The Girl from the Bus
Chapter Three

The music piece accompanying this chapter is Edvard Grieg – String Quartet in G minor, 1st. Movement, Part 1 (youtube com (slash) watch?v=qlS0QgOHiqM )

They auditioned the next candidates together. Grant requested a leave of absence from the morning rehearsals with the Orchestra and, even though he was nervous before talking to Maestro Fury, it turned out Fury was more disappointed than angry and then, somehow, relieved.

"Looking for a new job, are you?" he sighed. "Good. Go. Show up once a week, Fridays, will you? And Saturday concerts." And that was all. He had all the time in a week to practice with Melinda and to aid her in judging the contestants.

Melinda would do the same mind-trick before every appointment as she had done when he had come – she would play 'Sky' as each person approached. People would stop outside, at least for a few moments, to listen. Only one of them didn't wait but knocked immediately as she came to the door and Melinda didn't even want to listen to her play. She told Grant that, in fact, he had been one of those who listened for a very short time too and she'd almost given him the same treatment.

"And I know what you're gonna say, that perhaps I should have listened to her too," she added immediately. "It was her general attitude, though. It's like she's not playing because she loves music, but because she wants to become famous. Did you notice the questions she asked? Where are we going to play? For whom? Is there going to be a recording?"

The person before her couldn't find the right tone, the one earlier had been too confident and the first on this day had been guilty of committing one discordance in Mozart. It had been three days and they hadn't found one passable candidate.

You have too high standards. No one's Melinda May. Grant wrote and handed her the pad.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Oh, dear. He hated when that happened. He got too comfortable with her and started using mental shortcuts and now he was going to have to explain himself. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. It was Thursday afternoon and he was tired. Tomorrow he had a rehearsal with the Orchestra and then the concert on Saturday and he wasn't looking forward to any

He wasn't sure he was looking forward to the next week with Melinda either.

At first, he'd found working with her unexpectedly refreshing. He had to learn new things. Beside her own composition she planned to play a few more pieces at the reception, and she used him as her test subject. They tried Shubert's and Shuman's string and piano quarters, trios and duets, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Grieg, Rachmaninoff. It was difficult to choose not knowing what instruments would eventually play but at least they compiled the list from which they could later cross out. Playing all those pieces was something else on and off itself but beside it, Grant got to compose. Melinda claimed that 'Sky' wasn't a finished piece yet and it would keep changing until she found the right people to play it. Writing music was something Grant had never done before and never expected he would do, but Melinda insisted he was doing fine. And he loved it. Frankly, he could work on this composition all day and night; that was exactly what he was now doing in the evenings after returning home.

If this was what Maria meant by him changing his life, he was all for it. He was tempted to tell Fury that he was done with the Orchestra for good. Learning new stuff, evolving as an artist, making progress, that's what playing music was supposed to be all about. He wanted this.

The hard part was Melinda May's attitude. And the way this whole project was still up in the air. In order for the concept to come to fruition Melinda needed right people. And she wasn't going to get them if she would find flaws in each and every person who came through her door.

Grant had to get Melinda back on the right track, remind her what the goal was.

You need to have a string quartet, he explained his stance, and a pianist and we need to start practicing and you only have a duet. You need to stop being so judgmental.

"I want it to be perfect, or not at all," Melinda snarled, stood up and briskly walked to the kitchen.

Not at all. Well, that could still happen, too. And that was a possibility Grant didn't really want to dwell into at the moment.

They had one more audition lined up for today, a violinist and five others for Sunday, two pianists, a violinist again, a viola player and a cellist. Grant didn't feel he would be able to endure Melinda May's discontent for another week if those auditions fell through as well. The piece was difficult, unfinished and they had two and a half months till the performance and no musicians to play it with.

Melinda wasn't returning from the kitchen. She was probably angry that Grant pointed out her mistake and he couldn't make up his mind if he was wrong to speak his mind, or if he was in the right. Or maybe... Why did she even pick him, why wasn't she as hard in judging him? Maybe she regretted her decision now?

