23. Tess
Tess
I tuck my sheet music into the leather folder, fingers trembling slightly as I smooth out a crease. My stomach flutters with a mixture of excitement and anxiety because in just a few hours, I'll be auditioning for the Seattle Symphony.
Charlie came through with this as promised. It’s the opportunity I desperately need as PacWest crumbles to pieces.
Art stretches on the kitchen counter, his tuxedo fur gleaming in the morning light. He eyes me with that knowing feline stare as I lean my cello against the refrigerator and straighten the music folders on the island.
The kitchen still smells faintly of garlic and sun-dried tomatoes from Charlie's cooking last night, a comforting reminder of his presence even though he left around midnight. With an early morning meeting for him, it made more sense for him to go home.
I pour myself a glass of water and swallow my prenatal vitamin, thinking about how my entire life has shifted in the span of just a few weeks.
From a fake relationship to real feelings to unexpected pregnancy to.
.. twins. And now, this audition that could determine whether I can continue supporting myself as a musician.
It materialized from a last minute call yesterday afternoon from the music director. He asked if there was any way I could come today for an audition and I answered immediately with a resounding yes.
"We're going to be okay," I tell Art, who blinks slowly in response. "If I nail this audition, we'll definitely be okay."
My phone chimes with a text from Charlie: Break a leg today. You're going to be brilliant. Call me the second you're done.
I smile, typing back: I will! Thanks again for setting this up.
His reply comes quickly: Don't thank me. This is all you. They need an amazing cellist, and that's exactly what you are.
His confidence in me feels both wonderful and terrifying. Until a few weeks ago, Charlie Astor was just Jane's ridiculously handsome brother who I'd known for years, but never spent a lot of time with. Now he's the father of my children.
Last night was different. After weeks of Charlie retreating into work, something had shifted. He arrived at six exactly, arms loaded with grocery bags, apology in his eyes.
"Time to whip up some dinner," he'd announced, setting down the bags and dropping his keys. "No phones. No work. Just us."
I'd sat at the kitchen island, watching him unpack ingredients with focused intensity. Chicken breasts, sun-dried tomatoes, heavy cream, garlic, fresh basil, penne pasta.
"This basil smells fantastic," I'd said, shoving my nose into the package.
"That’s the key to this dish. Fresh basil." He'd smiled, rolling up his sleeves. "The dried stuff just isn’t the same."
As he'd chopped and sautéed, moving through my kitchen with unexpected ease, he told me about Jane's phone call, about his realization that he'd been hiding in work instead of facing our new reality.
"I'm terrified, Tess," he'd admitted, stirring the simmering sauce. "I have no idea how to be a father. And twins..." He'd shaken his head, a rueful smile playing at his lips. "But maybe this is the universe’s way of making me refocus on what’s truly important."
"I'm scared too. I never imagined having one baby at this point, let alone two."
He'd nodded, adding cream to the pan. "But we're in this together, right?"
The question had hung between us, weighted with all its implications. Not just about the babies, but about us—this relationship that started as a convenient arrangement and transformed into something neither of us would have ever anticipated.
"Together," I'd agreed, the word feeling like a promise.
Over perfectly cooked penne with chicken and sun-dried tomato sauce we'd laughed so hard coming up with ridiculous baby names for twins.
"If they're boys, we could go with something classical," Charlie had suggested, refilling my water glass. "Wolfgang and Amadeus?"
I'd nearly choked on my pasta. "Yes! Or do you like Ludwig and Johann better?"
"Ooh, so tough to pick between those," he had said, slapping his thigh. “Or…we could go in a totally different direction. How about Cappuccino and Espresso? That will be perfect if they want to eventually take over Emerald City."
I'd thrown my napkin at him, laughing despite myself. "Now you're just being ridiculous."
"Okay, okay. What about Theodore and Frederick?"
"Better. But wouldn't they naturally become Teddy and Freddy? That's too cutesy."
