Page 36 of The Temptation
As soon as we found our seats, I glanced at the program to see what was being played. A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth, and a new anxiety twisted in my stomach.
“What’s wrong?” my mother inquired in a whisper.
My head jerked up and discovered that she was watching me from my right.
“Oh. Nothing. Everything is fine.”
“Pfft. I saw that look. What’s wrong?” she pressed.
“Well, I was thinking Simon must not have had much say in what’s being performed this evening. Mozart is one of the selections.”
“He doesn’t like Mozart?”
My frown gave way to a half smile, and my thumb brushed across his name as tonight’s soloist and artist-in-residence. “No, he’s not a fan. He thinks Mozart is pompous and pretentious. His popularity is overblown because of his age. He’s a bigger fan of Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn.” They were also on the program for the evening.
Mother and Father chatted about this and that for a few minutes while I lost myself in the same excited anticipation I felt every time I saw Simon perform. After all these years, it had yet to become a mundane event for me. But then, I didn’t think it ever would. Watching someone of Simon’s caliber and natural talent was a gift. Each time I saw him, part of me wondered if it would be my last. It was only a matter of time before he fluttered off to play sold-out concerts around the globe. He belonged to the musical world, not just one person.
As the house lights dimmed, my heart leaped into my throat. The musicians filed out, and I searched for Simon’s familiar, handsome face, even though I knew he would be the last to step onto the stage.
As he appeared, the twisting tension in my chest eased, and I could draw in a deep breath. He looked so different onstage. His messy blond hair was slicked back and stiffly styled, as if every bit of wildness in him was reined in, creating a single outlet for his boundless energy—the music.
And when he started playing, all thoughts of whether he liked the piece were forgotten. No one could ever tell his preferences. Everything he played was done with such precision and eloquence. A wave of emotions and beauty transported the listener, carrying them away from the world.
But I’d watched Simon play more than anyone else. I knew his quirks by now. I could see the furrow in his brow as someone dared to step on his note a half beat too soon. It happenedtwice, and I was sure he was barely holding in the urge to beat them with his bow. The problem for Simon was that he demanded absolute perfection from himself. Anything less was a disgrace and an insult to the intentions of the composer. By the same token, if he deigned to play with a full orchestra, he demanded the same level of perfection. That was not something easily achieved with ninety other people. It was why he preferred playing in competitions or as a soloist with an accompanying piano, or even in a cavalcade of artists who each played solos. In short, Simon didn’t play well with others, though he tried hard to.
My mom’s hand landed on my arm when Simon was halfway through Violin Concerto in E Minor by Mendelssohn. She squeezed, and I looked over at her to see her smiling so broadly. Her eyes were closed, and her right hand rested on her heart.
“Amazing, isn’t he?” I whispered in her ear.
“Sublime.” She opened her eyes and gazed at Simon. “But so alone.”
I opened my mouth to state that he was supposed to stand apart from the rest of the orchestra because he was their special guest and soloist, but the words stopped in my throat. That wasn’t what she meant. Staring at him, I could see what she meant. It was a thought that had crossed my mind more than once as I watched Simon play. He was so alone, so isolated.
Too often it was believed someone like Simon needed to be apart from the crowd. His talent made him too special, too precious to be with the rest of the rabble. But it also meant that he wasalone, his existence emptier and colder than the rest of ours.
It wasn’t something I’d experienced myself. I’d grown up with a younger brother I was close to. Not to mention, more friends that I knew what to do with. It was rare for me to ever feel alone, and even less likely for me to feel lonely.
But Simon…
He’d still been young when he lost Sawyer, and even then, while Sawyer might have doted on his brother, there had been an inevitable distance between them. Simon and Sawyer had been nothing alike. They hadn’t enjoyed the same hobbies or interests. I also couldn’t remember Simon ever talking about the friends he’d had as a kid.
And yet, if he was lonely and in pain, no one could see it. He presented an untouchable, unapproachable facade to the world. Nothing bothered him. Everything was beneath him. Even my endless rejections. Supposedly.
My mom squeezed my arm again. “You need to make sure that you take good care of him.”
Yes, someone needed to take very good care of him.
The evening’s performance of the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra seemed to be finished in a flash. All too soon we were waiting for a page to fetch us and lead us to the stage where Simon was waiting with the conductor. The other performers had already filed out and were likely halfway to their cars, ready to be home and relaxing in comfortable clothes.
My heart clenched to see the clear exhaustion and pain digging lines in Simon’s face in an unguarded moment as he spoke with the conductor. However, the second he saw us coming down the aisle, it all disappeared. He hurried to assist my mother up the wide wooden stairs leading to the stage.
“Oh, how amazing! And those lights! So bright! I can’t imagine how you do this all the time,” she exclaimed as she walked across the stage with him.
“Funnily enough, it is something you grow accustomed to.” Simon flashed her a broad grin. “Did you enjoy the performance?”
“Loved it. Simply loved it. Your playing stole my heart away.”
“Wonderful job, Simon,” my father praised.
