25. Tess
Tess
M y bow glides across the strings, muscle memory taking over as I sink into the familiar embrace of Dvorak. The rehearsal space buzzes with focused energy, forty musicians playing as one despite the early hour.
My back aches slightly—a new pregnancy symptom I'm still adjusting to—but I straighten against it, refusing to surrender to the discomfort. Music has always been my sanctuary, the one place where everything else falls away, and I need that escape more than ever now.
We're halfway through the movement when Maestro Robertson lifts his baton, cutting us off. A ripple of confusion moves through the orchestra as we lower our instruments. Robertson rarely interrupts once we're in the flow.
"I apologize," he says, glancing around the room. "But we must stop here. I have an announcement that cannot wait."
My stomach tightens. Something in his voice tells me this isn't about technical corrections or tempo adjustments.
Madeline, our concertmaster, exchanges a look with me from her seat at the front of the violins. The worry etching her features only increases my unease.
"I have just come from a meeting with the board," Robertson continues, setting his baton down with deliberate care.
"As many of you know, our funding situation has been precarious.
We had hoped the spring fundraiser would bridge the gap, but.
.." He pauses, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"I regret to inform you that the board has voted to cut this season short.
Our final performance will be next month's Mozart program. "
The silence breaks into a chorus of gasps and murmurs. Next month? We had four more programs scheduled after Mozart—nearly three months of work, of pay, evaporating before our eyes.
"This is bullshit," someone hisses from the brass section.
"What about next season?" Madeline asks, her voice cutting through the rising chatter.
Robertson hesitates, and in that pause, I feel my future crumbling. "There will be a 'restructuring.' The board is determining what form that will take. I am pushing for answers, but..." His hands spread in a helpless gesture. "Nothing is certain."
My fingers tighten around my bow. Nothing is certain.
The words echo in my head, colliding with the reality of my situation—pregnant with twins, new relationship, audition results from Seattle Symphony still unknown.
I'd been counting on my salary from PacWest to carry me through at least the early months of pregnancy.
Now that security is gone, ripped away with a single announcement.
"We will make these final performances ones to remember," Diaz says, lifting his baton again.
We continue playing, but the magic is gone. Notes that moments ago flowed with passion now feel mechanical, dutiful.
My mind races with calculations—how long my savings will last, what other work I might find, whether I should call the Seattle Symphony for an update.
After rehearsal, musicians cluster in tight groups, voices low and faces grim. I pack my cello, trying to process what just happened.
"This is the third arts organization in the city to fold this year," says Evan, the principal violist, as he snaps his case shut. "It's a bloodbath out there."
"Do you think we’re actually folding?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"'Restructuring' is just a fancy way of saying 'we're firing most of you,'" Madeline joins in, her voice bitter. "They'll probably come back as a chamber orchestra—quarter of the size, half the season."
"What will you do?" I ask her, knowing she has two kids in college.
She shrugs, but the tension in her shoulders betrays her casual tone. "I've got a lead on a position in Portland. It's not ideal, but...What about you, Tess?" Madeline asks.
I shake my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I don’t know." I hadn’t told anyone here about my audition with Seattle Symphony.
"There are openings in Baltimore," Evan says, zipping up his jacket. "And I heard the Philadelphia Orchestra might have a spot."
"The East Coast isn't really an option for me right now," I say, avoiding his eyes as I shoulder my cello case.
No one here knows about the pregnancy yet—I've been waiting for the twelve-week mark before sharing the news—and I'm certainly not about to announce I'm having twins in the middle of this crisis.
Outside, rain pelts the sidewalk in angry bursts. I hunch my shoulders against the wind, my cello case bumping against my back as I make my way to the parking lot.
I get in the truck and check my phone for the tenth time today. Still no email or call from Seattle Symphony. It's been a week since my audition, and the silence is starting to feel ominous. What if Barbara Carlton's influence outweighs my performance? What if they've already filled the position?
Maybe I will have to. Maybe that's the reality I need to face. There are orchestras in Boston, in New York, in Chicago. Places where my Juilliard degree and PacWest experience would open doors.
