Chapter 6
Dmitri
The calm green tones of my room’s walls are echoed in the painting hanging over the dresser and the soft area rug beneath my feet. I adjust my hold on my phone and continue pacing, Zemira’s voice in my ear.
“I’m just saying I think you should go for it. We all thought you should have been principal chair for Philly.” Zemira pauses in her diatribe—the same one I’ve heard weekly since I abruptly resigned—and I hear her take a sip from what is most likely her fourth cup of coffee of the day.
As weary as I am of hearing her thoughts about my career, I wouldn’t have survived the last year without her support.
The day after the proposal, Zemira was at my door with wine, chocolate, a grocery bag of assorted cheeses, and an overnight bag, ready to hunker down for movies and crying.
But instead of movies, we gathered all of Sebastian’s things, burned what we could in my fireplace and threw out what we couldn’t burn.
Then Zemira made an impromptu Sebastian doll out of popsicle sticks and yarn.
We downed two bottles of wine and more cheese than anyone should consume in a lifetime, let alone an evening, while shoving pins into it and laughing hysterically.
Since learning the concertmaster for the London Symphony Orchestra is retiring and auditions are open for the position, Zemira has been hounding—or, as she would say, gently encouraging —me to audition.
“I don’t know if orchestra life is for me anymore.
” I stand at the window overlooking the sprawling lawn and winding walking paths that make up the property the inn and its buildings sit on.
The sun shines as it has since I arrived.
From what I’ve heard from the locals, the weather has been unusually beautiful.
With only a few puffy clouds drifting in the sky, the sun’s rays chase away the cooler temperatures that come as soon as night arrives.
“Are you serious? Where else do you get that kind of job security? And benefits…” Zemira huffs like she can’t believe the words coming from my mouth. “We’re musicians. Getting an orchestra gig is the holy grail. And wouldn’t it feel good to rub Sebastian’s nose in it, just a little?”
My smile comes easily as a vision of Zemira’s indignation fills my mind’s eye.
The snarl of her lip and her fist pounding her thigh.
Having been friends since we both started in Philly the same year, the woman always has my back, just as I have hers.
“I won’t deny it would be nice, but I’m not sure what I want anymore.
Even before Sebastian came to Philly, I was losing my love for what we do. ”
“I’m sure Elora leaving didn’t help. But if you go to London, you’ll get to work with her again.” The enthusiasm in her voice is more excitement than I can muster.
Elora Yarrow is the best conductor I’ve worked with.
Period. Her love for the music, the process, and her love for musicians seeps from her pores.
She loves what she does and that came through in her conducting.
Demanding, but in a way that made you know she wasn’t asking anything she didn’t believe you could do.
She made going to work feel like a privilege.
That all changed when Joska Morales took over as conductor. He was arrogant, demeaning, and liked to pit musicians against each other.
“Are you listening?” Zemira’s voice snaps me from my ruminations.
“You know I never listen to you,” I tease.
My friend blows out a long-suffering sigh, and I know she’s rolling her eyes. “Just think about applying. You can always say no if you decide you want to do something different.”
“I know. That’s why I submitted my application and resume.”
“What?!” Her shriek pierces my eardrum.
I yank the phone away from my ear while Zemira continues with her high-pitched questioning. When she finally settles down, I put the phone back against my ear. “Are you finished?”
“When?” she demands. “Why have you left me hanging?”
I chuckle at her mock outrage. “I received an email a couple of weeks ago, inviting me to audition.”
The sound of a raspberry being blown comes through the line, and I can almost feel Zemira’s wet breath on my ear. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet you still love me,” I reply in a singsong tone.
“That’s debatable,” she huffs.
I flop down into the cushioned chair next to the window. “I’m sorry. But I didn’t know if I wanted to audition. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“For all the crap I give you, you know I just want you to be happy, right?” Her voice softens and is so heartfelt, wrapping around me like one of her hugs, I can’t help the sting behind my eyes.
“I know, and I love you for that. I’m tired of the grind, and making this album and learning about the production side of things has sparked my creative juices.
” Letting out a long exhale, I slide the top button of my shirt through the buttonhole, then undo it again.
