Nathan laughed, but I just raised an eyebrow and said, in as droll a voice as I could manage, “You’re assuming one would have you?”
He winked at me in response, and I felt a small thrill. But seconds later, Nathan’s grin disappeared and he sat up, a clouded expression on his face. Tim raised an eyebrow.
I twisted around in my seat. Of course, that explained the sudden transition from laughter to sobriety. Mr. Personal Rain Cloud himself had walked into the room, trailing Joseph McIntosh, our conductor. For a change, Gregory wore light grey pants instead of black. How original, he seemed to be branching out. I had to force myself to not roll my eyes.
Tim stood up just as Joseph and Gregory reached him.
“Hey guys,” Tim said.
Joseph spoke for the dour pair. “Tim, listen, we’ve got an interesting opportunity … and a strange one. The Tonight Show is looking to do a segment on the tour.”
I raised an eyebrow. That was a surprise.
The tour was intended to raise interest across the country in symphony music. In simpler terms, it was an attempt to pull the collective asses of classical musicians out of the fire. In the wake of economic recession and war, symphonies were seeing subscription drops all over the country. Some had closed; others were laying off musicians and shortening their seasons, not to mention cutting pensions for those who’d been members longer than I’d been alive. This tour was an attempt to generate real interest in our music and included a lot of unusual venues: town centers in cities with no symphony, television shows, and malls.
“What can I do to help?” Tim asked.
“We need a duet. I went over a number of possible pieces with the producers and they want Assobio a Jato. Gregory knows it well, but we need a partner for him. Savannah, I understand you’ve played it with Gregory before?”
I took a deep breath. Joseph didn’t see it, but I did: Gregory scowled, fiercely. Asshole. Of course he wouldn’t want me involved in this.
“Maybe Tim?” I said, my voice trailing off.
Tim shook his head. “Difficult piece, and I’ve never played it. How much time do we have to prepare?”
“None,” Joseph said. “You’ll be playing live, tonight.”
Tim shook his head. “Not possible. Savannah, I think it’s going to have to be you if you know it. Is that okay?”
I spoke up again. “Perhaps a different piece …”
Joseph said, “No, this is the one they wanted. I need you to pull this one through, Savannah. It’s important for the tour.”
I could do this. Gregory might be a reclusive ass, but it was only a few hours anyway. I met Joseph’s eyes. “I’d be happy to.”
Gregory began to sputter, so I smiled at him, and in the sweetest tone of voice I could summon, I said, “Although if it’s too difficult for you to do this one on such short notice, Gregory, I’m sure one of the other cellists could substitute.”
I could feel the tension from him, so intense that his face just beside his right eye started to twitch.
My anger withdrew, leaving me deflated. He’d been visibly tense, angry, frustrated about something since the tour started. I’d carefully avoided him outside of practice and performances, so I had no idea what was wrong, but suddenly I didn’t want to irritate him any more. I wanted to soothe whatever was bothering him.
It seemed I was too late. Red-faced, he said to me in a cold tone, “I’m certain we’ll get through this somehow, Miss Marshall.”
Joseph looked back and forth between us, concern on his face. He didn’t verbalize the tension. Neither did Nathan, who rose to his feet.
Joseph shrugged. “Pack your bags then. We’ll have a car brought around to take you to the airport.”
Forty minutes later I was back in the lobby of the hotel. An uncomfortable looking Gregory stood at the door waiting. As I approached him, Lyn, one of the production assistants, caught up with us.
“Gregory? Savannah? Okay … you’re on United Airlines, arriving in Los Angeles at three p.m. A car from the network will pick you up and get you to the hotel, and then pick you up again at seven p.m. to take you to the studio. Your flight tomorrow morning is to Lincoln, Nebraska; you’ll meet us there. Those tickets are in the package as well.”
I thanked Lyn as she pressed the folder with the airline tickets into my hand.
She handed another folder to Gregory. “You have an extra seat for your cello, of course,” she said.
He mumbled his thanks to her in a barely civilized tone, and I whispered, “We’d better go before you accidentally say something polite.”
Then I turned and walked outside to the waiting black Lincoln Town Car, praying that it was our car. Otherwise I’d be left standing there; dramatically making an idiot of myself after my not-so-grand exit.
It was the right car. A few moments later, his cello safely positioned in the trunk, Gregory got in the back seat beside me and slammed the door.
I pointedly looked out the window. The driver got in the front seat and the car pulled out in near silence. Buildings and traffic whisked by us as we pulled out onto the highway.
I snuck a glance.
Gregory was staring out the window, his elbow on the edge, and his chin resting on a clenched fist. At that moment, he bore more expression on his face than I’d ever seen. And it wasn’t nice. His eyes wore a look of pain as he stared out the window. Desperation. Loneliness.
I stared at him in shock, one question repeatedly running through my mind.
What happened to him?
Gregory