Introduction: Katherine O’Donnell has been an enigma to many. She is an immensely talented musician whose beauty only makes her that much more desirable as a classical musician. She is harboring a secret that she is never quite able to get away from. It’s a secret that some in her family are very aware of. It’s a secret that had a tremendous impact on her younger sister, Sylvia. The secret drives Kate to a self imposed exile in London, England where she hopes she can avoid the guilt that only she feels. For those of you who have read Who Is Sylvia, the secret is obvious. We learned about it from Sylvia’s point of view, and now we learn a bit about it from Kate’s point of view.

This story starts a few years before the start of Who Is Sylvia. It also parallels the later years of Musetta’s Waltz. Musetta makes an appearance several times, and each time, we learn a bit more about her life that we didn’t know before. Being transgendered is not the main focus of this story. In fact, it’s hardly mentioned at all. Yes, Musetta at one time was transgendered, but that was corrected with her surgery. For this story, she is a mother and grandmother.

Time heals all wounds, and we follow Kate as she heals from within and takes a route that she never intended to. Love does that. We will meet Esmeralda, a rather special cat. We will also meet Sir John Farnsworthy, whom we met about half way through Five Love Stories en Brochette. This is really their story.

Chapter 1

Kate has come to London to find a place to live, and to start her professional career. She is staying at her favorite hotel for a while, a favorite place of her family’s and Musetta’s. She will be doing a lot of reflecting.

A big ‘Thank You’ goes to Holly H. Hart and Louise Anne for helping with the grammar and punctuation, and to Louise for correcting my poor memory about locations in London and British terminology.

This work is copyrighted by the author and any publication or distribution without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter 1

‘One of these days I am going to fly nothing but business class,’ Kate O’Donnell thought as she tried to adjust her clothes into a more comfortable configuration. She knew when she started the flight that she wasn’t going to get much rest, but she had tried anyway. The steady drone of the huge engines of the 787 was impossible to ignore, but somehow she had actually managed to drop into a semblance of sleep for maybe an hour. Then some idiot turned on the lights, and the cabin was filled with the noise of other passengers being roused out of their uneasy slumbers. The sound of the service carts being rolled down the aisles had prepared her for the inevitable wakeup that she had learned to expect. The flight attendant offering her a rolled up moist hot towel for freshening up brought her fully awake. She had deliberately used little makeup the day before, not that she really needed much, just so she wouldn’t smear any across her face.

Her fair, lightly freckled complexion, and her dark red hair spoke of her English and Irish ancestry, but she was a Californian, born and bred. That was behind her, though. London was going to be her home for the foreseeable future. It was a matter of practicality. It was a matter of choice.

“Watch your arms and feet, please,” the flight attendant caught her attention as she pulled the cart down the aisle. They were passing out the usual inedible breakfast snack. There would be the treacherous container of orange juice, threatening to blow a spray of juice if the container were not opened very carefully. There would probably be a half frozen banana, a brick-hard bagel of questionable origin. Ah, the coffee, tasting like it had been brewed for hours with the finest cardboard. Then there was the stuff that sort of looked and tasted like yogurt, but not quite.

She raised the curtain to see a gray sky with clouds spread below her. They were briefly over land, then sea. She saw lights from towns or villages through the breaks in the clouds. That must have been Ireland. It would be a long time before the light of the sun would reach there. Light from the rising sun suddenly shot through the unshaded windows on the other side of the cabin. Curtains were quickly lowered. There was nothing but sea below them for quite a while.

She managed to get the orange juice open without destroying her blouse. The banana, not only near frozen, but barely ripe enough to eat, required the blade of a plastic knife to break through the peel. If nothing else, the coffee helped dissolve the coating that had grown on her teeth overnight.

Looking around, she saw that one of the lavatories was available. They would probably be off limits once the plane started its descent into Gatwick, and she quickly made her way to the compartment. The next available restroom would probably be after exiting the plane. She heard and felt the change in speed and attitude as she finished up. International travel definitely messed up one’s system, and she hoped she would be able to shed the effects of airline food and the desiccated atmosphere of the cabin. It wasn’t as bad as it used to be, but it was still bad.

