The Hands of a Musician

Hauntingly beautiful music filled the garden of Ian Farber. The melody had captured the rapt attention of a pair of wood doves perched in the lower branches of the camellia tree that was next to the open French doors.

Ian swayed with his eyes closed, his hands floated over the black and white keys of the baby grand piano as if they played on their own accord, not a part of the man who knew each note intimately. It was her song, Laura's song.

Laura had captured his attention at an after concert party seven months earlier. She had been surrounded by several young men who played in the orchestra, animated in their attempts to get to know the lovely, but unknown, woman in their midst. She cast coy glances in Ian's direction when she became aware of his stares. Then one of the attentive suitors came over to the table laden with refreshments, obviously looking to gain favor with her. Ian walked up behind him, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. Ian recognized him as one of the members of the woodwind section by the name of Jon.

"Jon," he said as the younger man turned to face him, "Who is that enchanting woman you were talking to?"

Jon raised up on his toes to peer over Ian's shoulder, a fevered expression on his face. He seemed reluctant to divulge any information, not wanting to possibly increase his competition. But he didn't want to jeopardize his position with the orchestra by offending the showcasing pianist. "That's Laura Mendoza, Mr. Farber. I don't know much more about her. Will you please excuse me, sir?" he said with a note of desperation in his voice. Without waiting for Ian to respond, he pushed past him, a fluted glass of champagne in each hand.

Ian watched the retreating man, marveling that he spilled nary a drop of the liquid refreshment in his hurry. Laura graciously accepted the bubbly, released a lilting laugh with her thanks. Jon absolutely glowed, visibly puffing out his chest in defiance to the other men in the group, believing he had gained points with this stunning woman.

As luck would have it, Ian was able to get introduced to Laura a little later that evening, by his manager, Kevin Matthews.

"Ian! I believe I have found your number one fan," Kevin announced loudly over the noisy festivities, "Ian Farber, this is Laura Mendoza."

"Oh, Mr. Farber! You are such a talented pianist! I...I..." Laura was positively bubbling over with excitement, offering a delicate and well manicured hand.

As Ian clasped her hand in his, he could feel her excitement passing through her quivering fingertips. "Please, Laura, call me Ian. That is the least my number one fan should be allowed."

Laura's cheeks flushed; more of that coyness he had seen earlier appeared. Dark brown eyes sparkled beneath a thick fringe of lashes and her smile set his heart to flutter. Ian could see himself with this fascinating creature as his companion.

Pulling her hand out of his quickly, Laura opened the clutch purse she was gripping in her other hand. From it she pulled a folded program and a pen. "May I have your autograph, Ian? Otherwise my girlfriends will never believe I’ve finally had the privilege of meeting you," she asked, her flush deepening.

"Why of course," he said, accepting the two items. With an elaborate flourish he signed his name over his very dignified photograph on the cover of the program.

They spent the rest of the evening locked in deep conversation where they divulged some of their most intimate secrets to each other. The two didn't even notice the envious looks they were getting from both men and women alike.

From that point on, it was a flurried romance that ended with Laura moving into his home within a week of their meeting. It was a mere two weeks later that he had composed the sonata that depicted his beloved Laura.

With each key caressed by long, deft fingers, her face slowly formed in the reaches of his inner eye. So beautiful. Her eyes as haunting as the music, dark and deep. Ian had lost his soul to those eyes, to the woman he now no longer knew. He had never been so captivated by a woman before; his first love had always been music. But for once he had met a woman who was different from all others. Those others had been superficial, with vanity born from silver spooned mouths. This made it easy for him to concentrate on his music and ignore all the attempts to win his affections. Laura appeared genuine with her feelings and actions towards him. This led Ian to believe that he and Laura had a love that would never end. But it did end. And it ended in betrayal.

As the betrayal played out in his mind, his fingers fumbled over the keys, elicited a pathetic cry from him as the vision of Laura shattered. Ian opened his eyes and tried to play the notes again. Once more, his fingers refused to play the correct keys. Frustrated, his fingers curled into white-knuckled fists and pounded angrily on the keyboard. The sudden clamor set the wood doves off in frightened flight.

Laura was a real piece of work. She had latched onto Ian like a hungry babe to a sustaining teat when she found out how well off he was as a concert pianist. Oh, and did she ever milk him. It wasn't until the bank called to inform him that there had been some unusual activity with his credit/debit card. Further investigation revealed that it was Laura, making maximum withdrawals from ATMs on a daily basis and purchases at some of the most extravagant stores, to including a Cartier wristwatch. It wasn't the money or the scam that bothered him as much as it was her declaration of loving him. A lie. All a lie-- to steal from him.

She had made a fool of him and disappeared the same day the bank had called him. She had pulled this scheme before and knew it would be a matter of a few days before her cash cow would be gone.

"Why!" he cried out, his voice quavered, "Why the hell did you string me along for so long?" Ian knew the answer, but didn't want to admit to himself that he had been so gullible.

Slamming the cover to the keyboard shut, Ian rose to step out onto the patio. Red camellia petals were strewn at his feet, reminding him of the color of Laura's meticulously painted full lips the night of the party.  The night he met her. He was shaking now, out of anger and frustration. It was then that he spied the wood chipper in the far corner of the garden. The gardener had been pruning the many trees on the vast property. Everything had been left as it was at the end of his day.

Ian stode over to the machine, pulled the cord, and the wood chipper roared into life. He stepped over to the pile of tree branch trimmings, pulled off a rather large one and fed it into the gaping maw of the raucous machine. Ian watched the branch get chewed up like it was a stalk of celery by the monstrous blades. The resulting debris ruffled the canvas bag covering the out-port.

He held his hands up in front of himself, instantly hating them for composing Laura's sonata. A tainted piece he would never play again. In fact, he felt all his love of music evaporate, as did all rational thinking. Staring into the feed chute with fascination, he reached into the wood chipper.