One Man’s Music - by Christina Britton Conroy Musically talented and neglected, ten-year-old Jenna Adams is obsessed with the lush music and handsome photograph of composer Eric Ries. As a young woman and professional singer, she falls in love with the real Eric. His charismatic brilliance and heartless egotism threaten to ruin her life.

EXCERPTS

New York City: December 1961 PRIM0: Leggiero Ritenuto

The composer’s name was Eric Ries.             I was ten, it was a few days before Christmas, and my piano teacher gave me a suite of seven short pieces called, A Rainbow For My Daughter.             The cover page made me giggle. It was a funny drawing of a skinny little girl with long, straight hair, just like mine. She played on a cartoon piano, under the bright slashes of a wobbly rainbow. I loved playing the piano, I loved rainbows, and soon I would love Eric Ries.             The composer’s name was below the title and an inscription was below that: “To Susannah, on her eighth birthday.” I glowered and gave the music back to my teacher. She knew I was ten. I wasn’t going to learn pieces written for an eight-year-old. I already swallowed my pride, learning pieces Mozart composed when he was eight.

Halifax, Nova Scotia: March 1978 Grave Pesante Mesto Sforzando

For the next hour, Eric edited his precious music. He concentrated, swallowed his pride, and exchanged mathematical brilliance for playable notes. After marking the last change, he piled the scores beside the music stand, and sat back, staring at the piano keys. He looked calm and resolved.             I nearly cried with relief. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.” I threw my arms around his neck. He responded with a weak smile and I felt like a fool. I turned away and saw the unopened bottle. “Shall I open the wine?”             Not yet.” He stretched his weary fingers, leaned into the keys, and played a slow, sensual Chopin Nocturne. His playing was technically perfect, and terribly sad. I stood mesmerized, afraid of breathing too loud. He ended the piece with heartbreaking simplicity, sat perfectly still, then stood, walked to the fireplace, and removed the screen. Carefully stirring the dying embers, he positioned a large log on top of them, and watched as bright-yellow flames licked the wood. Delicious heat radiated as he moved silently around the room, turning off the lights.             He took his time, piling sheepskin rugs and pillows on the floor in front of the sofa. I smiled, thinking it looked like a nest. Suddenly, I prayed the nest was for me. As if reading my mind, he took my hand, led me to the fire, stroked my hair, pulled me close, and kissed me.

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