Chapter 17
Ever
Heavy clouds blanket the early afternoon sky.
In the distance, over the town hall, I spy a sliver of blue, giving hope that the sun may decide to grace us with its presence today.
Maybe we’ll actually hit fifty degrees, like the forecast promised.
Until then, I zip up my fleece-lined vest and yank my hoodie over my head to ward off the chill as Dmitri and I cross the street from my house to the Red Clover Inn side.
“I just want to see the space at the theater, to get a feel for how it would work for an orchestra,” Dmitri says with more enthusiasm than he has about his audition next week.
“Of course, we—I mean they—will have to find a location for rehearsals.” He continues chattering about what it will take to start up and keep a youth orchestra going, talking about grants and reaching out to the Burlington or even Boston Orchestras to recruit musicians to give master classes to the youth occasionally.
I expected Dmitri to pack his bags and return to Philly before going to London, even if only for a day or two.
Instead, he’s remained busy with his students, working with Rio, performing with me for the bees, and spending every night in my bed.
And since Naloni floated the youth orchestra idea yesterday, he has talked about it nonstop.
After he spoke to his parents, I found him in my office, poring over every bit of information about the management of youth orchestras.
Last night, he spent hours talking about his experience as a performer in the Houston Youth Orchestra and all the things it took to keep it operating, which he never considered when he was young.
So, when he started thinking out loud about where an orchestra would perform in Maplewood, of course, I mentioned the Playhouse. I just didn’t know that less than twenty-four hours later, he’d be standing next to me, practically vibrating as we walk the short distance to the venue.
As we approach the theater, one of the owners wields a long pole with a letter attached to a suction cup. I wave to her. “Hey, Elena.”
She tips her chin in our direction and sticks the letter to the marquee. “Good to see you, Ev. Go on in. Grace is in there somewhere.”
“Thanks.” We pass under the marquee, and I open one of the four glass doors, resting my hand on Dmitri’s lower back as I guide him inside.
Bright posters line the lobby walls, adding to the old-time feel.
The concession counter is closed, but after decades of shows, the smell of buttered popcorn seems to emit from the very pores of the building.
Dmitri’s head swivels from one side to the other, his grin growing at the retro feel.
Without warning, he turns his head in my direction and brushes his lips against mine.
I press my fingertips into his quilted jacket, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath the layers of clothing, soaking in every second we have together.
“Thank you for coming with me,” he breathes against my lips.
Needing more of him, I take his mouth again, but release him just as quickly. “Where else would I be?”
He counts off with his fingers. “The store, your hives, hanging out with Trevor, doing laundry…”
“All of that will be here later.” You won’t.
I don’t say it, but the implication hangs between us.
Our gazes lock, and for a moment, I wish he had never come to Maplewood.
If I never met him, I wouldn’t be anticipating the pain of his leaving.
Because he will leave. He’ll get the job in London and then he’ll be gone, bringing joy to thousands of people with his talent.
Dmitri nods in understanding and presses a hard kiss to my lips as Grace, Elena’s wife and co-owner of the Maplewood Playhouse, greets us.
I make introductions and Grace leads us into the old theater. “It’s not the biggest theater, but I think it will work.”
Dmitri scans the refurbished stage that sits about four feet off the floor. The four hundred fifty seats have been reupholstered with red velvet. The care Elena and Grace took to bring the Playhouse back to its past grandeur hits me every time I walk in here.
Dmitri points to the slanted seating. “There’s not a bad seat in the house, is there?”
“Not at all,” Grace confirms.
She guides us backstage, answering Dmitri’s questions while also recapping the history of the Playhouse.
With each additional fact, he gets more and more excited.
Every animated gesture he makes is contagious and there’s a part of me that wants to ask him to stay.
To stay in Maplewood and see the youth orchestra through.
Stay so we can continue to play together at The Striped Maple, at the music festival, for the bees, or just in my living room.
But I would never ask him to stay. What if he did and missed out on an amazing opportunity? He’d end up resenting me and Maplewood. And the thought of an unhappy, bitter Dmitri is worse than imagining my days without him.
