Two days to go. Al could tell they were ready. The timing, the phrasing, the harmonies, they were all perfect. Even the Borodin, so technically demanding, they had mastered. The music flowed from their instruments without any conscious effort. Their communication seemed instinctive. They could play for hours, without a word, without a mistake.
Al had never felt so inspired as when he played with Deidre. Somehow, even as they bowed and fingered their instruments, he felt that she was making love to him. With her beside me, he mused, I really could be great. For once the dream did not seem completely ridiculous to him.
He noticed gratefully that she was being especially kind to Harvey. His brother seemed more comfortable, too, less flustered and more serene. Probably he had grown out of his crush on Deidre, and could now relate to her as a colleague instead of an object of desire. The fact that their rehearsals were going so well had probably helped, too. Harv could be a worrier sometimes.
When the chips were down, though, you could always depend on him. After all, it was Harvey who had found Deidre. Al would have to remember to thank him someday, when the time came for Al and Deidre to share their secret with him.
Harvey couldn’t believe how good he felt. With Deidre’s morning visits, he should have been exhausted, but in fact he’d never had more energy. Not bad for an old geezer of fifty-two, he thought, as he tried on his tuxedo in preparation for the concert. The formal costume fitted him well. He looked taller, thinner, more distinguished than he remembered.
What will Deidre wear? he wondered. He could imagine her showing up in black leather or see-through lace. But she was a professional, as surely as he and Al were. He trusted her to understand what was appropriate for a gathering of politicos and international dignitaries.
Over the last few days, rehearsals had gone so well, he had suggested they all take a day off before the gig. They were going to lunch in SoHo and then to visit the Cloisters, one of Harvey’s favourite places. He couldn’t wait to see Deidre’s flaming hair and graceful form against the backdrop of medieval stone and stained glass.
They’d have to work hard to make sure that Al didn’t feel left out. Harvey understood that his brother thought of himself as something of a lady’s man. It would be a real blow to Al’s ego to discover that Deidre had chosen Harvey as her lover.
He’d have to figure out some way to break the news gently. After the concert, of course, nothing could interfere with the return of the Goldberg Trio to the musical scene. The New Goldberg Trio, he corrected himself mentally, imagining Deidre naked with her cello between her legs.
Wouldn’t Richard have been surprised?
The concert was a triumph.
In some sense, the trio was just sophisticated background music for the Mayor’s party. When Al led them into the first movement of the Beethoven C Minor, though, the murmur of voices and tinkling of glass died away. The guests, cultured, urbane, even jaded, stood enchanted by the trio’s magic.
Deidre, resplendent in a classic black velvet gown, laid bare the passion hidden under Beethoven’s intellectual facade. Al’s playing was so pure and perfect it literally brought tears to Harvey’s eyes. Meanwhile, his viola seemed unreal, unnecessary. Surely the music flowed from his heart, through his fingers, and out to the world, without the mediation of any physical mechanism.
At one point he caught Deidre’s eye, and felt the connection, as tangible as a physical caress. The intimacy of that look sent shivers up his spine. Al glanced at him, and then at Deidre, a beatific expression making his narrow features glow. The music swelled around them, moving them, changing them.
Harvey forgot about the audience. He was aware only of the music and of his fellow players. He could sense their heartbeats driving the melody, feel their breathing in his own lungs. The strands of music wound around them, binding them together, closer, and closer still.
During the interlude, Harvey wandered among the glitterati, sipping champagne. Deidre was surrounded by eager admirers. He couldn’t get near her. Their eyes met across the room, though, kindling a familiar fire in his belly.
The music critic from the Times, the one who had covered Richard’s funeral, strolled by. Harvey nodded to him amiably. No one could deny that tonight belonged to the New Goldberg Trio.
It was after two when the limousine deposited them back at the house. Still in their coats, the three of them collapsed into the overstuffed living room chairs.
After a moment, Deidre pulled a bottle out from under her cloak. “A toast!” she exclaimed. “ To the Goldbergs!”
“Deidre!” Harvey sounded shocked. “You didn’t filch that champagne from the Mayor, did you?”
“Consider it to be part of our compensation,” she said with mock dignity. “They can hardly claim to have paid us what we are worth.”
She shrugged off her cape and began to wrestle with the cork. Al brought glasses from the corner cupboard.
Although she had consumed at least two glasses of champagne at the reception, she didn’t feel even slightly tipsy. With the first sip from this bottle, though, the alcohol hit her full force. She giggled like a girl of seventeen.
“To us,” she intoned, raising her glass.
The two brothers were both staring at her. “To us,” Harvey repeated softly.
“To us,” echoed Al. “And to many more successes together.”
“Together, yes, definitely.” Deidre drank deeply before setting her glass down. “I want to thank you both for giving me the chance to experience what I felt tonight. Thank you for welcoming me into your midst. Thanks for putting up with my quirks.”
“Hey,” said Al, deliberately offhand. “You put up with us.”
Harvey was looking uncomfortable.
“No, seriously. I will always cherish tonight’s memory, our first performance together.” She reached across the table and took Harvey’s hand in her own. Al’s face darkened until she held out her other hand and he accepted it.
“I told you when I met you that I was looking for a special kind of community. A union that was more than the sum of its parts.”
She looked from one man to the other: lanky, angular Albert, sharp as the high C on his own violin, hiding his vulnerability under a veneer of cynicism; pudgy, self-effacing Harvey, the sensible worrywart with the soul of a passionate romantic.
“That is what we are, the three of us. A communion of music. A family.”
Her voice broke. For a moment she was on the verge of tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you both.” She bowed her head for a moment. Al and Harvey looked at each other, equally unprepared to handle a weeping woman.
When she looked up again, though, her face was bright. “Well, it has been quite a night. I think it’s time for bed. Don’t you agree, Albert?”
Before he could answer, she sealed his mouth with her own. His palms cupped her breasts; hers snaked down to cradle the growing bulk in his crotch.
She heard Harvey stand up, shuffling his feet. Afraid that he would flee, she broke away from Albert and hastened to erase the horror and pain on Harvey’s face with an equally passionate embrace.
“What the hell? Deidre, what’s going on?” Al sputtered in disbelief.
“I’m inviting you into my bed,” she responded, when she and Harvey finally came up for air. “Both of you.”
“Both of us?” Harvey looked shocked and incredulous. “You can’t. . we can’t. .”
“Why not?” She put her hands on her hips in mock exasperation. “Don’t you think I can handle you?”
“Yes, but. . he’s my brother,” said Al carefully, trying to work out the implications.
“Would you rather that Harvey and I just go off by ourselves, then?”
“No, of course not. .”