Strings Attached (Magnolia Cove Magic #4)

Chapter 1 Missy

Missy

All I want is to feel a little magic for once in my life.

The thought surprises the breath from me as I lift my cello and move across the stage. Applause still echoes from the crowd from the previous piece. Beside me, Jules walks with a wild grin, his violin already lifted to his shoulder.

He lives for this moment—the technically challenging finale, the flood of lights cascading from above, sweat trailing down our spines, and thousands of eyes fixed on us like a collective spotlight.

Jules glances my way. Waiting for me to begin. He cocks a golden eyebrow, offering a steadying grin. I nod, draw in a breath, and sink into the chair, bow poised across the strings.

I’ve practiced Kodály’s Duo for Violin and Cello until I’ve perfected it. The audience disappears and the golden hues of the iconic Berlin Philharmonic fade. All that’s left is the music. My body moving in time with it. My arms and shoulders diving into the song.

When it’s over, the audience explodes with applause. I stand to my feet, ensconced by the roaring ovation. Jules walks over to me and throws an arm around my shoulder. It’s a casual enough interaction that we’ve had people speculate if we’re dating.

We’re not.

Though not because Jules would object.

Camera shutters click as the applause seems to go on for lifetimes. This is my moment—the one I’ve fought for my entire life. I’m the principal cellist on a prestigious tour on her final night playing in an iconic performance hall I’d only ever dreamed of visiting.

And I’m completely and utterly miserable.

Because this was supposed to be it. The dream.

The moment everything would click into place and I’d finally feel whole, fulfilled, enough.

But instead, I feel stretched thin. Like I’ve been running on empty through cities that blur together, chased by deadlines, praise, and a spotlight that’s too hot and too bright.

The music still matters—but somewhere along the way, I lost the part of myself that used to come alive when I played.

Finally, we exit the stage. As soon as the soundproof door closes, blissful quiet surrounds. A heater hums and stage crew speak in low muffled voices in the distance.

My cello tugs at my shoulder, a weight that has grown into a stone as the performance adrenaline washes from my body. I need to find a drink of water and get out of these clothes.

“Darling, that was your best performance yet.” Jules slings his violin case across his shoulder and swipes his bangs from his forehead. He ends every performance looking like an Olympian, while sweat-dampened hair plasters to my forehead and I’m red-cheeked and breathless.

“You performed beautifully as always.” I assume he did, anyway.

I have a bad habit of dissociating while on stage.

Something about the pressure to be perfect, to never miss a note, turns performance into survival.

There’s no one that worries over Jules’ performance like Jules, though.

Considering his cocky grin has remained firmly in place, I’m certain his assessment is true.

“Sinclair, Bouchard.” Our stage manager calls from down the hall, headset still in place. “You two were on fire!”

“Thanks, David,” Jules answers for both of us.

While I’m a wilted flower after performances, Jules is ready to hit the town.

But I’m wrecked. Every show feels like I’m holding my breath for ninety minutes straight—trying not to falter, not to disappoint, not to let the critics find a single crack.

By the time we take our bows, all I want is silence.

To disappear into my dressing room, peel off the costume of confidence, and collapse into sleep that never quite feels restful.

“Ah, the final performance.” Jules sighs and tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants, stretching his velvet blazer across his shoulders.

He glances up at the ceilings—plain and unremarkable backstage—but his eyes are dreamy.

He looks exactly how I thought I would feel when we finally made it to this iconic performance hall.

Instead, I’m just tired. Jules smiles again, this time softer.

“What would I have to do to convince you to go out with me tonight to celebrate?”

“If I don’t remove these torture devices masquerading as shoes in the next five minutes, I might actually die. Which would be terribly inconvenient for our record label.”

He chuckles but his gaze skims down me, slowly, before it lands on my feet.

Then he drags his emerald eyes back up to meet mine.

“At least let me bring champagne to your room. We should mark the occasion properly. After all, it’s our last performance together for a while unless you’ve reconsidered Vienna. ”

I take a slow breath. The air backstage is cool and almost metallic, filled with the waxy smells of polished wood and freshly applied rosin. “I haven’t. But I need a break, Jules. I’m taking a sabbatical.”

