Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
June
Callie’s asleep when I look in on her, so I slip into her room and let my eyes adjust. There’s just enough light filtering through her sheer curtains to reveal the photos on her wall, including the little blond boy with a wide, unguarded smile, the kind that punches right through your chest. I swallow hard, blinking back tears.
I can’t imagine what must have happened.
Behind her armchair sits a turntable with records neatly slotted beside it. I flip through them.
“Do you like music?” Callie’s raspy voice startles me.
I spin around. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to snoop. Or wake you.”
Callie sits up, sliding her legs over the edge of the bed. “It’s nice to see you, again. Have you been here long?” She combs her fingers through her hair before standing and smoothing the soft pink cotton dress that hits just below her knees. A nightshirt, perhaps.
“Only a few minutes,” I say, resting my hands on the back of the chair. “And yeah.” I glance back at the records. “I love music.”
“What do you like to listen to?” she asks, padding closer as Loki jumps off the bed.
“Everything. But I have a soft spot for the cello.”
Her pale blue eyes widen. “So do I.” She slides past me and thumbs through the records. “I took cello lessons years ago, but I gave it up after we had our son. It’s brutal on your fingers.”
I stare at my left hand and the soft finger pads where calluses used to live.
She places a record on the turntable. “This is one of my favorites. It’s a unique mashup of classics from Bach and Beethoven with undertones of heavy metal. Metallica, mostly.”
I close my eyes when the first song plays, but I open them again as she taps my arm with the album cover.
“Have you heard them?”
The cover is black with a galaxy of stars split by four comets with tails of music notes, all colliding at the center into broken instruments: a cello, bass, piano, and violin. The band is called A World Away.
“I actually have this album,” I say.
“So good, right?” Her face brightens. “Rupert and I saw them in concert years ago.”
Three knocks sound at the door. “Can I come in?” Flynn asks, already pushing it open.
I quickly turn.
“What are you looking at?” he asks, nodding toward the turntable before picking up Loki.
“June and I were just discussing our shared love of music,” Callie says. “Specifically, the cello.”
“Oh, yeah. She played it,” he says.
“June, you didn’t mention that.” Callie elbows me lightly before sitting in her chair and tucking one leg underneath her.
“I was about to,” I say, offering Flynn a tight smile.
He looks at me, confused.
“Do you know how to tune one?” Callie asks.
“Yeah,” I murmur, my gaze drifting back to the photos.
“If I buy an electric tuner, would you tune mine?”
Flynn perks up. “Wait. Are you feeling inspired to play your cello?”
I smirk without looking at him. He sounds far too pleased with himself.
“Perhaps,” Callie says.
“June, let’s go get a tuner … or whatever she’s talking about,” Flynn says.
I shake my head slowly, gaze snagging on a photograph of a man steering a fishing boat. He has Callie’s smile and Rupert’s jaw. He must be their son.
“June?” Flynn says my name again.
“Huh?”
“Let’s go get the tuner thing.”
I study Callie, tracing the resemblance, wondering what other features she passed along to her son and grandson.
“You don’t have to tune it,” she says.
I shake my head. “No. Uh, I can. Where is it?”
“Top shelf of my closet,” she says. “But I said I don’t have a tuner yet.”
“That’s … fine. I don’t need one.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You don’t. Then how do you know it’s in tune?”
“By ear.”
After a few seconds of studying me with an indecipherable expression, the corner of her mouth twitches. “Very well. Flynn, will you carefully retrieve it from the top of my closet? Left side.”
“K,” he says, setting the cat down.
I look away, wringing my hands. Her suspicious smirk makes my pulse jump.
“Here,” she says when Flynn returns with the cello. “Take my seat.”
I sit and open the case. It’s a beautiful and expensive cello. A Paolo Vettori. Easily seventy thousand dollars. I lift the cello and bow from the case, unprepared for the rush of emotion that hits me. Bowing my head, I breathe through it, waiting for the tears to pass before they notice.
It feels like home.
The weight against my chest and thighs.
The way my posture settles, grounding me.
“Do you need some kind of external reference if you’re not using a tuner?” Callie asks.
I shake my head, eyes closed, bow hovering.
It’s like taking a breath, a really deep one.
The kind that makes you realize it’s the first real breath you’ve taken in years.
It’s a relaxing flow of energy. A calmness that brings mental clarity.
The sound so rich and deep it resonates through the wood and into me, waking something that never truly went dormant.
