“Merrilee and Dane are here,” Mother threw over her shoulder. “And there’s someone here for you.”
Cassie’s steps slowed. Oh, hell. She hated when her parents tried to set her up with men. They always got it wrong, as though they didn’t really
know
her at all. Peter had been their choice, and look how that had turned out.
She’d felt trapped, like a bug in a jar, every minute she spent with him. Then, one day, she’d snapped and broken it off. She’d never felt so free.
She didn’t relish the thought of going back into the jar. The thought was particularly odious now. Now that she’d tasted wild bliss with Dylan.
The last thing she wanted was a date with one of her parents’ puppets tonight.
No, she thought, as she stepped into the sitting room and a dapper man in a perfectly pressed suit stood. The last thing she wanted tonight was a date with
Gunter
.
He clicked his heels together and proffered a sharp, tight bow. Everything about Gunter was sharp and tight. He was a brilliant conductor—sharp and tight worked well for him on stage.
But as a lover? Probably not so much.
She knew he was interested in her. He’d made no secret of it. Apparently, when his advances had not been embraced, he’d applied to her parents for their assistance with his suit.
He took her hand and pressed a cold kiss upon it, then glanced up at her from his bended stance. In his expression simmered a certainty he’d impressed her with his
Continental Airs
.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Her father saved her from Gunter’s languishing looks, folding her into a decorous hug. He kissed her on the cheek. “Cassandra. You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Cassie.” Merrilee and Dane nodded in tandem from the settee. As children, she and Merrilee had been holy terrors. But over the years, they’d learned decorum. With great gentility and placid determination, Mother had squeezed every defiant thought from them. Molded, perfected, sanitized their lives. Restrained their spirits.
Why, oh why, did Cassie feel this sudden burning urge to flout decorum? Perhaps pummel it to bits?
“Sherry, darling?” Without waiting for her response, Mother crooked a finger to Winters, who brought her a delicate crystal goblet on a silver tray. Cassie took a sip before she remembered she hated sherry.
They sat in the elegant drawing room sipping sherry and chatted about unimportant things, like the weather and the South of France and a book of poetry Merilee was reading until Cassie wanted to scream. She fought off the temptation to toss back her sherry—such a breach would launch Mother into a fit of vapors, no doubt, and at the very least result in a lecture which Cassie could not bear.
She didn’t know why she was so restless. It certainly wasn’t because she was comparing Gunter to Dylan. There was, in fact, no comparison. Gunter didn’t even register on the scale. It was as though he was not a man sitting so politely next to her, but a statue.
When he brushed against her, her heart did not race. When he spoke, her pulse did not flutter. Nothing he did or said caused any emotion to rise at all.
But Dylan— Hell, just thinking about him made her achy.
Would he call? She hoped he would.
Belatedly, she realized she could have asked for his cell number. She
should
have asked for his cell number. She was a modern woman, after all. In charge of her own destiny. If she’d asked for his number, she could be talking to him right now.
Perhaps he was in the phone book…
Oh, what nonsense. He was a celebrity. Or something like a celebrity, at least. He wouldn’t be in the phone book. Besides, where would she even find one anymore? Her old-school parents probably had one somewhere. She could Google him, but doubted she could reach him directly, given the controversial nature of his on-air persona and all—
“Darling. Have you heard a thing I’ve said?”
Her mother’s tone, unusually sharp, snapped her out of her reverie.
“I beg your pardon?” Cassie realized she was still holding her empty sherry glass. She set it on a coaster.
“I was telling Gunter about the offer we received from the Berliner Philharmoniker.”
Cassie blinked. “We received an offer from the Berliner Philharmoniker?” No one had mentioned it to her.
“You leave in two weeks. You’ll return from Chicago and leave straightaway. Six weeks touring the capitals of Europe.”
Six weeks? Six weeks away from— She didn’t let herself finish the sentence. But she knew it ended with Dylan. Still, if he didn’t call, it would hardly matter if she was here or not.
Then again, the disquiet in her breast had very little to do with him. It was the buzzing sound. The one she heard whenever she felt like the bug trapped in a jar, desperately trying to escape. The sound rose and grew in her head, even as the panic welled in her soul.
