I'll Be Seeing You: Musica Con Fuoco, Op. 4

By M. Bradley Davis

FAITH, HOPE, LOVE

Stephen discovers how profoundly his six-week experience with Arianne changed him with schools resumption. He feels her presence daily and finds he must carry forward the lessons she taught. He meets Gina Cameron in his first class of the new term; she helps Stephen teach his first important lesson through song.
Stephens friends also make discoveries in their lives. Richard Fuller returns to his classes in Philadelphia more confident and assertive than in the past. Andrew Thompson finds changes in his high school orchestra some of which enormously displease him. His actions have repercussions far beyond Ariannes final lessons for him.
As school progresses, Stephen, Doug, and Jason prepare the orchestra for their fall performances, the first of which takes them to an elementary school. Stephen meets second-grader Elinor Rogers through an unexpected musical duet. The little girl simply astonishes him.
Andrew Thompsons outburst forces both his principal and orchestra teacher to reassess their positions on the schools music program. Andrew has thrown them a challenge which they simply cannot ignore. Consequently, Stephen and Doug make a return trip to the Philadelphia area, where they lead an orchestra clinic for Andrews orchestrathe orchestra where Arianne once played. The trip inspires the young men from Clarkstowne to make new friends and deepen their friendship with Andrew.
And, during this trip, Stephen has another encounter with seven-year-old Elinor, who will put everything he learned from Arianne to the test. She and her mother are on the bus with Stephen and Doug for the return trip to Clarkstowne; when the bus crashes, Stephen discovers that, suddenly, he is all she has left in this world where the only gifts he can give her are faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these is love

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491825877

M. Bradley Davis

M. Bradley Davis’ sixth grade English teacher made a mistake. She introduced him to poetry (Thank you, Mrs. Foster!). Since then, Mr. Davis discovered he isn’t a poet. However, he loves telling stories. Mr. Davis wrote short stories during high school. Novels appeared toward the end of college. Mr. Davis became a teacher and taught fourth grade for thirteen years. He taught all the usual subjects, including courtesy, honesty, respect, and truthfulness, too. Mr. Davis was listed in Who’s Who Among America’s Teachers, and twice listed in Who’s Who Among Young American Professionals. He recently retired from the school district’s technology department. His former students inspire Mr. Davis’ characters. He enjoys spending time with young people, and finds tidbits for his stories in the people around him. Mr. Davis is active in his church. His hobbies include reading, writing, amateur astronomy, and photography. This is Mr. Davis’ tenth book published through AuthorHOUSE. Tunnel Of Dreams is a short fantasy novel. The Hand in the Mirror, The Canopus Conundrum, and Encounter at Lalor are the volumes in the MindFusion series. A Spark of Magic, The Broken Violin, and Arianne’s Waltz are the volumes in the Musica Con Fuoco series about gifted musicians. I’ll Be Seeing You is the fourth book in this series. The Enchanted Rapiers and The Reluctant Prince are historical fantasies leading cousins into their family’s past, and are the first books in the Swords Through Time series. The Hand in the Mirror was a Fiction-SciFi finalist in the 2003 ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year competition and an Honorable Mention entry in the 2012 Hollywood Book Festival; Encounter at Lalor was an Award Finalist in the National Best Book Awards 2008 Competition. Mr. Davis lives in Houston, Texas.

Book preview

I’ll Be Seeing You

Musica Con Fuoco, Op. 4

M. Bradley Davis

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© 2013 M. Bradley Davis. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/23/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2589-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2588-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2587-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919049

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Sunday, October 13

Prologue: Dead Man’s Curve

Tuesday, August 27

1. He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

Tuesday, September 3

2. The Shadow of Your Smile

3. Catch A Falling Star

Wednesday, September 4

4. The Music Is You

5. If’n I Was God

Thursday, September 5

6. What’ll I Do

7. Vltava

Tuesday, September 10-Saturday, September 14

8. Pure Imagination

Wednesday, September 25

9. Something’s Coming

10. Somewhere Out There

11. (I’ll Get By) With A Little Help From My friends

Thursday, September 26

12. Quartet in D Minor

13. I Write The Songs

Saturday, September 28

14. Come Saturday Morning

Thursday, October 3

15. Diane

Friday, October 4

16. Hoe Down

Monday, October 7

17. Time to Let the Angels In

Saturday, October 12

18. Yesterday

19. The Twelfth of Never

20. Bookends

Sunday, October 13

21. My Heart Will Go On

22. Welcome to My World

23. Let Me Be The One

Monday, October 14

24. You’ve Got A Friend

25. Ain’t No Way To Treat a Lady

26. Da Doo Ron Ron (When he walked me home)

27: Love Without End, Amen

Wednesday, October 16

28. Blest Be The Tie

29. You And Me Against The World

Thursday, October 17

30. Straighten Up and Fly Right

Fall Break:

Monday, October 21-Friday, October 25

31. Bridge Over Troubled Water

32. Gina

33. Sing

Friday, November 29

34. The Gambler

35. Help

Saturday, November 30-Monday, December 2

36. Lean On Me

Friday, December 20

37. Candlelight Carol

38. Hi-Lilli, Hi-Lo

39. Stille Nacht

40. O, Tannenbaum

Wednesday, December 25 Christmas Day

Epilogue: A Song and a Christmas Tree

Afterword

About the Author…

About the Illustrator…

For:

Megan Mitchell Bell

Who stole my heart when she was seven and will probably never give it back…

And In Memory Of

Sra. Senaida B. Castro

1936-1999

A wonderful lady and special friend who made certain during my early years as a teacher that I never lost the ability to see the world through my students’ eyes: a place of wonder, excitement, and adventure—new every day.

I promise, Senaida—I’m still looking at the world that way… because I know you’re watching me . . .

Acknowledgments

Each story an author writes has some points of compromise. The main point in this one is some legal scheduling. A part of the timeline has been compressed in the interest of telling a tight tale. While it doesn’t quite reflect the real world, the spirit is still there, and that’s what is truly important. And, of course, it would be nice if the real world could work this quickly!

As always, I want to thank those who have helped make this story a better tale than it might have been. Tristan MacAvery, as ever, bled red ink (actually red and blue font colors—maybe even a little purple—email makes editing so much easier!) liberally across these words. His suggestions made me stop, think, and improve. Thanks, Tris. Amme Davis and Mary McAnally also contributed time as critical editors, and their assistance is much appreciated.