Back in her seat, she finished what little there was that was edible. They were crossing land again. It was probably South Wales. Direct sunlight was still not reaching the ground, and she could see the headlights of cars moving along the country roads. They were noticeably closer to the ground now. Then they were out over the Channel, and starting to turn north. The sun had retreated below the horizon once again, but a gray light permeated the area. Clouds of condensation formed above the wing, before disappearing, only to return again. A whirling spiral of cloud rose from the engine cowling to above the wing. It kept blinking in and out of existence. The leading edge of the wing extended and dropped. The ground was wet, and there were puddles visible on the roads. The slam of the gear lowering made her jump. She could see cars waiting at a gate at a railroad crossing. Then they were on the ground.

Now, they were getting the standard admonishments to remain seated until the plane came to a complete stop, and the pilot turned out the seatbelt sign. Cell phones were on everywhere. ‘Jesus, it’s seven o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.’ There was always that select group of assholes getting things out of the overhead who never felt the announcements were for them. The flight attendant made another announcement.

At last, they were at the gate. The sun still had not peeked over the horizon. It would probably be close to an hour before it did. The jet bridge had pulled up, and as soon as the cabin door was open, those who had to get to passport control and baggage claim before anyone else were champing at the bit to get off. Kate helped a young mother with three children under the age of five get her things together. The children had been perfectly well-behaved. They lived in Exeter, and had to catch a train to Reading where they would have to transfer again. Her equally young husband had been very attentive to her needs and that of the children’s during the flight. No one had batted an eye while she nursed her youngest several times.

Kate was in no rush. She was ‘home’. She would catch the Gatwick Express. There was one every fifteen minutes, so that certainly wasn’t an issue. She had a small carry-on bag, her violin, and two larger checked bags. The carry-on and violin attached to one of the large roller bags. Fortunately, the platforms were even with the entrance to the railway carriage. The young family wouldn’t have it that easy in Reading and Exeter.

“Good morning,” she said as she slid her passport through the opening to the inattentive officer at passport control. The middle aged officer grunted something in return before looking at her picture, then looking up quickly at her. His demeanor changed rather quickly. Yes, she had been on a non-stop flight from Dallas, and a four hour flight from San Francisco. She may have felt that she looked like hell, but quite honestly, she was quite attractive, more like beautiful, even at this early morning hour.

“So, are you here for business or pleasure?”

“A little of both; I am a professional pianist. I am living in London, but will be travelling all over Europe to perform at concerts.”

“Katherine O’Donnell? Are you any relation to that Yank, what’s her name? I saw her at the Proms two years ago.”

“That would be my mother, Dr. Jo O’Donnell.”

“Well, I can see where you got yer good looks. Can you play like her? She made my back shiver. My wife’s got all her CDs.”

“Not quite, but I’m getting there.”

“Well, I’ll be lookin’ for you at the Proms, soon. Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

The queue had built up a bit behind her, and she gave a little smile to the people waiting there as she headed to baggage claim. Of course the bags hadn’t arrived, but the people who couldn’t wait to get off the plane had prime positions at the carousel. The klaxon sounded and the belt started moving. Two strollers and several bags belonging to the family were first off. Immediately following were Kate’s two bags. She excused herself, and positioned herself between two of the early arrivers to retrieve her bags. One helped her get the second bag.

“Thank you.”

The ordeal at Gatwick was just beginning. She had to take the monorail to the south terminal, before dragging her bags to the elevator, and down to the rail platform and onto the waiting train.

She quickly moved from the first car to a second car as someone had vomited over a large area of the carpeted floor. She advised the booking clerk about the ‘accident’ in the other car as she paid for her fare. Now it was just a straight shot into Victoria Station. She watched the area around the tracks change from country to less than attractive residential areas, to city. Soon they were crossing the Thames and entering the bowels of Victoria Station.

It was close to 10:00 AM, and the station was still quite busy, even after rush hour. She made her way along the platform into the main concourse before arriving at the exit that merged with the group coming up from The Underground at the northwest corner of the station. It was ironic. She had walked further from where she got off the train than it was now to her hotel.

She came up to the curb and noted the stenciled “LOOK TO THE RIGHT”. Fortunately, she had been here before. Still, it would take a while to get used to it. She crossed the street, and entered Grosvenor Gardens, the block long, triangular shaped park that ran to the northwest. The trees were mostly bare, and there was a definite chill to the air that she had a few brief hints of earlier. Still, she was in London. It looked different; it smelled different, it felt different. It was nice to be back.

