go to Germany for a month instead of the summer tour he had agreed to in Croatia. But he needed the break, and it had been his own mistake in telling her that he’d had an option.

So, the new girl, when do I meet her? she asked without turning. That would be the only reason to be out so late. She paused and looked over her shoulder, her eyes tight with accusation. What must her parents think, eh? That isn’t a good indication for a future husband.

His face became stone, not out of malice, but weariness. She knew he hadn’t been out with a girl. Where he went or who he slept with was never discussed openly with his mother. And it never would be. But she knew he was gay. And yet, through some unspoken societal and ancestral obligation, he was still expected to marry and have children.

He never doubted his mother had sacrificed for him. The upright piano taking up precious space in their small living room was a constant testament to it – a sacrifice she spoke of whenever they had guests. And he knew she was losing face amongst her peers. He understood the pressures on her. The older generations were like that. But he wouldn’t marry a girl he had no feelings for. The more his mother prodded, the more resentful he became, and the farther he wanted to be from her nagging.

I’m going to pack, he told her.

A small frown appeared on her face. He could feel it on his back, following him down the hall, poking into his shoulder blades. He required a solution he didn’t have. For a time, he thought music would be enough, but he’d seen too many closeted Japanese men creeping into the bars at night to think he could live in such a situation. That existence had little to offer in the way of real happiness and was not for him.

He packed quietly then took a shower. The aroma of food drifted throughout the apartment, and he heard Emi stir in the room she shared with his mother. When he got to the table, he found steamed rice, miso soup, tamagoyaki, tsukemono pickles, nori, and natto. But his mother stood over it, waiting for an argument. He kept his mouth shut and sat, reaching for his tea without a word.

Is it okay? she asked.

The question was loaded. He nodded silently and began serving himself, hoping to avoid the confrontation she sought. It didn’t work.

The only reason he accepted the invitation to spend three months in Zagreb was so he could figure out how to tell her he wouldn’t be marrying. Normally he would fly to a city and fly out again, playing only one or two concerts. He planned on staying single until he found someone he cared for. That person

Reviews for Summer Symphony

[Estarianne · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book does not have a HEA of the romance sort. Usually I hate contrived HEAs, but I kind of wish he'd pulled one off this time. Yet, the ending was clearly part of the overall vision for the book, so I can't begrudge him the choice. This is also not an erotic book. It's an amazing character study and a look at grief and duty and how people hurt and help each other. It is also about classical music, and he works the details into the story very masterfully.