I also must say a word about the cover art and artist. Penny Duncan painted the cover scene for me. This is an especially sweet honor for her, because this book is dedicated, in part, to her Aunt. Penny is the Art Teacher for the elementary school where I taught fourth grade. I have known her for many years, and have watched her start as a teaching assistant and earn her teacher certification. I am especially proud to have her friendship—and her artistic talent—associated with this story.

Sunday, October 13

Prologue: Dead Man’s Curve

(Jan and Dean)

Stephen woke late in the night needing to empty his bladder. He was surprised he’d rested so well given the motion of the commercial bus. Doug Nicholas snored softly in the seat beside him. Stephen smiled. Now he had something else to tease Doug about!

The two student conductors of the Clarkstowne High School Orchestra were returning home; they’d visited Philadelphia as guest instructors at a music clinic for the Patriots High School orchestra. They were invited because one member, Andrew Thompson, attended a music conservatory with them the previous summer. Andrew had convinced his program director that members of his orchestra would appreciate Stephen’s and Doug’s perspective on music.

The clinic was a thoroughly enjoyable way to spend Saturday; Stephen thought the rest of the orchestra didn’t mind giving up their Saturday, either. A smile crossed his face. Andrew still surprised him!

Stephen quietly rose from his seat beside Doug on the left side of the aisle, slipped to the restroom in the rear of the bus, and then went forward to speak with the driver. The bus run from Philadelphia to Clarkstowne was part of a much longer route, but even that stretch took about eight hours to make because of the mountain roads… and the stop with layover in Harrisburg… and another layover in Pittsburgh… before they turned south toward West Virginia. The bus departed Philadelphia around ten PM Saturday; glancing at his watch, Stephen saw it was just after four in the morning.

Hi, there, the driver said as Stephen eased into the area clearly marked AREA MUST REMAIN CLEAR WHILE VEHICLE IS MOVING. This is the strangest run in a long time for me, the driver told him as he guided the bus around a curve on the mountain road. "I’ve never had the bus so empty. Having only eight passengers from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh just doesn’t happen. Then, we only pick up a total of three more passengers in Pittsburgh. The driver shook his head. Eleven passengers on this route. Who’d have thunk it?"

Where are we now?

Just about to cross into West Virginia, the driver replied. Ahead, Stephen saw the West Virginia state sign as the bus rapidly approached; it flashed past as they crossed the border. We should get into Clarkstowne a few minutes before six. We’re on schedule, almost to the minute.

Sounds good, Stephen agreed.

I truly enjoyed your entertaining the little girl right after we started out, the driver told him. It was a real treat to see her so excited.

Thanks, Stephen grinned. I met her earlier this year during a concert performance at her elementary in Clarkstowne. It’s been great to see her again.

Why don’t you go on back and get some more shut-eye? the driver suggested with a grin.

Who could pass up an offer like that? Stephen rose, returned to his seat beside Doug, refastened his seat belt almost without thinking about it, and leaned back. He needed just a moment to start another journey to slumber land.

Unfortunately, he never made it back to sleep.

Beneath their feet disaster unfolded.

A flaw in the metal of the drive shaft, invisible by visual inspection, was geometrically spiraling toward failure. An irregularity in the special alloy resulted in the metal becoming brittle with repeated heating and cooling. The irregularity, located just where the head of the shaft joined the engine drive train, had been heated and cooled too many times. Now at its maximum temperature during the trip, the brittle strength of the alloy failed, turning the shaft’s head into a cloud of shards in a split second. The pieces flew into the drive train gears, where they jammed everything tight. The sudden cessation of movement converted mechanical energy into heat, superheating the mechanism, fusing it solid. In less than one second, the engine and drive train became one huge hunk of useless, red-hot metal. The failure activated an emergency shut-off valve on the fuel line.

The bus’ rear axles locked, freezing the rear wheels, leaving only the front two wheels free to move.

"Mechanical failure!" The driver’s scream vibrated over the sudden screech of rubber against pavement as the bus started to slide on the left hand curve he was negotiating at the instant of failure.

Knowing he had mere seconds, Stephen whipped the pillow from behind his head, wrapped it around his face, and curled himself into a ball.

The driver struggled to keep control of the vehicle, but had nothing to help him—not even brakes as the bus skidded across the outer right climbing lane of roadway and narrow shoulder. He tried to shift into neutral and free up the rear wheels, but the transmission wouldn’t move. He couldn’t budge the lever. Everything was locked—except the steering wheel. He used that, doing his best to recover from the skid.

The driver almost had control when the rear tires started blowing. The explosive shove contributed by each bursting tire destroyed any chance of recovering the skid. The road wasn’t wide enough.

The rear wheels left the asphalt.

The right side of the bus crashed into and through a huge section of guardrail and passed over the edge of a steep embankment. With nothing but air beneath it, the rear of the bus pulled the front over the edge and the bus started to roll.

During the roll, the front end of the bus, still moving forward, slammed squarely into a very large tree, sending it spiraling at a different angle.

Stephen knew the bus completely rolled over at least three times before he felt an enormous impact from the right side, heard the tortured scream of tearing metal, and the bus finally came to rest upright, yet nearly wrapped around another ancient tree.

The second point of impact was behind him.

Slowly, Stephen sat up and removed the pillow from his head.

He was amazed the bus wasn’t wreathed in fire.

First, he felt of his head and neck; next, he gently tested arms and legs, and then finally looked around. Initially, everything was black, but his nearly night-adapted eyes adjusted. The moonlight illuminated a chilling scene.

You all right, Doug? he asked anxiously, seeing his friend start moving next to him. As Doug slowly turned his head, Stephen saw blood.

Easy, he cautioned. You’re bleeding.

So are you, Doug croaked, feeling gingerly of his head. He found an egg-sized lump above his left eye, and blood on the fingers he pulled away as he winced in pain. Doug realized he had a cut across his forehead where broken glass flew past.

Stephen touched his head and found he was bleeding from a cut that started above his ear and extended toward the back of his head; the pillow hadn’t stopped all the flying glass—or he hadn’t been able to keep it wrapped securely around his head. It didn’t matter, he supposed; Stephen was surprised his arms weren’t sliced to ribbons. They were exposed, holding the pillow in place.

He took the pillow which had saved his head, ripped strips from its shredded casing, and both of them tied pads of the cloth to their wounds to stop the bleeding. After a moment, the makeshift compresses worked.

