High Note

By Edna Mae Holm

Armed with a music scholarship, beautiful and ambitious Viveka Hanson heads to Chicago to begin a professional singing career. Viveka is eager to leave her sheltered home as a ministers daughter, but her dreams of finding love and excitement in the big city are dashed as she is barraged with rejection, betrayal, and a frightening stalker. Viveka's odyssey through the minefield of professional music snakes through the social changes of post World War II America. Will a long-held family secret destroy her very identity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493114726

Edna Mae Holm

Edna Mae Holm was born in Wisconsin and grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan. She graduated from Mundelein College in 1947 and began a singing career in Chicago. In 1952 she married Robert Gangwisch. After publishing a mystery novel with her daughter, Jill Wellington, Edna wrote A Candle for Kiri, using her Scandinavian background to create the story. Now eighty-eight years old, Edna lives in a retirement community in Cincinnati, Ohio, and keeps in constant contact with her five children and nine grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2013 by Edna Mae Holm.

Library of Congress Control Number:            2013919935

ISBN:            Hardcover                                  978-1-4931-1471-9

                      Softcover                                  978-1-4931-1470-2

                      eBook                                        978-1-4931-1472-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 05/15/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

To my parents

Edna and Luther Holm

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I WISH TO thank all those who so graciously critiqued this sequel to my novel, A Candle For Kiri. Especially my daughter, Jill Wellington and my readers, Helen Dupree, Mary Lou Bolton, Kathryn Sharp, Jeanne Shoemaker, and Noelle Masukawa.

CHAPTER 1

THAT MAN’S MOODS will be the death of me! Viveka Hanson gazed out the window of the Northwestern train, her chin trembling, near tears as the rickety car rumbled across the Illinois state line into Wisconsin. It was early June. The array of wild flowers that peppered the countryside refused to lighten her mood. Her first week in Chicago on a vocal scholarship tested every mettle the eighteen year old possessed. Her teacher, Ivan Broski, though considered the perfect coach for ambitious young singers, was a tyrant.

I hope Dad is at the depot, she thought. He may have to carry me to the car. Born in Indian Creek, Wisconsin, a town near Eau Claire, Viveka moved to Milwaukee fifteen years ago when she was three years old after her widowed mother married Peder Hanson, the pastor of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church.

Chill claimed the railroad car as it rumbled along the track. She tried to cross her long legs in the small space between the seats, but her knees quivered. She drew her bulky knit cardigan close. Though, according to the calendar, the Wisconsin summer would soon begin, the cool air reminded Viveka it would be July before this northern state saw any real warmth.

As the train pulled into the Milwaukee station, she scanned the platform, her long cinnamon hair sweeping across her face, until she spotted Peder. He saw her and waved. Viveka forced a smile, blew him a kiss, grabbed her suitcase, and moved to the exit.

Peder Hanson waited at the bottom of the steps. Tall, with an athletic build, his hazel eyes sparkled when Viveka appeared at the top. Though she knew Peder was not her birth father—her real father died before she was born—Viveka couldn’t have wished for a more loving parent. He adopted her immediately after marrying her mother.

Now, at age sixty, an unruly lock of Peder’s gray hair escaped onto his forehead. The moment Viveka stepped down onto the platform he broke into an infectious smile, and gathered her in his arms, kissing her cheek. Here, let me have that bag, he said.

Grateful for his help, she sighed, I’m really wiped out, Dad. I hope there aren’t too many plans at home for the weekend.

We anticipated this. Your mother’s cleared the calendar. You can do as you please, sleep in as long as you like.

Viveka tucked her hand into the crook of Peder’s arm, and they headed for the car. If she could stay awake, she would hear all the latest news on the way home.

When they drove into the driveway at the parsonage, the front door flew open and Kiri Hanson rushed out onto the porch. Oh, Viveka, she exclaimed as her daughter dashed up the steps. It seems like you’ve been gone forever.

Viveka melted into her mother’s arms. I’ve had a rough week, Mom. I’m so glad to be home.

Peder kissed his wife. Our girl had a trying time in the big city. She needs a mother’s shoulder. I’ve got some business downtown." He scurried back to the car.

In the parlor, Viveka dropped onto the sofa next to her mother, snapped up a chintz pillow, and lazily flicked the fringe. Comfortable and bright, this room was quite a contrast to Mrs. Milstrand’s apartment in Chicago where Viveka lived. Now home seemed like heaven.

Tell me everything about your first week, Kiri urged, trying to lighten Viveka’s mood. Are you all settled at the Milstrand’s?

