Paddie mulled this over, sucking on another ice cube. “It is sad,” she said finally.
“Yes,” Daniel agreed.
“So did Matthew bonk me on the head?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He is not a man of physical violence,” Paddie said confidently.
“I think it was Thomas,” Daniel said. “Matt had given me a ride to the auditorium, so he was there, but I have a feeling Thomas followed. He’d been at the meeting and probably had figured out that Matthew was behind Paddie’s odd behavior and decided to intervene before his son ruined the family image.”
“My behavior was not odd,” Paddie interrupted.
“Musicians,” Daniel muttered, and sighed. “In any case, Thomas must have overheard the three of us talking in the auditorium and decided to take the bull by the horns and at least get Whitney out of the way. He would have seen Whitney and known exactly who he was hitting. If he’d meant to kill her, I’m sure he would have, but then he was bent just on terrorizing her into leaving town. Unfortunately, his plan didn’t work.” Daniel lifted Whitney’s hand to his mouth and kissed it with mock chivalry. “I could have told him it wouldn’t.”
Harry frowned pensively. “So old Thomas decided he wasn’t going to let any upstart female French horn player and bigmouthed female conductor be the ones to ruin his son.”
“But why would Thomas go to all that trouble to protect Matthew?” Whitney asked.
Daniel sighed tiredly. “Because Matt’s behavior reflected on Thomas. If a man can’t produce the kind of son he wants, what kind of man is he? It’s cruel, I know, but that’s the kind of man Thomas is.”
“Poor Matthew,” Paddie said quietly. “To have to fit into shoes that are not of your own making
...
it is tragic.”
“And I’m sure,” Daniel said, “that Paddie’s episode with the snake didn’t endear her to him. But that’s all of it—at least as much as I can make out. I’m not sure we’ll ever know all the details for certain.”
They were all silent as they drank and listened to the band warming up. Paddie grimaced; she did not like instruments that required plugs. Harry noticed and laughed. “Better get her home fast,” he said, taking her by the elbow. “Come on, old girl, we’ve got to get you in shape for Monday. Ten o’clock rehearsal, you know. Have to get the Stravinsky in shape by Friday.” He turned to Whitney. “You know the
Firebird
, don’t you?”
She grinned. “You taught it to me, Pop”
“So I did. Now wait till you see what Paddie’s done to it.” He waved, chuckling, and dragged Paddie off.
“They make an interesting couple,” Daniel said dryly.
“Oh, please,” Whitney said. “Can you imagine having Victoria Paderevsky as a stepmother?”
“No.” Daniel leaned back, smiling, and tucked a lock of hair behind Whitney’s ear. “But I can imagine her as a stepmother-in-law. It’s one of the many things I’d endure to have you in my life, Whitney.”
“Daniel …”
“Shh. Let’s not talk now. Let’s just go home and be together. I love you, Whitney. I’ve loved you for three days, and I’ll love you forever.”
She tried to speak again, but couldn’t, and he helped her to her feet. Then he winced in pain, and she was helping him. And finally, together, they walked outside and went home.
“Mmm,” a deep, sonorous voice was murmuring, “you taste good…”
Her eyes closed, Whitney wriggled, but not with discomfort. Something wet and warm was circling her nipple, teasing it with erotic little flicks, making it swell. Something else, firm and slightly callused, stroked her thighs. Must be dreaming, she thought. When they’d turned in last night, she’d insisted on sleeping in the guest room. She hadn’t wanted to be responsible for pulling out any of Daniel’s stitches. He’d gone off reluctantly, but with a certain cockiness to his step.
Had he had future designs on her?
Sleepily, she realized she was naked. She distinctly remembered putting on her sturdy blue nightgown, more as a reminder of what she was missing than anything else. Daniel’s doctor should have talked to her about heroics.
“My nightgown. “
“Gone,” the voice said. “You didn’t budge.”
Next she realized a man was on top of her. A long, lean, hard man. She reached out with her hands and touched him in appropriate places to make sure.
“Keep it up, darlin’,” Daniel said. “We’ve got all day;” She opened her eyes and looked at him as he kissed his way up to her mouth. “You promised the doctor there’d be no more heroics.”
“And I suppose you’re going to tell on me?”