Nearby, a few voices began whimpering with pain. The sound brought them back to their senses. Incredibly, neither student suffered any injury beyond the cuts. The cries around Stephen and Doug told of others who hadn’t been as lucky. They both began looking around, evaluating the situation.

The bus sat on what was left of its wheels, but the ground’s steep slope tilted the bus’ remains thirty degrees from one side to the other. Stephen supposed the bus must be resting on what was left of its chassis, and the steeply sloping side of the mountain they’d been circling at the time of the accident caused the uncomfortable slant. Looking to the front, all Stephen could see was a tangled mass of torn and twisted metal. The windows were gone, glass beads strewn everywhere, evidence of what tempered glass remained. Some window frames still held sharp, sparkly edges; the seats seemed to be more or less in their proper places, though they all appeared twisted out of position and even proper shape. Carefully, he released his seat belt and looked behind.

I’ll go forward, Doug said quietly as Stephen edged into the aisle.

Okay, Stephen agreed. I’ll move to the back.

I’ll be seeing you. Doug turned toward the front of the bus.

Yeah. Stephen acknowledged uneasily.

With those words, they began to search for other survivors, and to try and figure out how to get out of the wrecked bus.

Stephen immediately saw what kept the bus in place at its crazy angle: the tree that had gouged far into the bus behind him. He shuddered; without that tree, they’d still be rolling down the mountainside. With a sudden chill, Stephen remembered people were sitting behind him: a mother and her young daughter.

An image of his beautiful girlfriend, Arianne, in her grave almost three months now, flashed before his eyes.

Not again, Lord, Stephen prayed. Please, not again!

Carefully, Stephen crept along the aisle, pushing debris aside as he went. The tree that stopped their downward roll shoved the roof right down to armrest level. The impact was in just about the same place where the little girl and her mother were sitting. He hoped both were on the opposite side of the bus from that tree!

Getting through to the area behind was dangerous because of the sharp metal edges. He had to twist like a snake to fit through. Somehow, he made it.

Just as he tried to stand again, his foot landed on something round and he almost fell into the nearby sharp edges. Carefully, Stephen bent down and lifted the object into the dim moonlight.

He held half a plastic recorder. It must be the one Andrew gave me, he thought, pawing through the shattered glass and plastic at his feet for the other piece. He didn’t find it.

Stephen came fully to his senses when he realized he was looking for part of something that couldn’t be repaired while he could clearly hear a young voice, a very scared little girl’s voice, sobbing.

Well, Stephen thought, that’s at least one hopeful sign.

As he searched for her, Stephen considered how much his life had changed in just a few, brief weeks.

Tuesday, August 27

1. He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

(The Hollies)

You know, Jason, Stephen said to his best friend across the worktable that separated them, his voice wistful, yet filled with reproach, Barry was only joking with us.

The table, located in the studio Stephen shared with his father at home, was almost completely covered by sheet after sheet of music paper filled with neatly marked notations. The fifteen year old boys had traded pages back and forth for days now and finally neared the end of their task.

A CD played in the background; soft ocean sounds with the cry of an occasional tern thrown in for color filled the room’s companionable silence. Neither musician liked working with actual music in the background—especially when composing; the relaxing, natural sounds blanketed background noises from elsewhere in the house, allowing the twosome to focus on the job before them.

Jason looked across at Stephen, noting his friend’s not-quite-so-haunted expression. Stephen’s square face had filled out somewhat in their year-old friendship. Wavy hair of an earthy brown woven through with red highlights framed that face. Stephen’s wide mouth was expressive, especially when he smiled, but Stephen’s eyes were the feature that grabbed everyone’s attention. They were a pleasant brown filled with amber flecks. The amber highlights proved an excellent indicator of Stephen’s mood. If he was content, they hardly showed. If he was angry, those amber flecks seemed to fly right out of his eyes as sparks. At the moment, they were barely visible.

Yes, and no, Jason commented, wryness touching his voice. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and when standing something over an inch taller than Stephen, Jason’s oval face was mobile in expressing his emotions. Now, his lips crinkled into a wry smile, matching the tone in his voice. In a sense, he told Stephen, "Barry was joking with us when he made sure the audience knew we were creating the arrangements for the concert; on the other hand, he also knew that keeping you busy with writing down all those arrangements was one way I could help you put distance between the present and Arianne’s death."

Stephen looked across the room at Jason’s words. This had been the most rewarding… and most difficult… summer of his life. He’d finally figured out what girls were all about, managed to win the love of a wonderful, beautiful, and talented girl named Arianne Peters, and then had to lose her when leukemia overwhelmed her body. He was holding her when she died; they had six weeks together—six weeks he knew he’d treasure for the rest of his life because Ari managed to cram a lifetime of experiences into that short span of time despite her illness. He loved her deeply, a love she enthusiastically returned.

They met at a music conservatory—and knew they were meant for each other from the instant their eyes first locked. Everyone around them knew, too, including Barry Manilow, who visited as a guest of the conservatory to work with the talented group of young musicians.

Barry cared enough to help him through her funeral, and, when Stephen conducted the Clarkstowne Symphony in the premiere performance of the Rhapsody he wrote for Arianne, Barry attended and even performed a special encore honoring both Arianne and him.

That led to a one night, special performance—just Barry, Jason, and him—at a dinner club in Clarkstowne. Barry depended on them to arrange and perform the songs he sang. It was a fantastically uplifting experience; during the performance, Barry jokingly commented that the two of them had a homework assignment to write down the music they were playing out of their heads. They’d laughed, right along with the audience.

Now, the shoe was on the other foot. Here they were, with those very arrangements spread all over the worktable.

Barry was right. Doing this had helped.

Stephen raised his head. "Writing has helped me put some breathing space into the turmoil of this summer."

I know, Jason responded softly. Except for our conversation the day she died, you haven’t said a word about her; since we’ve been doing these arrangements, though, you’ve begun talking, remembering. You’re not as closed up as you have been. Jason grinned encouragingly. Don’t stop just because I told you I noticed, now!

Stephen chuckled. I won’t, he assured his blond friend. You above all, of everyone I know, can appreciate what I have to say about her, because you knew her almost as well as I did.

That is a compliment I will treasure.

I miss her terribly, Jason.

I know, Stephen. There’s a black pit in the center of your heart; you know it’s there, you can sense it, though you’re no longer in danger of falling in. Jason saw his words’ truth in Stephen’s eyes.

Stephen nodded his agreement.