Mabel Milstrand’s husband was the pastor of Good Shepherd church until he developed Parkinson’s disease and was forced to retire. Peder replaced him. Over the years the families kept in contact. Before Pastor Milstrand died, Peder stayed at their apartment whenever he was in Chicago. Now, Mrs. Milstrand insisted that Viveka live there for the two years of her scholarship.

Kiri was fond of Mrs. Milstrand. How is Mabel?

She’s pleased to have me there, Mom. She’s been lonely. Viveka tossed her hair back over her shoulders. Auburn and amber highlights gleamed under the afternoon sun. Vivid hazel eyes revealed her Swedish heritage. I have the back bedroom in the apartment. At least there’s some light. Those buildings on Kenmore Avenue are so close together, hardly any sun gets into the middle rooms. Mrs. Milstrand keeps lights on all day.

Kiri rose, took her daughter’s hand, and pulled her up from the sofa. Come on, honey, she said. Inga’s baked some cookies and we can have coffee.

Out in the kitchen, Inga Thorssdater stood at the sink drying dishes. With the family for all of Viveka’s life, Inga came to America from Sweden in the 20’s as an indentured servant, and remained with Kiri’s first family, the Olsons, after working out her debt. Later, when Kiri and Peder were married, she joined them in Milwaukee. Turning, she acknowledged Viveka’s presence with a nod.

Viveka didn’t expect any more from Inga. For whatever reason, the woman paid her little heed. On the other hand, Inga was devoted to Viveka’s older sister and brother, Charlotte and John (who she always called ‘Yonny’).

The percolator simmered on the stove, a staple in the Hanson household. Kiri poured coffee for two and they sat at the kitchen table. Viveka reached for a cookie.

Curious to hear more, Kiri shifted on the chair. How are the vocal lessons? And what about the Professor?

Viveka eyes shot heavenward. Oh, Mom, that man is beyond pleasing. I get two notes out and he starts yelling. She shook her head and her voice broke.

Kiri reached for a tendril of Viveka’s hair. Oh, honey, is this going to be too much for you?

Viveka raised her hand in protest. I won this scholarship, Mom, and I’m going to honor it. I’m sure I’ll get used to his bullying, but it’s hard. She broke into tears. Kiri took her into her arms.

Inga left the room without a word.

If I’m going to be a professional singer, I have to learn to take criticism, she sobbed. Right now, I’m just glad to be home.

The back door opened. Viveka’s sister, Charlotte, and her husband, Anders Madson, trudged in, their arms loaded with groceries.

Charlotte spied her sister. Viveka! she squealed.

As a child Charlotte Madson had Encephalitis, and it left her mildly retarded. Thick blond hair curled around her face, tumbling down onto her shoulders, and her flawless porcelain complexion was splashed with peach. Only her cornflower blue eyes reflected her obtuse nature. She and Anders, a cabinetmaker, lived at home where Charlotte could be directed in her duties. Having no children of her own, Charlotte always put her love on Viveka who was nine years younger.

The girls embraced, Viveka attempting to hide her tears. Anders smiled, nodded to Viveka, and placed the groceries on the counter for Inga to sort later. A man of few words, he spent endless hours in his room away from the family. He headed upstairs, no doubt for the rest of the day.

Charlotte loved to hear Viveka sing. Will you have a solo at church Sunday, Viveka?

Viveka choked at the idea of singing anything. I haven’t practiced a suitable number. Maybe we should let Eugenie Svenson have a turn. She’s been waiting in the wings forever for a chance.

Oh, Viveka, she always goes flat, Charlotte groaned. Anyway, she’s jealous of you. I don’t like her.

Viveka needs to rest this weekend, Charlotte, Kiri said. We’ll let Dad decide if there should be a solo this Sunday.

Viveka stood up and stretched. I’m going up to my room to unpack, she said. Then I just might take a nap.

The weekend flew and late Sunday afternoon, Kiri Hanson stood on the front porch shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. As Peder backed the car into the street, she waved good-by to her daughter. Viveka was on her way back to Chicago.

Kiri, at fifty seven, defied the years, her Swedish heritage gifting her with strong genes. Tall, with broad shoulders like her daughter, she was regal in posture. Her only sign of aging was a perfect gray streak that drifted through cinnamon hair just off the center of her forehead. There was a small cleft in her chin, and her cerulean blue eyes at this moment reflected concern.

The house was never the same without Viveka. Her bubbly personality and beautiful singing always filled the old parsonage with joy. Oh, Viveka, you’re a grown woman now with a chance to use your talent. But there are so many well kept secrets in this house. Will we ever be able to share them with you without losing your love and respect?

