The Final Note

by Kevin Alan Milne

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

In this brand-new novel from bestselling author Kevin Milne, readers will be inspired yet again by the themes of love, loss, and renewal. Ethan met and fell in love with Anna while studying music abroad in college. He married her, and fully expected to grow old with her. After all, they were young, life was good, and faith in each other came easily, as evidenced by the Love Notes Anna periodically left between the strings of his guitar. On their wedding day, Ethan promised to love, honor, and cherish his wife...and to write a song for her. Fast forward to the present day. Despite his grand promises, reality has proven to be much harder than he anticipated. Instead of composing hit songs, he's working long hours to provide for his family, and still promising to finish Anna's song. His formerly hopeful spirit is almost too heavy to carry, weighed down as it is by regret. His grandfather, a veteran of World War II, knows a thing or two about regret and bitterness, and has his own stories to tell. One in particular, has the potential to change Ethan's attitude and help him put the past to rest, if he can open his heart to the truth of it. Can an old soldier's tales of war help Ethan relinquish his anger? Is it too late to finish the song he began for Anna on their wedding day? Will he be able to remember why he fell in love so many years ago? In this tale of loss and heartbreak, love and forgiveness, Ethan is about to discover that the final note has yet to be written.

Release date: May 11, 2011

Publisher: Center Street

Print pages: 368

Sample

“Fans of Nicholas Sparks will enjoy this uplifting novel about second chances, circumstance, coincidence, and, of course,
happiness.”


—Booklist

“… the story is ultimately heartwarming, and readers will be cheering for Sophie the whole time. This short book might not
contain long-lasting happiness for us all, but it’s certainly a good place to start.”


—San Francisco Book Review

“I love this story…”

—Diana Page Jordan, host of Open Book with Diana Page Jordan

“No book has ever inspired me more to be a better father, son, and husband… Simply put, The Nine Lessons is a book every father and son should read. You will reflect on its powerful message long after the book returns to the shelf. Guaranteed.”


—Jason Wright, New York Times bestselling author of Christmas Jars and The Wednesday Letters

“Milne’s characters are genuine and experience emotions we’ve all experienced. The messages relayed in The Nine Lessons are messages we can all take to heart.”


—Jenn’s Bookshelf

“This is a small book in size but the message it sends is so big—this book points out the true meaning of Christmas.”

—American Chronicle

“The Paper Bag Christmas is one of the most inspiring and emotionally endearing books I’ve ever read.”


—Shirley Howard, President, The Children’s Cancer Foundation

“[An] affable yuletide yarn… The story is unexpectedly heartwarming, and Milne mostly avoids sap while delivering his warm
fuzzies and dashes of Christmas hope and magic.”


—Publishers Weekly

“The Paper Bag Christmas reads like a Christmas classic—warm, funny, sweet, inspiring, humbling, and nostalgic.”


—Gift Basket Review

“[T]he book is just right for a family reading-aloud project… Milne also provides an… unforgettable story, forcing us to believe in all of his characters… and in something more.”


—Lubbock Avalanche-Journal

“[It’s] sweetly honest, ushering in the holiday season with joyful ease.”

—Deseret News

“[The Paper Bag Christmas] provides a beautiful and moving reminder of the true joy of life, selfless acts, friendship, and the holiday season.”


—The News-Times

“This one’s a keeper.”

—Omaha World-Herald

I am a sane person… I think. Which is why I feel terrible for going to her house and screaming at the top of my lungs like
a raving lunatic. I wasn’t even intoxicated, unless you count being drunk with rage, in which case my insobriety was well
beyond legal limits.


“You ruined our family!” I yelled. “You and your stupid thumbs and your stupid phone!”

Okay, maybe that last part sounds a little crazy, but in context I swear it made perfect sense.

“Mr. Bright, I’ll give you exactly two seconds to leave before I call the police! She’s already apologized. There’s nothing
more to say!” That was the mother—the one with the shrill voice, like a feral cat protecting a wounded kitten.


But I wasn’t there to talk to the mother. I was there for her daughter, the twenty-something college student. It galled me
that she still lived with her parents, because it meant I couldn’t castigate her without their getting in the way. She was
standing between her mom and dad on the front porch, just a few steps up from where I stood. The way she was holding herself
made it look like she was freezing to death, even though it was a warm summer evening—I’m sure she was just doing that to keep from falling apart.