She turned right at the end of the park, and entered Beeston Place. Her hotel was on the right. The pavement was a bit rough, and she had to wrestle her bags over a low curb. She looked up to see a man in uniform approaching.

“Let me take these, Miss O’Donnell. I hope your trip was pleasant.”

“All things considered, it went quite well.” She recognized him, but couldn’t remember his name. The Goring Hotel was family owned and operated. Employees started work there and retired there. It was probably one of the best small hotels in London, if not in the world. Constructed in 1910, it was the first hotel in the world to have en suite bathrooms in every one of its seventy-one rooms.

The doorman held the door for her, and she entered the very pleasant lobby. It brought back many pleasant memories. She remembered one night many years ago when her father was chuckling about something he had seen in the men’s room that was just off the lobby.

“What’s so funny, Daddy?”

“Well, there are some old adult cartoons in there. Someone took exception to them, and wrote a letter to Mr. Goring. Mr. Goring wrote a very funny, tongue in cheek reply on the letter, and framed the letter.”

“Good evening, Captain, Dr. O’Donnell, how was your evening?” Mr. George Goring was approaching from the lounge area.

“Excellent, we had dinner at Montpeliano,” Jo O’Donnell responded. “We’ve never been disappointed there. We are having dinner here tomorrow night.”

“How’s Miss Fanny doing?”

“She’s in the last year of medical school; and John’s a solicitor, as you put it. They’ve been married five years now. She’s a surprising young lady.”

“Congratulations to you and Fanny for that Grammy. You seem to be making a rather pleasant habit of getting those.”

“It was a fun project: something that we had wanted to do for years. Some day, Kate, Sean and I will be doing some recordings together. Kate is going to have to play the violin, though. The piano is the only instrument I can play well, and she can play just about anything she picks up.”

Kate’s mother was a featured soloist at the Proms, the huge musical extravaganza that took up much of the summer every year in London. At her daughter Fanny’s encouragement, Jo had become more and more involved in the performance world. She was in her middle forties, and her powers as a concert pianist were continuing to be more and more appreciated. She had gone from being a strictly amateur performer to an award winning pianist. That had never been her intent, but it had happened, none-the-less.

She was still practicing medicine at the hospital in Redding, California, but on a reduced scale. She had taken to heart her daughter’s advice, and was finding more time to travel and perform. Based on a promise made more than fifteen years before, she had returned to Bonn to perform Beethoven. She had performed a solo recital, and then performed Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 with the Bonn Symphony Orchestra. Both performances were recorded. As a bonus, there was also a recording of the Appassionata Sonata performed on Beethoven’s piano. It was the same piece she had performed impromptu on that piano sixteen years before.

The O’Donnell’s had found out about the Goring Hotel through some of Jo’s contacts in the music business. It would turn out that the relationship would last many years.

“Daddy, are those cartoons really bad?”

“No, they’re really quite harmless, but rather chauvinistic. I don’t think there would be any harm if you saw them.”

Mr. Goring stood guard while Mike took his family into the men’s room. Kate chuckled at how silly the cartoons were, and laughed out loud at the letter. There were several works of art, but nothing about the place was offensive. It was just part of the whole hotel.

*

Now there was a younger Goring who greeted Kate like an old friend. She was very surprised at the hospitality she received. She hadn’t really planned on staying there while she looked for a flat to rent, but her mother had made a phone call, and the next thing Kate knew, she was being offered a place to stay as long as she wanted it (within reason of course) while she looked for a place to live.

She had several requirements for a flat. The most important being it had to be large enough for a grand piano. Along with that, there had to be a way to get it up there. She didn’t have an auto yet, but she wanted reserved parking for when that inevitability occurred. She planned on doing a lot of driving. The flat had to be close to the center of London, and she had to have quick access to the underground. She knew she couldn’t afford to live in Westminster or Belgravia, but she hoped she might be able to find something in Knightsbridge or Kensington. There were other good areas, but that’s where she wanted to live.

She had been fortunate to have won or placed well in several international piano competitions, including a silver medal in the Chopin competition. That award had assured her of quite a few concerts over the next three years. The monetary award was significant, and her agent, Myron Stacks, had ensured that she would be receiving excellent compensation for her appearances. There was also the fall out of several other concerts not directly associated with the Chopin Competition.