“This is excellent.” Dmitri turns to Grace and me as we stand on the stage looking out to where the audience would sit.
“We want a space that feels prestigious. A place that can handle a crowd. Young musicians should experience what it’s like to play on a stage that’s not just their high school or middle school auditorium.
” He claps his hands together and spins around, taking in the theater again.
His mouth tips up with his smile, and I can see the ideas popping around in his head.
They’re practically pulsating through him.
“We’re happy to help bring more of the arts to Maplewood any way we can.” Not immune to Dmitri’s enthusiasm, Grace’s smile is as wide as his. When she catches my eye, her smile grows more. “Just shoot me an email when you’re ready to talk performance dates.”
Dmitri’s expression falls and the muscles in his body shift from loose and carefree to stiff and reserved. Grace’s words may as well have been a bucket of ice water dumped over Dmitri’s head.
Instead of pulling him to me and telling him he can stay and see this through because it’s what I want, not necessarily what’s best for him, I thread our fingers together and give him a quick squeeze.
His shoulders relax a fraction of an inch and he says, “Thank you. I’ll make sure Naloni and the committee know.” He extends his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Grace. Thank you for your time.”
“Anytime. I hope we’ll see more of you.” Grace gives his hand a warm shake, then pats me on the arm.
We say our goodbyes and when we’re back outside, more clouds have parted and the sun peeks through.
Dmitri lifts his face to the sky and stills, closing his eyes and exhaling a long slow breath.
My gaze follows the column of his neck and my lips tingle with the desire to press them to it.
I know he’s been worried about the next step in his life, but the tension in his body makes his shoulders creep up and the crease between his eyebrows has taken up permanent residence since he received the email from the symphony.
“Doesn’t look like it’s going to rain anymore,” I say, interrupting his moment, but not knowing what to do or say to make him feel any better.
He opens his eyes and looks at the sky. “No, it doesn’t.”
“C’mon.” I take his hand. “I’ll take you to my favorite make-out spot when I was a teen.”
His expression relaxes into a slow grin. “Yeah?”
“Yep.” We head back to my house so I can pick up my car. “Haven’t brought a boy there in over twenty years.”
“I’m far from a boy.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “I was always so focused on music, I never got to do stuff like that.”
I slap my hand to my chest and gasp with as much exaggeration as I can muster. “You never made out in the woods?”
He pushes me. The sweet rumble of his laughter has somehow become my favorite song. One I want to hear on repeat over and over again. “There aren’t a lot of woods in Houston. Plus, I was too focused on living up to my parents’ expectations.”
He freezes, a look of surprise claims his face. Eyes wide, the white taking up a massive amount of real estate, and his mouth rounded in a silent, oh .
“You okay?” I step in front of him, squeezing his biceps with my free hand.
The touch seems to pull him from whatever is going on. His gaze meets mine, but there’s still a certain shell-shocked quality to it. “I never realized. I mean, on some level I did, but I didn’t really know. You know?”
“Realized what?”
He continues walking, but at a slower, almost contemplative pace.
“My parents have always been supportive of me. When I wanted to play hockey when I was five, they got me ice skating lessons. And when I was sixteen and joined the track team, they were at every meet. Then there was the summer between fifth and sixth grade when I announced I no longer wanted to play the violin, and they said I shouldn’t do something I didn’t love.
” My house comes into view as Dmitri continues his reminiscing in a daze.
“They never pressured me to play or expressed any desire to have me follow in their footsteps.”
He licks his lips, and I point the key fob at my truck.
Two rapid beeps signal the doors unlocking, and I open the passenger side for him.
He slides into the seat, staring out the window as I round the front of the vehicle and slip behind the steering wheel.
I don’t start the ignition, instead waiting for him to continue.
When he doesn’t, I bring his left hand to my lips and kiss each of his knuckles.
Something big is going on inside, and I’m not sure what to do other than be here and let him process whatever is going on in his head.
“I never realized how much I wanted them to be proud of me.” His voice is quiet, contemplative.
