Chapter Five
Her feet were light on the stairs as she raced down the steps from the subway and sprinted through the familiar streets of Queens. The train she had just jumped out of screeched above her, gears grinding against the rails as music in Spanish blasted from the speakers at every storefront.
With her violin case swinging dangerously from her fingertips, she flew by her favorite food carts and the shops with comically top-heavy mannequins and rounded the corner to a building with a worn sign that read Mabel’s Music Shop. The bell sounded above the door, and the smell of record covers and inspiration hit her full in the face.
Mabel was behind the counter, standing on the little four-inch step Gwen knew she used. Her pale copper arms were crossed over her wide chest, and she was frowning at a Park Avenue Princess, who looked like she very much resented the fact that she’d ended up in Queens today.
“My daughter’s music teacher told me this was the only place in New York I could trust with her violin, so I’m just trying to understand”—the woman pinched the bridge of her nose— “you’re saying you can’t get this done by the twenty-first?”
“No,” Mabel barked. “I’m saying that the store policy requires at least a week for repairs—”
“It’s not a repair. It just needs to be restrung for her concert on the twenty-first.”
Mabel stared her down, plum lips still parted from before the interruption. “Like I was about to say to you, a week for repairs and restrings.”
Gwen smiled to herself and flipped through the new CDs and records at the front. It was always such fun to watch Mabel deal with difficult customers.
“Okay,” the woman’s voice grated. “So, if her concert is on the twenty-first…”
“You should have brought this in on the fourteenth,” Mabel said drily.
The princess huffed. “So, what’s your rush order policy?”
“Double,” Mabel said without missing a beat. Gwen bit back her smile.
“You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
The woman sighed and popped her hip, as if waiting for Mabel to change her mind. “Well, fine. Just—have it done on the twenty-first and delivered to this address—”
“We don’t deliver.”
Gwen hid her laugh behind a cough and stepped inside one of the practice rooms to keep from drawing attention to herself. She breathed in the heavy, stagnant air that was so familiar to her. This was the exact room where she’d picked up a violin for the first time.
She ran her fingers over the crooked metal music stand in the center of the room, remembering how she used to skip middle school to ride the 7 train back to the apartment her mother had raised her in. Moving out to Flushing, changing school districts, and getting used to her grandfather’s humor and grief over his daughter had been a culture shock, to say the least. Gwen would spend school days walking through the streets of Queens, looking for places she and her mother had visited.
When she was eight, her mother had stopped on the sidewalk and pointed at a record in the window of a small music shop. She wished she remembered what record it was, but by the time she had found the store window again, three years later and without her, the records had changed. Gwen had slipped inside the shop and stared at the walls lined with instruments she couldn’t name. After an hour she’d memorized them all.
A short Puerto Rican woman stepped in her path as she tried to learn the differences between clarinets and oboes and said, “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“My dad works across the street,” Gwen had lied. “I’m just waiting for him.”
She’d given a humph and moved back to the counter, watching Gwen with eagle eyes.
When Gwen came back a week later, the owner followed Gwen around the store with crossed arms. So, eventually, Gwen started asking her questions. She answered every one of them, brusquely at first, then slowly softening after a few weeks as Gwen proved she was memorizing things.
“Why don’t you sell second violins?” Gwen asked one Saturday.
The shop owner threw her head back and laughed. She took Gwen to the counter and opened an album cover with pictures of a live orchestra, showing her that first and second violins were the same instrument, just different positions in an ensemble. She pulled out the sheet music for a symphony score and taught her which line was which and how they came together to harmonize. Gwen’s eyes tracked the notes, not quite understanding the language, but seeing how the instruments talked to each other. She spent the rest of the day sitting on the ground behind the counter, reading the score like a good book.
Gwen was there twice a week, listening to the lessons in the practice rooms, wincing at a new trumpet player’s scales and dozing to a good violin solo. Eventually, the shop owner turned to her at closing time and handed her a business card. “Do me a favor, kid? Give this to your mom so she knows where you’ve been spending your time. Don’t come back anymore if you’re going to lie to me or her.”
Gwen looked down at the card. Mabel’s Music Shop. Mabel Rodriguez, owner. The address and phone number.
The owner—Mabel—started closing, counting the cash in the register, cleaning the instruments, running a quick vacuum over the thin carpets. When Gwen didn’t move, eyes turned down, fingers bending the sharp edges of the card, Mabel finally shook her shoulder to tell her the shop was closed.
Gwen glanced up at her with dripping eyes. “My mom died, so I can’t give this to her. Please let me come back.”
There was no worthless pity in Mabel’s expression as she looked her over. No empty words like her teachers gave her, no condolences or sorrow. She just took a deep breath and said, “You give that card to whoever is in charge of you, you hear? Now, go home. We’re closed, and it’s getting dark.”
Mabel didn’t mention it again. But the following week was when she started teaching Gwen violin. In this very practice room.
Gwen rolled her shoulders back and let the memory drain away, listening to Mabel finish with the difficult woman up front. A few minutes later, once the woman left with a slam of the door, Gwen joined her at the counter.