You have one, too, he told Jason softly. "It’s one reason I know you understand when I talk about her."

Jason nodded, his blue eyes darkened with memory. Tony Clark had been his best friend through his early childhood in Cleveland. One terrible day in March a year and a half ago, they had been playing a duet in their neighborhood park. It had been just after sunset, and both were almost ready to go home. The moon had been shining in the darkening sky, and that had made them think of a little-known song recorded by the Carpenters years before called Crescent Noon. They’d decided to play it as the perfect way to end their afternoon of playing together, and during the duet, a drunk driver tore through the park, hit and killed Tony. Jason spent eight months in a wheelchair, though the accident didn’t injure him. The trauma of Tony’s death robbed him of the use of his legs, along with his ability to play and compose music.

That lasted until he met Stephen Ingalls.

Jason’s family moved to Clarkstowne, West Virginia and Jason reluctantly joined the high school orchestra—where he met Stephen. Stephen slowly, painstakingly wormed his way into Jason’s life, taking over the empty place left behind by Tony.

Stephen had helped him face Tony’s death and regain both his legs and his music. As the doctors had assured him, it was all in his head. The shared experience had made them closer than most brothers.

Jason’s face settled into thoughtful lines as he looked at his best friend. I do miss Tony, he admitted softly. Once in a while, I take out one or another of the solo violin pieces he wrote, and play, remembering. I’m not haunted by memories of the accident as I once was, Jason continued. I have new memories, someone else to take the empty place. His gaze settled firmly on Stephen. I have a new best friend.

And I have a best friend who’s been an anchor for me through the past couple of months, Stephen added, completing his side of the picture. You helped me through the upside-down world of finding a girlfriend. His gaze was direct, and he locked eyes with Jason. "More importantly, you didn’t toss me out on my ear when I couldn’t do anything else but talk about her. Jason chuckled, but then listened once more as Stephen continued. You also helped me face the ordeal of her illness and death. You picked me up, even when I wanted to just lie on the floor and die. Stephen shook his head, wonder coloring his voice, appreciation filling his eyes. Finally, you’ve pushed me along until I could begin taking steps for myself again."

I had help, Jason reminded him.

Michael and Judith have made a big difference, Stephen admitted, "but you’re the one who understood my feelings and my moods best, and I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done."

Jason grinned. Finish this? he gestured to the music scattered before them.

Stephen started chuckling. All right, he agreed, and pulled the page back into position, lifted his pencil, and began writing the piano part of one of the songs they’d played while Jason returned to work on the flute part of another song.

Late that afternoon, they finished the arrangement of This One’s For You, which had been their encore. With an extra special flourish, they marked the end of the entire book of music.

The actual pile of manuscript paper was about two inches thick and contained everything they’d played, except for two already published works by Chopin. Stephen and Jason had not included the pieces by Chopin they’d used in their warm-up for the concert.

Stephen boldly wrote An Intimate Evening with Barry Manilow, Arrangements by Stephen Ingalls, Jason Anderson, & Arianne Peters on a blank piece of manuscript paper. He wrote the comment, created July 11th and August 1st, performed August 1st and the year, and added it to the top of the stack.

Next, he located a piece of blank white paper and wrote in his neatest script:

August 27

Dear Barry:

Here’s our Homework assignment…

Teacher, do we get an A?

With warmest regards, and great appreciation for your approval and encouragement, we remain,

Sincerely yours,

Stephen Ingalls

Jason Anderson

Stephen signed the note, and passed it across to Jason.

Jason read it, chuckled, and then signed his name below Stephen’s.

Stephen glanced at the paper, then pulled it back and added a note:

PS: Jason and I wrote the parts we played; I tried to write the part you played, Barry, but I may not have it completely correct. Feel free to change Piano 1 as you need.

Enjoy!—S. I.

With that final inscription, Stephen lifted the note and placed it on top of the manuscript as both of them chuckled over the reaction they anticipated Barry would have when he received their work.

Judith Easton walked into the studio while Stephen and Jason were still chuckling over their note to Barry. The two composers had been so focused on what they were doing that they hadn’t heard the doorbell ring, or Mrs. Ingalls direct her toward the laughter.

Hi, guys! she smiled, flashing an impish grin at both of them. "Have you finally finished whatever it is you’re doing?" She slipped through the room to Jason’s side, where she wrapped a companionable and innocently possessive arm around him.

Jason smiled in return, stretched, and slipped his arm behind her back, pulling her against his side. Yes, we have, he told his girlfriend, and the best part is that you were in on it from the first.

What?

Jason pointed toward the stack of paper. We just finished writing down all those arrangements we played for Barry three weeks ago.

Oh! Judith exclaimed, her face lit with excitement, along with a hint of color, at the memory of the fluttery feeling in her stomach that evening because Barry paid attention even to her… in fact, he specifically, personally invited her to be a part of that wonderful, intimate concert he, Jason, and Stephen performed.

Stephen watched them, pleasure at the closeness they so obviously felt for each other evident on his face, along with just a touch of sadness that Arianne wasn’t there with him. If wishes were horses…

He saw the piece of paper dangling from her other hand, and knew what made her seek them out.

Get a letter, Judith? Stephen asked innocently, yet a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Judith raised the paper, waving it about. Yes, I— She froze in mid-wave at the expression on their faces. You both knew about this! she accused.

Of course, Jason told her. We worked with Dr. Donaldson on choosing chair placements for those he brought in. We lost half the clarinets last spring at graduation.

Then you didn’t have any say in… ? her voice trailed off.

Jason shook his head. No, and especially no in your case, he told her. Though Stephen, Doug, and I sit in on and even have input from challenges, Dr. Donaldson is the one who decides who is moved up or down. Chair placement within the orchestra is our responsibility, however.

That keeps us, Stephen told her firmly, from being accused of favoritism, plus it clearly says that Dr. Donaldson’s the one in charge.

We’re very pleased to have you in the orchestra with us this year, Jason told her, then kissed her lightly on the cheek—which embarrassed her—right there, unexpected and in front of Stephen—but only just a little bit.

Michael’s joining us on merit, too—just as you are—his letter probably arrived today, also, Stephen added.

Just then, Mr. Ingalls came into the room.

Evan Ingalls, Principal Conductor of the Clarkstowne Symphony Orchestra, was tall and slim, with black hair touched in places by gray, giving the distinguished appearance to go with his prestigious position. The Clarkstowne Symphony was known around the world for its excellence, and Evan was the one responsible for that reputation.

