3. Tess
Tess
I tighten my grip on my cello case as I approach the Morrison Center, the early morning light casting long shadows across the pavement.
This morning, I arrived fifteen minutes earlier than usual.
The Dvo?ák we're tackling today has a cello solo that's been living in my head for weeks.
I've practiced it until the notes have become part of my muscle memory, but there's still that tiny knot of doubt that never quite unravels no matter how prepared I am.
When I reach the main entrance, a white sheet of paper taped to the glass door halts me in my tracks. I squint at the handwritten note:
REHEARSAL CANCELLED TODAY
Due to power outage
We apologize for the inconvenience
I stare at the paper, reading it again. My stomach tightens. A power outage is plausible enough, but looking down the street I see other buildings have their lights on. Could it be that PacWest was unable to pay their power bill?
I take a step back from the door. The cold reality of my financial situation hits me over the head: mortgage due in two weeks, the vet bill for Oliver still unpaid, student loans that seem to multiply rather than diminish.
"Well, this is just perfect," comes a voice behind me. Lisa, our concertmaster, stands with her violin case slung over her shoulder, reading the note with a scowl. "Power outage, my ass."
"You don't believe it?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
Lisa gives me a look that tells me everything I need to know. “Randall in accounting told me they're struggling to make payroll."
More musicians are arriving now, gathering in clusters before the locked doors. The mood is somber, urgent whispers replacing the usual pre-rehearsal banter. I catch fragments of conversation:
"—heard they couldn't pay the heating bill last month?—"
"—donor pulled out after the gala?—"
"—looking at positions in Portland?—"
I clutch my cello case tighter, as if it might anchor me against the rising tide of panic. PacWest isn't just my employer; it's been my home for several years now. The thought of starting over somewhere new feels so overwhelming. Unless Seattle Symphony is looking to hire…
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text.
Beck: Rehearsal cancelled. Coffee at Emerald City? I'm already here.
Me: On my way.
As I turn to leave, I notice our administrator, Marion, approaching with keys in hand. Her face is drawn, dark circles prominent beneath her eyes.
"Marion," I say, "what's really going on here?"
She hesitates, jingling her keys nervously. "Just a power issue, Tess. Should be fixed by tomorrow."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As I walk away, I can't help looking back at the Morrison Center—its elegant facade now seeming as fragile as a stage set that could collapse with the gentlest push.
I pick up my pace, desperate for coffee and Beck's steady presence. Maybe she'll have more information, or at least a perspective that doesn't leave me feeling like I'm standing on the deck of a sinking ship, watching the lifeboats drift away.
Emerald City Coffee bustles with morning customers. I spot Beck in the corner, hunched over her phone, her viola case propped against the wall.
The coffee shop radiates warmth against the gray May morning, the rich aroma of freshly ground beans and steamed milk a stark contrast to the cold knot of anxiety in my chest. Exposed brick walls and reclaimed wood fixtures scream Pacific Northwest chic—the kind of place that charges six dollars for a latte and somehow makes you feel grateful for the privilege.
Beck notices me and raises her hand in a half-hearted wave. At forty-five, she's been with PacWest since its founding. Two coffee cups sit before her.
"Figured you'd need this," she says, sliding one toward me as I set my cello case down carefully. "Double shot. I had them add a pump of vanilla."
"You're a mind reader." I take a long sip, letting the warmth and caffeine calm my nerves. "So…power outage, huh?"
Beck's eyebrows arch up, her expression so transparently skeptical that I almost laugh despite myself. "Sure…and I'm secretly first chair at the Vienna Philharmonic."
"You think they couldn't pay the electric bill?" The words feel terrifyingly plausible at this point.
"I know they couldn't." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "Lowdin called me last night. The board meeting ran until midnight."
Beck continues. "They're three months behind on rent for the Morrison. Donor funding is down sixty percent from last year. Two major sponsors pulled out after that disaster of a gala."
The gala. I wince at the memory—half the soloists down with flu, the heating system not working correctly, wealthy patrons shivering in their formal wear while we struggled through Beethoven's Fifth with a decimated string section.
"But they can't just...close," I protest, aware that I sound naive. "PacWest has been around for decades. We're an institution."
