Allegro court, p.1
Allegro Court, page 1
Allegro Court
Bendixon Sisters Series: Book One
Brenda Margriet
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
ALLEGRO COURT
This edition published March 2019
Copyright © 2019 Brenda Margriet Clotildes
Cover Art by Steven Cote
Editing services provided by Story Perfect Editing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
ISBN 978-1-7751542-2-8 (epub)
ISBN 978-1-7751542-3-5 (mobi)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Allegro Court (Bendixon Sisters, #1)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Thank You!
Other books in the Bendixon Sisters Series
About the Author
For Mike –
Because you said I had to.
Love always.
CHAPTER ONE
“I’m eighty-seven. In case you’re wondering.”
Mattie smiled at Mr. McDonald, and discreetly steered them off a collision course with another couple shuffling across the dance floor. “I never would have guessed.”
Mr. McDonald’s own smile was smug. “Everyone says I don’t look a day over seventy.”
“Well, they’re wrong. You don’t look a day over sixty-five.” She winked and ignored the fact he’d stepped on her toes yet again. He weighed almost nothing, his thin body little more than brittle bones and stringy muscles encased in an ancient plaid polyester suit.
“There’s life in me yet.” Rheumy blue eyes glittered with satisfaction behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “I’m thinking of getting married again. Or maybe just living in sin. Wonder what my kids would think of their dad shacking up with a younger woman.”
Mattie couldn’t help but laugh as he waggled his eyebrows devilishly. “Who’s the lucky lady?” The Seniors’ Centre band—comprised of members just as elderly as most of the people dancing—stuttered to the end of the waltz and immediately struck up a two-step. Mr. McDonald didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, I haven’t picked anyone specific yet. Still sowing my oats.” He grinned at her, dentures huge and white in his wrinkled, elfin face. “Want to toss your name in the pot?”
She tilted her head, put on a thoughtful expression. “I don’t know. I’m afraid you’re too young for me. After all, you’re only six decades older than I am. I don’t think you’re mature enough to handle me.”
Mr. McDonald cackled, cheeks crinkling like worn linen. “You’re a quick one, that you are. But some day, some boy is going to catch you.”
They sauntered around the dance floor, Mattie unobtrusively leading the elderly man until they were beside her grandfather, Jason Bendixon, who was swaying to the four-four time with Lorraine Temple in his arms.
Ten years younger than the amorous Mr. McDonald, Jason moved fluidly, standing straight and tall as he held the tiny, birdlike Lorraine. His hair, though thinning, was a beautiful silver, and age lent distinction to his strong nose and chin. Straight shoulders filled out a stylish dark grey sport coat and his Italian leather loafers gleamed. Mrs. Temple was a fitting companion in her full-skirted yellow dress with its tidy row of buttons and pressed collar. In all the years Mattie had known her, she'd never once seen Mrs. Temple less than perfectly turned out.
Lorraine, Mattie silently reminded herself. She'd only recently been invited to call Mrs. Temple by her first name, although Mattie had been in and out of the Temple home throughout childhood.
The memory of those far off days had her suppressing the old, familiar pang at the thought of Lorraine's son, Marcus. Annoyed he still held sway over her emotions after all these years, she shoved him to the back of her mind and deliberately bumped her elbow against her grandfather. “Watch where you’re going, old man.”
“Oh, Mattie,” Lorraine fluttered. “You really shouldn’t talk that way to Jason.” Her pale hazel eyes held a faintly worried expression. The overhead lights, dimmed for the occasion but still bright enough for safety, glistened on her professionally coloured and styled blonde hair.
“You know she’s only teasing, Lorraine.” Jason looked at the woman he held in a decorous clasp with a soft expression. Mattie’s heart squeezed. Grandmother had passed away five years ago—was it possible he was interested in Lorraine as more than a friend?
“Me, I like a mouthy woman,” Mr. McDonald chirped. “Keeps you on your toes.”
Mattie caught her grandfather’s gaze, rolled her eyes, and jerked her chin minutely in Mr. McDonald’s direction.
“Lorraine, my dear, would you mind if I finished this dance with my granddaughter?” Jason smoothly transferred Lorraine into Mr. McDonald’s care, and swept Mattie out of earshot.
“Thanks for taking the hint,” she said.
“Frank can be a bit much.”
“I like him. He must have been quite the charmer in his day. But when he suggested I might be a contender for the next Mrs. McDonald I figured I needed to use our escape plan.” She peeked up at him. “Sorry to ruin your dance with Lorraine.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. There will be plenty more chances,” he replied as he guided her to the end of the room and twirled her so deftly she wished she'd worn a skirt instead of plain black slacks and lilac blouse. As they began their rhythmic promenade back, he tapped her on the chin with their joined hands. “You’re a good girl, to spend time with us old fogies.”