He shifts his violin case. “A break without your favorite duet partner?” His voice is light, but a wrinkle has formed between his brows. “What about the album?”

I reach out and clasp his hand which causes the tension in his shoulders to ease. “It’s not about us or the album. I’ll continue composing and we can coordinate virtually. We live in a global world, don’t we? I just need a chance to breathe.”

“You breathe when you play,” he whispers, then his voice rises in volume again. “You breathe when we make music. You’ve said that yourself.”

I had. Music had once been like breathing to me. When we started this tour nine months ago—it somehow got extended by three months and I’d somehow agreed—I’d practically pranced into every music hall with stage lights dancing in my eyes.

But I’m exhausted now.

“I want a chance to visit my sister.”

“Wait, you’re planning to take your sabbatical in Maple Grove?”

“Magnolia Cove.” I heft my cello and walk down the hall. “You know the name.”

He hustles after me, and we weave past stage crew in their all black outfits. “Of course I remember Magnolia Cove. The place you disappeared to for a week last summer and had zero cell reception.”

I reach my changing room but turn to face him, the cool metal of the door handle grounding me.

“Exactly. When I say I need to breathe, that’s what I mean.

I want to see my sister and I want to take a break in a place where I can hear music again—real music.

Not the roar of an audience or the endless echo of a critic’s verdict. ”

Jules actually appears baffled for a minute, his brow furrowing in a comical way.

It’s strange to see him like that. He’s usually the picture of confidence—pressed collars, perfect posture, and a quip ready on his lips.

“That roar means we’ve done something extraordinary, Missy.

Together, we’re… we’re two of the most precise, technically proficient performers out there.

Do you know how rare that is? To find the connection we have. ”

My fingers drop from the handle. I know he’s right. For all the differences in our personalities, there’s no musician who matches me the way Jules does—not in precision, not in technical execution, not in our shared enthusiasm for complex pieces.

Neither of us is successful on our own. The tour presented us as a pair. Raised us both to stardom as a pair. If I step down from performing even for a season, I’m stepping back Jules’ career as well.

“I know. I just need a chance to refill the creative well.”

“Do you remember that night in Rome? When we played until sunrise?” I close my eyes because I do remember.

It was a few months into the tour, when we realized what a force we were together.

We played across the river from the Temple of Aesculapius until orange swept the sky and reflected in the water.

My muscles trembled from exhaustion and my fingers burned, but when I lifted my face to meet Jules’ intense expression, I knew I’d found my musical partner.

“That’s who you are. Margaret Sinclair, cellist extraordinaire.

You’re not meant for small towns and wedding gigs. ”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We can still finish the album and—”

“This isn’t about the album.” He kicks back a foot, knocking nine hundred dollar shoes against the wall.

“This is about you running from everything you’ve built—everything we’ve built.

I know you’ve felt overwhelmed with the rapid rise in celebrity and the demanding schedule. But Missy you were born for this.”

“I’m not running away.” The fluorescent light overhead flickers. “I just need a break.”

“Since when do you need a break? You live for this. We live for this.”

“I’m not asking you to understand.” I click open the dressing room door. “And I’m not quitting or running away. I just… need this.”

Something in my voice must finally reach him because his head tilts to the side, and he chews his lip—a nervous habit I’ve seen in countless rehearsals.

“Six months,” he says finally. “And we’ll work on the album virtually during that time?”

“Of course we will, Jules. The album is brilliant and maybe you can even come visit me.”

He scowls but his eyes sparkle. “What is the nightlife like?”

“Non-existent.” At his lips flattening, I laugh. “You never know, you might love it. It’s the kind of place that grows on you.”

After all, it grew on Alex. One day my sister was rising to the top of her career, writing for a prestigious food magazine, considering a senior editing position in New York City.

Next she’s quitting it all in order to move to an island of five thousand people and minimal internet service. And she’s never been happier.

“Not likely, darling.” Jules leans against the doorframe and looks down at me. “Forgive me for being so insistent. I just don’t want to see you squander a talent like yours, plus I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too. Who else is going to critique—in three different languages—the bargain-bin shoes I buy?”