Chapter 21 Chryssy
Chapter 21
CHRYSSY
V in’s parents are tending to the chickens when we arrive at their house in Franklin, Tennessee. Vin, Leo, and I deposit our luggage and their cellos in the entryway and head outside to say hello.
When Vin asked me to come home with him after our mushroom excursion, I couldn’t not meet the star-crossed violinists, no matter how serious this trip felt. It took a year and a half for me to meet Chris’s parents. This is a big step. Too big, I worry, and during our ingredient search. While we’re gone, my aunties will collect the remaining ingredients and reach out to their contacts. In a few days, we’ll hopefully have everything we need.
I take a deep breath, noting how different the air smells here than on the island. The tree leaves are practically neon green, and the sea of grass is just as bright. Vin’s parents’ eggshell-white farmhouse sits on thirty-three acres of mostly wooded land with a barn and guesthouse out past the pool. I like to imagine his parents sitting on their wraparound porch watching the trees change color, shed their leaves, and grow them back.
By the sound of it, they live a much more peaceful existence now than they did when Vin was a kid. Between practice schedules and moving around the country to work with the best instructors to touring globally, they all lived nonstop lives.
“This place is incredible,” I say as we cross over grass to a fenced-off area behind the barn. “I thought you grew up in the San Gabriel Valley.”
“That’s where I was born. We moved around a lot, and our house looked nothing like this. We mostly lived in apartments,” Vin says.
“When you both played cello?” I ask. “Did your neighbors hate you?”
He huffs a laugh. “There was one grump, Mr. Mack, but the rest were nothing but encouraging.”
“I like to think Mr. Mack made us better,” Leo says.
Vin nods in agreement. “He was our first critic. The first of many.”
“And now this,” I say, waving toward the house. “It’s a place you’d see in the magazines.”
“We wanted to buy our parents their dream house once we had the money to,” he explains. “I thought they’d go for something on the coast. A Nantucket cottage or a California beach house.”
“Happy medium by landing on a farm in Tennessee?” I ask.
“Something like that. Dad wanted land and Mom wanted chickens,” Vin says. “She had this vision of sipping cocktails with her hens and gossiping about neighbors.”
We approach the chicken coop, which is a small replica of the main farmhouse, complete with two stories, a wraparound porch, and a small pool.
Vin’s mom is crouched down talking to a hen in the screened-in outdoor area, the ends of her wavy, light brown hair peeking out from under a sun hat.
His dad notices us right away and leans his broom against the porch beam. “Bella, the kids are here!” he shouts.
There are hugs and introductions between me and Vin’s parents, and me and the chickens. Vin’s careful to avoid adding labels, and his mom tells me to call them Isabella and William.
I hold out a package. “This is for you and William,” I say to Isabella. “Happy thirty-five years!”
Isabella tears open the packaging, revealing a needlepoint pillow I powered through as soon as Vin told me about their love story on the clamming trip. I didn’t know I’d get to give it to them myself.
“Thirty-five music notes,” Isabella observes, looking delighted.
“For your love song,” I say, stealing a glance at Vin.
“It’s wonderful. Thank you, honey,” she says, as William nods to me appreciatively. A chicken with deep red feathers and a bright cherry comb and wattles nudges my calf. “That’s Lucy. And over there is Ethel.” A chicken with all-white plumage bob-walks toward us.
William claps Vin’s and Leo’s shoulders at the same time. “It’s so nice to have you both here,” he says. “Thanks for fitting us into your busy schedules.”
“Of course we’d come,” Vin says. “This is a big celebration.”
“Thirty-five years is a long time,” Leo says.
William looks at the ground and nods. “Sure is.”
“Glad you could fit us in before the tour,” Isabella says. “How long is this one?”
“Six months,” Vin says, glancing over at me.
“Wow. That’s a long time.” I press my lips together.
“Will you be joining him on a few of the stops?” Isabella asks me.
My eyes meet Vin’s. “I’d like to. I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it,” I admit. “I’ve never been outside the country, but I’ve heard Paris is romantic.”
“You must,” Isabella says. “They scored the Louvre as a venue.”
“Another recent win,” Vin says.