Aha! he exclaimed. I’ve finally managed to get here before you put things away. Now I can find out what you two have been up to for the past three weeks!

It’s just homework, Dad, Stephen replied, grinning, as both he and Jason laughed at his father’s comic behavior. "All you had to do was ask!"

Trying to sneak in on you was much more fun, his father countered. Hello, Judith, Mr. Ingalls greeted Jason’s brunette girlfriend. He gestured toward the manuscript. May I?

Sure, they chorused.

Stephen rose from his chair, and waved his father into it. Evan sat, his eyes drawn to the music paper. He read the note and began laughing, then lifted it from the stack—and his laughter died away.

He flipped through the pages, quickly reading the notations, matching what he saw with what he remembered.

That photographic memory of yours never ceases to amaze me, Stephen, he told his son as he put the pages he’d moved back onto the stack. "From what I can recall of the evening, this repeats exactly what the two of you performed for Barry."

Thanks, Dad, Stephen accepted the compliment with a grin.

Are you planning to number it?

Stephen looked across at Jason, who encouraged him to answer, his expression saying he’d agree with whatever Stephen decided.

No, Stephen replied after a moment of reflection. It’s not truly original work, but only arrangements. It was fun to do, but it isn’t going to be Opus 15 for me; there’s something else to claim that number.

Jason caught on quickly. You’ve been writing some more?

A small gasp of surprise escaped Judith as she, too, caught on.

Stephen nodded. The concept flowed from our conservatory, he told them. It’s not finished, yet.

What’s the concept? his father wanted to know.

Four sonatas, Stephen answered, One each for oboe, flute, trumpet, and violin, each with a piano accompaniment. They’re based on thematic material I heard at the conservatory.

How much do you have done? Jason pressed.

Stephen smiled. Number one, the oboe sonata, is finished—at least in its first draft. I’ve started work on the flute piece and have sketches for the other two.

May we see it? his father asked softly.

Sure, Stephen agreed with a soft chuckle, and left the room.

Jason and Mr. Ingalls traded a long look while Stephen was gone.

What do you think? Mr. Ingalls asked.

I think he’s coping wonderfully well, Jason replied. Better than I did, actually, he admitted ruefully, as Judith squeezed his shoulders in support. I’m glad of that, too; I wouldn’t want him to go through what I did over those long months after Tony died.

Thank you for all you’ve done, Jason, Evan said gently, reaching across to squeeze Jason’s arm in appreciation and approval.

He’s my friend, Jason mumbled in answer.

Just as Mr. Ingalls released Jason’s arm, Stephen returned carrying the manuscript and a hard-shell instrument case. Jason knew the oboe contained within once belonged to Arianne. Stephen handed the music to his father.

I’d say, Evan commented as he accepted the paper, the oboe indicates you’d be willing to play the piece.

I suppose, Stephen admitted. I haven’t played what I’ve written as yet, and it would be nice to hear for real what I hear in my head.

I’m no George Kleinfeldt, Evan warned them with a smile. George was the Clarkstowne Symphony’s Pianist in Residence, and Stephen’s piano instructor.

You don’t have to be, Stephen told his father. However, he asserted, "you and I both know your skills are just as good as George’s. Don’t sell yourself short, Dad, since you won’t let me sell myself short. He grinned to be able to reprimand his father and get away with it, also noting the stunned look on Judith’s face at their banter. Besides, this piece won’t tie your fingers in knots, he said, exchanging a wink with her as his father and Jason both laughed. It’s melodic, as opposed to technical."

All right, Evan agreed, smiling, I’ll look it over while you warm up. He moved to the piano and placed the music on the stand so he could easily turn the carefully joined pages.

While his father read the piano part and played bits and pieces, Stephen assembled the oboe and began softening the double reed. The sonata he’d written took into account his minimal skills on the instrument. It focused on the melodic nature of the oboe, and required muscular control of lips and air far more than dexterous fingerings.

He’d played for Arianne at her request only days before she died, straining his abilities beyond their limits for her sake. Since then, he’d forced himself to practice with the instrument, especially since it was the one part of her that he could still touch and hold. Every time he picked up this oboe, he held Arianne in his hands once again. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

When the oboe felt right in his hands, Stephen moved beside his father. He didn’t need to see the music, but being where he could look if he lost his train of thought was a comfort.

The sound of the oboe being warmed up at the same time the piano was being played brought Stephen’s brother, Michael, and his mother into the studio. Leslie and Michael knew Stephen could play both instruments, but not at the same time! They gathered to the side of the piano with Jason and Judith.

Michael was a younger copy of his father—straight black hair, gray eyes, his facial features touched by the softness of his mother’s heritage. He matched Jason’s height.

Leslie’s appearance was no less striking than her natural born son or her husband. She had dark brown hair, blue eyes, and was trim and lithe despite being far on the high side of thirty. She and her husband bore their parenthood of two teenage boys well.

Ready, son? Evan asked when Stephen paused.

Stephen nodded, and his father played a tuning pitch, which Stephen matched on the third repeat, after adjusting the instrument.

I’ll try not to hash this too badly, Stephen, Evan said with a grin.

At the top of the page, the composition was marked Sonata for Oboe & Piano, Op. 15, No. 1. I: Vivace II: Andante Cantabile III: Allegro Moderato.

Michael read the Italian markings, translating them in his mind: I: Lively; II: Gently Songlike; III: Cheerful and Moderate.

I marked the piece that way, Stephen said as they prepared, "because though the movements are marked internally, they are played without pause. The entire piece should be about ten minutes or so."

Let’s find out, Evan suggested.

I have the time, Jason told them.

Stephen nodded and raised the oboe to his lips. With a motion of the instrument, he indicated four beats of tempo and they started together.

Michael stood beside the piano, reading along as his brother and father played, smoothly turning the pages at his father’s nod.

Stephen’s first movement was a binary structure that took an eight-measure theme, repeated it, then introduced a second, different theme, repeated it, and then combined first with second before returning to the original first theme to end the movement. That first theme was almost jaunty in nature, taking the oboe through most of its range.

In the repeat of each theme, he switched melody for countermelody with the piano. The switching of melody between instruments allowed both performers to show some virtuosity in their performances.

