“What?”
“My name is Meg Baker. I’ve recently moved to Nashville, and I need a job playing the violin. If I’m not good enough for your orchestra, then…”
“Stop!” he commanded, when she turned toward her violin case.
She did, but she returned his glare. “I was not trying to trick you, Maestro. I simply came to audition for you. I need a job.”
He snorted, but when he continued, it was in a thoughtful manner. “I get it now. ‘Fournier.’ That’s French for ‘baker,’ isn’t it?”
She sighed. “My former manager’s idea. My legal name really is Margaret Baker.”
He paused, rubbing his chin as he studied her closely. “I seem to remember reading an article about you recently, something about an anonymous buyer paying some ten million dollars for a Stradivarius violin at auction. It was reported that he intended to loan it for life to a certain violinist, so she could tour with it.”
Meg tucked her own well-loved violin under her arm and began to loosen the tension on her bow. “It was twelve-point-two million,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “So why aren’t your touring Europe with the Stradivarius?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.
She looked at him directly, then, her gaze fierce. “Because Monsieur Anonymous also wanted me to perform privately for him in ways that had nothing to do with the violin.”
She felt herself relax in direct proportion to Campagnone’s outrage, which seemed to be genuine as he let loose with a string of curses. She gave him the benefit of the doubt—there was no way for him to know she not only spoke fluent Italian, she also recognized the slang he was using—she had picked it up from one of her classmates at Julliard.
“Your manager was going to allow this?” he finally asked sharply in English.
She sighed. “He actually insisted I do whatever was necessary to keep Monsieur Anonymous happy.”
Campagnone cursed once more, stood abruptly, turning his back on her and running his hands through his hair. He then became still for a long moment before turning back to her.
“Can you even play within an orchestra, Miss Baker?” he asked, and his tone had become polite, uncritical. “When was the last time you played any ensemble music?
“It has been awhile.” When he raised that eyebrow again, she relented. “The better part of ten years, at least.”
She was startled to see the corner of his mouth twitch, and she was almost positive there was a new twinkle in his eyes.
“And you’re now what? The ripe old age of twenty-five?”
She sighed. “Twenty-three.”
He really did smile then. “Okay. All right.” He shook his head but his chuckle gave her hope. “We’ll give you a try. I confess I’m rather desperate at the moment.”
“Why?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
“Our assistant concert master unexpectedly needed to go on maternity leave immediately. She’d been planning to wait until the end of our season—in June—but she’s been having some difficulties and her doctor has ordered bed rest for the duration.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, automatically.
“But not too sorry?” he asked, and that twinkle was back.
She smiled sheepishly. “No. I guess not. Though I do wish her well.”
He chuckled again and turned toward the door.
“I really have to go, now. See Miss Dennis on the way out, Miss Baker. She’ll have all the required paperwork for you. Oh, and your first rehearsal is at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“I will be there.”
He turned at the door and looked back.
“By the way: we’ll be playing Scheherazade in April, so your timing is perfect.”
Meg managed to wait until the door was closed before she grinned and pumped a fist into the air in victory.
38
“Ho-ly cow.”
“What?” Meg looked up to see her new friend, Janice—a second violinist whose locker was right next to hers—staring toward the door, her mouth opened in shock.
“Who do they belong to?” Janice asked.
“Down, girl,” Patty said. Patty was a fifty-something flautist who considered herself a den mother of the younger set in the orchestra.
Meg followed Janice’s gaze and found herself grinning as John and Bart came in for the backstage meet-and-greet following the evening’s performance.
“That would be me,” she said, trying hard not to sound as though she were gloating.
“No way,” Janice said.
“Way,” Meg said, and there was laughter in her voice. “Excuse me, ladies.”
She made her way through the crowded room to where the Saint men had stopped to talk with the pianist who had played the Mozart tonight. She was nearly upon them when John noticed her, and he grinned.
“Excuse me just a minute,” he said and broke away to come meet her. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet to swing her around before setting her back down and laying his lips on hers.