“We’re flying in for the Acropolis,” William says, whistling. “Can you imagine playing in that venue, Bella?”
“Only in my dreams,” Isabella says.
“Can’t wait to live out of hotels again,” Leo mumbles.
Isabella glances between her sons. “Let’s get you all something to drink. Lemonade? Arnold Palmer?”
I say goodbye to my new chicken friends through the fence as my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Auntie Violet: We may have a lead. There’s a rare bookstore owner who apparently knows Old Chinese. Setting up a meeting for when you’re back.
I respond with a thumbs-up, and follow Vin and his family into the kitchen.
As I step into the room, I freeze in place. The kitchen is three times the size of the Wildflower Inn’s, with robin’s-egg-blue cabinets lining the walls. The island in the center is the size of two large dining tables and topped with black granite to serve as a clean contrast to the exposed ceiling beams and distressed brick wall.
“Is that a La Cornue?” I ask when I spot the French range. “It’s in the ocean color, too.”
“The boys got that for us for our wedding anniversary last year,” William says. “They couldn’t be here in person to celebrate, so we got a very fancy gift.”
I take it all in. “Wow. You know how some people’s guilty pleasures are looking at expensive homes on Zillow and fantasizing about other lives? That’s me with kitchens,” I admit.
Isabella and William laugh. “Then I think you’d appreciate this,” Isabella says, opening a kitchen cabinet to reveal an entryway to another room.
“Pantry?” I guess.
Isabella smiles. “Cookbook library. Wait until you see the rest of the house. Vin, give her a tour while I make drinks,” she instructs. “Leo, could you throw together a cheeseboard?”
“The only thing I can guarantee you is that it will look thrown together,” Leo says, loading a variety of paper-wrapped cheeses into his arms. “How many guests are coming?”
“None this year,” Isabella responds, lifting a shoulder in response to Vin and Leo’s confusion.
“Isn’t the party tomorrow?” Vin asks. “Everyone usually comes in the day before. I expected a full house and was ready to disassociate when Aunt Gina made her usual song requests like we’re an instrumental jukebox.”
“You can disassociate later. Your father and I decided we wanted to do something a little different this year,” Isabella says, securing grapes from a basket. “Nothing big or flashy.”
Vin frowns. “But you live for big and flashy. Don’t you want to celebrate?”
“We’ll still be celebrating, just on a smaller scale,” William assures him.
Isabella plucks a grape off the vine and eats it. “Especially because I’ve won the lottery.”
“Finally,” Leo says. He cuts into a hunk of blue cheese. “You’ve been wanting to win for years.”
“Took long enough, right?” Isabella says with a shake of her head.
I gasp. “Are you serious? Congratulations!”
Isabella laughs. “Oh, honey, sorry. Not the lottery lottery. The lottery for vehicle passes for the synchronous fireflies! We’re driving out to the Smokies tomorrow night.”
“It’s a whole thing,” Vin says.
Isabella waves him off. “Every summer, this rare species of synchronous fireflies flash in unison. It’s supposed to be transcendent. Life-changing, even. The only way in is by winning a spot through their lottery system. Every year we’re unsuccessful.”
“Until now. Congrats,” Vin says.
Isabella does a little celebratory dance. “We can take a carload of people,” she says. “You’re all coming, right?”
I nod excitedly. “I must see this.”
“Mom even had her convertible VW Beetle painted gold for good luck,” Vin says. “She calls it her Firefly.”
“Affectionately,” Isabella says with a knowing shrug. “And you all laugh, but it worked!”
“We can’t all fit in the Firefly,” Leo says. “You four go. I’m happy to stay behind. It’s too romantic. I can’t handle that shit right now.”
“If you’re staying here, you want to take a look at that contract?” Vin asks.
“Dammit, Vin,” Leo snaps. He tosses the rounded cheese knife down on the counter. “I’ll look at it when I look at it. I don’t need you hounding me every second of my life about it.”
Vin’s eyes become steely. “We can’t talk about it until you review it. We need to get back to the label.”
“They can wait,” Leo says, storming out of the kitchen. “So can you.”
“Don’t talk to me again until you’ve read it,” Vin calls after him.