She grinned impishly. “Only if you disappoint me.”
“I should have known you were Harry Stagliatti’s daughter,” he said, “by your sharp tongue.”
“Shall I slice you to ribbons with it?”
“Please,” he drawled, lowering his mouth to-hers, “do.”
But she didn’t. Instead she let her tongue touch and mingle with his and tell him how much she needed and wanted him. She wrapped her arms around the warm, bare skin of his back and drew him down on top of her, stroking his hard buttocks.
“I won’t hurt you?” she breathed into his mouth.
He smiled. “Hardly.”
And she moved under him, arching to meet his downward thrust, and whispered as he came into her, “I love you, I love you.”
“Darlin’ Whitney,” he said, and then they could say no more. But their bodies spoke. They moved in unison. They were one voice, they were a duet, they were an entire orchestra, they were everything they could think of to be to each other without speaking, without hurting, without smothering. There was only the purity of emotion, and the love they shared.
Afterward, in the stillness of the silent room, Whitney smelled the azaleas and saw the sun and smiled at the man beside her. “Will you teach me to tell an orange blossom from a grapefruit blossom?” she asked sleepily.
“If you’ll take me to New York to hear your assorted ensembles perform.”
“But, Daniel—”
“You made some commitments, sweetheart. Let me help you keep them. And maybe your groups will inspire me to get something started down here.” He propped his head up on one hand and stroked her solid stomach. “I don’t want you to have to make all the sacrifices so we can be together.”
She was already shaking her head. “I’d have ended up staying in Florida anyway.”
He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that. Harry?”
“Of course. I didn’t see much of him growing up and haven’t learned half of what he has to teach me and—he needs me.”
“And you need him?”
“Yes.”
“And me?”
“You’re gravy,” she said, and, at his immediate and very rude remark, spluttered into raucous laughter.
He swept her into his arms, and with a great display of heroic strength and endurance, made love to her again.
Epilogue
Graham Auditorium was filled to capacity for the premiere performance of the Central Florida Symphony Orchestra. Whitney sat in the horn section next to Harry Stagliatti. Her name was listed in the program as Whitney McCallie Stagliatti. It was, after all, her legal name. That she and Harry were father and daughter wasn’t as much of a shock to everyone as she had expected. As Yoshifumi put it, “We all wondered how come you two had stuck by each other all these years.” Lucas had simply said, “It’s their noses.” She wore a long, luxurious, black wool crepe dress that Daniel had insisted on buying her. She had demurred, telling him it was hot on stage, the program was an exhausting one, she’d perspire, she’d dribble spit all over it.
“Stop!” he’d said, laughing. “Must you always be so blunt?”
“Harry has that effect on people. You should hear the things he says to me!”
“And to me,” Daniel had replied dryly.
Whitney had grinned knowingly. “Oh?”
“He warned me to leave you a little wind for Friday night.”
“The old meddler! He thinks he’s so clever. He just keeps looking at me in that way of his and asks if I’m keeping up with my breathing exercises.”
“Yes, well,” Daniel said, “I suppose discussing spit valves comes naturally to you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be demure at the post-concert party with your parents.”
“Darlin’, just be your easygoing and honest self. It’s all I want, all I ever want. You’ll wear the dress?”
“I’ll wear the dress.”
“And if you do damage it, we’ll just buy you another.”
We
, Daniel had said. Not
I.
It was always
we
. There was an assumption and a promise in that simple word that Whitney found thrilling. The assumption was that they would be together. The promise was that they would be together not by her fitting into his life or his fitting into her life, but by them building a life of their own as two individuals with separate thoughts and goals and opinions, and with a love that bound them together.
So she had worn the dress. She had bought her own shoes, however: black ballet slippers. Daniel had groaned in despair.
Harry said she was the envy of the women in the violin section. Whitney told him he looked downright roguish in his black tuxedo. They smiled at each other.
And then Victoria Paderevsky walked onto the stage.
She was dressed loosely and functionally in black, but sometime during the busy week she had had her hair permed, and, to everyone’s delighted shock, dyed its original dark brown. For once, she looked her age.
The audience applauded; Paddie bowed and turned to her orchestra.
“Friends,” she said, “tonight is for Matthew Walker.”