“Maybe I’m going through a midlife crisis. ”
“You’re a bit too young to have one of those.”
My gaze follows a bee hovering outside of the window, and I watch it with more interest than I would have given it in the past. “I’m almost forty. Right on track for buying a sports car and dating men half my age. God, I hate being predictable.”
Her chuckle says she knows I’m full of shit. “That’s not your style and you’re far from predictable. If you were, you wouldn’t have spent six months in Brazil teaching kids who wouldn’t have had a chance to touch a violin, let alone learn to play one otherwise.”
“I love working with kids, and Brazil was a great way to stay away from Philly while doing something meaningful. I needed that.” Another bee joins the first one and they buzz around each other.
“I’m serious about not being sure, though.
Plus, it’s London. I don’t know if I want to be that far from my parents. They’re not getting any younger.”
“Like I said, you can always say no. I’d kill to work with Elora again.” The yearning in her voice seems to also hold the warning that I’d be a fool to turn my back on the opportunity.
“Yeah.” After I resigned in Philly, Elora reached out, asking what had happened.
She didn’t know about my relationship with Sebastian, nor did she assume I was being a prima donna, like the rest of the orchestra world thought.
Elora reached out because she cared. And at the time I needed that from someone I respected—who wasn’t my parents—more than I realized.
So, when she texted me about the upcoming announcement, I felt obligated to get my resume together.
And when I received the invitation to audition, well, the sense of obligation was strong.
Zemira and I talk for a few more minutes, with her filling me in on everything that is going on inside and outside of the orchestra, but steers clear of anything having to do with Sebastian and Joska.
When I finally hang up, my skin itches with the need to get out of this room and away from any more discussions about my career. Or lack thereof.
At some point, music became work, but our recording project has been fun.
And learning more about editing and the production side of music from Rio is like stretching a new part of my brain.
But does that mean I should dismiss an opportunity to play with a renowned orchestra and a conductor I adore if I get the chance?
Making one album with my friends isn’t a career, and Zemira is right.
An orchestra gig is security, which is not easily found in this profession.
I run my hand over my hair. Maybe I really am going through a midlife crisis.
Whatever it is, I need to figure my shit out.
I pocket my key card and head out to explore Maplewood.
A walk to clear my head always helps when I have big decisions to make.
Trying to work out what to do with my life seems to fall into the big-decisions category.
And if I don’t come to a solution, at least the fresh air would do me some good.
An hour of wandering the streets of the adorable town brings me no closer to clarity, but it got me an invitation to join karaoke night at The Striped Maple, the book club being held at the library tomorrow afternoon, and to the knitting circle that’s held every other Thursday at the Wild Palette craft store.
I return to the inn’s grounds, enjoying the quiet.
I’m coming to learn that Maplewoodians feel it is their mission to make everyone, even visitors, feel they are a part of the community. It’s nice.
The inn’s main building comes into view.
With its turret and wrap-around porch, I expect to be summoned to afternoon tea with the lady of the house at any moment.
A Mourning dove's melancholy coo settles in my chest. The hoarse screech of a hawk has me jerking my head to the sky to witness the majestic bird gliding on the breeze. I lift my hand to cover my eyes from the glare of the sun as I follow the movements of the hawk. Nearby birds sheltered in the many trees decorating the property, chatter in a symphony of their own. With every minute, I lose myself in the sounds that are rarely heard in Philadelphia. The warmth of the afternoon sun pouring onto me, and the scents of pine and maple that seem to be residents of Maplewood as much as the quirky individuals I’ve already met, and my shoulders relax.
With a final screech, the hawk flies off to parts unknown.
I kick a pebble with my shoe and shove my hands into my pockets.
My gaze follows the pebble as it bounces along the path until it’s swallowed up by the thick blanket of grass that looks far lusher than anything we have in Philadelphia. And then I cock my head.
In the distance, a sound.
No, not a sound… a note. I close my eyes and listen. The low vibration of each melodic note dances through the air. My feet move before I realize what I’m doing. Heading toward the sounds, my steps are as light as the music.