Chapter 1
Dmitri
Ten months later.
“I think we got it,” Rio says through the speaker into the recording studio.
Looking at us through the window of the control room, he holds up two thumbs, his dark hair curling up at his shoulders.
He hits a button and the lone sound of my violin fills the room, soon joined by Iggy’s violin, followed by Nayla and Zemira on viola and cello.
I close my eyes and listen with the ear of someone looking for errors.
Over my career, I’ve been a part of recordings with orchestras, and I’ve played backup on a few albums for pop stars and one Broadway musical, and I’ve played with these three as a quartet since we were all in our twenties.
Although, with Iggy and Nayla based in Boston and Zemira and me in Philadelphia, we perform together far less frequently than any of us would like.
But this is the first time we’re making an album, totally funded by the four of us, and there are some in the classical music world who may not be wishing I fail, but wouldn’t be opposed to seeing it.
Sebastian, cough, cough.
The song fades out and I open my eyes to find four wide grins beaming at me, causing my own lips to join theirs in celebration.
“That’s it,” Zemira says, her grin growing.
“Definitely.” Not one to expend a lot of energy on unnecessary words, Iggy agrees.
Nayla tips her head to the side, the ponytail of long auburn hair tilting with her as she seems to consider what we just heard.
My chest tightens. We’re out of time. Zemira needs to leave today so she can get back to Philly and Nayla and Iggy need to get back to Boston for performances they all have tomorrow night.
I wait for a twinge of regret, sorrow, or wistfulness to hit me at not having a concert to prepare for, but there’s only the flutter of anxiety that Nayla might not like the track.
We can always take a vote on whether we should come back at another time to re-record, but that means more money and more time it will take to get the album out.
However, Nayla breaks into a smile that takes over her entire face, putting me out of my disquieted thoughts and says, “Damn, we’re good.”
“Yeah, you are,” Rio pipes in through the speaker.
The tightness in my chest releases its grip.
With a satisfied exhale, I stand, twisting to the right, then the left.
A soft pop in my lower back releases some tension.
We each begin packing up our instruments.
My friends chat about projects they’re working on and upcoming performances.
Since my abrupt resignation as associate chair in the Philadelphia Orchestra, almost a year ago, putting this album together has been my focus.
That and licking my wounds left by Sebastian’s betrayal.
“Thanks for coming all this way to record.” While Vermont isn’t as far of a trek for Nayla and Iggy as it is for Zemira, it’s still close to a three-hour drive. I place the cloth over my violin, then close the cover.
Nayla picks up the almost empty water bottle sitting at the foot of the chair she was using. “It’s an easy drive for Iggy and me. Right, Igs?”
“Yep.” Iggy pulls his hoodie over his head. In all the years I’ve known the man, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything other than concert black or hoodies.
Zemira pulls me into a hug and I breathe in her familiar floral scent. “Any excuse to see my bestie.”
I squeeze her close to me, soaking in the support she’s given me for over a decade. “We live in the same city.”
“And you’ve hardly been there this year.” She pulls away, giving me a pointed look.
“You try telling my mom no when she insists on a visit.” I gently tug the black hair cascading over her treble clef claw clip.
Nayla clicks the locks on her floral viola case and pushes up from her kneeling position. “I met your mom once. She came with your dad when he performed Chaminade’s Concertino for Flute and Orchestra. It was years ago, but she was a force.”
“She had to be,” Zemira says. “You don’t get to her level as a Japanese-American woman, playing the double bass without being tough.”
“Truth,” Iggy adds.
My parents were fortunate and talented enough to both land jobs with the Houston Symphony.
As a six-three Black man playing the flute and a five-two Japanese American woman playing the double bass, they were an anomaly.
Still are. That my mom was the first female principal in the symphony’s history, makes her even more of a badass.
They are the reason for my love of classical music, and the reason I worked so hard to live up to their example.
Zemira wraps an arm around my waist and squeezes. “I can still miss you.”
The time visiting my parents in Houston was good, and something I didn’t realize I needed until I was there.
A one-week visit turned into a month, which turned into three.
Even at the age of thirty-nine, sometimes a man just needs his parents.
I got out of Philly and went to Brazil a week after the incident, but going back to my childhood home to regroup was better than anything I’d done until then.