He couldn't let himself go into that territory, so he picked up his violin and started to play. Those late night sessions brought interesting ideas to the piece. He needed to hear how they sounded in the light of day.

"Too sad," Melinda said after listening for a few minutes. She stood leaning against the wall, brow furrowed and lips pursed. "This story is about hope, not about despair."

Maybe it would be easier if he'd read it, Grant thought, but didn't have a chance to say anything, because they were interrupted by urgent knocking. Wasn't it a little too early for their next appointment?

Melinda shrugged, went to open the door and she let in a small tornado.

"Hey!" a tall, very boisterous man with a blinding smile let himself in. "I'm sorry I'm barging in like this, but that was amazing!" He took Melinda's palm and leaned in to kiss the tips of her fingers in an old-fashioned way. Then he turned to Grant. "I have to know, what was it? What were you playing, man?" Extended his hand and Grant shook it, without even thinking. The man was friendliness personified. "My name is Antoine, Antoine Triplett and I play violin. I'm telling you, man, that was some fine tune you've got going on here. It sounds contemporary. Am I right?" He was talking loud and fast and even if Grant could respond, it would be difficult to cut in.

Melinda did instead. She closed the door and neared their guest.

"My name is Melinda May." She stopped in front of him, hands folded on her chest.

Recognition lit up his face, but instead of abashment, it brought out honest joy.

"Oh, you're the one who invited me here, right? I'm too early, I know and I would have waited but then I heard this..." He gestured toward Grant.

"That's all right." Melinda smiled. She actually smiled. "This is Grant Ward, he plays violin, as you already noticed. He can't speak, so don't throw questions at him like this." Antoine cast a brief, apologetic glance at Grant and turned to Melinda again, and Grant glanced from Melinda to Antoine and felt a strange knot twist in his stomach. Was his presence was no longer required?

And it was not that he couldn't talk, he just... didn't...

Melinda talked to Antoine and he talked back and Grant tried to focus on their voices, not on the hum of his own blood in his ears. "Grant auditioned earlier and I liked the way he played." Her voice seemed to come from bottomless depths but was getting clearer and clearer with each sentence. "I want to hear you play as well but first, I'd like to know a little bit more about you. What do you expect from this project? Why did you reply to the invitation? And if you could remind me, who recommended you?"

While she spoke, Melinda led Antoine to the recliner. He replied and soon they started a conversation full of quips and smart rhetoric. At one point Grant could swear he heard Melinda chuckle. He couldn't be certain, though, because he didn't look at them. He stood at the window and glared at the evenly trimmed grass, green and lush despite the heat, unusual for early autumn, and at the maples, lindens and beeches marking the border of the municipal park on the other side of the hill.

Antoine played well. He wasn't technically as skilled as Grant but his emotional range included brave and open and, Grant had to admit, much more cheerful. At the end of the day, having explained the details of her project to Antoine and having accepted his admiration and gushing and seventeen variations of his white-teethed smile, Melinda requested that both of them come on Sunday to listen to the next five auditions. Antoine was honored.

Grant woke up at four a.m. with a scream.

He couldn't remember the dream but he couldn't stop shivers until he took an extra dose of medication his doctor prescribed for special occasions. After that he couldn't even hear his own footsteps, much less any music. The fog barely dissipated when he got to the rehearsal at the Community Center. Next two nights weren't much better but at least the concert on Saturday was as uneventful as ever. On Sunday he was supposed to go to Melinda's again, to audition the contestants.

The first pianist who came on Sunday was uncomfortable, Melinda said, even though Antoine argued that he only needed to get to know them better.

"The pianist must be perfect," Melinda cut any discussion. "The pianist is the most important. And I would rather it was a woman."

She called off the violinist, because two violins were already too much. Or enough, she corrected herself immediately. "We need a viola or a cello, now."

The girl playing viola was close. She played well, had skill and sass and even though Melinda's non-expression was closer to displeasure than to admiration she showed Antoine, even she realized her options were getting slimmer. Besides, Antoine's friendliness was contagious like a plague.

