I turned fully toward him, crossing my arms. Andy stepped back slightly in synch with Dick. There were some benefits to my reputation.
“Five minutes,” I growled.
“Let’s go back to our office.” Dick glanced around as the musicians walked by chatting happily.
Damn, this was not going to be fun. For them. I tossed my leather coat over my shoulder. “Lead the way.”
Andy-Dick shared an office made of glass that sat over the lobby—I supposed so they could watch as the money came in droves every performance.
“Listen, Devlin—”
“Maestro,” I corrected. I didn’t follow their lead as they sat in office chairs.
Part of the baggage that came with being one of the youngest conductors at age thirty-six in the history of the SOOK was that some people often forgot how to address me. And with that omission came a lack of respect in general. I was done playing that game.
“Right.” Andy cleared his throat and began again. “Listen. We’ve been patient with the antics.” He gestured to my face. I blinked slowly back at him. “But the chair auditions? Really. The board will not be okay with that. They wanted to make the announcement to avoid just this sort of upset.”
“We know you’re talented,” Dick quickly cut in. “We’re honored that you chose our humble symphony to debut your newest composition. Truly.”
I tilted my head a fraction to acknowledge him. Good cop/bad cop was part of their whole routine.
“But you’re risking upset to our most senior musicians. We need them happy.”
“Their happiness is not my concern. Having talented musicians who can play my music is. The SOOK is underperforming. This needs to be addressed.” I stated slowly for them to understand and to make sure I didn’t mess up my words.
Andy wrung his hands. Dick’s face went from pink to tomato red as he spoke. “Maestro. You’re talented, but if you upset the Board they will not renew your contract. It’s one thing to change up the musical numbers but now, to ruffle the talent’s feathers?” He shook his head.
“Maybe the talent needs to be ruffled,” I said. I looked pointedly at Dick, whose daughter Carla was on my short list to be shifted around. Her talent was marginal and her attitude was appalling. I balled my fists.
Dick straightened. “Listen. You’re on thin ice already. You don’t want your temper to ruin another opportunity.”
“Richard, please—” Andy started.
“Well, he must be aware of it.”
I held up my hand. “I’m aware of my reputation. I’m also aware that the SOOK hasn’t sold out a performance in three years.”
“I fail to see—”
“Tickets sales went up ten percent when I signed on. And they continue to climb. Just from the attention I’ve brought. Don’t pretend you don’t need me. This symphony is dying. You brought me in to change things up and to play my music. Don’t insult me by refusing to let me do my job.”
“We appreciate what you do,” Andy cut in, a thin sheen of sweat now covering his forehead.
“Then let me do it.” I stepped closer, looking down at the two men.
Dick frowned but remained silent.
“We’re done here.” I shrugged into my jacket.
I was almost to the door when Dick spoke. “The Board will only take so much. Control your temper and fill those seats. If you can’t manage that, you’re out.”
I didn’t turn around but looked over my shoulder. “Let me do my job.”
Dick made one final parting shot. “We may want you, but don’t get confused, we don’t need you.”
I nodded once before heading out to my motorcycle. They weren’t wrong. My past was catching up with me. But in that moment, I couldn’t have said anything else. I physically couldn’t find the words. Better to let my mask speak for me. I got on my motorcycle and kicked it to life.
I was only back in Knoxville to prove myself. I’d leave this place as soon as a better offer came. For now, I had to stick through to the end. The SOOK would improve and I would conduct them. I would make that happen.
Kim Dae would help make that happen.
Chapter 4
End phrases with intention.
KIM
Sometimes throughout the season the SOOK had performances for the investors, board of directors, or other VIPs from the community. They were typically smaller affairs, made of about one hundred super wealthy people eating an overpriced dinner while we performed like wind-up monkeys clapping symbols. It wasn’t all bad—sometimes the caterers let us eat the leftovers. Tonight was one of those nights. The SOOK was performing a short showcase featuring a few key soloists, including Carla. We were meeting for a short final rehearsal two hours before the show, dressed in our typical black-tie performance outfits. My black slacks were starched stiff and my silk top trapped in the heat.
Actually, now that I looked around the room, I realized that Carla was late. Bad night to throw a tantrum. She had a habit of making a grand (read: late) entrance if somebody offended her, which happened roughly once a month. This didn’t seem like the best way to prove a point to the Devil of the Symphony. Especially not at the last rehearsal before a high-stakes show. Tonight was a dinner performance where we all but begged for money from the Tennessee elite. Old money, new money—it didn’t matter so long as it was big money.
Devlin stomped up to the podium. He always seemed to stomp places, like he wanted to give everybody plenty of time to stop talking about him. As always, he wore all black, matching the rest of us. Instead of a skull scarf, he wore a solid black one made out of shinier material. His closet likely consisted of nothing but perfectly folded face scarves, all different colors, sizes, and patterns. His baseball hat had been upgraded to a velvet trilby hat. Once again, instead of looking hokey and gauche, the overall effect was jaw-droppingly alluring.
Immediately all shuffling and talking stopped. Devlin was allowed to roll in the minute rehearsal started but we all learned early on that we needed to be ready, in our seats, instruments tuned and in position, because the moment he stepped on that podium he would lift his baton and tell us exactly where we were starting with absolutely no preamble or “hello, how is everyone?” A little small talk never hurt nobody, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
His eyes flicked to Carla’s seat. He didn’t react in any sort of way. What did that mean? He pulled his baton from his coat jacket like it was Harry Potter’s wand, but instead of lifting it into the air, he held it low with both hands.
He cleared his throat and spoke. “There’s been a change to the program tonight. Carla Firmin is out for the next few days and cannot perform her solo this evening.”
My gaze shot to Erin who mouthed “whoa” and my eyes widened in agreement. Carla was many things, but she never missed an opportunity to show off.
He looked to Barry. “Are you prepared to step in?”
“I haven’t—I don’t know the solo,” a very pale Barry stuttered out.
Devlin’s eyes narrowed. “That’s disappointing.” He looked to the rest of the cellos.