Chapter 20 Missy #2
Even if it changes everything.
“Missy!” Jules’ smile is genuine, if distracted as he shuffles through the papers. “Perfect timing. I’ve been working on the third movement, and I think if we adjust the tempo—”
“I’m not signing the contract.”
The words fall between us like a bowling ball crashing into a piano, all clanking chords and splintering wood. Jules’ hands still over the sheet music, his shoulders tensing in his perfectly tailored jacket.
“I don’t understand.” His brow furrows. “If it’s about the timing, we can be flexible. I know I showed up unexpectedly—”
“It’s not that.” I set the contract on a stand, careful not to disturb his organized chaos of papers. “I’ve been unfair to you, Jules. While I’ll finish recording this album, I know I didn’t contribute my share. We should renegotiate your percentage—”
“Absolutely not.” He straightens until he’s his usual elegant lines and practiced poise. “You inspired half of these pieces and gave suggestions that perfected the other half. The way you interpret music, how you—”
“Please.” My voice catches. “Let me finish.”
Something in my tone makes him pause. Maybe he hears the difference in my voice.
I’ve been glad to go with his flow for years.
But somehow I discovered a turn in the river—stumbled over him and sneezed in his face, to be specific.
And maybe I didn’t know my truth yet. But I was figuring it out, and I knew, at least, that it didn’t follow Jules’ path.
“This isn’t right for me anymore.” I run my fingers over Giuseppe’s case, drawing strength from its familiar texture. “Even if it was my dream. It turns out what I actually want is… different.”
Jules looks like I just told him he’d have to buy his next performance suit off the rack. “What exactly are you planning to do?”
“I don’t know.” A laugh bubbles up, surprising me by the lightness of it. “Wait tables if I have to.”
“You—Margaret Sinclair—are going to wait tables?”
I laugh. “You know I wasn’t always Margaret Sinclair. I was once a kid with a hand-me-down cello and brown bag lunches.”
“You’re giving up music?” I’ve never seen Jules so distraught. He looks like I just told him I’d become a queen and my first decree was burning all string instruments.
“No, never. I’m going to play music that matters to me now, though.”
“And what music is that?”
The question hangs in the air like a held breath. Instead of answering, I open Giuseppe’s case. The familiar ritual of preparation—positioning, tightening the bow, checking the strings—steadies my hands.
“Let me show you.”
I close my eyes and let myself remember—starlight through lighthouse windows, Dean’s guitar weaving with my melody, magic humming in the air between the notes.
The music flows through me, raw and honest and imperfect.
Every measure carries the weight of recent tears in Alex’s kitchen, the fierce joy of rediscovering myself, the ache of letting Dean go.
I pour it all into the strings—the storm of losing him, the fear of an unmapped future, everything.
When the final note fades, I open my eyes to find Jules watching me, tears tracking silently down his cheeks. For perhaps the first time since I’ve known him, he seems completely lost for words. Then he breaks into applause—not his usual measured appreciation, but wild, genuine enthusiasm.
“Mon Dieu, Missy.” He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his eyes. “That was… I don’t have words. You have to record your own album. This differs completely from our classical work, but—” His arms gesture wildly. “I’ll pitch it myself. Handle all the details—”
“Jules.” I carefully lay Giuseppe in his case. “Truly, I meant what I said. I don’t want to tour anymore.”
“You don’t have to.” He crosses to me, takes my hand in his.
“But this...” He gestures to the cello. “This is real. This is music. It’s what we spend our whole lives chasing.
” He swallows. “And you found it.” A rueful laugh spills from him.
“On some provincial island without a proper cup of coffee to be found anywhere.”
“But there’s really good pie here.”
He stares at me for a moment, then bursts into a laugh. “I can concede. The pie is excellent.” He gives my fingers a soft squeeze. “You’ve found something here, haven’t you? Something beyond music.”
I think of Dean’s constellations, of magic shimmering in autumn air, of playing just for the joy of it. Of his dark eyes and strong arms. “Something including music,” I correct gently. “But yes.”
Jules releases my hands and steps back then adjusts his cuffs. “Well, then.” His smile is smaller now, but free of any subterfuge. “I suppose, if you’re serious…”
I nod. “I am. But I worry about your career. I didn’t mean to–”
He waves my protests away. “I’ll be fine, Missy. I’ll have to find a new cellist. Though I doubt anyone will inspire quite the same level of compositions.”
“You’ll write different ones.” I graze my fingers across Giuseppe’s strings. “Maybe even better ones.”
He chuckles. “Perhaps.” Then, more seriously, he says, “But you’ll think about doing a solo album? When you’re ready?”
“When I’m ready.”
Jules sighs, then smiles and turns toward his violin case and readies the instrument. For the first time since Jules arrived, the silence between us feels comfortable—like the rest between movements, necessary and right.