The final notes of the first movement were marked rallentando, or slowing. The piano part carried the final measures of the theme, while the oboe held a sustained note, dropping in volume to mezzo piano, or moderately soft. Under the last of this note, the piano assumed an accompaniment pattern that repeated solo for two measures before the oboe introduced the stately and melodic second movement theme. The melody was smooth and sonorous, yet there were places where Stephen had used sixteenth and even thirty-second grace notes to enhance the fluid quality of the melody he constructed.

Jason, listening, thought Stephen had suddenly turned into a songbird that was pouring its heart out in pure melody before them. The music was gentle, exquisite; he could easily imagine Arianne as the inspiration. He’d seen the look she’d given Stephen as she sang to him the final afternoon of the conservatory, after everyone else had left. Only Jason, Stephen, Michael, Arianne, their families, and Quentin Marquis with Dr. Donaldson had been there to witness that song. Arianne had known she was dying, was facing a return to the hospital, and didn’t know when she’d see Stephen again. She’d sung I Won’t Last A Day Without You as Stephen played for her, pouring her longing to be with him into that song.

Now, Stephen poured his longing for her into this oboe melody.

The music brought tears to Jason’s eyes. Judith burrowed against him, seeking support as the beautiful melody jerked powerfully at their hearts. Jason held her close in mute acknowledgement that he also needed the close contact.

Stephen followed the modification of the traditional binary form used by most popular songwriters for the second movement. His second movement had two verses, a center bridge, and a final verse. As in the first, both instruments traded parts, enhancing the resonant nature of the movement. A coda containing a repeat of the chorus of the theme capped the final verse.

Both players cut off for one count at the end of the movement; then, the piano picked up speed in an accelerando as it modulated into the accompaniment for the third movement.

The final movement was a variation on the thematic material of the first. Stephen made it shorter by simply leaving out the repeats, but then he added a coda to round off and give a traditional and satisfactory conclusion to the sonata. The movement flew by, with the performers sharing a final quick passage that culminated in three greatly ritarded final counts, which Stephen conducted with the oboe.

That’s great, Stephen! Michael exclaimed as soon as the music faded from the surrounding air.

Ten minutes, thirty seconds, Jason told him with a grin.

Evan shook his head, a delighted smile covering his face.

Do you realize, Stephen, he commented, how very much you frustrate me?

"What, Dad? Stephen exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise at his father’s words. I… I don’t understand!"

"I won’t get any sleep tonight, Evan told him, still grinning, because I want to hear the other three sonatas now, and you haven’t written them yet!"

Everyone started laughing.

Very nice, son! Evan complimented him.

Thanks, Dad, Stephen accepted, but it still needs work. Playing it helped me locate the spots that I wasn’t sure were quite right. Now, I can go back and revise on it.

Show me where, his father suggested, as they moved back to the worktable with the manuscript. Michael reached across, slipped the oboe from Stephen’s hands without his brother noticing, and began disassembling and cleaning the instrument for him before gently placing the pieces in the case and closing it. His motions showed a respect of the instrument that silently complimented Stephen’s love for Arianne.

Stephen flipped through the sonata as Jason, along with Mr. Ingalls, watched. Judith, musician also, contented herself with looking at the manuscript upside-down. When she could get Stephen or Jason to write something for the clarinet, then she’d insist on sticking her head right in there with theirs!

Here, he said, pointing to a section of the piano part. This part was awkward, and didn’t quite mesh with the oboe the way I wanted.

You’re right, his father agreed. I noticed that one when we played through it.

Also here, Stephen said, turning another page and pointing to the oboe part. The melody line isn’t right for the piano accompaniment I’ve written, and the piano part is the correct one. I’ll make adjustments to the oboe to tighten the harmonic structure.

Good idea, Jason agreed as Mr. Ingalls nodded.

There were several other places, Stephen told them, looking up, but these were the ones that were most noticeable.

Thanks for playing it this afternoon, Jason told him. It’s good to have you writing original music again.

Tuesday, September 3

2. The Shadow of Your Smile

(Andy Williams)

Gina Cameron sat restlessly in the row of seats nearest the conductor’s podium, her flute held loosely in her lap. Wavy, honey-blonde hair framed a classically regal, heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and royal lines. Her smooth complexion held a tan well, while light brown, nearly amber-colored eyes sparkled in the bright illumination of the rehearsal hall. She wore a pair of pierced-earring studs bearing tawny stones, and a flat-link gold necklace woven in Celtic knots that was almost a choker design. When she chose, her lips could part in a dazzling smile.

She waited in breathless anticipation for class to start. New to Clarkstowne and this orchestra—and a freshman to boot—she hesitated to commit to an orchestra that required a two-period timeframe—until reading the requirements and expected workload. This music program was the kind she’d sought since taking up the recorder in elementary school.

Gina immediately requested an audition and had performed for Dr. Donaldson on all three of her instruments, insisting that he be aware of all of her strengths as well as weaknesses. He listened intently, making notes as she played the flute, recorder, and piccolo, handing her pieces to sight read on each instrument. Two blond-headed boys listened also; the taller had darker blond hair like hers but with green eyes, while the shorter had light, almost white-blond hair and blue eyes. Neither said a word.

When she finished, Dr. Donaldson asked her to wait outside.

A moment later, the two boys came out and approached her.

Gina, the taller one had said as he took her hand briefly, my name is Doug Nicholas. I’m one of the student conductors of this orchestra. This is Jason Anderson, he’d said, introducing the other boy who also clasped her hand, "who’s also a student conductor.

Dr. Donaldson has asked us to welcome you to the orchestra.

Jason had grinned. I think I have some competition, now, he said. I, too, play the flute—but not the piccolo or the recorder. My second instrument is the violin.

I’m pleased to meet both of you, she replied, but I don’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on.

That’s okay, Doug assured her. You’ll catch on quick enough.

Just don’t be surprised when you get called on to play some additional stuff because of those other two instruments, Jason warned. "There aren’t many of us who play more than one instrument, and we do get tagged for extra projects. I’m just sorry Stephen wasn’t able to be here today to meet you. He’s our third partner, Jason commented, indicating himself and Doug with a wave of his hand, and another multiple-instrumentalist."

Now, Doug continued, let’s get your paperwork done. He led her into the nearby theory classroom, where the boys waited patiently while she completed all the required forms for membership in the orchestra, answering questions as she thought of them.

Gina blinked away the memory. The first day of school finally arrived. She was about to meet Stephen… and see Doug and Jason again. Today looked to be full of surprises.