“Wish I still had you for deliveries, kid. Would love to never see her again.” Mabel hummed as she filed the paperwork. A lock of her dark hair fell across her face, and Gwen was shocked to see how much gray had grown in while she wasn’t paying attention.
Once her arms were free, Mabel spun back to her, ready for her hug. Gwen curled over her and breathed in the smell of rosemary spice.
Mabel gave the best hugs, the kind that crunched your bones and soothed your muscles all at once. Gwen was thirteen the first time she got a Mabel Hug. She couldn’t remember what it was for—maybe just hello or goodbye—but she had been swept into Mabel’s short arms and held next to a heartbeat for the first time since her mother had died.
“What brings you all the way out here?” she asked against Gwen’s shoulder. “You don’t need to be restrung for another month.”
Preparing for the worst, Gwen pulled back and said, “I have news.”
Mabel watched her shrewdly and gestured for her to continue.
“I just had an audition with Ava, Nathan, and the board. They offered me first chair.”
Even the words themselves sent a rush of excitement and pride through Gwen’s veins. But Mabel’s face didn’t move.
“They can’t have.”
Gwen blinked at her. “Well—”
“You might have heard them wrong.” Mabel’s brows came together, scrutinizing. “Second chair is…more likely, but still also a long shot.”
She swallowed. She’d known this was going to be the reception. She just didn’t realize how badly she’d wanted a sincere “congratulations” until she had to mourn it.
“No, it’s first chair. Concertmaster. Ava is retiring to the board.”
Mabel’s eyes narrowed. “And why offer this to you? You’ve been there two years.”
“Almost four, actually,” Gwen said with a bite of bitterness.
“Still not long enough. It takes years to garner that much respect and seniority.”
“Ava Fitzgerald took first chair when she was in her twenties,” Gwen snapped.
“Oh, and are you the next Ava Fitzgerald?” Mabel lifted a brow and stuck her hands on her hips. “Is that what they sold to you today?”
Gwen looked down at the violin in her hands. The violin that Mabel had given her.
“I was hoping you’d be happy for me,” she whispered.
She heard Mabel take a deep breath, and then warm arms were wrapping around her middle. “Of course I am.” She kissed her shoulder, the only skin she could reach. “I just don’t want anyone using you and throwing you away.”
Gwen’s mind wandered to that deep voice, the words hissed against her forehead—
Be careful with them. They can take it all away from you.
She pulled back from Mabel and looked her in the eye. “Is that what happened between you and Ava Fitzgerald?” she asked softly. “She used you?”
Mabel sniffed and looked off over Gwen’s shoulder. “Maybe another time—”
“That’s what you always say when I ask you about her.”
Her full lips pressed together, and she busied her hands with the register. “We knew each other from a few orchestras, mainly Broadway pits. Once she had a name for herself and started playing engagements out of town, she always set me up as her sub. We were quite close—writing music together, dreaming up new arrangements. But then she met Nathan, and she had no use for me anymore. Nathan was going to save her father’s orchestra. Nathan wanted her to focus on playing rather than composing.
“I told her so many times to watch out for him. He was seeing someone in Seattle, but that didn’t stop him from courting Ava.” Mabel turned sharp eyes on her. “Never a good sign.” Gwen nodded studiously, as Mabel shook her head at the memory. “And the way he would present her in the early days, like he’d discovered her. So many times he treated her like a pupil instead of an equal. Her! The Ava Fitzgerald!”
The slam of the drawer made Gwen jump. Mabel rubbed her callused fingers over her brow and seemed to compose herself.
“You’re getting the opportunity of a lifetime by playing first chair,” she said. “But just be careful. Nathan likes to take credit for things he didn’t create.”
Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Gwen chose her words carefully. “All this time I thought you hated the Pops, popular music. I didn’t know you disliked Nathan this much.”
“Believe me, it’s mutual. I’m not one to bottle up my opinions, as you know.”
She smiled and reached for Mabel’s hand.
“I’ll be careful, I promise. But I want this, Mabel. I’m completely overwhelmed, and I don’t think I ever would have dreamed of being first chair of the Manhattan Pops before today, but all I know is that I do want it. I’m sorry I’m not at Juilliard and I’m sorry I’m not playing seventh violin for some more prestigious symphony, but”—her voice caught—“but I’m not sure those were things I ever wanted. I want the opportunity to play solos.”
It was quiet, only the soft sound of Chopin playing over the speakers. Then Mabel’s hands were on her face, brushing her thumbs over her cheeks.
“That’s good enough for me, then.” Giving her a weak smile, Mabel took the violin case from her hands and laid it out on the counter. “Let’s see. Is this a good enough violin for ‘First Chair of the Manhattan Pops’?”
Mabel grinned, and Gwen felt her chest warm at the title.
First chair was not going to be a cakewalk. Nathan and Ava took her out to lunch the following week, talking her through the daily functions, the behind-the-scenes duties, and gave her an outline of what a season looked like for first chair. Gwen would shadow Ava for the rest of the season, moving up to third chair to sit directly behind her.
“How did Diane take that?” Gwen asked, thinking of the older, obnoxious woman who usually sat third chair.