Sudden silence falls on the room, and I’ll say anything to break it. I link arms with Vin, my brows furrowed. “So tonight. It’s romantic?” I ask.
Isabella offers me a small smile as she takes over the cheese plate responsibilities.
Vin tears his eyes from the door Leo slammed behind him. “If you find beetles, bug bites, and crowds romantic,” he mumbles.
“Perfect. Count me in,” I say.
“I’ll show you around,” Vin says, clearly wanting out of here.
We start on the second floor and wind our way through the upstairs halls as he points out the various rooms and their uses. There are five bedrooms and seven thousand square feet, so each room is spacious. I’m talking mostly to myself about all the herb and flower themes the rooms could be decorated in, probably overdoing my oooh s and aww s as I peer into each room.
I peek into an end room as Vin makes a U-turn and heads back down the long hallway. “Oops. Is that your parents’ room? I didn’t mean to look,” I say.
Vin shakes his head. “They sleep downstairs,” he says, retracing his steps and following me into the space. The room feels used, the bed haphazardly made, a novel with a bookmark tucked in at the halfway mark on the nightstand. Reading glasses are folded up next to the lamp. A second nightstand, which would typically be on the other side of the bed, is noticeably absent. A navy robe hangs on the back of a chair.
“Guests, probably,” Vin mutters. Feeling like I’ve walked in on a private moment, I quickly exit the room.
I follow Vin downstairs, commenting on the beautiful furniture choices. My aunties would love it, too.
“Mom designed it,” Vin says absentmindedly.
On the first floor, we breeze past the living room, the non-cookbook library, and a practice room for when Vin and Leo visit.
“What’s all this?” I ask, poking my head into the practice room.
“There shouldn’t be anything in there,” Vin says, confused. Pushed up against the couch are boxes, sheet music overloading music stands, and cellos of varying sizes out on display. “I haven’t seen all of these things together in… ever.”
He looks uneasy at being unexpectedly thrown into and confronted by his past.
“It’s a Chao Brothers Museum,” I say, scanning the items on display. “They’re bigger than I imagined you playing as a child.”
“That one’s from my tween years. We rented cellos as kids,” Vin says, spinning slowly, looking at everything one by one. “They can be expensive instruments.” He nods toward the one in front of me. “That’s the one I played at thirteen. We had just come back from an event in Prague, and a wealthy benefactor who had enjoyed our performance gifted us our own cellos. First time I ever owned one.”
I nod slowly. “I thought that kind of thing only happened in classic literature. At thirteen I was color-coordinating my braces to holidays, badly belting ‘Uptown Girl,’ and memorizing the anatomy of the heart.” I playfully nudge Vin. “We’re not so different, you and I.”
Vin smiles, the crease between his brows softening. “What’s with Billy Joel?” he asks.
I lift a bow and pretend to play. “My dad loves his music. We’d always listen to it when he’d teach me how to cook. After my parents’ divorce, it was a relief to have something tangible to focus on: food and Billy. If I followed a recipe, the meal would turn out the way it was supposed to. When I listened to his songs, I could count on the same notes, the same lyrics.”
“It’s your comfort music.”
“I’m an artichoke and Billy Joel girl, what can I say?” I set the bow down, eager to see what else there is. I continue exploring, plucking a string a little too hard. A low hum echoes across the room before I press my hand against the cello’s neck and the noise cuts off. The vibration of the string tickles my palm.
My lips curve. “Oops.”
“Miss, there’s no touching allowed,” Vin says mock-sternly, his demeanor relaxing.
I slowly run my finger down another string. “I thought this was an interactive museum. Are you going to kick me out?”
Vin draws closer. “Keep it up, and I just might have to.”
I hold both arms up. “I’ll keep my hands to myself then.”
“That’s not allowed, either.” Vin pulls me closer to him. Like the instruments and sheet music around us, we’re frozen in this moment, our faces inches apart. “I know I sprang this weekend on you,” he says as my heart ditches its steady beat for something more sporadic. “But I’m really glad you’re here.”