I’d already berated her once, earlier in the day. This was round two and, despite her mother’s threats, I was just getting
started.


“Really? Because I’ve got plenty to say! But first, I want to show you something.” I was carrying a briefcase. In one swift
move I swung it in front of me, rested it on my thigh, and flipped it open.


“Oh Lord, he brought a gun!” the mother screamed. She and her husband both jumped in front of their daughter instinctively,
sheltering her from whatever evil deed my anger-induced psychosis was about to inflict upon them all.


“Oh, stop it,” I barked, surprised that they’d actually think I was the kind of person who would do something like that. Of
course, none of them knew me from Adam, so I guess I can’t blame them. “I just want to show you what you took from me.” I
lifted one hand and waved a fistful of the briefcase’s contents.


“Paper?” That was the dad—the one who sounded way too dumb to be making the kind of money he must’ve been making to live in
that kind of house.


“Notes!” I shouted back. “The kind you can hold and touch. Some of them you can even smell, thanks to my wife’s perfume. These
notes are meant to be cherished and read over and over again, not like your stupid texting that you read one moment and delete
the next.”


“What?” That was Ashley—the perpetrator.

“This morning,” I reminded her, “before you ran off, you said your boyfriend sent you a ‘note.’ What he really sent you was a two-bit text message, and like an idiot you answered it. So I wanted to show you what real notes look like. Deep, thoughtful, meaningful correspondence; the kind of communication that started—and probably saved—my marriage. Love notes! And I don’t ever want you to forget what they look like, because this is what you took from me!”


The mom and dad were speechless. Ashley bowed her head and went back to holding herself, weeping audibly in the night.

What happened next is hard to explain, because it was mostly in my head. I took my eyes off the family for just a split second
to glance at the wad of papers in my hand. In that brief instant memories came flooding back, from the very first note that
Anna gave me, right down to the very last. The notes hadn’t come as often in recent years, but that was mostly my own fault.
And I was going to change, I swear—I swore to Anna that things would be different.


I broke a promise—she paid the price.

I looked back up at the family, and suddenly everything I’d wanted to scream at them—at her—just vanished. What was I doing here? Why had I let my hatred drag me away from Anna in the first place? I should have been
back at her side, waiting for the beautiful artist to draw her last breath.


“I’m so sorry,” breathed Ashley.

I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to be mad. I wanted her to live with the guilt of what she’d done. I wanted her to be as
miserable as I was. But mostly, I just wanted to get away from there and go be with the dying body of my wife. “You should be.” I turned abruptly and left.


Thirty minutes later I was sitting next to Anna’s bed in the ICU. She didn’t know I was there. I didn’t know if she was there
either. Physically, mind you, she was lying right there on the bed, breathing through a ventilator, living on borrowed time
through the wonder of modern medical machinery. But the part of her that really mattered? For all I knew it was already gone.


“Anna.” My voice cracked. “I’m back.”

There was no reply. I didn’t expect one, but I kept trying.

“Can you hear me? Honey, are you there? I ran home, but I’m back now. Hope is doing fine. Your brother is watching her. Grandpa
Bright is there too. They’re all praying for you.”


Several IVs were dripping fluids into her heavily bruised arms. I watched them drip while I waited for a response—any response.

“I found something,” I told her at length. “It’s my briefcase. The one you got me when they moved me into management. The
one I took to work exactly once. Did you know I found another use for it? I’ve been loading it up with your notes. I brought
them all with me. Isn’t that great? I thought… maybe you’d like it if I read them to you…”


I wanted to cry.

No, that’s being dishonest.

I did cry, especially when I stumbled upon her original note to me. It wasn’t a love note then, but it certainly paved the way
for love to grow. That was years ago. As I stared at her now, it felt like eons.


Reading the words she’d written took me back to another time and place. A different country, a foreign language. A hope, a
prayer, and a guitar.


Back then we were young and naive. Everything seemed possible.

We fell in love.

We hardly knew what love was, but it didn’t matter, because we had each other and we were happy.

We were dirt poor, but it didn’t matter, because we had each other and we were happy.

In time we discovered that not everything in life goes as planned, but even then it didn’t matter. We still had each other.
And we were still happy.


All of which is a very long, redundant way of saying I screwed up.


Eventually, I let the most important things in life take a backseat to more trivial pursuits. I somehow lost sight of—maybe
even forgot altogether—just how good things had been in the beginning, back when life was simple. Simple… and perfect.


