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Now, I could hear my instructor’s voice in my mind.Play with your heartandyour head.
And tonight, I did.
As I drew my bow along the strings, I focused on the sound rising from the instrument, the vibrations grounding me, lulling me. My fingers caressed the fingerboard as I played, moving on their own accord, and I lost myself in the emotional, romantic journey the piece took me on.
“Méditation” was the perfect piece. Even though the piano was only an accompaniment, the richness of each of Aaron’s notes murmured like a smooth voice in the background, reminding me of his presence. This was a journey we traveled together, and even though I lost myself in the music, he disappeared right along with me.
I’d played with others before, plenty of times. Pianists, my instructor, and even other string players, however, there was nothing like performing with someone whose heart you longed to know. Even though Aaron’s accompaniment was delicate, to hear the voices of our instruments collide in such a beautiful, heady way was nothing short of magical. It wasn’t just his notes that I could hear, but his heart, beating in time with mine.
The piece was long, but I quickly found myself beginning the progression of the slow decrescendo, the touch of my bow becoming something tender along the strings. The full-bodied tone of the cello gave way to something more fragile, more intimate. My movements became slower, almost hesitant, as if the cello didn’t want to let me go.
And then—the final few notes. I drew them out, lingering like the breath I released just before we’d started playing. The sentiment that hummed from the strings was mournful, enduring, in a way that I could feel embedded beneath my skin. Aaron and I played the last note together, his disappearing beats before my bow finished stretching across the strings.
There’s always tomorrow.
The silence of the finale stretched, my body still humming with the residual melody, a familiar pressure weighing on my chest. It was the sense of peace and something unresolved—the way I’d always used to feel after performing. It’d been amazing, an exhausting rush of pouring myself into the composition, but I didn’t want it to be over. Like an addict, I wanted to start the intoxicating journey over from the top.
But I couldn’t. I never could. Before I had the chance to give into the desire, applause filled the air like a roar, startling me now as it did every time. I’d forgotten there’d been an audience before me, listening with bated breath, and it woke me up from the dream. Some people even stood up—Alfred and Mirabelle did.
I looked over to the seat on the right. Annalise was crying.
I turned in my chair to find Aaron, where he sat now with his hands in his lap, focus solely on me. His expression was nothing short of awestruck, as if he, too, had been in the audience watching, rather than playing with me. I wanted to rush to him, to throw my arms around him and melt into him, just as our music had melted together moments before. I wanted to kiss him in front of everyone, uncaring of the scandalized gasps—uncaring about anything but him.
Mere weeks ago, everything had been different. Ugly and heavy and dull, with no light or sound. My soul had fallen dormant from years of being stored in a box, neglected and ignored.
Aaron Astor had taken one look at me and saw it. He drew the box out of the shadows, brushed off the dust, and wrenched it open.
He sawme.
And I saw him. I’d have done anything for him in that moment—even marry him.
“What a breathtaking first performance of the night!” It was Mrs. Holland this time exclaiming into the microphone, overlapping the applause that had yet to fall quiet. “It was a beautiful way to kick off the final goodbye, wasn’t it?”
I turned toward the front of the stage, facing her as she walked to its center, almost directly in front of me.Final goodbye.I wasn’t the only one confused, because when I looked at the crowd, a few people looked at each other. But some also had on smug smiles—The Wallets.
Even before she went on, my stomach dropped.
“A spoiler for the evening, I suppose,” Mrs. Holland went on, pressing a hand to her lips, but not bothering to fully hide her smile. Mrs. Conan stood at her side, watching on with an almost sour expression—as if she wanted to be the one to confess it all. “After careful discussions and negotiations, the wonderful Rhythms of Hope charity has agreed to sell the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club to its current board of directors.”
The cello slipped a little against my breastbone as my shoulders slouched, her words hitting me like a blow.No. I searched the crowd again, but I had no idea who was a Rhythms of Hope board member and who was just a face in the crowd. For some reason, even though the crowd hadn’t shifted, I couldn’t find Alfred and Mirabelle.
Mrs. Holland passed off the microphone to Mrs. Conan. “Alderton-Du Ponte is so grateful to the charity’s generosity, and we’ve decided, as a club, to donate a percentage of our yearly revenue to its organization.” She laid a hand over her heart. “It’s a beautiful relationship we’re eager to continue for years to come!”
The audience applauded again, but this time, the sound was near deafening in my ears. They’d done it. The board of directors bought out the charity. Was it the amount of money they offered, or the threats The Wallets had up their sleeve? Whatever the decision, they’d caved.
It was at that moment that I remembered the man who sat at the piano behind me, the one who’d arrived to town on behalf of Rhythms of Hope themselves.
With a firm grasp on the cello neck, I rose from my seat, unable to sit on the stage while everyone applauded its demise. Not when I’d just poured my heart out on it. Not when I could still feel my notes in my aching fingertips.
“Lovisa,” Aaron called after me, abandoning the piano and coming up to my side. “I know you’re upset.”
I said nothing as I opened the cello case, placing the instrument inside. I slid the bow into its holder, slipping the rock stop into one of the pockets. After everything was secured, I closed the hard case’s lid, going to work on snapping all the clasps shut.
“It was onlyjustfinalized yesterday afternoon,” he went on. “They’d been deliberating all week, but?—”
“Tell me the truth.” After snapping the last lock at the bottom, I rose to my full height, looking up at Aaron. We were in the shadows of the stage, nearly the same place we’d stood before, hiding from The Wallets. “Were they always planning to sell? Just waiting to see if they could milk more out of this place?”
“The charity called me out for risk management,” Aaron said, and it was like the words were pulled out of them against his will, choppy and stilted. “Because of my experience in strategic planning. They wanted my professional opinion on whether or not the theater was worth… the trouble.”