She snorted. “You know I like to come. Hardly anyone my age knows these old-time dance steps.” Besides, what else would she be doing? It wasn’t like men her own generation were knocking down her door asking her out. You'd think a job at a construction company would put her in the way of many a single guy. But the men she worked with were either married or resented her place in the business. Being the granddaughter of the owner was not always a bonus.
As if picking up on her thoughts about work, Jason asked, “How’s the Danver house coming along?”
“We should be wrapping up this week. Right on time.”
“That’s good.” But he didn't sound pleased. In fact, his voice held a hint of worry, a tone she'd heard more and more lately.
“You still haven’t told me what our next project will be,” she said diffidently as Jason led her through the crowd.
“It’s not confirmed yet, but it will be soon.” He looked over her head, not meeting her eyes. “When it is, I’ll let you know.”
Jason had started his own construction company almost forty years ago. He’d named it Bendixon and Sons, in the serene confidence that his three boys, including Mattie’s father, would carry on the legacy. But they had all chosen different career paths, and Jason had built the company alone.
As a child, Mattie had tagged along with her grandfather, soaking in the scents of sawdust and paint, the sounds of power saws and nail guns. After high school, she’d completed a building and construction program at the local college and was now working in the family business. She didn’t imagine Jason would change the name to Bendixon and Granddaughter any time soon, but she loved her grandfather, loved the work, and loved the company.
Which was why she was worried. Business was slow, and only getting slower.
She was about to press him for more when the music ended and the white-haired quartet on stage announced a short break. Mattie and Jason wound their way back to their table where Mr. McDonald and Lorraine were already seated.
“Don’t think you’re getting away so easily next time.” Mr. McDonald waved a roguish finger at Mattie. “You still owe me a dance.”
“The next polka is yours,” Mattie said with a smile. “Would anyone like a drink? It’s my turn to buy. Another white wine, Lorraine?”
The woman’s reply was unintelligible. The muscles on the right side of her face hung slack, the corners of her mouth and eye drooping. Mattie dropped to her knees and grasped the woman’s hands. “Lorraine? Are you okay?”
“Lorraine?” Jason hovered above her, his voice tight with anxiety. “Mattie, what’s happening?”
“Squeeze my fingers, Lorraine.” Mattie prayed she was wrong, but a part of her mind was already scrambling to determine next s teps. Call an ambulance. Call Marcus.
The older woman's eyes, bright with terror, stared into Mattie’s. She tried to speak, but the words were garbled and meaningless. Her posture, usually so precise and proper, gave way, and she listed to one side. Before Mattie could catch her, she fell out of the chair, hitting the floor with a sickening smack.
Reporters often asked Marcus Sebastian Temple how it felt to play the world’s most famous cello pieces to audiences of thousands. Over the years, he’d learned to answer the question in a way that satisfied the journalists. But it had never satisfied himself, because there was simply no way to describe it.
As the last powerful notes of Zoltán Kodály’s Sonata in B Minor echoed up into the soaring rafters of the Vancouver Concert Hall, Marcus was aware of nothing but his connection with his instrument. The bow in his hand sang, the cello between his knees trembled like a lover. His soul was suffused with the glory of the music he felt rather than performed.
The sold-out seats before him could have been empty for all he cared. In that moment, it was all about the music.
Silence held for one...two...three beats. And then the audience erupted in a storm of applause, the reaction more suited for a hockey rink than a theatre full of stately tuxedos and elegant evening gowns.
Drained yet exhilarated, Marcus stood, ignoring the sweat beading down his spine and dampening the bridge of his nose under the frame of his glasses. He bowed, the wave of approval sweeping over him, and he presented his cello to the crowd, a brilliant star in her own right. It didn’t happen every night, but it had tonight. He hadn’t played the instrument. No, she had used him as a vessel to pour out her own emotion, her own soul. Tonight, he had been the instrument.
The subdued shuffling of chairs recalled his awareness to the orchestra behind him. He turned, gesturing with grateful pride to the standing musicians, and the applause grew again, the upswell of recognition and appreciation vibrating through the air. The conductor, Vincent Savere, bowed one last time and strode triumphantly into the wings, signalling the end of the evening. Marcus followed, carrying his cello. The rest of the musicians filed out and slowly the applause faded.
Backstage, Vincent grabbed Marcus by the shoulders and shook him, as if seeking relief from overwhelming emotions. “Magnificent,” he said, his blue eyes glowing with fervour. “I have never heard you play better.”
“Thank you.” Vincent did not hand out compliments lightly, and the sincerity in his voice only added to the feeling of unreality surrounding Marcus. He savoured it, relishing the reward for countless hours of practice, months of focus, years of sacrifice.
“Darling, you were amazing!” Sophia Chadha swooped out of the hallway shadows. Ignoring Vincent, she curled her arms around Marcus’ neck, needing to stand on tiptoe to do so, her gleaming black hair swinging almost to her waist as she lifted her head to kiss him.