Perfect fifths. A to D. D to G. G to C. I adjust the lower string sharper or the upper string flatter until the vibration is pure. Then, I just play.
Four beautiful notes.
Long and short bows.
Play with joy, my dear. Or don’t play at all.
Practice is a means to an end. Don’t practice. Play. With. Joy.
Time disappears. It always has. My dad once found me slumped over my cello, bow loose in my hand. I’d played myself to sleep. One more note. One more chord. Always just one more.
When the final resonance fades and I open my eyes, the silence steals my breath for a moment. Callie’s mouth hangs agape, tears shining in her eyes. Flynn mirrors her expression.
I nervously smile. “It’s, uh … tuned.”
More silence.
I swallow hard, returning the cello to its case. “Of course, you can check it with a tuner, but I think it’s close. It’s a magnificent cello.” I lock the case and swing my gaze to Callie. “Where did you get it?”
After a slow blink, she murmurs, “Florence.”
“Isn’t that in Italy?” Flynn asks.
“Yes,” I say. “The Vettori family crafts them in Florence, Italy. Dario Vettori’s sons, and now his grandchildren, continue the tradition he started in the 1930s in a mountain town between Florence and Bologna.”
Callie’s smile swells. “That’s right. Have you been there?”
“Have you?” Flynn asks, visibly rattled like a “yes” answer will disappoint him.
“I don’t have all day,” Rupert grumbles, barging into the bedroom.
Flynn jumps. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
“Where are you going?” Callie tilts her head to the side.
“To get Flynn clothes for the orchestra,” he says. “Did you ask what she’s wearing?” Rupert nods to me.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot to ask,” Flynn says. “What are you wearing to the orchestra? Do I need a suit or tux?”
“What?” I chuckle. “Flynn, you don’t need either. A nice shirt and jeans are fine.” He shouldn’t spend another dime on me. Definitely not for a suit or tux that he’ll likely never wear again.
“You two are going to the orchestra?” Callie perks up.
Rupert smiles. It’s sincere and endearing. Memories of less tragic times, perhaps?
“Yes, but it’s no big deal,” I insist.
“Have you been to the orchestra?” she asks Flynn.
“What do you think?” he deadpans.
“Then it’s a big deal. Let’s go shopping. Give me twenty minutes,” she says, practically skipping to the bathroom.
When she closes the door behind her, Rupert frowns at Flynn. “Boy, I told you to quickly ask what she’s wearing. Now you have my wife involved, and a forty-five-minute errand is going to turn into hours of finding the ‘perfect’ everything.” With a heavy sigh, he turns and exits the bedroom.
I step between Flynn’s spread legs. “It’s really no big deal.”
He rests his hands on my hips, gazing at me. “How the hell did you play like that?”
“I told you the cello is my favorite.” I shrug.
“Your favorite? June, my favorite sport is basketball, but I’m not Michael Jordan.”
“Well,” I dip my head and kiss him, playfully nipping at his lower lip, “that feels like a you problem. Maybe you don’t love basketball as much as I love the cello.
And I think I’ll wear a cute skirt and blouse with sandals to the orchestra.
You can wear those dark jeans you wore to dinner the first night with my parents and the button-down too. ”
“I can hear you,” Callie yells. “No jeans. No cute skirts.”
Flynn raises his eyebrows like we’re in trouble. I bite my lips together and snort.
“Let’s just skip the orchestra and get naked,” I whisper.
His calloused hands slide along my neck and into my hair, turning my head so he can whisper in my ear. “I’m taking my cello girl to the orchestra because the look on your face when you play is the same look you get when you orgasm. I think the orchestra is your porn.”
“Stop,” I giggle, stepping back.
“I’m right.” He smirks. “You’re blushing.”
Truth? I want to see Flynn in my world, even if it scares me. What if he doesn’t love the orchestra? Will it feel like he can never truly love me?
“Shit!” I look at my watch. “I forgot I have a one o’clock tour. Gotta go.” I kiss his cheek and run down the stairs.
“Where are you—” Rupert starts to speak as I pass him at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m late for work!”
On the way to the bike shop, Flynn texts me:
Flynn: U should get a car
June: haha! U should not be so distracting. Mr. R heard us in the bathroom!!!!
Flynn: Exactly. I was on the clock and u were distracting me. If I get fired I hope u can live with that on your conscience
I stare out the window for a second and grin.
June: After the orchestra we need to talk
Flynn: Are u breaking up with me?
June: I hope not
Flynn: K. Thx for having sex with me
I giggle as my driver eyes me in the rearview mirror.