As she watched the car disappear around the corner, Kiri felt a lump in her throat. She would lose herself in her duties at church until next Friday when her daughter would be home once again.

Monday morning Viveka ambled along past the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, trying to concentrate on the French words in The Jewel Song from Faust. This week Professor Broski promised she could begin singing arias. Up to now the entire lesson was limited to tiresome scales, reaching both the heights and depths of her vocal range. I have to admit I’ve gained a lot of insight into my tone production, she thought. But I’ll sure be happy to be singing songs again.

A breezy day, the wind off Lake Michigan whipped Viveka’s hair across her face and raised her cotton skirt to improper heights. She gathered the skirt and held it in place until she scooted inside the Fine Arts Building.

The elevators were crowded with music students chatting away about the contests they planned to enter and their various teachers. As her lessons were private, Viveka had yet to meet any of Broski’s other students.

To supplement her income, she was hired part time at Marshall Field’s department store. The first week she worked in the lamp department. When a customer asked for a harp, Viveka directed the woman to the music department. It was good for a few laughs.

The elevator ground to a halt at her floor, and Viveka made her way to Broski’s studio. An open door meant she could go in. The professor stood in the bow of the grand piano chatting with a young man seated on the bench.

When he saw Viveka, Broski turned. Viveka, I hope you’re prepared for a real workout. He turned to the young man and smiled. I want you to meet my accompanist.

The fellow at the piano rose and broke into a grin. Tall with near black, wavy hair and a deep tan, his prominent nose merely added to his masculinity. His fingers were long and slender, a musician’s hands.

Aaron Hendlesman, this is Viveka Hanson, Professor Broski said with a sweep of his hand. Aaron just completed his studies at the Chicago Musical College and plans to attend Juilliard next year for an advanced degree.

Viveka felt her pulse quicken as she gazed into Aaron’s deep brown eyes. He returned her gaze until the professor rapped on the piano. We’re here to work, he scowled. let’s not waste any more lesson time. He sat down beside Aaron on the bench. We’ll warm up with a few scales. He struck a G chord.

Finally, the professor tossed Viveka’s opera book to Aaron and opened to the Jewel Song. With a flourish, Aaron swept the book up onto the rack, and struck the introductory measures to the aria.

As Viveka’s mezzo soprano voice soared from the first to the second note, Broski raised his hand, shouting, No, no! You’re singing in your throat. You must bring the tone up into your head. He demonstrated. She continued, and he stopped her after every few measures, his voice climbing in volume.

By the end of the lesson, she was exhausted. Gathering up her music, she glanced at Aaron. He winked, and once again her pulse leapt.

Feeling somewhat giddy, she said, I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor.

Practice getting a smoother transition into your chest tones, Broski warned. I don’t want to hear that break in your voice.

Viveka was due at work after lunch. When she got home, she would practice for at least an hour. Fortunately, Mrs. Milstrand had a piano.

She ducked into the B&G restaurant for a quick sandwich. The counter was crowded, and she had to wait for a stool. Finally, she got one, ordered a tuna on rye, leaned her elbow on the counter, and tried to relax.

She felt a light tap on her shoulder. Why, Viveka, how could you possibly be tired after that glorious hour with Broski? It was Aaron and she knew he was teasing her. He slid onto the next stool.

Oh, hi, Aaron. Their eyes met, and she felt a strange sensation in her chest.

I know you were frustrated this morning, he said. Your voice is beautiful, Viveka, but don’t ever expect Broski to tell you that. He’d be afraid you’d relax and stop working on your production.

Thank you, Aaron, she said, feeling the heat rise to her face. I need to hear that from other than my parents. It seems I can’t sing more than two notes before the professor finds fault.

You’re here to learn, and he’ll see that you do, Aaron said, cocking his head to one side.

Viveka couldn’t take her eyes off him, and he returned her gaze. Half way through her tuna sandwich, she was unable to swallow another bite, and laid it back on the plate. I’m due at work, she said in a quavery voice. See you tomorrow, Aaron.

Unfortunately, that isn’t true, Viveka. Broski will be back to the scales again. You’ll be lucky if he allows you to open that opera book once a week. He broke into a smile.

Dazzled, she started to leave until she realized she hadn’t paid her tab. Fumbling in her purse, she fished out a tip, tossed it on the counter, and joined the line at the cash register.

Back on the street, she took a deep breath. What’s wrong with me? He’s not that good looking. Why am I so skittish? She shook her head and headed toward Field’s.

