Page 105 of The Sound of Harmony

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Sunday morning, Kendrick interrupted Ben and Raine’s brunch with a Skype call. They were eating pancakes and bacon in Ben’s kitchen, and they put the laptop on the dining table, ready to listen.

“Okay, here goes.” Kendrick took a deep breath and picked up his flute with shaking hands. He’d played for audiences of thousands, where people paid hundreds of dollars a ticket. He’d played on television and had scored movies. He’d been in The National Orchestra. He’d played for presidents. He’d played for queens.

He knew that Ben and Raine liked what he wrote, but he still wanted their approval. He wanted them to tell him that he was doing the right thing.

Please let this be the right thing.

He tapped a few keys of his flute, sucked in his lips, blew out some air, and began. He played his new song with everything that was in him. He pictured Emma’s face, saw her smile, heard her laughter. As he played, he remembered every shared joke, every shared meal, every shared kiss. The touch of her hand, the smell of her skin, the taste of her lips. He put all that passion for Emma into the music and hoped it was enough.

When the final note faded, he looked to Ben and Raine to gauge their reaction. Neither of them applauded, but they didn’t have to. He could see it on their faces. Raine had her napkin over her mouth nodding yes with bright eyes. Ben blinked hard.

“I love it,” Raine choked out.

“It’s uh…” Ben cleared his throat. “It’s the best thing you’ve ever written. I mean that.”

“I know you do,” Kendrick said. “Thank you.”

“I notice it’s in the same key as Listening,” Ben said. “And has the same time signature.”

“But it’s different,” Raine chimed in.

“Very different,” Kendrick said. “Listening was for the public, for anyone who wanted to hear it. This is for Emma.”

“What’s it called?” Raine asked.

“Whatever Emma says it’s called.” Kendrick pulled his flute apart so he could clean it and put it in the case. “It’s hers.”

“Go play it for her,” Ben said. “Now. She needs to hear this.”

On Sunday, Emma called Brooke at work. When Brooke didn’t answer, she called again. And again. Brooke finally texted back in all caps, CAN THIS WAIT? I’VE GOT HALF AN HOUR LEFT ON MY SHIFT.

Can’t wait, Emma texted back.

Brooke called her a moment later, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I need you to listen to something,” Emma said. “I wrote a song for Kendrick and I need you to hear it. I need you to tell me if this is enough.”

“But we’re mad at Kendrick, aren’t we?”

“Not anymore.”

“Okay. Yay for that! Lauren is covering for me, but I’ve got like three minutes before I’m busted, so hurry.”

“It won’t take that long. Listen.”

Emma held up the phone and nodded for Gwendolyn to start. Slow chords, lively thirds and fifths, tonic and dominant chords leading to sweeping arpeggios that spoke of promises made and fulfilled. Emma had spent hours on this, starting with her original tune. She kept the same key and time signature, but reworked the melody in striking ways, synthesizing the best of the old and the new.

Gwendolyn played it as it was written, with love and fervor. She put her shoulders and forearms into it as her hands flew over the keys, and when she was done, her upper lip glistened with sweat, as if she’d done a heavy workout or had a night of passion.

When the last note faded, Emma put the phone back to her ear. She was greeted by a sniffling sound from the other end. “Brooke? Are you crying?”

“I’m just…” Brooke sucked in a wet breath. “Just…go get that man.”

Kendrick was glad he’d asked his Lyft driver to wait, because Emma wasn’t home. He stood outside her apartment, holding his flute case, knocking on the door for the third time.

It had taken him twenty minutes to get here, driving past the edge of town and then the suburbs and then the exurbs and finally to this two-story apartment building in the middle of nowhere. It was one of those square boxes built motel style, with a walkway outside the perimeter of the second floor and every door facing the parking lot.

Kendrick had been here only once before, briefly, when Emma had forgotten her wallet and they’d gone back for it. That day, he’d waited in the truck while she fetched it, since he knew how she felt about spaces with only one door.

Now, he pounded on that door, which was fruitless, but he needed to be sure. Come on, Emma. Answer.

The door next to Emma’s was yanked open and a short man with mussed hair stuck his head out. “Look, buddy, she’s not home, okay? Stop that noise. I work nights.”

“Sorry.” Kendrick retreated to the Lyft and called Emma again. She didn’t answer.

“Where to now?” his driver asked.

“Hold on.” He had to think. Emma could be working today, which meant she could be anywhere in Cannondale. He didn’t have Gwendolyn’s number, or Brooke’s. But wasn’t Brooke a clerk at the library? It was a long shot, but maybe she was working today. And maybe—just maybe—she’d help him.