A Minor: A Novel of Love, Music & Memory - Softcover

Margaret Ann Philbrick

Softcover

ISBN 10: 193846799X ISBN 13: 9781938467998

Publisher: Koehler Books, 2014

Synopsis

Clive Serkin, a teenage piano prodigy, seeks victory at the Tchaikovsky Piano Competition in Moscow, and enlists the help of world-renowned pianist Clare Cardiff. She becomes his mentor and teacher, and even though she is more than twice his age, Clive finds himself falling in love with her. After Clare is diagnosed with early-onset dementia, Clare’s estranged husband Nero takes her away from Clive to pursue further medical testing. Clive is faced with the challenge of traveling to Moscow and performing at the competition without his beloved mentor. Ultimately, he must discover if the music they share is enough to keep them together.

About this title

About the Author

Margaret Philbrick is an author, gardener and teacher who desires to plant seeds in hearts. Margaret has a B.A. in English Literature from Trinity University in San Antonio Tx.and a Masters in Teaching from National Louis University. She teaches writing and literature to children and teens at The Greenhouse School and H.S.U., both of which provide supplemental classical education to the home-school community. She is actively involved in the fulfillment of God’s vision at Church of the Resurrection and the Redbud Writers Guild where she serves on the board of both organizations. Her first book, Back to the Manger, is a holiday gift book she created with her mother, an oil painter. You can find Margaret in her garden digging in the dirt or writing poetry and you can connect with her on-line via her website at: www.margaretphilbrick.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER 1

Overture—A piece functioning as an introduction to a dramatic work

UNEDITED DRAFT
 Applause can be deceiving.

“Over 500 concerts, 357 encores, 52 premieres, and I’m still trying to figure them out. You’d think I’d be over it by now,” Clare said as Nero opened the door to the back of his “city” car. Heading home to New Hampshire after another raging success in Boston’s Symphony Hall, Nero couldn’t believe he was about to endure another post-concert critique session. How many premieres? How many drives have I listened to this? Clare ranting on, reliving every encore, picking apart every note, heartfully considering the audience’s response and caring nothing about mine. When was the last time she asked me what I thought of the performance? He couldn’t remember.

“The Chopin was good. Seiji Ozawa is a marvel. Did you hear the resonance in the basses in the second movement? And what he did with the percussion? It was so subtle, yet strikingly clear. To me, the cadenza was weak. Did you notice it? My articulation was off.” On and on it went, Clare writing her own review as Nero drove in silence.

“Clare, let’s pull off in Gloucester for a bite,” Nero suggested. “I think we need to talk about something more than the music.”

Nero could see as he glanced at Clare in the rearview mirror that she was still back in Symphony Hall, moving through the measures in her mind, oblivious to his hunger. They held to their tradition of stopping in Gloucester to eat at Jacob’s Wharf, the midpoint of their trip back home to the farm. This spot had provided solace from the crowd. They wound their way through the docks, taking in the late-night descent of peace, the lapping water against the skiffs at rest. As they walked toward the single yellow porch light, Nero saw Clare was beginning to “come to.” So often after a concert, she lived in her own musical space for hours, sometimes even days, before coming back to him. Maybe a beer and a bowl of seafood chowder would fortify them for the remaining four-hour drive, he hoped. Clare reached out for Nero’s warm hand as they ascended the crumbling flagstone steps. Nero withdrew, forcing his clamped fists down into his pockets.

Inside the restaurant, Nero slumped down against the torn, red plastic booth and reached for the coffee-stained menu. He knew what he wanted, New England clam chowder and a divorce. Putting it that way keeps things simple; no need to get bogged down by too many words. Maybe I could tell the waitress in my order and Clare would get the hint. Nero looked over his left shoulder and raised a hand to flag the server’s attention. She’s a fresh-faced new addition here.

His mind flashed back to Satchel’s Coffee Shoppe, where they first met in their New England Conservatory days. Even with the taffeta ball gown and jewelry, she doesn’t look much older than the afternoon of our first shared cup of coffee almost thirty years ago. He watched her study the menu with her typical piercing intentionality. She ran her left hand through her frosted hair, causing her golden bracelets to shinny up her elbow. It was going to be hard to let her go, he knew. After drawing in a breath so deep he felt like he was preparing to jump into a frigid Adirondack lake, he released the words.

“Clare, I can’t do this anymore. I need a break, an intermission from all of it. I’ve given up everything for your career, and what am I? I’m nothing more than your driver, your accomplice without a life. My own art doesn’t exist. We bought the farm so we would both have a home to create in and be artists together. Remember?” Clare looked shaken, startled, and Nero watched her visibly shiver, like a cold draft had overtaken and disarmed her. She methodically put the menu down on the laminated pine table.

“Well, the farm is nothing more than a place for me to grow tomatoes and park the car. I haven’t created anything. We haven’t created anything. We thought we’d make art or children together. Instead, we have a scrapbook full of you, not us.”

Clare sat stunned, attempting to steady herself in the face of his accusations. Nero could see that she was not going to formulate a hasty defense. She grabbed hold of a salt shaker and tapped it on the tabletop while staring out the darkened pane of glass. The streetlight cast a distorted shadow on her profile that appropriately captured the duplicity of their relationship. She looked like one of Picasso’s Weeping Women, her face broken into deranged segments. He tried to burn the image into his memory by closing his eyes, hoping to render it later in sculpted form.

“Clare, are you all right? Do you have anything you want to say?” Nero asked.

“I’m trying to remember when we went wrong,” Clare responded, refusing to turn and look into Nero’s eyes.

About this edition

• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Publication date: 2014
• ISBN 10: 193846799X
• ISBN 13: 9781938467998
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 245