Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Cromwell?” he said in surprise. His stuff was all over the place. He looked like he hadn’t been to sleep at all.
Join the club.
“Lewis.” I sat down on the seat opposite him. He watched me warily. He sat down, gathering his sheets of music.
I caught sight of them as he did. He stopped and turned them to face me. “What do you think?” I could tell by his tone that he didn’t think I’d answer. But when I saw his scribbled notes on the manuscript paper, I couldn’t look away. He had parts for almost a full orchestra. My eyes ran over the notes, the colored pattern of the music playing in my head. I looked at them all, synergizing them into the symphony he was writing it to be.
“It’s good.” I was putting it mildly. It was beyond good. And by the look on Lewis’s face, he knew it.
“Still in its infancy, but so far, I’m happy with it.”
I looked at that picture of him in the Royal Albert Hall. I always did when I came in here. It held so many memories for me. “What’s it for?” I pointed at the music Lewis was putting into piles.
“The National Philharmonic is playing a huge gala concert in Charleston in a few months, celebrating new music. They’ve asked me to conduct. And I’ve agreed.”
I frowned. “I thought you didn’t conduct your music anymore.”
“I don’t.” He laughed and shook his head. “I’ve been in a better place in recent years…” He didn’t finish that sentence, but I knew it was in relation to his drug and alcohol problems. “I thought I’d give it a go.” He leaned forward and put his folded arms on the table. “It’s Sunday morning, Cromwell. And you look like you’ve been up all night too. How can I help you?”
I stared down at my hands in my lap. My blood was rushing through my veins so fast I could hear it in my ears. Lewis waited for me to speak. I didn’t know how the hell to explain. I almost got up and left, but Bonnie’s face came into my head and had me rooted to the seat.
I played with my tongue ring, then blurted out, “I have synesthesia.”
Lewis’s eyebrows rose.
He nodded. And by the lack of shock on his face, I knew. “My dad…” I shook my head. I even let out a single laugh. “He told you, didn’t he?”
Lewis was wearing an expression I didn’t recognize. Pity maybe? Sympathy? “Yeah, I knew,” he said. “Your father…” He watched me closely. I didn’t blame him. I’d almost torn his throat out the last time he’d mentioned him. When he saw I was keeping my shit together, he added, “He contacted me when I was in England on one of my tours.”
“The Albert Hall.” I pointed at the picture on his wall. “He brought me to meet you. We all came. Me, Mum, and Dad. He was on leave from the army.”
Lewis gave me a tight smile. “Yeah. I invited you to the show. But I wasn’t—” He sighed. “I wasn’t in a good place then. I’d been using for years by that point.” He looked up at the picture. “I almost died that night. Took so much heroin that my agent found me on a hotel floor.” His face paled. “I was minutes from death.” He faced me again. “It was a turning point for me.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“I remembered you. I have no memory of that night at all, yet I remembered meeting you. The boy with synesthesia and the ability to play anything he picked up.” He pointed at me with his hands steepled. “The boy who, by ten years old, could compose masterpieces.”
Icy coldness ran through me.
“I failed your father, Cromwell. It was years before I was in a better place to help. I contacted him. I even came to England, but you were already falling out of love with composition.” He met my eyes. “When I heard of his death…I wanted to honor the agreement I made with him years ago. To help you. To help you with your talent.”
My chest was tight. It always was when I thought of my dad. “I kept in touch with your mother. We talked, and I told her about my teaching here in Jefferson. That’s when I offered you the place.” Lewis ran his hand through his hair again. “I knew you had synesthesia.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I knew you now fought classical music. I wondered when it would all finally get the better of you.” He gave me an accepting smile. “You can’t fight the colors you were born to see.”
I wasn’t ready to talk about all that yet. I was here for another reason. “I want to be able to explain it to someone. What I see when I hear music. I want to explain. But I have no idea how.”