She was tired. Sick unto death of having her world ordered, controlled, managed by others.
“I don’t want to go to Berlin.” The words surprised her. She hadn’t intended to say them aloud.
Apparently, they surprised the others as well. Mother gaped at her. Father gaped at her. Merrilee and Dane gaped at her. Gunter merely tipped his head to the side and observed her with vague curiosity. But then Gunter didn’t know Cassie had never—in the whole of her life—said no.
“I beg your pardon, darling. I don’t think I heard you correctly.” Mother’s lips pursed as though she’d eaten a lemon.
“I don’t want to go to Berlin.”
Father raised a finger to Winters, who obligingly refilled Mother’s cut crystal glass. She tossed it back and held it out for more. When she’d recovered herself, she pinned a prim smile on her face and said, in a glacial tone, “How absurd. Who wouldn’t want to go to Berlin? To play on all the great stages of Europe? It’s your dream, darling.”
A cold chill walked down Cassie’s spine. The kind of chill one gets when one realizes one has, in fact, been living someone else’s dream. Someone else’s life.
Oh, she loved the cello. She always would. She loved music and she adored the symphony. But there was more to life than an endless string of concerts. Constant tours. Incessant hours of practice.
There was passion lurking outside the pit, and she longed to live it. Breathe it in. Wallow in it.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it wasn’t perfect and sometimes ended on a discordant note.
There was beauty in chaos. Music in the mystery of life. Excitement in the possibility of taking a dare.
Of being herself.
For once. Daring to be herself.
“I’ll go to Chicago, but then I am taking a break,” she said with unwavering certitude.
The silence of the room was broken only by the delicate tinkle as cut crystal shattered.
* * * * *
It was amazing, Cassie thought as she made her way up the steps of the Remlinger Center in an uneven gait, toting her cello. Amazing how wonderful she felt. How free.
She’d finished her concert tour and headed home from Chicago, for the first time in her life not having a litany of responsibilities and commitments waiting for her. She’d spent the long lonely hours in her hotel room—ignoring her silent phone—thinking about her life and what she really wanted from it.
She did not allow herself to consider what other people wanted.
Other people were more than happy to tell you what they wanted. The little voice inside, the one so often silenced, was more difficult to hear. But when she sat still and focused and thought about what made her happy—everything was so clear.
She would still play. Still do concerts and appearances and participate in the symphony. But what she really wanted to do was teach and compose.
She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before—other than the fact that she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge the desire. She’d spent her whole life trying to please her parents, to thank them, to pay them back for giving her a home and a family; she’d never dared take what
she
wanted.
Oh, there would be guilt—even though Mother and Father had accepted her decision, wrapping her in weepy hugs and saying they understood it was her life, her decision, and they just wanted her to be happy. But this sense of elation, the undeniable feeling she’d finally figured out her purpose, would not dissipate.
Not even when she thought of Dylan.
Who had never called.
She’d come to terms with it. There had been tears. Nearly every night when she was alone in her sterile hotel room with the lights off and no one could see. Even now the sense of loss pinged at her heart.
It had taken discipline to work through her emotions. Discipline to draw in a deep breath whenever she thought of him. Draw in a deep breath and determinedly turn the pain into gratitude. She was lucky she had met him. That one brilliant flash of passion had illuminated the landscape of her existence and shown her the truth of it.
Her life was wonderful. But there was so much more.
What they’d shared had been magnificent. It had given her a taste of what life and love could be like.
But if she was to be her own woman, she needed to be strong enough to stand alone.
And maybe one day she would find someone. Someone who made her feel so alive, so free, so desired again.
She pushed into the playroom of the Remlinger Center and froze, reveling in the sight she beheld. She was early, but the room was packed full of pajama-clad children and hovering parents. They were already there, those bright, shining faces, the ones for whom she loved to play, clumped around circular tables, coloring and chatting and laughing with their friends.