"Teddy and Freddy Astor," he'd mused, and the casual assumption that the babies would have his last name had sent a strange flutter through me—not disagreement, just the realization of how many decisions lay ahead of us.
"What if they're girls?" I'd asked, twirling pasta around my fork.
"Coda and Cadenza," he'd suggested with a perfectly straight face.
"You've been googling music terms, haven't you?"
"Maybe."
We'd continued this way through dinner, tossing increasingly ridiculous names back and forth, and for a while, it had felt normal. Like we weren't struggling to figure out what we were to each other while simultaneously preparing for twins.
After dinner, curled on the couch, Charlie had grown serious again.
"I want to be there for you," he'd said, his hand finding mine. "For the babies. I can't promise I'll be perfect at it. I'll probably mess up a lot. But I'm in this, Tess. All the way."
I'd looked at him then and seen the determination in his eyes, mixed with vulnerability I'd rarely glimpsed before. In that moment, I'd believed him.
Now, with two hours until the biggest audition of my life, I pick up my bow, and run through a series of scales to warm up my fingers. The familiar routine calms me and everything else fades away.
Today, I have just one task: play my heart out for the Seattle Symphony and take home the prize.
My phone chimes again with another text from Charlie just as I’m walking out the door: They'd be fools not to hire you. But if for some reason they don’t, we'll figure something else out. I've got you.
I read the message twice, warmth spreading through my chest. Then I pick up my cello case and music folder, take a deep breath, and head for the door. Whatever happens at this audition, Charlie's right—we'll figure it out together.
The marble lobby of Benaroya Hall rises around me, all soaring ceilings and polished surfaces that reflect the morning light in glittering fragments. I've performed here before with PacWest, but walking through these doors as an auditioner feels different.
My cello case bumps gently against my leg as I check in with the receptionist, her crisp efficiency a sharp contrast to the churning in my stomach.
The weight of everything—the twins, Charlie, my crumbling career at PacWest—presses down on my shoulders, but I straighten my spine against it.
For the next thirty minutes, nothing exists but my cello and the music.
A young man in a Seattle Symphony polo shirt leads me down a corridor to a small practice room. "You'll warm up here," he says. "Someone will come get you when they're ready."
I nod, suddenly unable to form words. The practice room is familiar territory—windowless, sound-insulated, containing nothing but a chair, a music stand, and a small table.
I unpack my cello, my fingers moving through the ritual they've performed thousands of times: loosening the case latches, lifting out the instrument, securing the endpin, tightening the bow.
Twenty minutes later, another staff member appears. "They're ready for you, Ms. Whitlock."
I follow her down another hallway, my cello cradled against my side.
The audition room itself is warm and echoing, with honey-toned oak panels lining the walls and deep crimson seats rising in gentle tiers before a single music stand at center stage.
The acoustics in this room are legendary—designed to carry every nuance of sound to the furthest corner.
Five people sit in the third row—the audition panel. I recognize Maestro Cortez, the current music director, and a few other senior musicians. They watch me with polite, professional interest as I take the stage.
"Good morning, Ms. Whitlock," Maestro Cortez says. "Whenever you're ready."
I bow slightly, place my music on the stand, and position myself on the chair. I open my case at center stage, ease my endpin onto the polished wood, and settle the cello between my knees. My instrument feels alive against me, vibrating with potential.
I close my eyes for a moment, centering myself. When I open them, I begin with slow, deliberate scales that ripple through the high ceiling. The sound comes back to me, rounded and full, and something in my chest loosens. This is my element. This is what I know.
Without pause, I glide into my first piece—Bach's Suite No.
1 in G Major. My fingers find the strings with practiced precision, my bow arm steady and sure.
The Prelude flows from me, each note resonating crisply back from the walls.
I lose myself in the music, in the perfect mathematical precision of Bach.
I move through the required repertoire—a movement from Dvorak's Cello Concerto, a technically challenging contemporary piece that showcases range and versatility. My shoulders slide down in relief as I notice the panel exchange approving glances. One woman leans forward, her attention complete.
