Chapter 6 #2
“Is that Boccherini?” I say to no one. Boccherini’s Cello Concerto in G has always reminded me of sunshine.
A smile captures my mouth and my steps quicken, following the joy that’s emanating from a field on the other side of the street.
Picking up my pace, I jog across the quiet street.
Grass matted down in what looks like a well-worn path, I hurry through the field, stopping when I find the source of the music.
Sitting in a folding chair, at the end of rows of beehives, is a pair of shoulders I’d know anywhere, even though I’ve only seen the man three times. With each movement of the bow, the baby blue tee covering his back stretches taut.
As quietly as I can, I inch closer until I can view Ever from the side.
Eyes closed, a soft smile playing on his lips, he’s lost in the music.
Bees buzz and a breeze ruffles the top of his hair where it’s longer.
Not that his hair is long by any means. The sides, which have more gray than not, are shorn close to his head.
The last two times I’ve seen him, his longer locks were styled, but today they’re messy, like he’s been running his fingers through them.
My own fingers itch with the need to see if his hair is as soft as it looks, and I flex them.
“I’ve always loved this one,” I say.
Abruptly, the music ceases, and deep ocean blue eyes turn my way. Suddenly feeling like I’m intruding on a private moment, my stomach churns. I shift in my beige suede loafers and raise my hand, gesturing to the field. “I imagine fairies, sprites, and pixies dancing in a field of flowers.”
“You know Boccherini’s Cello Concerto?” Ever’s forehead wrinkles as his brows shoot up and his eyes round. His surprise is comical, but the welcome in his question is unmistakable.
“In G. Yes.” The churning disappears. Chatting about music is easy, steadying, and knowing it’s something we share makes it somehow more intimate. “We played it two or three seasons ago.”
His left eyebrow rises, and it shouldn’t be sexy, but it is. “We?”
“I play in an orchestra. At least I did.” My face heats and I shift my weight from one foot to the other, not wanting to ruin this moment with talk of my asshole ex or my humiliation.
“What instrument do you play?” He shifts in the chair so he can see me better. The cello sits comfortably between his legs, while the bow rests on his left knee.
“Violin.”
His face lights up. “Yeah? And what orchestra do you play in?”
“ Did play in. Philadelphia.” I roll my shoulders as the ache from the tension I carried there for months flares like a phantom raised by my memories.
“No shit? I had season tickets for them when I lived in Philly.” He grins, settling back in his chair, his eyes sparkling.
My breath sputters as I stagger a step toward him. “You lived in Philly? When?”
“I went for college, liked it and stayed. I moved back to Maplewood a little over ten years ago, after my grandfather passed.” His fingertips stroke the neck of the cello as a veil of grief passes over his eyes, darkening them until they’re the deep blue of the midnight sky.
I want to reach out and touch him. To impart whatever comfort I can, but I jam my hands deep into my pockets instead. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It always surprises me how much I still miss him.” With the warmth of his smile, the shroud of sadness drops. “Do you have your violin with you?”
My own grin grows. “Always.”
“Wanna play?”
My pulse quickens and my fingertips tingle in anticipation. “Be right back.”
I spin on my heel and jog back to the inn and my room. The whimsy of playing in a field pulses through me as I grab my violin and hurry back to find Ever playing Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. I slow my steps and let the music wash over me, feeling the emotion that makes this composition so beloved.
The last note hangs in the air. Its resonance vibrating like the buzzing of the bees. I set my case in the grass and remove my violin, attaching my shoulder rest. “How long have you played?”
He looks up and to the right like he’s calculating. “Third grade, I think.”
“Why do you play out here?” I remove my bow, tighten, then resin it.
He watches me, his kissable lips twitching in ways that make it incredibly difficult not to kiss him. “The bees like it.”
“And you know this how?” I tune as I speak.
“Technically, I don’t know. But how could any insect, animal, any being not love this music?” He tunes his A note to my A note. “There’s been some research on music and bees. They’re attracted to music within the 250 - 500 Hertz range.”
I pull my violin out from under my chin in wonder at this information. “Really?”
“Honeybees kind of dance as a way to communicate and that sound is around 250 - 300 Hertz. But they detect sounds like particles moving around in the air up to 500 Hertz.” He lifts a shoulder. “Even if they get nothing out of it, there’s something about playing outside that’s good for the soul.”
With a wink, the first notes of Haydn’s Cello Concerto in C fill the air.
Unable to hide my grin, I bring my violin to life.
A breeze brushes my cheek, a buzz sounds near my ear, but it’s gone as quickly, and my fingers skip over the strings.
Ever watches me and I him as we learn each other through the music.
Every glance, every nod, every moment we’re in sync is another jolt of…
Exhilaration? Joy? I’m unsure what, but it’s something that has been missing in my life and my music for so long I forgot how good it feels.
It’s the same exuberance that came from popping bubbles when I was a young child, or the first taste of gelato from my favorite gelato place when it reopens after being closed for winter.
Our playing isn’t perfect. Far from it. But it’s fun.
For over an hour, we run through a repertoire of violin, cello duets in a field in Vermont, with the sun beating down on my shoulders, the clouds rolling over the sky, and birds adding their two cents, playing for bees. And life makes sense.
When we finish, my fingers thrum to continue. My chest full, music waltzes in my head, and Ever’s grin matches my own.
“Wow.” Still smiling, I shake my head. “You weren’t kidding. Being out here is good for the soul.” I bend down and tuck my violin and bow back into my case. Ever lays his cello into its case and for the first time I notice the color. “Yellow?”
He smooths his hand over the Honey Spot sticker in the middle of it. “If nothing else, I’m on brand.”
I chuckle, feeling like I had one too many glasses of champagne. “Thanks for letting me intrude.”
“You’re my kind of intrusion.” His grin beams as he hauls the cello case onto his back, folds the chair, and starts walking. “Meet you here tomorrow?” He tips his head to where we played.
A thrill zips through me, so strong I wonder if the bees can detect it. “I’d like that.”
“See you then.” Whistling an unfamiliar but sweet tune, he strolls toward a cute little Victorian cottage in the distance.
I watch for a moment before turning and heading in the opposite direction to the inn. Each of my steps, as light as the bubbly feeling in my chest. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.