Music in the Key of Love

Chapter 23: The Charity Concert

Graham cringed, shouting for his mother to get away, run away. Instead of listening to him, though, she ran forward, swinging ineffective arms at her husband.

"Mom, no!"

Graham saw his father's fist coming toward his face and tried in vain to duck away from it. It connected squarely with his jaw, spinning him into the wall of their shabby little house.

Somewhere, Ash was crying.

Graham sat up with a start. He was bathed in a cold sweat, shaking from the remnants of his dream.

Next to him Cressida, too, sat up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just a dream."

"It doesn't seem like nothing, you're shaking like a leaf." She leaned over and turned on the lamp next to the bed. "You want a drink? Water? Something stronger?"

Graham shook his head, but Cressida ignored him and left the room, going to the bar in the main room to pour him a small shot of whiskey. She brought it back to him and he drank it down without a murmur.

"Don't worry, sweetiecee, I sometimes get nervous the day before a performance." Graham's voice was already blurry with drink and with incipient sleep.

"I don't think this has anything to do with your performance, but whatever." Cressida put her arms around Graham's neck, burying her face in his fluffy hair. "Try to go back to sleep, okay?"
He was nodding off against her, his arms strong around her body, as he drifted back to sleep.

Cressida held him as he fell back asleep, looking at his face, the face she loved. He looked stern and suspicious, even in slumber, as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Why would anyone want to earn his livelihood this way?

Poor Graham.

But he'd chosen this, the lonely life of the soloist, the horrible responsibility of not only putting all ten fingers on the right notes, but in the right order, and then of memorizing pages and pages and pages. And even if he got all that right, he could still get knocked for his performance, still be called a hack, or talentless, or merely a technician and not an artist.

His feet moved against hers in the bed, as though he ran from someone in his dreams. He clutched at her, pulling her into his taut body, crushing her small form to his.

Just as she her self was falling back asleep, she heard him whisper in her ear that he loved her, so much, so much. "Thank you for being with me, dear Cress."

She hugged him back, as tightly as she could, trying to let him know that she would always be there, an anchor for him to tether him to this earth, to their life together.

The next morning he seemed back to his normal, taciturn self, so Cressida didn't mention his interrupted sleep the night before.

"Should I leave?" she asked, nervous about facing the professor and Katherine.

"No, why?" Graham was surprised.

"They didn't invite me to spend the night, and they certainly didn't invite me to have my meals with them and spend the day here."

"But I did, and I'm their guest, so it's fine." He hugged her, smelling so good from his shower. "I need you with me today, please. I haven't performed in public in months, having you here will steady my nerves."

"Okay. Just don't leave me alone with them." She still felt awkward to just join them at mealtimes, as though she belonged there, and she was relieved when they went out to eat that neither Thurman was present. They helped themselves to coffee, and Rosita brought them hot cereal and eggs.