Chapter 1
SPRING 1898 The violins came in late at the top of the third measure. Again.
They’d been late at yesterday’s rehearsal and earlier today just before lunch. One would think a generous hour-long break, complete with mint iced tea and citrus cake, would bring them back alert, bows poised over the strings, ready to touch down at the mere twitch of Bertram Johann’s wrist. But once again there had been just that breath of hesitation—the tiniest fraction of a beat—followed soon after by the cacophonous halt of every instrument, one cellist the last to realize as a singular low note echoed into the empty hall.
“Do you not have schools in Cleveland?” Johann’s voice bore the trace of his Austrian childhood—the one rumored to have been spent in the greatest concert halls in Europe. “Have you not learned to count? One. Two. Three. Four.” His speech was accompanied by the small sound of a baton striking his open palm. “Or perhaps here in America you think you are entitled to an extra half beat in each measure? You think you are Rockefellers of the music?”
Up in the balcony, Vada Allenhouse held the Bissell carpet sweeper still and listened to the tirade, smiling. She would have been on beat. Safely tucked away in the shadows, she peered out over the edge and looked down the line of mortified musicians. Their instruments hung listlessly at their sides, resting bows and stilled mallets. One face after
another—some pale, some bearded, some young, some old—all men, all lined up with nowhere to look. Their eyes darted from the conductor to the floor to some invisible comfort out in the third row.
She scanned and scanned until she found the face she sought. Even in the dim light of the stage, Vada could see the flush that crept up from the stiff white collar of his shirt. She stared until the slightest turn of his head brought their gazes together. One pale eyebrow popped above the rim of his spectacles.
“You! Third Chair!” Johann’s voice brought the eyebrow back behind the spectacles and the face to full attention. “What is your name?”
“Walker?” The sound was weak and small before he cleared his throat and spoke again. “Garrison Walker.”
“Do you think you could tear yourself away from whatever is so fascinating in the balcony? Or would you rather I ask Miss Allenhouse to come down and conduct you with her feather duster?”
“Yes sir. I mean, no sir. That is—”
“Enough, Third Chair.” Johann struck his music stand with his baton. “We start again from the top of measure one, and—”
Vada focused her attention on the carpets and thrust the Bissell forward on the first downbeat. She moved the sweeper, keeping time with a swishing percussion as the flowers beneath her appeared and disappeared as the music swelled from below. She hummed the tune just beneath her breath and held her free hand aloft, imagining the strings of her violin beneath her fingers.
After an uninterrupted expanse of orchestration, the top row was swept clean, and she heard Johann’s muted, “Much better that time.” He must have given some permission to dismiss, because soon thereafter came the sound of dozens of soft conversations, the unmistakable
click of instrument cases, and the scooting of chairs as the musicians became a wiggling mass of dark suits.
Vada tried again to catch Garrison’s eye, but he was engaged in conversation with the man beside him—a portly, older gentleman, Mr. Pennington, whose jowls quivered with each word. He was probably going on about his glory days playing with the quartet at the Hollenden Hotel. Played for presidents, he did, and Garrison would be kind enough to listen to each word, as if he were hearing it for the first time. Just as well. The prolonged conversation would give her time to freshen up. It was hot up in the balcony, and she sensed a fine sheen of perspiration on her brow, not to mention the trickle down her back.
Once the Bissell was safely stored in the upstairs maintenance closet, Vada made her way down the steps, eager to have the vast powder room to herself for a quick splash of water on her face, and perhaps a repining of her hair.
“Miss Allenhouse?”
“Oh, Mr. Johann. You startled me.”
He was not a tall man, and he seemed always to be assuming some pose to increase his stature. He stood now at the foot of the stairs, his hands locked behind his back as he rocked on his heels. His hair had both the color and appearance of iron as it sprang, thick and straight, from all parts of his head.
“Did you take the program to the printer?”
“Not yet, Mr. Johann. I haven’t had a chance to proofread—”
“Are we to assume that it will walk itself around the corner?”
“I wanted to be sure there were no errors. I didn’t know if you’d want to make any changes.”
“Changes in what way, Miss Allenhouse?” He looked down at her, though he had to nearly raise himself to his toes to do so. “Is there something in our current repertoire that you find lacking?”
“No…no, of course not.” She wanted desperately to bring her kerchief up to wipe the sweat from her brow, lest Herr Johann believe it was his pathetic attempt at authority that had her in such a heated state. But no such indignity could ever take place in the presence of one so highly self-esteemed, so she forced a sweet smile. “If you’ve looked it over—”
“It is my job, now, to verify the program? I am to be both the musical director, the conductor, and the theater secretary?”
The insufferable man made himself taller and taller with each word until Vada was tempted to look down to see if his expensive shoes were still attached to the floral carpet.
She puffed herself up a bit. “I’ll get them to the printer first thing Monday morning.”
“Which means you can assure me they will be ready by Friday night?” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Perhaps the printer is still open. I can take them by this evening on my way home.”
Herr Johann lowered his heels to the floor and gave a curt nod before walking away, his hands still clasped at his back. A peek through the thick double doors showed Garrison had made no progress extracting himself from the conversation with Mr. Pennington, so Vada allowed herself a quick foray into the powder room before making her way to the little office at the back of the theater. Here the faint rays of late afternoon sun stretched through the skylight, allowing her to find the large cream-colored envelope in the middle of her desk. Four sheets of paper in all—the first proudly announcing the debut of the East Cleveland Terrington Community Orchestra, under the leadership of Bertram Johann. The second listed the five pieces to be performed, beginning with Bach’s
Brandenburg Concerto no. 5 and culminating in his “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
It was a far cry from the glorious philharmonic that had filled the city with ambitious, masterful performances for as long as Vada could remember. No, the gathering of musicians on this stage was very much a remnant—some carried over from the philharmonic, but most, like her Garrison, just ordinary men who’d once abandoned their instruments to work in small, cramped offices all over the city. Their names were listed on the final pages, followed by small blocks of advertising. After the concert, “Waltz” on into Sherm’s Soda Shoppe, present this program, and receive two chocolate sodas for the
price of one! Visit the birthplace of the Viennese Waltz! Let D. S. Walters
book your voyage today!
Vada sighed. What she wouldn’t give to take such a journey. To visit all those places she’d dreamed about as a child.
Someday. Now, though, she squinted to make out the time on the wall clock. Four forty-five. If she hurried, leaving right now, she should have time to make it to the printer’s before they closed. She rushed out of the office, nearly colliding with Garrison in the hall.
“How did we sound?” Behind his spectacles, bright blue eyes searched for her approval.
“Better,” Vada said after just a breath’s hesitation. “Much better as the rehearsal wore on.”
He seemed awash in relief and held his violin case up in a gesture of victory. “I thought so too. But it’s hard to tell on stage. What did you think—”
“Listen.” She held up the envelope. “I need to get this around the corner before five o’clock. Can you walk with me?”
His face puckered the way it always did before giving her disappointing news. “Sorry, darling. I have to get some briefs prepared to file in court on Monday. And I don’t want to work on the Lord’s day.”
“Nor should you,” she said, unfazed by his response. “I suppose that is just the price you pay to become a successful lawyer.”
Garrison smiled, making him look like a little boy about to go visit his father at work. “Lawyer by day and third-chair violinist by night.” He cast his gaze above. “And junior partner by the fall, if, of course, that’s what the Lord has planned for me. His direction has to come first in any plans I make.”
Vada stood in front of him, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if t...