“I’m sure they’re proud.” My words come out softly, afraid to disturb the hush of the cabin.
He turns to look at me, eyes a little glassy, and chuckles.
“I could have been a mime performing at the corner gas station and they would have been proud. It was everyone else who would say things about me following in my parents’ footsteps.
And wouldn’t it be amazing to have three members of a family playing at an elite level?
Somewhere along the way, I internalized that performing in an orchestra like them was the only option.
” With a heavy sigh, he drops his head back, hitting the headrest. “I’m almost forty, and I’m just now realizing that I’ve been seeking my parents’ approval for my entire adult life. ”
“I don’t think we ever grow out of wanting to make our parents proud.
” The engine purrs to life when I press the ignition button and I pull out of the driveway.
“I’d never admit it to my parents, but as embarrassing as they can be, I get a little thrill every time they brag about my honey or the shop.
It’s like bringing home a gold star on your spelling test as a kid. ”
He huffs a laugh, his head lulling to the side as he stares at the scenery passing by. Patches of green and spots of yellow and white peek out from the browns and grays of winter. There’s a certain optimism that comes with the knowledge of the new beginnings that come with spring.
I glance a look at Dmitri. Maybe this time in his life is his spring.
We all have them, and most of us have multiple springs.
However, it doesn’t mean it’s easy for new buds to poke through the remnants of the old.
I keep all these musings to myself, letting Dmitri have space and time to his own thoughts.
It doesn’t take long for us to get to the dirt road that, with the overgrowth of trees, any visitor would miss.
Or wouldn’t dare to travel down. We bounce in the seat of my truck as I hit the impossible to miss potholes, and I make a note to have my shocks looked at.
Eyebrow quirked in question, Dmitri turns his head in my direction as we hit a pothole deep enough to crack my teeth together.
“I hope my axel is still in one piece.” I jerk the wheel to the left, but the tires still ricochet off the bottom of what may as well be a crater.
The fingers of his right hand dig into the door handle while his left hand presses into the bench seat, bracing himself as we’re jostled left and right. “I don’t know the first thing about trucks, but if she gets through this without breaking in two, she’s a keeper.”
My laugh comes out as a grunt when we hit another hole, but in the distance I spot the clearing. “We’re here.”
“Thank god. Any farther and I’m not sure I’d have any teeth left.” Dmitri runs his hand over his jaw.
The truck rolls to a stop. I shift into park and unbuckle my belt. “Ready?”
He opens the door and hops out. The previous heaviness gone, replaced by the playfulness I’ve seen so much of while he’s been in Maplewood. “Can’t wait to see where the magic happened.”
“So much magic,” I tease, and take his hand, which is as natural as bees pollinating.
We hike the short distance into the wooded area.
Even without the canopy of leaves overhead, the air around us cools the farther into the woods we traipse.
Dry leaves crunch under our feet, breaking apart and unearthing the damp leaves beneath them.
I drag in a breath, inhaling the faint scent of pine and earthy mildew.
The smell brings back memories of lazy summer days as a boy hiking up here with Trevor, and our friend Bram, and later, when we were older, driving up after football games to hang out or with dates to make out.
There’s something about sharing this place with Dmitri that’s like sharing a part of myself.
I lead him to the big rock overlooking the valley.
It’s not a huge drop, but the view is no less spectacular, standing above the treetops.
At this time of year, the tiny creek that runs through the valley is visible.
Birds flutter from a tree in a wave of black with noisy tweets and squawking, only to land in another tree.
“Wow.” He tucks his arm through mine, resting his head on my shoulder as we take in the scene Mother Nature has created.
Cotton-like fluffs hover over the treetops, replacing the steel-colored clouds of earlier in the day.
“It feels like we could reach out and touch the clouds.” He lifts a hand like he’s going to do just that.
I press my cheek to the top of his head, soaking in the beauty with him. “It’s even more beautiful in the summer when everything is green and blooming.”
“I’ll bet autumn is amazing,” he says with an almost dreamy sigh.
“It is.” And I want to share every season with him.