Whitney breathed deeply, feeling the change in Paddie. She had never called her musicians friends, and that she would dedicate the premiere concert of the CFSO to Matthew revealed how much his anguish had affected her. For once, Victoria Paderevsky wasn’t afraid to be honest to herself.
Then, after a few seconds of silence, the concert began.
In all Whitney’s years of playing, there had never been a performance like it. The orchestra played with energy and vigor and heart. The pieces they knew so well—Stravinsky’s
Firebird Suite
, Strauss’s
Till Eulenspiegel’s
Merry Pranks
and, finally, Beethoven’s awesome Symphony No. 7—seemed to be drawn from their souls, and perhaps they were. The weeks of grueling practice had assured technical perfection. But tonight, in the darkened, crowded hall, they dared to open up their souls.
And, in so doing, they touched the souls of their audience.
That was the brilliance of Victoria Paderevsky. She knew how to lay souls bare: her orchestra’s, her audience’s ... and, most of all, her own.
When she cut off the last dynamic chord of the symphony, she was spent. The tears were streaming down her cheeks. She was breathing hard, but smiling as the audience sat in stunned silence.
“Bravo, my friends,” she said to her orchestra, “bravo.” And then the crowd was on their feet, roaring, clapping, and Victoria Paderevsky turned to face them.
Backstage, when the congratulations and the hugs and kisses were over, Whitney packed up her horn in a quiet corner of a practice room. Daniel had promised to meet her at the party if things proved too crazy for him to get back stage. She thought of him now—of the warmth of his sea-green eyes, the strength of his hard body, the depth of his personality. She knew him better after a week, and loved him no less.
Daniel, Daniel
, she thought. Tonight had been for him, too. As she had played, she had felt his presence in the auditorium.
Rising, feeling the ache and numbness of fatigue, she turned, and Daniel was there, stunningly handsome and tall in his black tuxedo.
“You were magnificent,” he breathed, and swept her into his arms, his mouth finding hers. “You are magnificent.”
She could see the tears still in his eyes and knew that the concert had affected him, too, and not simply because of all that had happened. “It was a good concert?” she asked, smiling widely.
“If the amount of sweat on you is any indication” he said playfully, “it was a fantastic concert.”
“Perspiration,” she corrected with feigned primness.
“Darlin’, when you work that hard for it, it’s sweat.” He pushed back the dampened tendrils on her forehead and kissed her there, cupping her head in his hands. “I love you, Whitney McCallie Stagliatti.”
“And I love you, Daniel Graham.” She laughed happily, and laid her head on his chest. “I never want to leave you.”
“You won’t have to, m’love.”
She looked up at him. “That had a knowing ring to it. Are you up to something, Mr. Graham?”
“Harry and I had a talk …”
“Uh-oh.”
“He was telling me about his farm.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Says it’s a shame no one’s there to collect the sap.”
“He’s never collected sap in his life. Go on.”
“Says it’s a shame no one’s there to feed the chickens.”
“He doesn’t have any chickens.”
“Says it’s a shame no one’s there to plant peas and spinach this spring.”
“Ditto my comment about the sap.”
“Says it’s a shame no one’s there.”
Daniel grinned down at her, his arms wrapped comfortably around the small of her sweaty back. The wool dress “breathed” better than any of the cheap polyester dresses Whitney had worn for one or two concerts and tossed. This one could be dry-cleaned and worn again and again.
“But he doesn’t want to sell it,” Daniel went on. “He says as soon as Paddie falls back to earth, he’s going to sweep her off to the Adirondacks for a vacation and a taste of wild currant jelly—”
“Which he will buy at the local country store.”
“Whitney, Whitney, you have no faith in your father.”
She laughed. “I know him too well.”
“In any case, he doesn’t expect that to happen, until June or July.”
“Then he’s decided to stay on as principal horn?”
“With the proviso that Paddie hires you as soon as you’re available.”
“May fifteenth.”
“Which brings me back to the farm.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m due for an extended vacation. April first through May fifteenth would be nice, don’t you think? Springtime in New York.”
With a held-back grin, Daniel reached into a pocket and fished out three keys on a length of familiar thirty-pound fishing line. “This key,” he said, “is for the front door. This key is for the back door. And this key is for the barn.” He palmed all three. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to make love in a hayloft.”