He shifted just in time, so her kiss connected with his cheek, not his mouth. Her lipstick left a sticky residue. “Thank you, Sophia.” He held his cello out of harm’s way as he eased out of her hold.
“The media are waiting in the foyer,” Vincent said. “I should go.” He smoothed a hand over his thinning blond hair, straightened his already ruler precise tie. “Take a few moments to freshen up, but don’t be long. They’ll want to speak with you as well.” He bustled off toward the front of the theatre.
Sophia followed Marcus down the hall. He would have preferred a few moments alone before meeting the reporters but knew from experience asking her to leave wasn’t worth the effort. She didn’t understand how he needed to regroup, reenergize after a performance. Attention and adulation fuelled her, and she thrived in the spotlight as the orchestra’s principal violinist. The idea that peace and quiet were a balm simply did not compute.
In Marcus' dressing room, she lounged on the low leather couch, legs gracefully crossed, one foot swinging restlessly. “If anyone ever doubted you were the right choice as first cellist for the Northern Solitudes World Tour, they won't now, not after that performance. You were masterful.”
“Thank you.” He placed his instrument on its stand, letting his hand linger on the carved scroll for a moment, then sat in front of the brightly lit vanity mirror.
“It's an amazing opportunity for you,” Sophia continued. “An all-star orchestra, made of Canada's best, touring Europe and Asia for three months. I'm glad Nancy Clarkson took my advice and asked you to join us.”
He tamped down a twinge of annoyance. Sophia didn't mean to be condescending or imply the executive producer of the tour wouldn't have chosen him without her input. At least, he hoped not. She was the orchestra's most gifted violinist, and used to receiving the praise of fans, media, and other performers, but had little practice offering it to others.
“I'm looking forward to it.” He kept his tone deliberately calm, even though just the thought of the tour had his insides jumping with nervous exhilaration. He couldn't show that to Sophia. In the performing arts world, favours were an important commodity. She already believed he was in her debt, and he didn't want to give her any more currency.
She chattered on and he let her conversation flow over him. In the mirror, he could see the imprint of her lips blazing scarlet on his cheek. It looked like a brand. Reaching for a cleansing cloth, he wiped the lipstick away, along with the light coating of foundation and blusher he used to keep from looking pale and washed out under the stage lights.
“Did you receive the list of music today?” she asked. “Personally, I think it's a little bourgeois for the venues we'll be playing, and I've told the producers so. I wouldn’t be surprised if they changed some of the pieces.”
He made a noncommittal noise and tossed the used cloth into the trash. Spending more than three months working in extreme proximity to Sophia was going to be a challenge, but he reminded himself the tour was an amazing opportunity, just as she'd said. It was sure to launch him to the next level, and he didn't plan to waste a moment. His music was more than a career—it was his vocation, his calling. He'd given up too much, worked too hard, to accept anything less than the chance to work with the best in the world.
“You'll need to practise a lot during the next several weeks,” Sophia said. “We only have ten days in Montreal before our first performance. Nancy is asking a lot from her musicians, demanding we bring it all together and gel as an orchestra in such a short time.”
No one had ever told him how much or how often to practise, not since he was a child. He bit back a pointed reply, saying instead, “I need to get to the media before Vincent pops a vein.” He finger-combed his hair and loosened his bow tie, leaving it draped around his neck. Vincent might insist on being pristine before the world, but Marcus preferred a more relaxed, welcoming look.
He managed to shake Sophia on his way to the lobby. After half an hour of answering questions, both about that night's performance and the Northern Solitudes World Tour, he returned to his now thankfully empty dressing room.
His cell phone lay on the vanity table where he’d tossed it hours earlier, well before the concert. Nothing was allowed to distract him prior to a performance. Absently tapping the screen, he was surprised to see a lengthy list of notifications.
Few people had his personal information, and those who did knew better than to try and reach him the day of a concert. A closer look revealed all the voice mails were from one unknown number, while the single text message was from Mattie Bendixon.
He sucked in a breath at the sight of her name. It immediately resurrected the memory of that summer, the painful, bitter image of her stricken face sharp and clear in his mind's eye. He'd given her good reason never to want to speak to him again. So why was she texting? A cold thrill rushed over his skin. With a sense of dread, he tapped the screen to show the rest of the message.
Marcus, it's Mattie. I'm so sorry to tell you this way, but we are trying everything to get in touch with you. Your mother has had a stroke. It’s bad. Please come home. She needs you.
CHAPTER TWO
Pale morning sunshine wept through the hospital room blinds. Mattie played nervously with the clasp hooking the strap of her overalls to the bib. God, she hated hospitals. After all, who didn’t? Unless you worked in one, there were very few good reasons to visit. And this was definitely not a good reason.