Little Dara saw her and let out a squeal. She trundled over in her bunny slippers and cotton candy pink robe so long it trailed on the floor, dragging her IV stand behind her. “Cassie!” she wheezed. “You’re here!”
“Here I am, darling,” she said, dropping to one knee to wrap the moppet into a hug. She was much tinier than she had been at Cassie’s last visit. Her color more sallow. Thin hair clung to her head in uneven clumps. Cassie held her tight, until Dara pushed away.
“Are you going to play the ‘Bumblebee’ tonight?”
“If you like.”
Dara nodded somberly. “We all took a vote.” She gestured around the room. “Everyone wants the ‘Bumblebee.’”
Maximilian tugged on her sleeve. Cassie turned to him. He put out a lip. “I didn’t want the ‘Bumblebee.’”
“You didn’t? What did you want to hear?” She bit back a smile. Maximilian always asked for the same thing.
“The Swan.”
She put her palm on his bald head, noting his warmth. “Of course. I shall play that too. Just for you.” His toothless grin tugged at her heart. Maximilian was an adorable little boy, with an unbearable pain etched on his sweet visage. He reminded her of Mark. They both suffered from the same rare cancer. She could only pray Max would fare better than her brother had.
“Cassandra.” The familiar deep voice made her cringe. Oh, why had Gunter come? She’d told him, time and time again over the past two weeks, she wasn’t interested.
Dara and Max made their way back to their tables, and Cassie stood to greet Gunter. He gave her a quick, impersonal hug and took her cello, carrying it to the front of the room for her. “How was Chicago?”
“Windy.” Her lips quirked with humor, but he didn’t get her joke. She wasn’t surprised. He never got her jokes.
His brow wrinkled. “Oh, really? It was quite pleasant here.”
“Really?” She could imagine her life if she married a man like this. Discussing weather until death should they part. The drudgery of the prospect nearly suffocated her.
But then she took a deep breath and reminded herself. She didn’t have to marry a man like this. She didn’t have to marry anyone. She didn’t have to do anything that suffocated her. Not anymore.
“Yes. Tuesday was sunny.”
She swallowed a sardonic comment. A sunny day in Seattle was news. But she didn’t bother saying as much. Gunter wouldn’t get that either. So instead she murmured, “Nice,” because she felt she should murmur something.
“It was very pleasant.” He set her cello on the stand and set out her music, though he didn’t ask her what she was playing. Not that it mattered. She knew it all by heart. He fixed her with a steady gaze. “Would you like to have dinner after the concert?”
“Dinner?” Her belly railed at the thought. He probably had something fancy and expensive in mind. She’d been aching for some greasy fish and chips or a messy bucket of clams down on the pier. Mother would have apoplexy at the thought. Which was all the more reason to do it. “I’m sorry. I have plans.”
His expression did not falter, but the muscles around his eyes tightened. “Plans?”
“Yes.” Plans for a messy bucket of clams. And maybe a beer. Straight from the bottle.
Oh, the past two weeks had been wonderful. Liberating. She was practically a rebel now.
Tiny frown lines marred his forehead. “With whom?”
Cassie nearly groaned out loud. Even in his pique, he used perfect grammar.
She didn’t answer because it was none of his business and she was certain he would not understand plans with oneself were still plans with someone. “I should probably start.”
“Yes. Of course.”
She experienced a wash of relief when he stepped away. She didn’t know why. The man had no power over her she did not give him. And she had no intention of giving him an inch.
She sat down and faced her audience, a room full of children and parents. Some old faces, some new. Some missing. A great wave of joy swelled in her breast as she looked out at them, taking in their expectation and excitement. That she could bring a love of classical music, the beauty of her bow into their world, was extremely satisfying. That she could give them even a moment of peace was truly a gift.
“Hello everyone,” she chirped, and they responded in kind.
A chorus of “Hello, Cassie!” rounded the room.
“Are you ready for some ‘Bumblebee’?” she asked as she took up her bow.
Another chorus. She grinned and set her bow to the strings, preparing for the flight of fingers over steely strings. Each time she played Rimsky-Korsakov’s frenetic piece, she challenged herself to play it faster.