Anna’s notes reminded me of everything we’d had and everything I was about to lose. I wished I could tell her how sorry I
was. Actually, I did tell her, over and over, as she was lying there, but she didn’t hear. She just lay motionless, breathing
artificially.


“Remember how it used to be?” I asked her as I wiped a fresh batch of tears on the cuff of my sleeve. “I thought ours was
a fairy-tale, once-upon-a-time story. How did we get from there to here, Anna? How? Where is our happily ever after? How did I let this happen? I wish we could back up and do it all over again. Maybe then
I’d get it right…”




Long before our lives fell apart, my wife dreamt of writing and illustrating books. It didn’t exactly pan out. My dream was
writing music, which was also a bust. But in the end, none of those things mattered. The only things of any consequence were
the moments we had together and the memories we shared. Maybe that’s why it’s so important for me to tell our story, no matter
how much it hurts to dig up past mistakes. We once had something great, and I don’t want to ever forget it. Nor would I want
to lose sight of where I went wrong, lest I make the same mistake again and lose the precious few things I have left.


Not long ago, my grandfather—who owns all the blame for getting me hooked on music as a kid—encouraged me to not just tell
my story, but to write it down, so the memories remain fresh. “Writing your story is just like writing a song,” he explained.
“Start with the first verse and take it one note at a time.”


If Grandpa’s counsel is right, then I’ve already messed up. Rather than starting with the first verse of my song, I have taken
a giant leap to the bitter end. But I suppose even a dismal tune like mine can easily be rewound…


Let’s start at the very beginning; a very good place to start.” Julie Andrews sang those words while methodically strumming
her guitar in The Sound of Music, just before she and the kids broke into their famous do-re-mi’s. Then together they danced, climbed, sang, spun, and pedaled
their way up and down through the rolling hills of the Austrian countryside. When concerned friends (and a few nosey acquaintances)
have asked how my life got to the point it’s at now, I’ve been reluctant to share the excruciating details. Instead, I tell
them simply that, like Captain von Trapp and his musical wife, it all began quite wonderfully in Austria with a song and a
guitar, but somehow it ended up in San Francisco… with nothing.


Okay, nothing is a bit of a stretch, but that’s how it feels sometimes when your entire world is crumbling before your eyes.


A lot has transpired since Austria—most of my life’s biggest disappointments, for instance. But if we’re to follow my grandfather’s
(and Fräulein Maria’s) admonition, then the snowcapped Alps of Europe’s cultural heart is a very good place to start, because
that’s where everything fell into place. That was the beginning, the place where I received my very first note.


I’d just graduated from the University of Rochester’s Eastman School of Music and was on my way overseas for graduate studies
at the University of Music and Performing Arts in Vienna, Austria, when Grandpa Bright announced he was loaning me Karl.


As odd as that may sound, it really wasn’t. Karl was the name of Grandpa’s guitar, though why he’d given it a name was anyone’s
guess. More importantly, Karl was the instrument I’d been openly coveting since I first heard Grandpa play it when I was a
kid. Not only did Karl sound great, but it carried a certain reverence and mystique among the Bright family, mostly because
Grandpa was so tight-lipped about how he’d acquired it and why he’d named it Karl. All he would say was that he owed his very
life to that old guitar, and that he’d cherish it “until the great conductor of the universe calls me home to play in his
symphonies on high.”


Taking all that into account, I was more than a little surprised when he lent it to me. I was also deeply honored. But it
was nonetheless fitting that Grandpa’s beloved six-string should accompany me on my journey to Austria, if only for nostalgic
reasons. We all knew he’d gotten it there while serving in the war. We just didn’t know how.


I’d chosen Vienna over other possible graduate programs for the express reason that I wanted to see and experience all of
the places Grandpa must have traveled with that guitar, as a soldier. Nobody had a greater impact on my life than Grandpa,
and Karl was part of that legacy, so going back to Austria, where Herbert Bright and Karl the guitar first met, was like a
dream come true.


After arriving on European soil and settling into my two-year music program in Austria’s capital city, I began soaking up
as much as I could of the sights, sounds, and culture of my new surroundings. During my first semester abroad, nearly all
of my spare time was spent playing tourist. If there was something to see in or around Vienna, I saw it. There were frequent
visits to the opera houses, countless hours staring at the intricate details of St. Stephen’s Cathedral and Karlskirche, and
more than a few excursions to the Imperial Palace—the monstrous home of the Habsburgs, rulers of the Austrian Empire for more
than six hundred years. I saw the Lipizzaner horses, the Vienna Boy’s Choir, the Sigmund Freud Museum, and enough first-century
castle ruins to last a lifetime. Before the weather turned cold, I took a paddleboat ride along the Danube River and during
a long holiday weekend, I hopped on a southbound train through the Alps to the city of Graz, just so I could see the home
where Arnold Schwarzenegger grew up.


