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

his eyes fixed on the music on the stand. “Is that it? The sonata?”

She swiveled back toward the keyboard. Shuffled the papers into a stack. He didn’t recognize her, she thought, numb. She really had been that insignificant on his playboy radar. “No,” she said, her throat tight. “It’s something else.”

She rested her hands on the piano, trying to think. She stood at a crossroads now. Either she took his presence as a sign and opened the subject herself, or she needed to get out of this conversation—fast. The longer he looked her in the eye, the sooner he’d figure it out.

She stood up, hugging the folder against her chest, and braced herself to face him. “What’s so important that you had to stalk me all the way to Colorado Springs?”

Gus mimed being stabbed in the heart. “Ouch. I guess I deserve that.” When she simply stared, arms crossed over the folder, he spread his hands and dropped the act. “Listen, I only have an hour or so. I have to be back in Denver by eight for rehearsal. Can we … can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

She stared back without answering.

He blew out a breath. “Okay, straight to business, then. I need to confess. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

Of all the things he might have said, that was the last one she expected. She broke her silence to ask, “About what?”

“Um …” He cleared his throat. “Blaise and I talked a lot more than I led you to believe.”

Miriam went still.

“When he first contacted me, I thought it was just an inquiry about the school. Pretty routine. But he knew me. My work. That was before Terminus, you know. In fact, I was still writing the score at that point. But he knew other films I’d written music for. And he talked about them intelligently. I was intrigued.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. His hand crept toward the piano as if on autopilot, but he pulled it back. “So I responded. It turned into a regular thing. He’d text me questions about interpretation. Or advice on where to apply for college and what repertoire to use.”

Miriam couldn’t breathe. All the information Blaise had shared with her had come from Gus? She’d assumed he was just doing his homework. Yet all that time, Blaise had been talking to his biological father. Without even knowing it. The enormity of it made her head spin.

“I’ve never been in such ongoing contact with a potential student before, but it just sort of happened. It was as natural as breathing … like, I don’t know … taking a nephew under my wing. But it truly never occurred to me that you had no idea he’d reached out to me at all. I don’t understand why he didn’t talk about it with you.”

Her body felt like jelly, incapable of holding its own shape. Entitled, arrogant, clueless in his privilege—all these things she’d known of Gus, but this—this she couldn’t fathom. All these years spent agonizing over what she did or didn’t owe him. And now she discovered he’d waltzed in and taken a piece of her son without her consent—without even her knowledge.

“Anyway”—Gus swallowed and squared his shoulders— “I wanted you to know that before I propose this.”

“Propose what?”

“What you’re trying to do is impossible, Miriam. I know what it takes to write a substantial work. Doing it while you’re on the road—it’s just not possible.”

Miriam straightened, indignant, but Gus—as usual—thought his own words the most important in any conversation. “I’ve been working on it too. The sonata, I mean. From the copy Blaise sent me. I was totally ready to give it up. To let you do it yourself, even if it wouldn’t be as good as I could make it. But if you’re struggling, please let me help. The last week, I’ve been playing with the excerpts in your videos. We could collaborate. You can come to San Francisco. Or … if you’re ready to wash your hands of it—I mean, you’re not a composer, actually—I could do it for you, if you want.”

And now, at last, he shut up.

Miriam stared at him, her body on fire with rage. This sonata was Blaise’s gift to her—his last gift. Gus had no place in it. Gus, with his monologues and micro-aggressions, the insults he gave without even realizing it.

“Over my dead body,” she snapped. The words echoed around the large room; everyone in the Gathering Haus ceased talking and working and turned to stare at them.

Gus blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Haven’t you taken enough from me?” she shouted. “This is not yours! It’s mine. Do you understand? This trip, the sonata. Mine. You can’t have him! Do you understand me?”

He looked genuinely alarmed. He raised a placating hand. “Miriam—I’m not trying to take your son from you.”

She snorted. He was like a freight train of self-gratification—so self-absorbed, he had no idea how his actions harmed those he ran over on his way to getting what he wanted.

For this—the feeling of a knife between her ribs and the sucker punch to her gut—she’d run to Teo, and he’d taken her in. And loved her, even though she was so wounded she could never fully reciprocate.

No way was Gus touching Blaise’s music. Not in a million years. This music was her love song to her family. Hers. Not his. He hadn’t raised these kids, changed their diapers, ferried them to lessons, and worked past the point of exhaustion to keep them safe and cared for. He had no right to take it away from her. Or from Teo.

And she owed him nothing. Especially not an explanation of his true role in Blaise’s genius.

“You know what?” she said. “Screw you, Gus.”

Miriam took a flying leap off the stage, slinging Blaise’s music satchel over her head and shoulder as she strode across the wooden dance floor.

 32

Nineteen years earlier

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

IT TOOK MIRIAM FOUR years to get Gus von Rickenbach to notice her. And, once he did, despite