Page 1 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door (Stuck Together In Mermaid Shores)

Chapter One: Alina

“ D o you know why I asked to meet with you today, Ms. Sokolov?”

I’m trying really hard not to tremble with anxiety as I stare across the desk at Diana Crane, one of the managers of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Also known as one of the three Fates, à la classic Greek mythology. She determines whether I rise or fall in this career, and there’s very little I can do about it.

“Um,” is all I manage at first. Then, realizing that now is really not the time to sound like a speechless fool, I force myself to say, “No, I’m not sure.”

In fact, when I received the email asking me to meet with Diana in her office after rehearsal today, I immediately went through every possible reason for the unexpected meeting.

It couldn’t be a promotion, because I am way too young to be named the first chair violinist of the CSO. They wouldn’t put a mere thirty-year-old in a position of leadership like that, regardless of my alleged talent. You have to earn your stripes in a career like this, and even though first chair is my main goal, I know that it’s a long time coming. Plus, I respect Annalise—the current first chair violinist—too much to even think about unseating her at this stage in my career.

It couldn’t be a demotion, either, because that’s not really something that happens without good reason. And the fact of the matter is that I have never done anything wrong in all eight years of my time at the CSO. I don’t disrupt rehearsal with distracting behavior. I’m never late. My instrument is always perfectly tuned.

I don’t rock the boat. I don’t even think I would know how to do that.

Unfortunately, because I was so freaked out by what this meeting could possibly be about, I didn’t have a great rehearsal. I earned a few sideways glances from my coworkers in the string section, but none of my mistakes were dire. The conductor didn’t even seem to notice.

“Gerald spoke with me last week about you,” says Diana, entwining her long, graceful fingers and resting them on the desk. She’s a retired harpist, a certified legend not only at the CSO but in the world of classical music in general.

I try not to physically deflate at her words. Gerald Goldberg is the conductor. Which means that, even if he hasn’t yet had a chance to express criticism to Diana regarding my subpar performance today, he’s clearly noticed enough of something that it urged him to speak up.

Instinctively, I fold my hands together in my lap as if that will hide the obvious swelling in my fingers. There’s no way Goldberg has that sharp of an eye.

“I’d like to assure you that Gerald had no complaints about your musicality at all,” Diana continues. “Except—”

Here we go.

“—he’s noticed that you’ve been readjusting your posture in recent weeks during rehearsal, and upon describing it to me, it’s clear to both of us, given our combined expertise in string instruments, that you are experiencing some pain while playing. Is that true?”

It takes me a moment to unravel her words. She speaks in layers, clearly doing her best to sound diplomatic and authoritative at the same time.

“Pain? No, I’m fine.”

“I see. So, if I asked you to see our onsite physical therapist, they would confidently report back to me that there is no swelling, tingling, or pain in your hands right now?”

I swallow hard. There’s a very polite threat in her voice. I wouldn’t be surprised if Angelo, the company’s physical therapist, is standing right outside her door right now, waiting to call my bluff.

Either way, it’s probably in my best interest to tell the truth. To lie would be to challenge my superiors, experts who have been playing their instruments for longer than I’ve been alive. Not only would that be incredibly disrespectful, but it would also peg me as an undependable member of the symphony orchestra. It’d put my entire career at risk.

So, really, once I finish descending through that spiral of panic, I know what I have to do.

I sit up a little straighter, refusing to flinch at the persistent throbbing in my wrists. We just endured a three-hour rehearsal. My neck and shoulders are also aching, but I’m wise enough to know that it’s a normal soreness.

The pain in my hands isn’t normal, though. I’ve known that for a while now.

“I have been experiencing some slight discomfort in my wrist joints specifically, yes,” I admit.

Diana nods slowly. There’s no judgment in her gaze. In fact, her expression is almost impossible to read.

“When did you first start to notice this discomfort?”

I swallow hard. “About three months ago.”

“And it has been getting worse recently?”

I can’t bring myself to lie. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Ice and ibuprofen don’t seem to help?”

“No, ma’am.”

Again, she nods thoughtfully. Then, after a torturously long pause, she says, “You know, Ms. Sokolov, very early in my professional career, I injured a muscle in my left forearm from overuse. I did not even know such a thing was possible. I tried to deny the pain for many weeks, until it got to the point where I was risking the loss of my future as a harpist by continuing to ignore the pain.”

“That must have been very frustrating,” I offer.

“It was. I had to take three months off, then retrain for another two months before I was back to my optimal ability. Despite that, taking that rest saved my career.”

I don’t know what to say, so I simply nod. Hot, sickening dread is starting to boil in the pit of my stomach.

“I think you have a very promising career ahead of you, Ms. Sokolov,” Diana says. “I remember your audition. It was lovely.”

“Thank you.”

Diana Crane has sat through so many CSO auditions over the years that it’s hard for me to believe she truly remembers mine, which took place over eight years ago and lasted a grand total of ten minutes. I have a feeling that this flattery is about to come with a horrible punchline.

“Because of the faith that both Gerald and I have in your future at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, I’m afraid that I have been tasked with delivering a formal request that we suggest you take very seriously.”

Once more, all I can do is nod. My hands are shaking, and I grasp them more tightly even as my wrists begin to ache deep in my bones.

“Ms. Sokolov, we would like you to take the summer off.”

A weird rushing sound echoes in my head. I’m already sitting down, but my knees suddenly feel weak.

“What?” I breathe.

“For the sake of your health, and for the sake of the CSO’s full potential, we are requesting that rather than participating in our summer performance season, you take a medical leave and attend to whatever treatment is required for the pain you’re experiencing.”

For a few moments, all I can do is stare at the neatly arranged surface of her desk.

