Nocturne In Ashes

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

RILEY STOOD NAKED on the dressing room floor. She fingered the smooth black silkiness of the gown she would wear to cover herself on stage, knowing the very essence of herself would remain exposed, uncoverable by any length of silk. It was what she always felt before a performance and the knowledge exhilarated and terrified her.

She slipped a robe over lace-trimmed undergarments, knotting the cord at her waist, and walked to the battered upright, sitting down on the bench, touching naked fingers to naked keys. In Beethoven, there was no room to hide. Perhaps with Rachmaninoff and Debussy there can be some small degree of dissembling, but the spare lines of the Classical masters demanded the utmost precision and she had always been known for accuracy. Execution, interpretation, emotion—all are exposed under the stage gels at the piano.

For twenty-three months she had rehearsed and prepared, pouring herself into the work. She was ready. Certainly, she was ready.

There was a knock at the door and Helen entered, a sheaf of printed programs in one hand and a spray of roses in the other.

“They’re lovely, aren’t they?” she said.

“Which? The flowers or the programs?” Riley asked, inspecting the thick, ivory-colored cards that spelled out the evening’s fare. This concrete evidence that she was about to go under the spotlight kicked off a rush of epinephrine, bringing the heady mixture of anticipation and dread. Why do I put myself through this? flashed through her mind, followed by the thought, what else is there? Her very soul was made of music. Sharing it was all she knew.

Helen placed the flowers on a corner table, pushing and pulling at the blooms, arranging them to her satisfaction. She was a tiny woman, plump in a way that rounded her features and made her look like a wise, old child. She came to Riley at the piano, dropping beside her on the bench, and squeezed an arm around her.

“You’re gonna do great, kid. Jim would be so proud.”

Riley nodded. She had no doubts on that score.

Helen patted her leg and switched to business. “Miller Cantwell is in the crowd tonight and I think a rep from Universal. Also Frank Coston and Gabrielle Wilson, so keep your smile pasted on whatever you do. Now get dressed and warm up your fingers. It’s time to knock ‘em dead.”

She waved and left the room, and in that interval before the door shut behind her, Riley heard the bustle of backstage, the faint chatter of the hall filling with people. Her hands were like ice against her skin as she pulled the silk gown over her hips and drew up the zipper on the low-cut back. She took the pins from her long, auburn hair and let it fall loose, filling in the space left bare by the fabric. Running scales at the piano, she numbed out, shook herself, and numbed out again. She tried to remember the initial notes of Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu which opened the program, but came up blank. A jolt of panic speared through her chest and she felt the urge to pull out the sheet music, study, cram, but she knew from experience that the notations would only turn to blurred Chinese characters before her face. Heaven help me, what have I done?

She closed her eyes, exhaling into her hands to warm them, and brought her breathing into a slow, steady rhythm. Her grandfather, Zach Riley, for whom she was named, had been a jazz pianist doing USO shows during WWII. She fastened her thoughts on him playing doggedly through raids and bombings. She thought of the orchestra members on The Titanic who went down with the ship as they played through, lending courage to others. This was the heritage she claimed. She could do this.

She had to do this.

Applause flooded over her as she stood center stage and bowed her acknowledgment to a houseful of half-seen faces. Turning toward the piano, she took the first steps on what was always the longest walk, the distance stretching out and holding all the possibilities of triumph and disaster.

Her back was straight, chin lifted, as she seated herself, arranged her skirts, flexed her fingers, and began.

She struck the first chord, letting it resonate, floating up, drawing the expectant audience, and then the Chopin flowed out, her hands agile and dancing on the keyboard. Her heart pounded, pumping out adrenalin, speeding the tempo, and she pulled back just slightly, a gentle tap on the brake as her fingers raced. The music enveloped her like a flurry of golden butterflies, filling her with a rush of pure excitement. She executed a perfect, rippling chromatic scale, spanning the keyboard and building to a series of crashing chords.

A slight stumble as she crescendoed down the piano, one finger sliding off the slick surface of a polished key. None but the most distinguishing of ears would catch it, but it threw her concentration and she struggled to maintain the rhythm and balance of the piece as she transitioned into the central melody.

Drawing strength from the gentle, lyrical notes, Riley regained her equilibrium, preparing to face the second round of chromatics and thundering chords. She felt a blip of panic as she approached the section, fighting to control the impulse to flee that always hit her when she lost focus. She clenched her jaw, then released it, zeroing her attention on the keyboard choreography.

Her hands flowed up the keys like a wave on the beach and moved back down again, hitting the chords with determination. She navigated the passage without mishap, returning to the tranquility of the melodic line. As the last gentle notes faded, applause surrounded her, and she felt her face grow pink with pleasure and relief. A good opening.

She sat at the bench, breathing in, breathing out, nodding her thanks to the audience. Lifting her hands to the keyboard, ignoring their palsied tremble, she straightened her spine and began the Tchaikovsky Barcarolle. She watched her fingers, almost with wonder, as they produced the tones of heart-rending sadness, feeling the music pulse within her, building through the impassioned midsection before coming back to the opening theme.

The gondola rocked, moonlight rippled, the midway storm raged and she conquered it. Riley was inside the music, constructing the image, living it, swaying and bobbing on the Venetian waters of the picture she played. As the last melancholy notes drifted and diminished, applause burst over Riley and it felt like sunshine.

This was her first concert in over two years and she had designed a short program, without intermission. She floated through the Bach Prelude and Fugue, the Haydn Sonata, and the Scarlatti. Only the Gershwin Preludes now and then the Beethoven.

She tried to push the thought from her mind. It was always at this point, when it seemed she was home free with a near flawless performance, that she tensed up and mistakes loomed like rocks on the shoreline. She focused, instead, on Jim, as she always had. He was her fortress, her rock, her support. He was her family, the father of her child. He was her anchor.

He was gone.

Jim was dead and Tanner, their son, gone with him. But she had practiced through this, prepared for it, playing through the pieces while holding this thought, this harsh fact, in her head. She’d learned to draw strength from it, to make her work a sort of tribute, to hold them with her in the music. But tonight, it wasn’t working.

The fall was coming. She felt its approach as the tension in her neck and arms increased. Her mind fumbled, small tremors at first and then increasing in intensity like the buildup to an earthquake. The flight impulse threatened again, and she wrestled it, fighting to keep herself at the piano even while her mind was already fleeing out the door, down the staircase, into the night.

She was furious with herself, felt hot tears on her face and ignored them. She skittered along to the end of the last Gershwin piece, hardly hearing or acknowledging the applause as it rose and petered out.

It was time to finish the program.

Her stomach roiled and the silence stretched and grew, punctuated with short coughs and the rustling of paper. Riley took a deep breath and positioned her shaking hands for the opening chords. They hung there, frozen above the keys for an agonizing eternity.

The blood rushed in her ears and a moan tore from her throat as she jumped up, tipping the piano bench. The swirl of her skirt caught in the adjuster knob and she heard it tear as she ripped free and fled the burning spotlight. The bench fell with an echoing thud, punctuated by the staccato clattering of her heels as she ran from the stage, leaving the shreds of her comeback performance drifting like the tatters of her silk dress.