"Look at her." He smiled at Melinda. "The babe is pretty. She plays well, she knows what she wants, and she looks nice. Love the flower dress, too." He took the girl's hand and led her to the recliner. Her name was Raina and that Antoine found suitable too. Rain fell from the sky, it all fit. "Not to mention that we really need another string instrument. That would make the group complete."

"We still need a piano," Melinda reminded.

"True, the piano, of course. But that doesn't change the fact that she plays very well."

Melinda sighed and nodded. "I will regret agreeing to have you in my team, Antoine," she warned but there was no real anger in her voice. She sounded amused and quite fond of him and Antoine's cheeky grin was a clear indication that he was well aware of that. "Okay then. Raina." Melinda turned to the girl in a flower dress. "I have this friend, he's a famous writer." She was about to tell her the same story she had told Grant and Antoine, except this time the name slipped in earlier, somehow.

"Phil?" Raina kept looking at Melinda with innocent doey eyes, her voice as sweet and polite as earlier. "Phil Coulson? The one who wrote 'Heart of Iron'?" Melinda nodded, pleasantly surprised that her friend was finally recognized. She turned to glance meaningfully at Grant then at Antoine – neither of them had any reaction to the name which was supposed to be famous. Raina obviously read award-winning novels. "I thought he was burnt out," Raina added and Melinda's face turned to stone.

She glared at the girl. "He did not," she seethed each word separately.

"He hasn't published anything in five years." Raina shrugged.

Melinda attempted to turn Raina into ice with her stare for a few heart beats and Grant thought the blunt violist should really start to get scared. Raina's eyes remained as doey as before though and the small smile dancing on her lips didn't indicate any discomfort.

"You need to leave," Melinda said finally.

Antoine took in a breath, apparently about to defend the girl but Grant grabbed his arm. Shook his head "no", when Antoine cast him a glance and the usually animated young man sat back with wry face.

Raina left and Melinda hid upstairs. With nothing better to do, Grant took his violin and tried a few notes. He glanced at Antoine.

"Oh, right, we did some changes to the allegro yesterday." Antoine jumped up and grabbed the sheets, stashed atop the piano. Obviously he forgot about the audition fiasco immediately. He shuffled the pages until he found the right ones. "See?"

Grant's heart fell. He couldn't shake off the disappointment as fast as Antoine, besides he had been upset even before. And now this. In the morning, in between the auditions, they'd practiced Shubert's Fantasy for violin and piano and Melinda hadn't mentioned anything about working on ther piece with Antoine during the last two days, while Grant had played a concert with the Orchestra. But they had worked on it. And it kind of stung.

It shouldn't have. He shouldn't feel jealous, Grant thought. It was not his composition, it was not his reception, it was not about his friend. Melinda hired him and it was just a job, just another job, like the one at the Community Center. There was no reason for him to get involved, invested emotionally. He forced a smile and played what was written. Antoine played too, made a comment, Grant nodded. They practiced like this for a while. The pressure in Grant's throat lessened but the emptiness in his stomach remained.

Melinda let them enjoy the melody for almost an hour. Then she reminded that the next candidate was coming, gathered all the sheets and stashed them neatly atop the piano again. She didn't play before this person came and maybe that was a mistake. While skilled when playing classics, this girl completely missed the emotional message of 'Sky', when Melinda asked her to play a fragment from sheets.

"She didn't even have the time to learn it," Antoine argued when the door closed behind her.

"Neither did you," Melinda cut him off. "And neither did Grant."

"Yeah, but we heard you play it. And it was always about interpretation, inspiration, not actual note-reading. You didn't even give her a chance."

"Alright, I'll give a chance to the next person. We have one last player and if he doesn't cut it, I guess we will just call the whole thing off." She paused and glared at the door with distaste. "His name is Fitzsimmons," she said as if the name alone meant this bidder stood no chance.

Antoine approached her, took her hand in his and said with enough conviction for the three of them. "He is gonna cut it. And then we will find the pianist, even if we're gonna have to go to the Boston Conservatory."

t.b.c.

If you like the story, I would really appreciate a comment (or two). They help... you know. :)