Like I said, if it could be seen, I saw it.

Unfortunately, all such tourist activities cost money, which was something I didn’t have a lot of. And so, on the day before Christmas, after paying an exorbitant price to see Diana Ross perform live with the Vienna Symphony Orchestra and
two of the Three Tenors, I realized that I was flat broke. I’d secured loans to cover the big-ticket items, such as tuition
and housing, so that wasn’t a worry. But money to get around town? Cash to buy groceries? Funds to simply exist? Those coffers
were empty.


Other students might have called their parents for financial assistance, but that wasn’t an option for me. My mom couldn’t
help because she was “gone.” That’s how Dad explained it to me when I was five and she didn’t come home from the hospital.
Not passed away. Not dead. Just gone… and not coming back. And my dad? Well, after Mom left, he just sort of died too. Not physically, but in every other way—stopped
going to work, lost his job, slept most of the time, started drinking heavily. After three months of depression he decided
that raising a child by himself was more than he could handle, so he handed me over to my grandparents.


Dad pulled out of his tailspin a few years later. He never asked to take me back, though. In fact I rarely saw him. He became
the Bright family ghost, appearing unexpectedly to say “hi” and then disappearing again for a couple of years at a time.


Following where my mother had gone, Grandma Bright “left” just before I turned seven, so Grandpa and I had to learn to look
out for each other. Grandpa was a psychologist by trade, but his passion in life was music, and he shared everything he knew
about it with me as often as he could. When he wasn’t seeing patients and I wasn’t busy with schoolwork, we’d immerse ourselves
in all kinds of music. Sometimes we’d listen to the radio and he’d have me write down the lyrics that spoke to me the loudest. Other times
we’d learn about the classical masters and their contributions to musical history. But more often than not, we’d sit and play
the guitar.


Grandpa began teaching me how to play as soon as I moved in with him and Grandma. By the time I was ten I was pretty good,
and by the time I was thirteen, the student had become the teacher. Eventually I got my own guitar, though not as nice as
Karl, and together we would write songs and play music until the wee hours of the night. Those were the experiences that helped
mold and shape my dreams. It wasn’t until college that I set my sights on a particular career goal, but it was those late
nights playing music with Grandpa that convinced me my future was tied to the musical arts.


Although my childhood wasn’t perfect, it could have been worse. I survived, which is the important thing, but only thanks
to Grandpa. So naturally, Grandpa is the one who got the call when I spent myself into the poorhouse in Austria.


“You spent how much?” he asked after I explained my predicament.


I was on a pay phone, spending my last pocket change at a rate of two dollars per minute, so I had to speak quickly. “All
of it,” I repeated. “I’m really sorry. Can you just wire enough money to tide me over so I don’t starve? By then maybe I can
figure something out.”


I knew I was in trouble when Grandpa suddenly switched to his thoughtful psychologist voice. “I would, but I think this will
be a good growing opportunity for you. Here’s my advice. Use Karl. It won’t let you down.”


The automated female voice of the pay phone chimed in. “Noch eine Minute.” One minute left.


“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Why don’t you play the guitar for money? I’m sure tourists will appreciate music from a skilled street musician. At least
they did last time your grandmother and I visited.”


I’d seen grungy-looking musicians playing at various tourist locations all the time, sometimes to good-sized crowds, but I’d
always assumed those were just deadbeats trying to siphon liquor change from other people’s pockets. And the thought of doing
that myself? Well, it hadn’t yet occurred to me that I was a deadbeat. “Really?”


“Ethan, why do people visit Austria? Why did you go there? For music! It’s the heart of classical music in all the world. They want to hear music everywhere. I’m willing
to wager if they hear you play, they’ll pay. I would.”


“Dreissig Sekunden.” Thirty seconds.


“Seriously? Even in this cold weather, you think people will stop and throw money in the hat?”

“Isn’t it worth trying?”

“Yeah, but… what if you’re wrong?”

“What if I’m right?”