The orchestra will have a veritable legion of reserve violinists on call, meaning that it will be easy enough to temporarily replace me. Never mind that I’ve been preparing for the upcoming summer season, which starts in just three weeks, for the past two months.

Logically, I know that this isn’t the end of the world. One of our cellists took a medical leave last winter when he broke his collarbone while skiing. And the year before that, a flutist had to take an entire six months off due to ongoing headaches caused by intracranial pressure—a surprisingly common ailment for those who play wind instruments.

Injuries happen. Playing in an orchestra isn’t a sport, but we still use our bodies in ways that they weren’t quite designed for. Humans are fragile, after all.

But you’re supposed to be better than that , declares the little voice in the back of my mind that sounds an awful lot like my parents. You should be superhuman, Alina, especially after everything we’ve done to ensure your success.

I take a deep breath. There is no point in arguing. If one of the orchestra managers and my conductor have been discussing this, then it’s not really my choice to make.

“I understand, ma’am. Thank you for your kind words and advice.”

Diana sighs in relief. “You will take the rest?”

No. I can’t. Please don’t make me. I’m invincible, I swear. Just give me another chance to prove it.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take the summer off.”

***

“Can they even do that?” asks Karina on the other end of the line. “Like, you’re in a union. They can’t just kick you out like that!”

I flinch. “They didn’t kick me out, Karina. It’s a medical leave, and thanks to that union, I still get paid for the duration of it.”

There’s a brief pause, during which something loud clatters in the background. I imagine my cousin is probably puttering around the kitchen, dabbling in one of her many hobbies. Last week, it was candle-making. This week, I think she mentioned something about learning how to dry her own tea leaves.

“Have you seen a doctor yet?” she asks.

“No,” I grumble. “I don’t need to see a doctor. It’s no big deal.”

Even as I say it, I know I’m lying. I’ve got my phone resting on the coffee table in front of me, switched to speaker, because both of my hands are currently wrapped in ice packs.

“Hm,” Karina mutters. I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “Well, hey! I’ve got a great idea, now that you have the summer off!”

I drop my head back against the sofa cushions. “What?”

“Come stay in Mermaid Shores with me and Andy! We’ve got a spare room in the cottage and it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

Chewing on my bottom lip, I pause to consider it. Going to Cape Cod sounds a lot more pleasant than hanging around Chicago all summer. Especially since it’ll put me even further away from my parents and their impending disappointment back in Eugene.

Plus, it would be nice to see Karina again. She’s basically my only friend. Training to be a classical violinist from the age of five doesn’t leave much room for friendship. In school, I was the weird girl who knew more about Beethoven than Britney Spears. My parents were big on things like dedication and diligence , which meant that I didn’t have time to go to sleepovers or play sports or do any of the normal things that kids my age did. I didn’t even date until I was at Juilliard, and even since then, I’ve never had much room for romance in my life.

Karina is the complete opposite. Despite the fact that our moms are sisters, they’re extremely different. Karina had a normal childhood, and now she’s enjoying a normal adulthood. She has a normal job as a personal trainer and a normal husband with a normal job of his own. She also has perfectly normal social skills, a ton of normal friends, and a wonderfully normal relationship with her parents.

And yet, Karina has never treated me like I’m abnormal simply because my violin has practically been surgically attached to me for the majority of my life. I have a feeling she’s exactly the person who can help me get through what is sure to be a very long and demoralizing summer.

Still, I find myself protesting, “I don’t want to impose, Karina.”

“Nonsense! I insist you come. In fact, I’ll send someone to come and kidnap you if necessary.”

“Karina…”

“I’m not taking no for an answer. I’m literally logging on to kidnap-my-cousin-dot-com right now.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “Okay, fine. But what did you say this town is called again? Mermaid something?”

“Mermaid Shores!”

“Right. Okay. I guess I’ll… look up flights.”

In reply, Karina lets out an excited squeal that’s so loud I have to clamp an ice-pack-wrapped hand over my phone so that it doesn’t wake the neighbors.

***

“Here we are! Home sweet home for the summer!” Karina announces in a singsong voice as we pull into a smoothly paved driveway lined with stately pines.

A mere ten days after that fateful meeting with Diana Crane has found me in the passenger seat of the midsize SUV that Karina and her husband, Andy, just bought. Back in Chicago, the heat and humidity were already encroaching fast, but here on the coast of Massachusetts, the sea-scented breeze is fresh and cooling.

I’m trying really hard to look on the bright side of things.

I stare through the windshield at where I’ll be living out my exile from the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for the next couple months.

Although Karina described it as a cottage, it’s actually a majestic old colonial that’s been converted into a duplex. We’ll be sharing the front porch and the main entrance with another family, but at least it has private beach access. If I can’t perform this summer, at least I can wallow about it while laying in the warm brown sand.

Again, bright side.

“It’s cute,” I force myself to say. Really, the house is cute. I’m just having a hard time expressing positivity at the moment. Which, thankfully, my dear cousin understands.

Karina beams at me, her white-blonde hair pulled back in a messy braid.

“Come on. I’ll have Andy grab your bags.”

I nod, hauling myself out of the vehicle. There is one bag, however, that I don’t trust anyone else to handle but myself.

My violin case.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind. I know I’m supposed to be resting, and that the point of a medical leave is to do everything I can to get better, but surely there’s no harm in practicing every once in a while, right?

Because I don’t really know who I am if I’m not playing the violin on a regular basis.

I grab the instrument from the back seat and then turn to face the cottage. There’s a slight twinge in my wrist when I grip the handle of the case, but I know how to keep the pain out of my expression by now. Or rather, I thought I did. I guess I can only hope that Karina isn’t as observant as Diana and Goldberg.

With a resigned sigh, I follow after her skipping steps.