But Charlie can't leave Seattle. His entire business is here—the headquarters, the roastery, his family. The thought of him moving to be with me is ridiculous.
When I get home, the first thing I do is check my email one more time. Still nothing. I throw my phone down on the couch, the desperation I've been fighting all morning finally breaking through.
I can't just sit around and wait for the phone to ring. I need a plan, a backup, something to hold onto before everything I've worked for crumbles.
After lunch, I’m attacking Bach's Cello Suite No.
3 with more force than the piece demands, as if I can drive away the morning's bad news through music.
Art watches from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching in what I choose to interpret as appreciation rather than criticism of my aggressive tempo.
My fingers find the notes automatically while my mind races through increasingly desperate financial calculations.
My savings account holds enough to cover about three months of expenses if I'm careful. After that? The thought makes my stomach clench tighly. I've always lived modestly, putting away what I could from my PacWest salary, but I never imagined preparing for twins on a suddenly nonexistent income.
I've just started the Bourrée when my phone vibrates against the coffee table. I lower my bow, irritated at the interruption, then freeze when I see the caller ID: Seattle Symphony.
My heart rate doubles instantly. I set my cello carefully against the couch and wipe my sweaty palms on my leggings before answering.
"Hello?" My voice comes out higher than I intend.
"Ms. Whitlock? This is Maestro Cortez from Seattle Symphony." His voice is warm, his slight accent wrapping around each syllable. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."
"Not at all," I say, watching Art jump down to investigate my abandoned cello. "It's good to hear from you."
"I'm calling with some news I hope you'll find exciting." He pauses, and I hold my breath. "We were very impressed with your audition last week. The panel was unanimous in their assessment of your talent."
A flutter of hope rises in my chest, but I temper it. There's always a "but" in these conversations.
"Thank you," I say cautiously.
"We'd like to offer you a position with the Seattle Symphony," he continues, and my knees actually buckle. I sink onto the couch, pressing the phone tighter to my ear. "It would be temporary to start—covering for Gloria Stewart during her maternity leave."
Maternity leave. The irony isn't lost on me.
"She's due in three weeks," Cortez explains, "and will be away for six months. During that time, you would assume her position as associate principal cellist. If things go well—and I have every confidence they will—there may be opportunities for a more permanent arrangement afterward."
I'm nodding vigorously before remembering he can't see me. "Yes," I say quickly. "I mean, I accept. Thank you so much for this opportunity."
"Excellent!" The pleasure in his voice sounds genuine. "HR will email you the details this afternoon. We'd like you to start rehearsals next week, if that works for your schedule."
"It's perfect timing, actually," I tell him, thinking of PacWest's sudden downward spiral.
We discuss a few more logistics before hanging up.
The moment the call ends, I let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, startling Art from his inspection of my bow.
Six months of guaranteed work with one of the best orchestras in the country.
Associate principal cellist, no less—a step up from my position at PacWest.
Relief floods through me. This morning I was facing unemployment; now I have a lifeline. The temporary nature of the position is a concern, but six months gives me time to prove myself, to secure something permanent. And the salary is nearly thirty percent more than what I made at PacWest.
I should be purely, unreservedly happy. But as the initial euphoria fades, a needle of doubt pricks at my bubble of joy. Barbara Carlton's insinuation from the audition day creeps back into my mind: You're only here because of Charlie Astor.
Did I get this job because I genuinely impressed them? Or because Charlie has connections throughout Seattle's elite circles?
I pace the length of my small living room, trying to shake off the thought.
Cortez said the panel was unanimous. He emphasized my talent specifically.
Would they really give a temporary associate principal position to someone who couldn't handle it, just as a favor to a donor? That would be professional suicide.
No. I stop pacing, planting my feet firmly on the hardwood floor.
I didn't get to where I am by doubting myself.
I graduated from Juilliard. I've performed as a soloist with orchestras across the country.
I earned my position at PacWest through a blind audition where no one knew my name or background.