Chapter 11
Dmitiri
The cement darkens with every falling drop of water that hits the sidewalk, and I’m grateful for the collection of umbrellas Trevor had available for guests to use.
Even more so, I’m glad he insisted I take one for the short walk into town.
I fight the gust of wind that blasts, holding on to the umbrella and twisting my body to keep it from being blown inside out.
Mother Nature is a strong opponent, but I win the battle, wielding my umbrella like a knight defending the royal castle.
By the time I reach the sky blue door and push it open, I’m huffing and panting. Closing the umbrella, I give it a shake before dropping it into the umbrella holder at the entrance. Warmth hits me, and I bring my hands to my mouth, blowing in them and rubbing them together.
Instruments fill the walls and floor. String instruments, woodwinds, brass. A small percussion section sits to the right with acoustic and electric guitars and keyboards. Rows of sheet music run the middle of the store and Led Zeppelin plays over the sound system.
“You must be the violinist staying at the Red Clover.” Sitting on a stool behind a glass case filled with strings, guitar picks, rosin, and an assortment of other musical accessories, a guy with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and a vintage Run DMC concert shirt flashes a bright smile.
In the week I’ve been in Maplewood, I’ve gotten used to people knowing who I am before I’ve ever seen them, let alone met them.
It’s kind of nice, which is surprising considering I couldn’t wait to get away from Philadelphia and being known.
But there’s something about this town and the people in it that’s impossible to dislike.
That's probably why I prolonged my stay at the Red Clover for another week, even though Rio said we can do the rest of the album work virtually.
It has nothing to do with a certain beekeeper.
“Dmitri.” I extend my hand and he takes it in a firm shake.
“Roy. What can I help you with?” His skin reminds me of a favorite pair of jeans, well-worn, a little faded in spots, but comfortable, and his gray eyes shine bright.
I estimate him to be around my parents' age, but I sense he would avoid 55+ communities because he'd consider everyone there too old.
I roll my shoulders. The hours of practice this morning was the best I’ve had in at least two and a half years. The flow came almost immediately, and four hours felt like one, but stretching my muscles feels good. “I’ve walked by here a few times and never stopped in, so I thought it was time.”
He waves a hand to the store. “We’re not big, but if there’s something you need, and we don’t have it, I can order it. Pianos are upstairs, as is our collection of vinyl.”
“I’ll check it out. Thanks.” I wander over to the sheet music and flip through books. The selection is impressive considering the size of the town and the shop. Everything from beginners Suzuki to Prokofiev.
“Our music festival is next month. A week of every kind of music you can imagine.” Roy points to a colorful flier tacked to the wall behind him.
My phone dings with an email notification. “Someone else mentioned the music festival. I can’t remember who.”
“Ever?” Roy’s grin is wide and knowing, and my laughter bursts from my belly.
If I were in Philadelphia, knowing I was the topic of gossip would have had my hackles up.
Especially after everything that went down with Sebastian, not that anyone other than Zemira and my parents know about that, but my sudden “abandonment” from my position caused a lot of speculation and tongue wagging.
Instead of the tightening of my gut and the slightly nauseous feeling that came up anytime I was part of gossip in Philadelphia, a warm glow fills my middle at the mention of Ever. “He warned me there’d be talk.”
“Heard you two left The Striped Maple together the other night.” His bushy brows wiggle over his eyes, making it look like two silver caterpillars crawling on his forehead. He’s not even trying to be discreet.
“We also serenaded the bees… together, ” I joke, enjoying the playful banter.
James Brown’s The Payback piped in through the speakers, mutes Roy’s laughter. He points a thick finger at me. “I like you.” He hops off his stool and heads to the back of the shop. “Want coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
My phone pings with another email notification. I pull it from my pocket and open my app. My breath hitches when I see Caroline Burges’s name, the head of the search committee for the London Symphony. Opening the email, I scan the message.
Inviting you to London…
… audition in person…
Please let us know…
Air swooshes from my mouth, collapsing my lungs.
I list to the right, my hip leaning into the shelf of music, and stare at the message again.
Possibilities whir through my head. Winning the principal chair, being concertmaster of the London Symphony, would be a chance to work with Elora again and would set me up for the remainder of my career.