Stephen knew facing the high school orchestra was one of the harder things he’d have to do today. Doug and Jason would be a big help. They stood behind him through the summer months; he knew they wouldn’t disappear just because school started once more.

His thought seemed to trigger the tardy bell. Dr. Donaldson stepped onto the podium.

Good morning, and welcome, he said into the silence that quickly descended. For most of you, that should be ‘welcome back.’ For a few new people, ‘welcome and we’re glad you’ve joined us’. He grinned.

Erich Donaldson was tall, distinguished, and eloquent. Gray touched his temples and lightly sprinkled his brown hair, but was barely noticeable. Erich’s voice drew everyone’s attention, though. It was rich and expressive in the same way as was Don LaFontaine’s voice—and he was the guy who recorded practically every movie trailer soundtrack in the last fifty years. One could close one’s eyes and float away on the wonderful tones that issued from Erich Donaldson’s throat and mouth.

You are probably the luckiest group of young musicians in the United States, Donaldson told them, pride filling his voice. "You are part of an innovative orchestra program found nowhere else; if you don’t feel the excitement yet, you will in just a moment.

"This is one of the few times this year you will see me on this podium, he told them, turning serious. I may be the Director of Music for this high school, but I do not conduct this orchestra. I have three student conductors who do that for me. You will meet them in just a moment. Before I introduce them, I want to lay down a couple of rules.

"First, these three are in charge… of everything, except major discipline. They are responsible, under my supervision, for selecting music, setting the schedule, rehearsing the orchestra, maintaining order, and all the little details required to make this organization successful. I promise you right now that they will not ask or expect anything of you that they cannot or will not do themselves.

"And, if you should think you have too much asked of you, keep in mind that they have to prepare every piece you perform, through study and analysis—with me, before they can rehearse it with you, on top of their other classes. They also have just as many classes as you do. For them, school started two weeks ago.

They have earned their places as student-conductors by their hard work, and by an incredibly detailed and in-depth knowledge of music which I haven’t seen before in students at this age. They are also extremely responsible young men, a quality which most people find rather shocking. Dr. Donaldson grinned with the chuckles from the orchestra members.

"Additionally, this year I’ve asked them to write some original music for our orchestra. So, before I hear any complaints, comb that task out of your hair first!"

A murmur of surprise went around the group. Student compositions?

On a related topic, Dr. Donaldson continued, the new class in composition will probably do some works for small groups; we may ask you to perform them for us. I suspect one or more of our concerts this year will be made up of chamber music, as opposed to symphonic works.

His relaxed expression took on a no-nonsense intensity.

"You are expected to be in place and on time every day. When the tardy bell rings, they will take the roll and begin rehearsal. There will be no wasted time. You don’t have any extra to waste, as you will shortly discover.

As for the rest of the rules, I’ll let them clue you in as you go.

Jason, Stephen, and Doug sat to one side. Dr. Donaldson gestured toward them.

"All three of your conductors attended a music conservatory sponsored by the Philadelphia Orchestra this summer, where they learned a tremendous amount of new material. They also spent much time in composition, which sparked me to ask for some original work from them.

Stephen Ingalls, he gestured for Stephen to join him, is a sophomore this year. He has already had several major compositions performed. Last May, and then in July, his first and second major orchestral works were performed by the Clarkstowne Symphony, under his baton, to sold out performances in the 7,000 seat hall at the Center for the Performing Arts.

Stephen heard a muted Wow! from someone new to the group; many of the returnees had attended one or both of the performances.

"Stephen also conducted the Conservatory Orchestra’s performance of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and was the only student to have two of his compositions, plus a third on which he collaborated, performed on their final concert."

Gina took a good, long look at Stephen. He was almost ruggedly handsome, his wavy, earth-brown hair shot with red highlights, deep brown eyes flecked with amber highlights clear and calm. She thought right off that one would have a very difficult time lying to this young man. Stephen was slender and trim, but not athletically built, and shorter than Jason or Doug.

Doug Nicholas, Dr. Donaldson continued as Doug came forward to stand beside Stephen, "conducted Bach’s second Brandenburg Concerto at the conservatory, along with having one of his compositions played during their final concert, and has also conducted the Clarkstowne Symphony and performed Richard Strauss’ Horn Concerto No. 1 with that group last May. Doug conducted Liszt’s Piano Concerto No. 1 with Stephen as soloist. Doug is beginning his junior year this fall."

Again, muted comments drifted through the group.

Finally, Dr. Donaldson said, grinning, "sophomore Jason Anderson is the newest member of our staff. He took over conducting this orchestra when Stephen’s appendix insisted on being removed the day our spring musical opened last year, has performed with the Clarkstowne Symphony as a soloist on flute, and conductor for Strauss’ Horn Concerto No. 1, which Doug performed. Jason’s flute performance was Stephen’s first major work—a flute concerto.

"Jason, too, had a composition performed at the Conservatory final concert.

"And as icing on our cake, Dr. Donaldson told them with a grin, Jason has just completed the condensed draft of his first major composition—a concerto for orchestra and two violins, which he will orchestrate this year, and we will premiere when it’s ready!"

An uproar ensued.

Jason stood with his friends, grinning like a fool.

When the clamor subsided, Donaldson looked at his conductors.

Who starts?

I do, Doug said, and Donaldson stepped aside for him.

Doug surveyed the orchestra in silence. Most of the members returned his steady gaze.

The first rule we have in this orchestra is a simple one, Doug told them quietly after half a minute of silent contemplation. "We’re family. We treat each other that way; in fact, we treat each other better than we treat even our own real-family brothers and sisters. We support each other, hold one another up through any and all trials and troubles. We never judge one another, and we set an example for the rest of the school by our behavior.

If you can’t meet those standards, leave now. Anyone choosing to leave will face no comment or reprisals; Dr. Donaldson will get your schedule changed, and that’ll be the end of it.

Doug looked around the orchestra, reinforcing the firmness in his voice with his facial expression. He waited for a long moment, but no one moved.

Very well, he told them. "Family . . . begins now." He glanced at Stephen, smiled encouragingly, and turned back to the orchestra.

All three of us were changed by our experiences this summer, Stephen most of all. How many of us were at the July thirty-first concert?

Two thirds of the orchestra members raised their hands.

Most of you know, then, Doug commented. For those who don’t, in a nutshell: While we were at the conservatory, we met a wonderful young lady named Arianne Peters. Stephen and Arianne became… very close. After the conservatory ended, he learned she was terminally ill with leukemia.

