Steve Gannon - Kane

Catheryn could feel it. They were with her now, all of them, and she with them, from musicians in the front row to players at the last stands in the back. It had happened partway through the opening movement, after the difficult glissando leading to a reprise of the second theme. Normally a moment of tremendous exaltation, this time it had become even more. Until then they’d all struggled a bit-the other musicians not used to the new soloist, she unaccustomed to performing with the full ensemble. And then at that instant something had changed… something magical.

They had become one.

Near silence had prevailed at the thunderous end of the first movement. Then, during the adagio, a spiritual, songlike interlude replete with dreamy introspection as tender as a first love, Catheryn found colors and feelings she hadn’t known existed. And the orchestra had followed. Once again the audience had remained as still as death during the abbreviated second break.

Now, as they approached the conclusion of the final movement, it was with surprise and regret that Catheryn realized they were nearly finished. She felt strong, balanced, powerful. She never wanted it to end. Still, one of the sweetest sections was yet to come. Seconds later Catheryn and the first violin embarked on a brief duet, reprising a theme taken from a previous work of Dvorak’s that his sister-in-law had loved, and that he’d quoted in the extended coda as a memorial following her death. Catheryn glanced at the concertmaster as they proceeded with the sentimental inclusion. The violinist looked back, pleasure shining in his eyes.

Slowly, after a journey of incredible serenity, the song-theme died to a sigh, a whisper, then nothing. Next came a stormy crescendo, with the entire orchestra joining in for the final triumphant bars. And then it was over.

The audience sat in stunned silence.

One second.

Two.

And then they rose to their feet as one, their applause deafening, ringing in her ears.

As if in a dream, Catheryn stood to accept the accolades. Smiling, the conductor came over to embrace her. “That was wonderful,” he whispered with a look of admiration and respect. Then, taking her hand, he turned with her to the audience.

High in the room, Victor Carns stared down at the stage. As he had occasionally throughout the performance, he raised a small pair of binoculars to view the orchestra. Like those around him, his attention was riveted on the soloist. But as others applauded, he did not. Nor did he stand. And after the intermission, when Catheryn Kane didn’t reappear for the second portion of the program, he left.

He thought about her all the way home.

Christmas morning. A cold and blustery north wind had picked up overnight, whipping the Santa Monica Bay into a cauldron of angry white. To the west, ominous clouds hung on the horizon, heralding another approaching storm.

As I started up the coast, the back of my Suburban laden with groceries and presents, I scanned local radio stations, futilely attempting to find one that wasn’t playing Christmas music. Finally I gave up and rode in silence. Approaching Malibu, I noticed that the skies over the palisades were thick with gulls, wheeling and soaring in currents of air thrown up by the cliffs. Glumly, I sensed myself, like the birds, caught in the grip of forces I could neither predict nor control. Over the past months it seemed my life had been twisted and buffeted and sent spiraling in directions I’d never expected, and there appeared to be nothing I could do about it.

Again and again my thoughts returned to Catheryn. My infidelity with Lauren had been a mistake-a terrible, hurtful, inexcusable mistake. But it was finished. What about Catheryn and Arthur? How long had that been going on? Unable to accept that my marriage might be over, I pushed away the image of Catheryn sleeping with another man.

I realized I was at a crossroads. Unexpectedly, I asked myself a question that I hadn’t considered for a quite some time: With all the possible future courses my life could take, what was really important to me? My job? My marriage? My family? My freedom? What did I truly want?

The answer that came back was immediate and unconditional. I wanted Catheryn. And I wanted my family to be whole again, healthy and intact. And despite everything that had occurred, I was resolved to make that happen. No matter what.

When I arrived at the beach house, Catheryn barely acknowledged my presence. During a curt exchange, she quickly made it clear that I was there solely for the children’s sake, and that any discussion between the two of us would take place after Christmas. Afterward she avoided me altogether. But if not a truce, at least a ceasefire prevailed, and although puzzled that she hadn’t mentioned Nate and Ali’s revelation regarding the break-in, I resigned myself to postponing a discussion of my relationship with Catheryn, as well as deciding what to do about Allison and Nate, at least until tomorrow. Since that day in the cemetery I had detected a change for the better in both of my younger children, and in Travis as well-an improvement I attributed to their having finally revealed their secret. I also knew it was merely a first step, and I wasn’t certain what the next one should be. Nevertheless, I felt confident that Catheryn would, and that she had probably already begun.

As if trapped between warring camps, after my arrival the children gradually staged strategic retreats to various locations in the house-Travis joining his mother in the music room, Allison retiring to her bedroom to work on an essay for school, Nate shadowing me in the kitchen.

Ninety minutes later, to the sound of Catheryn and Travis’s playing drifting up from the music room, I glanced around my kitchen workspace. Having finished my initial preparations, I began mentally ticking off elements of the holiday meal. As usual I was preparing the entire Christmas feast, and despite enthusiastic but dubious aid being offered by Nate, everything was progressing on schedule. The turkey was trussed, mounted, and turning on the Farberware rotisserie. Although the large bird had been cooking only an hour, the skin was already turning a crisp, golden brown. A pot of potatoes sat on the stove-pared, quartered, and ready for boiling. A saucepan containing gravy giblets simmered on a back burner. The yams were baking in the oven. The pies could wait. Time to get the dressing going.

Glancing at my youngest, I discovered that he had already begun, with predictable results. “You done helping yet, squirt?” I asked patiently.

“Sorry, Dad,” said Nate, gathering a scattering of seasoned bread crumbs he’d spilled while ripping open the bag. Brushing his palm across the counter, he swept them into a large metal bowl. “Good as new.”

“Right, if you like dog hair in your stuffing.”

“It’s not stuffing, Dad,” Allison pointed out, joining us in the kitchen. “Stuffing goes inside the bird and gets all mushy. You’re making dressing. ”

“Correct. Nice and gooey too, right?”

“No!” both children cried.

Callie, who had been sleeping in the corner, sat up in her basket. She had recently come into season, and her normal run of the house had been restricted to kitchen privileges only. Already confused by her puzzling confinement, she reacted to Allison’s and Nate’s outburst with cocked ears and a quizzical turn of her head.

“Wet, dry, I don’t see what difference it makes,” I teased. “You two always slop so much gravy on your plates, I may as well make everything soggy to begin with.”

“Gravy-soggy’s not the same as soggy-soggy,” Allison pronounced with a conviction that would bode no argument. Leaning over, she examined the lineup of ingredients I’d arranged on the counter. “What’s going in this year?”