Sure, I thought I’d found my place in Philadelphia, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my experience, it is that life has a way of pushing us out of our comfort zone when we least expect it.
And after Joska flamed the rumors I created by walking out and quitting the way I did with his not-so-subtle comments, eluding to my being unable to handle the pressure of performing at an elite level, I wasn’t sure anyone in the orchestra community would want to risk giving me a shot.
Zemira was right. An added benefit to the concertmaster of London would be the glorious fuck you, to Sebastian and Joska. But is it what I want?
The fuck you , yes. But the job? I’m not sure.
I type out a quick text to Zemira, telling her of the invitation, then return my phone to my pocket as Roy appears from behind a beaded curtain that reminds me of something from the ’70s.
The hippie vibe from the curtain provides a strange contrast to the signed photo of Leonard Bernstein in its gold baroque picture frame hanging on the wall next to it.
“Here you go.” Roy hands me a mug, then digs in his pocket and passes over three packets of sugar and two creamers. “Forgot to ask you how you like it.”
I take a creamer and two sugar packets and follow him to the display case at the front of the shop. Before I have the chance to ask him about how long he’s lived here, the door swings open with a thunderous crack. Wind blows the outside elements inside.
A woman and boy carrying a violin case hurry in. The woman struggles with the door but drags it shut. She tosses the hood of her raincoat from her head, freeing her plait braids, and unzips. “Ugly weather today.”
Roy holds up his mug. “Coffee?”
“No thanks. We just came from Jagger’s lesson, and Mr. Sylvester said we should get the second Suzuki book.” The woman tips her head to the boy who has abandoned his violin case for a guitar and is plucking out Hot Cross Buns.
The boy doesn’t look up from the guitar. “Suzuki books are boring.”
“That may be, but Mr. Sylvester said you’re ready for it.” Her tone is weary and worn, like this isn’t the first time they’ve had this argument.
Music teachers do a disservice to kids when they focus more on technique than learning what each student likes. Not wanting to interfere but unable to keep my mouth shut, I butt in. “What about Disney? Do you like their music?”
“Naloni, this is Dmitri. Dmitri, this is Naloni,” Roy tips his chin toward the boy who must be around nine or ten, “Jagger’s mom.”
The woman’s expression lights up. “Ever’s Dmitri?”
My cheeks heat. I don’t know if I’d call myself Ever’s anything.
But I can’t lie, I like the idea way more than I should after a handful of interactions and the hottest night of sex in my life.
Yes, in my life. To think I’ve been missing out on mind-blowing, come-so-hard-I-thought-I’d-pass-out sex all this time.
I clear my throat. “I’ve met Ever, yes.”
“You mean songs from their movies?” Guitar abandoned, Jagger steps closer, interest brimming in his tawny eyes.
I gesture to the rows of music. “I thought I saw a duet book.”
Jagger follows me, his movement more of a bounce than actual steps. “I don’t know how to play duets.”
“It’s easy.” I stop where I think I remember seeing the Disney duet book and flip through the music until I come upon it. Plucking it out, I hold it up to Jagger. “You can play with your violin teacher.”
Jagger’s bottom lip juts out. “He won’t want to. He doesn’t like to do anything fun.”
I meet Naloni’s and Roy’s gazes for a little help.
“Mr. Sylvester is…” Naloni runs her tongue along her teeth like she’s searching for the right word, but Roy jumps in before she finds what she’s looking for.
“He’s got a stick so far up his—”
I throw my hand up. “Got it.” I look down at Jagger, who is leafing through the book, pausing every other page or so to scan the music in front of him. “If Jagger wants to, I’d be happy to play any of the duets with him some time. I’d just have to find a studi—”
“Can we do it now?” Eyes as wide as his toothy smile, eagerness rolls off the kid in waves.
I remember that kind of enthusiasm when I was that age, and I never want to do anything to discourage it, but I don’t know them.
Heck, I’m not even a part of this community, but maybe for as long as I’m in town, I can do my part.
“Well… I don’t have my violin with me, and we’d need to find a place to play. Plus, I don’t know if your mom—”
“I’m fine hanging out for a while.” She looks out the window at the rain coming down so hard it looks like sheets of water. “Maybe it will let up soon.”
Roy lifts a violin from a case and selects a bow. “You’re in the right place. We have plenty of instruments and stands.”