“This doesn’t sound like a very good plan. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just sent me a little cash to get me through New Year’s?”

“That would be easier. But the easy way isn’t always the best way. You got yourself into this mess, and I think it’ll do you some good
to get yourself out. If you want to stay in Austria badly enough, you’ll find a way to make it happen. If you don’t, call me back and I’ll arrange a flight back to
the States—which you can pay me back for.”


The phone beeped three times in my ear. I had just enough time to say, “Goodbye, Grandpa,” and then it clicked off.



The next day, following an afternoon practicum with a small ensemble at the university, I hauled Karl down to Stephansplatz,
an upscale pedestrian area surrounding St. Stephen’s Cathedral in the center of the city. I’d seen musicians there before
when it was warm outside, and I figured it was as good a place as any for a solo performance.


I laid a small piece of cardboard on the ground at the base of a building to protect my backside from the elements, then sat
down. Ignoring the butterflies in my stomach, I checked to make sure Karl was still properly tuned, then I propped the hard-shell
case open in front of me. It wasn’t a hat, but there was ample room in there for donations. Finally, with a few curious onlookers
already gathering, I closed my eyes and started to play.


I loved playing that guitar. I always had. Given its age, Karl wasn’t the most stunning instrument to look at. Its wood was
heavily worn, with nicks here and there from decades of use. But what really mattered was the sound, and in that it was a
masterpiece.


Whenever I held a guitar—plucking strings, pressing frets, making music—I entered my own little world, like a private sanctuary in my head. There, in the middle of Vienna, with strangers gawking and making breath-clouds in the chill
December air, it was no different.


Grandpa’s old guitar sounded as good as it ever had. Its nylon strings were perfectly suited to the classical selections I’d
chosen to play. I began with “Clair de Lune,” a piece by Claude Debussy that I’d learned when I was sixteen. I knew it backwards
and forwards. When I was done, I lifted my eyes to see the crowd’s reaction. Only… there wasn’t a crowd.


No money in the guitar case either.

The only person remaining was a man in his early twenties. His hands were shoved as deep as they would go in his pockets,
and he wore a thick, handwoven scarf around his neck. “Dat was wery güt,” he said with a heavy Austrian accent. “You are Amerikaner, ya?”


“How could you tell?”

He shrugged. “You look it. May I offer adwice?”

“Okay.”

“Do you know songs dat are more… eh… femiliare?”


“Familiar?”

“Ja. Und faster. Wit more zing.”


“Zing?”

“Zing.”

“Um… sure.” Mentally, I raced through the list of songs I’d prepared, but they were all as lethargic as the one I’d already
played. They were plenty difficult, but they lacked speed and intrigue, which probably meant no zing. Then my mind landed on one of the earliest neo-classical pieces I’d ever learned. “I got it,” I said. “ ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’
by Queen.”


He smiled with a nod. “Dat should do it.”


I blew into my hands to warm them up, and then started into the song. It was slow at first, but clean and crisp, with enough
notes to make it interesting. I kept my eyes up this time to better assess the response from pedestrians. Sure enough, when
they heard the familiar tune, people stopped to listen. And as the melody kicked in and the tempo flared, with notes flying
off my fingers like fiery darts, the crowd of onlookers grew.


And grew.

Some of them closed their eyes to focus on the sound. Others keyed in on my hands, obviously impressed with the speed of my
fingers along the neck of the guitar. A few mouthed the words. The man who’d offered his “adwice” was bobbing his head in
time with the music; he took several steps back to make sure he wasn’t distracting from the show. Before the song ended at
least five people stepped forward and dropped money in the case. When the last note sounded, another three lined up to reward
my efforts. I thanked them all with a courteous nod or smile.


“Vell,” said the man as the happy crowd moved on, “I tink you found your moneymaker.”

“I tink you may be right,” I replied. “Thank you.”


I didn’t count it right then, but I could see at a quick glance that there was at least two hundred fifty schillings in the
case, a mixture of coin and cash. Twenty-five dollars! From one song!

From that moment on, finances were no longer a problem. I certainly wasn’t swimming in dough, but neither was I destitute.
At least I had enough to buy food on a regular basis, pay for transportation around town, and I even had a little extra for an occasional show.


Several days a week, I would lug Karl onto the subway and ride around to various tourist sites in the city, mostly the same
places I’d frequented before going broke. I didn’t always have as much success as my first time on Stephansplatz. Sometimes
the cr. . .