As much as I loathe our secrecy, I force the warning tone past my lips. “Miss Westbrook.”
“Shit.” She drops her arm, steps an appropriate distance away, and stares straight ahead. “Sorry.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Mr. Marceaux.”
Smart ass. “Follow me.” I lead her inside and through the halls.
I haven’t been here since I graduated four years ago. Nostalgia pulls at me, but I don’t take the time to look around. We have an appointment.
She walks quickly to keep up with my long strides, her heels clicking against the cement floor. “You’re not a very good tour guide. Slow down.”
“We’ll explore later.” I stop at a closed door in Richter Hall and shift to face her.
She studies me, glances at the door, and looks back. Her hands rub down the front of her dress. “What are we doing?” She narrows her eyes, suspicion lashing through her tone. “What did you do?”
“You’re here for an audition.”
Her mouth falls open, working to form words. “Now?” She clutches the frog charm on her bracelet, rubbing with anxious fingers, her voice a harsh whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because of this.” I touch her fidgeting hands and drop my arm. “Your excitement about this trip would’ve been ruined by nerves.”
She nods jerkily, her eyes wide and terrified.
The hallway is empty, but I won’t risk a kiss. Instead, I let her see the depths of my support and love in my gaze. “Remember, your sound is the first thing the panel members will judge you on, and they’ll do that in the first thirty seconds.”
“Oh God.” She inhales deeply. “Which pieces do I play?”
“Play what you identify most with, what you feel you play well, and what fits your style and aspirations. Let them see the exquisite heart of Ivory Westbrook.”
I check my watch. It’s time. Turning away, I open the door.
The stadium-style classroom hasn’t changed since all those semesters I spent taking notes right up there in the bleacher seats. The same Steinway grand piano sits in front near the door. It’s like walking into a time warp.
With Ivory at my side, I head toward the middle-aged woman and two lanky old men in the front row. I’ve never met them, but I’ve been in contact with the woman, Gail Gatlin, who stands and crosses the room to greet us.
Her stern gray eyes peer up at me from behind spectacles rimmed in gold. Sandy brown hair combs back from a complexion that probably sees little to no sunshine. Her stature is short and pudgy, yet she radiates confident authority.
She holds out her hand, shaking mine. “Welcome back, Mr. Marceaux.”
“Thanks for seeing us today.” I gesture to Ivory. “This is my protégé, Ivory Westbrook.”
“I’m Mrs. Gatlin.” Gail shakes Ivory’s outstretched hand. “You must be quite something for Mr. Marceaux to bring you all the way here himself. His appraisal of your talent was convincing enough to gather a panel of judges on a Saturday.”
In other words, don’t waste their time. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I thought she would.
Gail gestures at the two men waiting in the front row. “We don’t usually interact with the candidates, but since this is an unusual audition, it will be somewhat free-form. Begin when you’re ready.” She nods at the piano and takes her seat.
Ivory settles behind the Steinway, her fingers rubbing the frog charm. I find a chair off to the side where I have a direct view of her face as she stares at the keyboard.
My leg bounces, and I tense it to stillness. What will she play?
Right now, her smile reminds me of Queensryche’s “Silent Lucidity.” The corners of her lips lift in self-possession, the curved peaks arching into luminous competence as she looks her dream straight in the eye. A dream that has only just begun.
But Queensryche won’t be in her repertoire. She’s researched Leopold for years and knows the audition requires standard pieces from 19th-century concertos, contrasting movements from an unaccompanied Bach partita, and arpeggios in three octaves with double stops.
Whatever she chooses to play, she can nail it with her eyes closed.
Leaning over the keys, she moves her fingers and sways into a slow-burning prelude. I don’t immediately recognize the piece. It’s not baroque or classical… My breath catches. It’s an Irish pop band.
My entire body locks up, my hands curling around the arm rests. What the hell is she doing?
The despairing chords of Kodaline’s “All I Want” fill the room with heavy undercurrents of sadness and positivity. The unspoken lyrics scrawl across my mind, a message that can only be interpreted as, It’s over, but I’ll find somebody. Life will go on.
It’s a breakup song.
My heart stops, sinking into the snarling pit of denial as the piano notes pound in my head. Why is she playing this? Is it a message to me?
Look at me, Ivory.