When I finish my final piece, there's a moment of perfect silence—that sacred space between the end of a performance and the beginning of the world again.
"Thank you, Ms. Whitlock," Maestro Cortez says, breaking the spell. "That was exceptional."
"Truly lovely," adds one of the musicians, a silver-haired man whose name escapes me.
"We'll be in touch very soon," Cortez continues. "There's a small reception in the Green Room if you'd like to join us after you've packed up."
I thank them, carefully return my cello to its case, and follow the signs to the Green Room, a flutter of hope in my chest. They liked it.
I know they did. I could see it in their faces, hear it in Cortez’s voice.
For the first time in weeks, I feel a sense of possibility—that maybe, just maybe, everything will work out.
The Green Room lives up to its name—walls painted a soothing sage, comfortable furniture arranged in conversational groupings, a small bar set up in one corner serving coffee, water, and what looks like champagne.
Several musicians and members of the board are already there, mingling with what must be other auditioners.
I accept a glass of water from a server and stand near the window, allowing myself a moment to breathe. It went well. Really well. I replay certain passages in my head, analyzing, but finding little to criticize in my performance.
"Ms. Whitlock."
I turn to find Maestro Cortez beside me, his expression warm. "Maestro. Thank you for the opportunity today."
"The pleasure was ours. Your Dvorak was particularly moving." He glances across the room. "I believe Barbara Carlton wants to meet you. She's a key supporter of our string section."
He gestures toward a woman across the room. She's petite and blonde with a sleek haircut. Dark-rimmed glasses perch on the high bridge of her nose, and her navy blazer stretches taut over sharp shoulders as she lifts a flute of champagne to her lips.
"Of course," I say, following Cortez across the room.
"Barbara, this is Tess Whitlock, our cellist from this morning," Rodriguez introduces me.
Barbara Carlton's handshake is cool and brief. "Such a lovely audition," she says, her voice honey sweet. "Though I can't help thinking it was Mr. Astor's generosity that got you here."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stare at her, momentarily speechless, as my cheeks heat with embarrassment and anger.
"I'm sorry?" I manage.
"Charlie Astor," she clarifies unnecessarily, her smile never wavering. "He's quite the advocate for the arts these days. Called in personally about your audition, I understand."
Around us, other people murmur and lean in, clearly interested in this bit of gossip. My jaw clamps shut, my fingers curling around my water glass as mortification washes over me.
"Ms. Whitlock's credentials speak for themselves," Cortez interjects, his tone firm. "Her position with PacWest?—"
"Yes, PacWest," Barbara interrupts, her smile sharpening. "Such a shame about their financial troubles. It must be a relief to have...connections."
The insinuation is clear: I didn't earn this audition. I'm here because my boyfriend pulled strings. That I've somehow slept my way into this opportunity.
"I've been principal cellist at PacWest for five years," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
"My resume and recordings were submitted through the standard channels.
" I pause, meeting her gaze directly. "But you're right that connections matter in our industry.
They always have. I'm fortunate to know people who recognize talent when they hear it. "
Barbara's eyebrows lift slightly, perhaps surprised by my directness. "Of course," she says, retreating slightly. "I only meant?—"
"If you'll excuse me," I interrupt, setting down my glass. "I need to collect my instrument."
I walk away before she can respond, my heart pounding in my chest.
I retrieve my cello case from the Green Room, gripping the handle tightly. I played well today—exceptionally well. I know it. The panel knew it. But Barbara Carlton's insinuation has tainted everything, cast a shadow over what should have been a triumph.
As I push through the lobby doors into the bright Seattle morning, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Charlie: How did it go?
I stare at the screen, emotions warring within me. Pride in my performance. Anger at Barbara's implication. Fear about my future.
I take a deep breath and type: Great! I’ll call you later.
I can’t get into it right now and I definitely don’t want to explain what happened on a text.
I slide my phone back into my pocket, walk to my truck, and when I get in I close my eyes against the sudden burn of tears. Whatever Barbara Carlton thinks, I know the truth: I played my heart out today.