She had applied for, but was not selected for the Van Cliburn Competition. That was not an insult. It was extremely difficult to be accepted for that and the Tchaikovsky competitions. She had two, make that three things going for her. She was an excellent pianist, her stage presence was outstanding, and she worked very well with the various conductors and orchestras. Make that four things: she was also exceptionally beautiful.

London gave her easy access to the European Community, and she planned on driving to many of the concert locations during the summer. She wanted to spend some time on the Riviera. She also just wanted to forget.

Her room was not as large as some in the hotel, but it still exceeded her expectations and needs. By the time she had everything put away, it was time for lunch.

London is like riding a bike. Once you have walked around the various areas, things become much closer together. If all you ever do is to take the tube, you don’t realize how close together parts of the city are. There wasn’t time today to do much house hunting. Besides, she had an estate agent working for her, and she had several properties she wanted Kate to look at. Today was just a good time to get her London legs back.

She freshened up a little, checking her makeup before heading out into the brisk air. Looking out the window at the gardens at the rear of the hotel, she realized she’d better get her umbrella. The clouds had returned, and there was a brisk, spitting northwest wind that was shunted down the various streets that ran in the most unorganized directions. And names: a single street might have four names in ten blocks. Kate just relied on her sense of direction as she headed northwest, zigging and zagging as she had to.

Everything was right where she’d left it. She popped out onto the Brompton Road, just southwest of Harrods. The Bunch of Grapes was just a block to her left, and the buffet was just like she remembered it. She found an unoccupied spot along the wall, and settled in. She was hungry and thirsty. The food, typically English, looked wonderful. She got the bartender’s attention, and got a pint of cool ale. The Brussels sprouts were a bit overdone as usual, but not too bad. The lamb, potatoes and onions were perfect. She had no complaints about the ale. Flying dehydrates one, and she managed to tuck into a second pint, something she didn’t do very often.

Once back on the Brompton Road, the chilled air perked her up a bit. There was a shop on Beauchamp Place she wanted to visit. They sold musical instruments, and she remembered that there were several pianos the last time she had been there. There were several other shops she wanted to visit, but she needed to start looking.

The shop was no longer there. It was now occupied by a fabric store.

She started wandering south, and it wasn’t long before she came to Egerton Crescent. The beautiful street reminded her of the street in the film Oliver. The Georgian terraced houses looked warm and inviting. Most had three floors above the ground floor which itself was above a basement level that used to house the kitchen and quarters for some of the help. Rental for a single floor flat in this area was far beyond her current means. But it was fun thinking about it.

Before long she was at the South Kensington tube station. The sun, never very far above the horizon this time of year, had briefly peeked through the clouds, but then the clouds had returned in earnest, and the spitting rain felt like it might have a little ice in it. Her cheeks were starting to burn in the wind as she made a turn east, and passed through Brompton. At Sloane Square she turned northeastward along King’s Road, which became Clive Gardens, Eaton Place and Eaton Square to get back to the hotel. It was basically the same street.

A shower, no, a hot bath was in order. She caught herself falling asleep after about fifteen minutes in the hot water, and reluctantly exited the tub. She dressed casually, and went to the lounge area. She didn’t feel like having a formal dinner.

“Good evening, Miss O’Donnell. May I get a drink for you?”

“Could I have a Margarita, one like my dad made when he was here before?”

“Certainly, the O’Donnell Margarita is famous now. Your father said we were doing it correctly. We get many requests for it.”

The Margarita was perfect. She ordered a small pizza, and leaned back to listen to a very capable pianist going through a medley of about forty Andrew Lloyd Weber songs. The second time she started to nod off, she realized she needed to go to bed.

The bed had been turned down, and all the towels had been replaced. She slid nude between the sheets and under the duvet. The room was quiet. She started sobbing quietly. “I’m sorry mommy, I’m so sorry.” Sleep came quickly.

Next: Kate takes a morning run around Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. She reminisces about Musetta, Johnny and her grandfather, Richard O’Donnell. She has an appointment later that morning with an estate agent to find a flat. To find one that has everything she needs and in her price range proves to be a challenge; however, they succeed. She also meets Esmeralda.