A Song for the Road by Kathleen Basi (classic literature books txt) 📕

been bullied, and she hadn’t even known it. Most of all, the bitter acknowledgment that she’d never, ever know the answer to the question raised by that post.

Rabbit holes were a nice distraction, but right now what she needed was authenticity.

She clicked the white box on the browser. Stared at the flashing cursor. Listened to the water running in the bathroom, the hip-hop rattling the fixtures. The whole room seemed to be vibrating—more than the volume really justified. She cocked her head toward the door, listening. It sounded like there was a machine running in the bathroom. Well, Dicey had taken her whole suitcase in there. But what could make that racket? She couldn’t think of any beauty apparatus that made a noise like that.

“Procrastination,” she whispered, and turned her attention back to the computer.

Everyone thinks I was so devoted to my family, but the truth is I resented them as much as I loved them. This wasn’t the life I planned. I was supposed to be stamping my passport every week, playing recitals and concertos all over the world. Not hauling kids to music lessons and club meetings, tied to a husband, having to consider his needs instead of touring Europe.

And now they’re gone, and I’m not even sure I knew them, let alone loved them. Can you imagine what it’s like to live with that? To know that, no matter what you do, you can never—

Her phone dinged. She looked down to see Gus’s name.

Sorry we got cut off earlier. If you’re interested, I’d love to talk with you about your son’s music. I don’t know if you know this, but he showed it to me last spring. Call anytime.

Huh. That was surprisingly not pushy.

How many times had he tried to contact her today? She opened her texts and found … nothing from him. Plenty from Becky, from Jo, from Mom. But from Gus, only this one.

It was not what she’d expected. Come to think of it, there had been something different in his voice earlier. He’d sounded less … cocky. Slightly vulnerable. Maybe even a little needy.

What could have changed someone like Gus so much? If he really had changed, having a real conversation might help her discern what, if anything, she owed him.

In the bathroom, the shower went off, and Dicey turned down the music to a socially acceptable level. If that didn’t constitute a sign, Miriam didn’t know what did.

She dialed before she lost her nerve.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Miriam Tedesco.”

“Hello! Oh, I’m so glad you called me back! My name is August von Rickenbach. I’m sorry, I know this must feel like it’s coming out of nowhere, but I was the coordinator for your son’s—”

“Yes, I know. You and Blaise e-mailed each other. About his sonata. Without telling me.”

“Oh.” He sounded startled. Score one for her. “I … he reached out to me. I want to be totally clear on that.”

“Easy, Mira,” Teo would have said. She wanted to know what kind of person Gus von Rickenbach had become. She couldn’t accomplish that if she put him on the defensive. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves. “I know,” she said. “He had your reply in his manuscript notebook. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to accuse.”

“Oh. Well, it’s okay.” He hesitated, regrouping. “I just want to start by saying your son was extraordinary, Mrs. Tedesco. I mean, I’m sure you knew that.”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“I can’t tell you the last time I was so excited about a young player. He was the real thing, a star in the making. So understated until you put him at the piano, and then—that intensity!”

This was the irrepressible, irresistible Gus she remembered. Miriam leaned back against the bank of soft pillows and stared at the blank TV screen, listening.

“We were spellbound,” he said. “The judges and everyone else in the room. He walked off the stage, and we looked at each other and said, ‘What just happened?’”

The funny thing about grief was that sometimes it resembled joy. Miriam ran her finger over her lips, smiling as her vision blurred. “I wasn’t … able to be there,” she said. “I had … a professional commitment.” Just a solo performance with the local symphony. And unpaid, at that. But at the time, it had seemed like an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.

No. She needed to be honest. She hadn’t wanted to pass it up. How many events had she driven them to? How many hours had she sat around waiting for them, bored, handing them opportunities she’d had to pursue with a tenacity beyond common sense? It was her turn.

It had never occurred to her she might miss their final performance.

“… beautiful sensitivity,” Gus was saying. “Extraordinary passion and extraordinary magnetism. I just felt this connection with him, you know? Of course not. It makes no sense. But I did. And for his sister to win the string division!” Gus laughed. “They brought the house down at the showcase concert at the end of the festival, you know. They put on a full-fledged comedy routine. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I know. My husband posted it on Facebook.” Miriam laughed too. “They were quite a pair, weren’t they?”

“I have never wanted any student in my studio as much as I wanted him.” Gus’s voice settled into something more appropriately somber. “I—I know I’m talking too much, but I wanted you to know my interest is entirely sincere.”

Interest in what? Miriam wondered. Behind the muted hip-hop strains, she could hear Dicey packing up. She didn’t have much longer. “I believe you’re sincere,” she said carefully.

He exhaled softly. “I’m glad. You see, I … a few years ago, when I turned thirty-five, I realized I’d already achieved so many of the goals I’d set for my life. And it was amazing, reaching the top of that mountain, but once I got there, I just felt … alone.”

Again, the hint of vulnerability. Brokenness, even. Miriam tucked her elbows against her ribs.

“I woke up