Despite all the practice he’d put in beforehand, Doug found he was having difficulty controlling his voice through this speech.

"He spent the last days of her life with her, and the piece he premiered on July thirty-first was written for her. Stephen wrote his Rhapsody in A Minor during the conservatory, hiding it from all of us, because it spoke of his deep feelings toward Arianne; he knew expressing them would have created havoc within the conservatory group. The Rhapsody is filled with joy and love—and is dedicated to the girl he loved with all his heart.

"Arianne did not get to hear the piece of music he’d written just for her performed as it should be. She died on July nineteenth." Even with all his effort to the contrary, Doug’s voice cracked on the final sentence.

Members of the orchestra were craning their necks to see Stephen’s face through Doug’s narrative. He met their gazes steadily, his expression one of sadness and keenly felt loss as his face colored slightly to hear his work described in such glowing terms… even if it was the truth.

Doug took a deep breath to steady his voice and looked toward the oboes. Don, he asked, smiling, remember when Dr. Donaldson had you teach Stephen the basics of playing the oboe last spring?

Don nodded.

You did an outstanding job, Doug told him. Arianne played the oboe marvelously well. Stephen played it for her toward the end of her life, when she no longer had the strength, but was desperate to hear the sound of the instrument she loved so much.

Don smiled in appreciation of the compliment.

Since then, Doug continued, Stephen has begun work on his next opus, number 15, a set of four sonatas. The first is for piano and oboe. The other three are unfinished as yet, but I’ll bet we get to hear the oboe sonata soon. He glanced at Stephen. Right, my friend?

Right, Stephen agreed, as Doug stepped aside, allowing him to take the podium. In fact, the first lesson I’m teaching this year is one Arianne taught me.

With those words, Stephen turned and stepped from the podium.

To one side stood the department’s seven-foot grand piano, its case open to the medium setting and keyboard cover lifted. The placement of the piano within the music department shifted with such frequency that no one had really noticed it being in the rehearsal hall today.

Stephen stood beside the piano bench for a moment, head down, steeling himself for the task ahead. Teaching this lesson would be painful, he knew, but he’d already decided on how important it was to start off with it. Before taking his seat, then, he turned back toward the orchestra.

Each of us has dreams, he told them. "There are things we want to do, goals we want to accomplish, levels of excellence we set for ourselves. Along the way, we discover that by ourselves we can do very little and be successful. Only when we support one another, hold one another up, is nothing beyond our capabilities.

"Arianne had magnificent goals she wanted to accomplish. She wanted to be a performer, a composer, the best in the world on the oboe, and maybe even the piano. Leukemia took all those goals away from her. It put a bitter taste in her mouth.

"And yet, because those around her did not give up, but continued to support and lift her up, Arianne saw a goal she’d almost forgotten fulfilled by the end of her life. It was a very personal goal that brought her more joy than being a performer or composer ever would have, because when she rediscovered it, she latched onto it and never let go of that dream.

The lesson I have for you today is a song, an old song, which speaks of reaching for and holding onto your dreams.

Stephen settled onto the piano bench.

"I’m sorry to offer this song in my voice, he told them, earning a chuckle. At least Mr. Russell, our choir director, isn’t around to comment on how untrained it is!"

Stephen placed his hands on the keys, played an introductory arpeggio, and began to sing as he continued the accompaniment:

When all the world is a hopeless jumble,

And the raindrops tumble all around . . .

As Stephen sang, Gina handed her flute to the player beside her, slipped from her chair, and moved to the piano, easing into the curve of the case where the sound would wrap around her as Stephen sang.

She knew what she had to do.

As Jason had told her that first day, she must play a part on a different instrument, using the skills she’d learned and learned well. After all, this class was what she sought for many years and she wasn’t going to let a little challenge right at its start get in her way.

Gina listened closely to Stephen’s piano and the flow of his light, mid-range tenor voice, mapping vocal clues she’d use as he finished the introduction.

Mind if I help? Gina asked softly as Stephen finished the introduction with two last chords, and began to play the first two measures of the accompaniment to the main verse, which he repeated under their words.

Know the song?

She nodded.

Tell them the year and composer, he suggested. Then, sing it. I’ll follow you.

As Stephen continued to play those same two measures, Gina looked at the rest of the orchestra.

From the pens of Harold Arlen and E. Y. Harburg in 1939, she told them, and then picked up the verse as Stephen made good with the final repeat of the two-measure entrance to the main verse of the song.

Somewhere over the rainbow . . .

Gina’s voice was a smooth mezzo-soprano without a noticeable break across the register change. Stephen raised an eyebrow at the clear beauty of the sound she produced, but kept right on playing. Gina sang, taking even breaths with the flow of the verse, despite the difficulty inherent in some of the pitch intervals in this song.

Stephen’s accompaniment became more powerful and supportive as the song progressed. She sang confidently, enjoying the unusual experience of singing in public without a prior rehearsal—and with an accompanist who was without doubt a very talented instrumentalist.

Gina knew the alternate pitches for the song and used them, adding a depth of expression to the music she and Stephen were producing that would have told others they’d either performed together before, or had time to practice—and everyone in the orchestra knew neither was true.

And the dreams that you dare to dream

Really do come true.

Stephen felt the freedom to slow and accelerate his accompaniment with her as they explored the song together. He varied not only the tempo, but the dynamic range also, helping Gina render an awesome performance of one of the most well-known songs credited to a woman most performers didn’t want to compete against despite the fact that she’d been dead for over forty years.

Gina held the last note, allowing it to fade away into near silence, until Stephen finished his accompaniment.

A murmur ran through the orchestra at this unrehearsed performance. Stephen rose from the piano, a smile lighting his face. Gina couldn’t help but smile back.

Gina, he said, taking her hand in his as he returned to the podium, "I don’t even know your last name yet, but don’t you dare let Mr. Russell lure you away from us for his choir!" Stephen held her hand for balance, releasing as she settled back into her chair.

Cameron, she supplied for him with a smile as she reclaimed her flute. You’ve been listening to Barbra Streisand lately, haven’t you?

I’ll try to remember, he replied with a wink. And Judy Garland, he agreed, straightened, and then swept his gaze across the entire group, an expression of challenge filling his face.

"Dare to dream, he challenged them. Set high goals for yourselves. Stephen extended his right hand toward Jason and Doug. We do, he told them, for ourselves… and for you."

As Stephen looked around a second time, one of the bass players raised a hand.