Kane by Steve Gannon Read Free Book Online Page B

and flow of the music.  Toward the end, as the orchestra honed passages from a work I recognized from listening to Catheryn’s practice at home as the Dvořák Cello Concerto, Arthur embarked on a short virtuosic excursion.  Catheryn, her brow furrowed in concentration, led the rest of the cello section in response.  I watched as she played, instrument held loosely between her knees, her skirt falling in graceful folds over her long legs—revealing a glimpse of calf and ankle, a slender foot bound in a white leather sandal.  As her left hand ascended the neck of her cello, she raised her chin, exposing a delicate curve of throat and the clean line of her jaw, a jaw I had seen set in stubborn determination more times than I liked to recall.  Her body was lean and athletic, her limbs lightly tanned from time spent outdoors, despite her efforts to stay out of the sun.  But as I watched her play, I realized, as always, that it was her hands that drew me.
    I remembered the day we first met.  She had been a sophomore attending the USC School of Music; I was a senior.  I had been playing out the last year of a football scholarship, cruising the smoothest academic back roads I could find and wondering what to do after graduation.  I first saw her in the library.  Later that evening, taken by her appearance and the unapologetic way she returned my gaze across the library tables, I waited outside to talk with her.  Our initial encounter proved disastrous.  And with good reason, friends pointed out.  Catheryn sipped wine, I guzzled beer; Catheryn loved classical music, I listened to country tunes at a volume that could cause hearing impairment.  Catheryn planned a concert career followed in some indeterminate future by a romantic, white lace wedding.  I wanted a wife who would cook, clean, and bear me a houseful of kids.  But despite her steadfast refusals to go out with me, I shamelessly persisted—showing up unexpectedly to walk her to class, attending every student recital in which she performed.
    In a rarely visited portion of my mind that governed my personal life, I realized that although Catheryn’s beauty had initially attracted me, it was her hands that had snared me, refusing to let me go.  Fascinated, I watched now as they brought forth the voice of her cello, a sound achingly deep, a sound I had come to associate with my wife’s world of music—a world for me at times as mysterious and unfathomable as she.  Nimble, long-fingered, and strong, her hands embodied their owner’s intelligence and talent, seeming almost magical in their agility.  Yet they also displayed a grace and expressivity that was as enigmatic to me as the music they produced, but a quality I had found mesmerizing from the first moment I watched her play.  It’s often said that the eyes are the window to one’s soul.  With Catheryn, for me, it was her hands as well.
    Minutes later, after repeating several of the more difficult sections, the orchestra abandoned the Dvořák to practice portions of another of the tour selections.  Then at last, as the personnel manager stepped onstage to remind the conductor of the time, the rehearsal ended.
    After the conductor left the stage, the musicians, individually and in groups of twos and threes, started drifting out.  I walked to the edge of the raised platform.  Noting my arrival, Catheryn broke off a conversation with Arthur.  “Hi, Dan,” she said.  “What brings you down here?  I thought you were working today.”
    “Finished early,” I answered.  Unless pressed, I rarely discussed details of my job with Catheryn, and by tacit agreement, she rarely asked.  Sensing her initial reaction of welcome being replaced by an air of guarded reserve, I placed a hand on the edge of the stage and vaulted up, once again ignoring orchestra rules.
    Arthur gave me a look of condescension.  “Detective.  Left the city safe and sound, I trust?”
    I shrugged, suddenly feeling dirty,