Beck's laugh is hollow. "Institutions close all the time, Tess. Especially arts organizations running on fumes."
I stare down at my coffee, watching a wisp of steam curl up and dissipate. Just like my career. "How long do we have?"
"End of the summer, if we're lucky. They're trying to secure emergency funding, but..." She shrugs, the gesture carrying the weight of resignation. "Nobody wants to throw good money after bad."
"There must be something?—"
"Listen." Beck cuts me off. "I've lived through three orchestra closures in my career. The signs are always the same. First come the 'temporary' schedule adjustments. Then the delayed paychecks. Then the desperate fundraising campaigns. Then the bankruptcy filing."
I shake my head, unwilling to accept the finality in her voice. "We have concerts booked through the end of the year."
"I don’t know, Tess. It’s going to take a miracle at this point."
"And what about us? The musicians?" My voice rises slightly, drawing a glance from a nearby table. I lower it again. "Some of us have bills to pay, Beck. I have a horse and a mortgage and?—"
"I know." Her voice softens. "We all do. That's why I wanted to tell you now, give you a head start. Boston Symphony has a cello opening for next season. Applications close in three weeks."
The salaries at the Boston Symphony would solve all my financial woes in one stroke. But I've been too intimidated to apply, convinced I'm not quite good enough. Plus, I really don’t want to move.
"I don't know if I'm ready for?—"
"You are." Beck's certainty catches me off guard. "You're the best cellist PacWest has had in years, Tess. Everyone knows it. You've just been comfortable here, and comfort is..." She gestures vaguely. "Well, it's comfortable."
I trace the rim of my coffee cup with my finger, digesting her words. The thought of auditions and moving makes my insides twist, but the alternative—unemployment—is worse.
"I should have seen this coming," I murmur. "All the signs were there."
"Hope is a hell of a blindfold." Beck checks her watch. "Look, I've got to run—I’m taking a yoga class in Bellevue at eleven. But think about Boston. Seriously."
As she stands, gathering her things, a thought occurs to me. "What will you do? If PacWest closes?"
Beck pauses, her viola case halfway to her shoulder. "My sister runs a music store in Portland. She's been asking me to come manage it for years."
"You'd quit playing professionally?" The idea seems unfathomable.
Her smile is sad but not bitter. "I think I may be ready for something new."
I watch her leave, her shoulders slightly hunched against the spring chill as she pushes through the door.
Around me, people tap on laptops, chat with friends, go about their ordinary Wednesday as if my world isn't quietly imploding.
I pull out my phone, hesitate, then type "Boston Symphony audition requirements" into the search bar.
The results load, a daunting list of repertoire and dates staring back at me.
My fingers hover over the screen. I could apply. Should apply. But it’s all just too much right now.
I put my phone away and gather my things. Beck's words echo in my head: "Hope is a hell of a blindfold." Maybe it's time I took mine off.
Later that evening I walk into The Hideaway Bar, a welcome respite after my day of professional doom and gloom.
I spot Jane immediately. She waves me over, her warm smile immediately loosens the knot of tension between my shoulder blades.
Thank God she’s in town visiting her parents for a couple of days because I really need her right now.
For a moment, I can pretend that my career isn't potentially circling the drain, that I'm just meeting an old friend for drinks like any normal thirty-two-year-old woman without a looming unemployment crisis.
"Hi!" Jane stands to embrace me. "God, it's good to see you. You look..."
"Stressed? Panicked? One unexpected bill away from a complete nervous breakdown?" I offer, sliding into the booth across from her.
"I was going to say 'beautiful as always,' but clearly we need to get a drink in you immediately. Luckily, I’ve already ordered us a bottle of that Pinot Noir you like."
Jane has always helped me to get out of my own head.
While I spent my teenage years obsessively practicing cello, Jane was the one who'd drag me out for midnight snack raids and impromptu dance parties.
Now she's a successful couples therapist in Portland, married to a successful attorney, and has her life completely together in a way that makes me both proud and slightly envious.
“What’s going on, babe?” Jane asks.
"Everything," I groan, accepting the glass of wine the server sets before me. I take a generous sip before continuing. "Remember I told you about the funding issues at PacWest?"
Jane nods, her expression already sympathetic.