“Oh, fine, fine.” Nathan waved his hand, dismissing it. “She’s very excited for you, I’m sure.”
Gwen sipped her tea, knowing that couldn’t be the case. How many of her friends and colleagues would resent her for this?
And before Gwen could even bring him up, Nathan told her that they had officially cut ties with Xander Thorne the day of her audition. He would not be joining them next season, and Gwen was silently grateful.
“So you weren’t kidding about ‘shuffling in the strings.’” Gwen chuckled nervously over her salad. “Letting Xander go right when Ava is stepping back?”
“We didn’t let him go.” Nathan cleared his throat. “We just gave him some bad news.”
Gwen looked up. Ava’s jaw was tight.
“He’ll be fine,” she said, sipping a midday brandy. “He has his whole career ahead of him with that little rock band. He wanted to cut back on his rehearsals anyway to spend more time with the…Guns and Roses or whatever,” she mumbled into her glass.
“Thorne and Roses,” Gwen corrected. “They’re not quite rock, actually. They have an entire album of Mozart and Bach but on electric instruments. It’s fascinating.” She stabbed at a crouton, trying to seal her mouth shut before she went on and on about Thorne and Roses for the next hour.
Ava’s eyes turned amber as she looked into her glass. “I didn’t know that,” she whispered. “I’ll have to take a listen.”
Later that night, Gwen sat at home with Jacob’s laptop, researching past first violinists, their ages, their backgrounds.
She was in trouble.
Following an internet rabbit hole, Gwen found interviews with Ava in the early days—just when she’d begun as first chair. Ava’s mother and father had founded the Pops themselves, her father conducting from its inception until he’d retired in the nineties. Ava’s uncle had played first chair under his brother until Ava took over for him in the early 2000s. It was incredible to hear the history of the Fitzgerald family and imagine the amount of talent in their blood, but Gwen was stuck on one thought.
Gwen Jackson would be the first person in first chair for the Pops whose last name was not Fitzgerald.
She drained her glass of wine and poured another.
Ms. Michaels was right. The publicity wrote itself. Now she just needed to be good enough to earn her place.
No matter how many pep talks Jacob had given her or how many celebratory drinks Mei had forced on her, she couldn’t stop hearing Xander’s voice in her head—
She has no technique. Her intonation is awful—almost no vibrato.
She’ ll certainly make for a pretty picture on the brochure. Doesn’t matter if she can play, I guess.
Gwen stopped the Ava Fitzgerald autoplay cycle she’d found herself stuck in on YouTube, and with quick, guilty fingers, typed Xander Thorne into the search bar.
Thorne and Roses had done one professionally filmed music video, of their Nirvana cover, but according to their Instagram page they were working on a second. She spent the next fifteen minutes clicking through Xander Thorne’s live performances, watching his hair flip through each song in front of his four other musicians.
She recalled what Chelsea at the wedding had called him. Alex.
She tried Xander Thorne + Alex and watched as Fitzgerald autofilled in the search bar.
Strange, but it made a certain amount of sense. He played first cello opposite Ava Fitzgerald in the Pops. Their names would come up together. But the first search result was a gangly teenager with cropped black hair. Playing a violin.
Gwen gasped. She clicked and watched as Xander Thorne executed a flawless solo rendition of the Vitali Chaconne in G Minor.
Oh god.
She knew it was him. There was something in the fluidity, the lack of tension. And also the hair, the jaw, the shoulders— all parts of him that he’d grown into over time. Pieces began to click in place as Gwen muttered a barely audible “Fuck” under her breath. Xander, or Alex, hadn’t always been a cellist. He had been, first and foremost, a violinist.
She watched as Alex, age ten, worked his way through the Tchaikovsky concerto. She watched as Alex and Yo-Yo Ma played a duet at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.
And down at the bottom of the search results, she caught sight of the words Alex Fitzgerald.
She blinked at the screen. A much younger Ava was pictured in the thumbnail with a four-year-old boy with a black bowl cut.
She clicked—and watched as Ava led the child onstage, holding his hand to thunderous applause. The boy beamed at the crowd and took a little bow, cracking everyone up. And then he lifted his tiny little violin, and Gwen watched as Ava played a violin duet with her son, Alex.
Gwen had leaned herself so far into the screen by the end, she almost fell inside, her hands on her cheeks, eyes wide and dry.
Xander Thorne was Ava’s son, and Nathan’s stepson. She knew Ava had a son from a previous marriage, but they never talked about him. And if his last name was Fitzgerald, had he taken Ava’s last name instead of his father’s? This seemed like a wellspring for gossip. Why wasn’t the entire orchestra talking about this?
She knew Xander and Ava spent an inappropriate amount of time arguing when he sat in the first cello chair, and she knew that he was frosty at best with Nathan. She assumed they kept him around because he was excellent.
But Ava was retiring, and the Fitzgerald chair was being passed down to Gwen, an outsider, instead of the Fitzgerald child prodigy, Alex. The Fitzgerald child who played violin at the age of twelve better than she did now.
As the autoplay switched the video to a five-year-old Alex Fitzgerald playing at the White House, Gwen hung her head in her hands. She was in over her head.