I’ll only be gone until Friday, Inga, Kiri said, heading toward the door. The pastor has several meetings this week, so check with him to see if he’ll be home for dinner every night.

Out in her car, Kiri was soon on her way to visit her sister, Marit Bradstrom, in Indian Creek. The women were inseparable. After Kiri married Peder and moved to Milwaukee, both husbands understood the sisters would spend time together.

Kiri’s first husband, Einar Olson, had been in business with Marit’s husband, Carl. After Einar died, Kiri was placed on the board of directors of their Tool and Die Manufacturing Company, and did some of the bookkeeping. When she married Peder, however, she sold her stock to Carl.

Now, as she headed out to the highway, Kiri picked up speed. A cool morning, the sun strived to peek through cauliflower clouds. Kiri enjoyed driving alone. Pine trees, scattered among the surrounding hills, fluttered in the summer breeze. Viveka will adjust to her new situation, she thought. She’s so talented. How wonderful if she could actually be a professional singer. Peder would burst with pride. Kiri felt a stab at her heart.

A car whisked past and cut in front of her so sharply she was forced to slam on the brakes. She drew in her breath. I’d better keep my mind on the road.

It was one o’clock before Kiri turned into the Bradstrom’s driveway and saw her sister waving from the window. Marit shot out the door and hurried down the steps while Kiri gathered boxes from the back seat. At fifty six, Marit Bradstrom was about twenty pounds overweight, but it only made her ample curves more voluptuous. Blond hair had been enhanced by a bit of peroxide, and when she smiled, a gathering of crow’s feet danced around her lively blue eyes.

Inga insisted on sending cookies and coffee cake even though I told her you were on a diet, Kiri said with a laugh.

Carl’ll make short work of them, Marit chided. Come on in. I’ve so much to tell you about what’s going on at church.

I could do without hearing about the Ladies Aid Society, Kiri moaned. I have enough trouble keeping up with the Milwaukee chapter. Unlike her sister, the Ladies Aid Society was not Kiri’s favorite group, but as the pastor’s wife, she needed to give some time to it.

Inside the house, Marit had the coffeepot brewing. I don’t suppose it would hurt if I had just one small piece of that coffee cake.

Kiri smiled and shook her head. Somehow, I knew you’d say that, she said. Inga will be pleased. She looked around the cheerful kitchen. It was Marit’s favorite room. Gleaming copper kettles hung from hooks near the stove, while a variety of knives sprouted from wooden pegs, and spices of every variety peeped over the top of a decorative rack.

Marit cut into the coffee-cake, and passed it over to her sister.

So, what’s going on at church? I know you’re dying to tell, Kiri teased. What has Mai Remsborg done now? Mai, whose entire life revolved around the Ladies Aid Society, had been a thorn in Kiri’s side since the day the Olsons arrived in Indian Creek as immigrants from Sweden.

Well, as you might have guessed, Mai tries to run everything her way. I know the pastor’s wife would love to kill her. Marit shifted in her chair, rescuing a stray lock of hair. Anyway, she’s got it in her mind to start something new. It’s some kind of a splinter group and it seems to me it will only be for Mai’s special people. Marit harrumphed and cut another piece of cake.

But enough about Mai. Tell me, how does Viveka like Chicago and her new teacher?

She’s working hard to please Professor Broski. He’s a taskmaster, but she feels she’s learning so much. We wanted to contribute to her support while she’s studying, but she’s insisted on working at Field’s part time.

Marit stood up. Come on, Kiri, let’s go over to church. Lillian Holmgren has been waiting all week for your visit. Lillian was Kiri’s close friend when she lived in Indian Creek. She really doesn’t seem too well these days. I’m sure her blood pressure is sky high.

The sisters headed out the door and over to St. Paul’s Lutheran church, a place that held a host of memories, both good and bad, for Kiri and Peder Hanson.

Outside Broski’s studio, Viveka leaned against the wall, waiting for her lesson. Lilting lyric tones emanated from inside where another student sang the concluding strains of an aria from Tosca.

A moment later, the door opened, and the professor appeared. Viveka, I want you to meet another of my students. You both will be signing up for the fall contests.

Viveka followed him into the room clutching her music in her folded arms. An attractive girl stood in the bow of the piano, her lustrous black hair hanging half way down her back. She had deep brown eyes that narrowed when she saw Viveka.

Viveka, this is Beryl Eisberg, the professor said.

Beryl drew her cheeks in on both sides, and raised her eyebrows.

I heard your aria, Beryl, said Viveka. Your voice is lovely.

Beryl shrugged and glanced over at Aaron who was seated at the piano. "See you