“It’s only fair. You’ve met most of the Hua women,” I say, running my palm over his chest. “I’m happy to be here, too. I want to know all of you. And I needed to meet the people behind one of the best meet-cutes I’ve ever heard.”
“What happened to happy endings being a lie?” he asks.
“Maybe not everything has to be tragic,” I say, though there’s skepticism layered into my tone.
“I think they like you already,” Vin says. “My mom’s very protective of her chickens.”
“She’s never showed any of your other girlfriends?”
Vin raises an eyebrow. “I couldn’t say. I’ve never introduced anyone to my parents before.”
A sort of dizziness takes over. The kind that feels like the flip-flopping-stomach type of excitement of something… new? Nerve-racking? Real?
“These instruments have been more places than I have,” I say, focusing on a more solid topic of conversation. “You know, for someone who never takes vacations, you’ve really been around the world.”
“I’ve seen the inside of many concert halls in the world, yes,” he corrects.
“What’s it like when you’re on tour?” I ask, my voice filled with more concern than I expect. “Will we see each other at all?”
Vin takes a deep breath in. “If I’m honest, it’ll be new territory for me. I’ve never had a—never had someone while on tour.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say. The future is looking more and more like a big question mark.
Vin nods. “It’ll take some getting used to.” He runs his long fingers across the strings of a taller cello. He cringes when the untuned notes come out all wrong. “I played this one from fifteen on after an unexpected growth spurt.”
I study Vin’s face as his eyes follow the notes on sheet music.
“What?” he asks.
The cellos of varying sizes suddenly look like measuring sticks of Vin’s life, capturing the accomplishments and the growing pains. “Is it hard for you to see all this?” I ask.
“Everything in this room is a reminder of the hours of practice, the years of sacrifice,” he says. “These weren’t just instruments to me. They were one-way tickets to somewhere.”
I hear what he doesn’t say: the loss of a childhood, but the gaining of a bright future.
“It’s like nothing, and everything, has changed,” he whispers.
I give him a curious look. “What’s changed?”
Vin lets out a one-syllable laugh. “I used to love playing. Not that I don’t now. I just had the most fun doing it. The idea of it ever being a job never crossed my mind. Those dreams formed when I started getting paid to perform. I could play cello and make money for it? It sounded too good to be true.”
I reflect on this as I take in the cellos that hold the memories of Vin’s youth. In the span of seconds, I imagine what they must look like: the cello from the footage of him playing for the president. The cello he broke a string on midcompetition, also captured on camera. The one that broke his nose. I don’t know which cello it is, but I’m sure it’s in here somewhere. It’s a garden of cellos, the instruments telling the story of Vin’s life in a visual way.
The crease between Vin’s brows is back. “But where are the other things? Where are the horribly drawn paintings? The baseballs? The snot-covered stuffed animals?” he asks.
My shoulders drop, feeling the weight of what Vin is saying.
He sits down on a trunk I imagine is filled with stacks of sheet music. Maybe old bows. Perhaps more black button-ups.
“Even though it took everything, it also gave everything.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Vin takes a loaded pause before asking, “What if my best years are behind me, but they’re lost to time?” His eyes lock with mine, and I see more than just the worry that coats his voice. There’s also panic.
I rest my hand on his shoulder. “You could not want to change a thing about your past but also want parts to be different. Both can be true.”
His gaze falls on enough cellos for a small music shop behind me. “What I can say is at least the gains were worth it,” he says, pushing his hand through his hair before standing. “Gains allow you to buy fancy stoves for your parents.”
“It is a nice stove,” I agree softly, stepping back a little too far. I bump into a stand and send sheet music flying. The sound of metal clanging brings us back to the moment, and the tension floats down to the ground along with the pages.
“Hope you didn’t need those,” I joke.
A flicker of a smile breaks through Vin’s stormy expression, lighting up the entire room.
“Nope,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “Just this.”
I stand on my tiptoes to reach all the way around his shoulders as I return his hug.
We’re surrounded by Vin’s past, and I don’t know where I fit into this picture on a grander scale, but I safekeep this moment just for me. Store it away like my own version of a one-way ticket, but with an unknown destination. Wherever it takes us, I can’t help but disagree with Vin.
I think it only gets better from here.