My parents gave me a safe place to pull together the idea that had been brewing since my friend, Rain, casually suggested after I drunkenly spilled the whole mortifying story, I should, “Get some of your orchestra peeps together and make an album as a big fuck you to your dickhead ex.”
Considering he was on his fourth beer and I wasn’t far behind, I didn’t give it much credence.
But the next morning, his words were still ringing in my ears.
I didn’t know the first thing about creating an album from start to finish, but as the lead singer in a punk band, Rain did.
I spent months picking his and his bandmates’ brains, along with every musician I knew who had made an album.
Exchanging ideas with my parents along with the back-and-forth with my quartet and Rain connecting me with Rio gave me the courage and mental space to pull this project together.
But I missed hanging out with Zemira day-to-day.
Not being able to go work with my best friend is the worst part of resigning on the spot after the man I sat next to for three years and dated for two betrayed me while he proposed to someone else. “I miss you too.”
“Who wouldn’t?” She pats her hair and bounces her hip like she’s a pinup girl.
Iggy’s laughter sputters from his throat and Nayla’s lips twitter as she shakes her head. I roll my eyes at my goofball friend. “I’m rethinking exactly how much right now.”
Zemira cackles, throwing her head back, then pushes me. “As much as I hate to leave this love fest, I’ve got to roll if I want to get home at a decent hour.”
“Thanks again.” I wrap her in a hug.
“Are you kidding me? This was a blast.” She kisses my cheek. “Next time we should do some original compositions.”
“That would be awesome,” Rio’s voice cuts in through the speaker. Through the window, his head bobs and he shoots us two thumbs up.
Laughing at his over-enthusiasm, I mime adding a note to the app in my phone. “I’ll get right on that. You know, with all my experience composing.” Zemira pinches my thigh and Nayla and Iggy chuckle. “Text me when you get home.”
“Original music would be cool.” Iggy’s tone is mellow, like he just finished smoking a blunt, but the sheer number of words he used is equivalent to anyone else jumping up and down while clapping their hands.
I follow them out of the studio, but the idea of original compositions dances around in the back of my head. “Let’s get this album out. Then we can focus on where we’re going to find someone who fits our budget to compose an album full of music for a quartet.”
“I’m sure there’s a composer in every corner in Vermont,” Nayla teases.
If there is, Rio’s keeping that information to himself because he hasn’t said a word in all the conversations we’ve had leading up to now, which included a few about original compositions. “Once Rio and I get the editing done, we’ll send everyone a copy to listen to and approve.”
With more hugs and handshakes and promises to get back together soon, they’re off, leaving me and Rio alone to begin editing.
It feels good to have a focus. For almost a year, the speculations about me from within the classical music world have been plenty, and there have been times I thought I should miss performing for an audience of thousands more than I have.
Maybe once this project is complete, it will hit me.
But for now, I concentrate on Rio as he reviews his ideas on the best layout for the album.
Hours later, Rio declares we’re finished for the day. He grabs his zip-up sweatshirt from the back of the wheeled chair behind the soundboard. “Are you going to the Honey Bee Jubilee this weekend?”
I gather the power bar wrappers, wadding them up, and tossing them into the trash bin in the corner of the room. “The what?”
“The Honey Bee Jubilee. You’re staying at the Red Clover Inn over in Maplewood until Wednesday, aren’t you?” He drapes the sweatshirt over his shoulder and straightens the area.
“Yeah.”
He does a last scan, then tilts his chin to the door, slowing to hit the light switch, blanketing the room in darkness.
“Maplewood is known for their festivals. I swear they have one every other weekend. Since you rolled in mid-week, you missed whatever they celebrated last weekend.” He chuckles and shakes his head.
“I swear they’d have a party for paperclips if there was some connection to Maplewood.
This weekend is all about honey and bees and gardening.
Have you been to The Striped Maple pub yet? ”
“I’ve only been to Red’s and Sparky’s for dinner. There hasn’t been much time to explore.” I follow him out, waiting as he locks up.
Rio pockets his keys and pushes the brown hair off his forehead, leaving it a spiky mess. “If you want to get a feel for the town, definitely go to the festival.”
“I will.” Exploring the cute little town I’ve only seen driving to and from the studio sounds like fun, and, if nothing else, it will give me something to do while I figure out what comes next.