Chapter 4
People gather around as the musicians tune up and get ready. In less than ten minutes, they’re into an intense piece with violent counterbeats that have me on the edge of my seat.
I played this once. Way back in the day.
In a few bars, the counter beats will stop suddenly.
I was always afraid of being the idiot who snarfed out a note after the dead silence at the end of that section.
It’s driving me crazy that I can’t remember the name of the piece or the composer.
At least I don’t have to feign interest.
The heavyset, older guy next to me has a piece of hay dangling from his lips, a hugeass straw cowboy hat with silvery tufts poking out by his ears, and he is sporting weathered jeans tucked into working boots that have seen better days. His arms are folded over his chest, and he’s frowning.
He notices me glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. Apparently, that’s enough to render us buddies, since we’re sharing a log and listening to a concert in the park.
“Got my boy up there, hacking away on that fairy fiddle.” I flinch at everything that’s laced in that word.
Before I can reply, he asks, “Who’s yours?
” The piece of straw bobs when he speaks, but his lips hardly move.
This is a working cowboy. I’m surprised he spoke.
It looks like there’s an intergenerational war brewing inside him on the log.
There’s something I understand about the meat of the statement, the unspoken question—will life beaten the shit out of him?
I often wonder if life’s already beat the shit out of me? I know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of being the family failure.
I tip my head towards Chase, in answer. I cross my ankles and place my hands on either side of my hips, leaning back on the log a bit.
The sun feels good on my face. I can’t decide how I want to play this.
I should keep my mouth shut, but I find myself saying, “The burly mountain man perched on the box.”
Chase doesn’t have a regular conductor’s stand. It looks like it might be an old wooden milk crate that’s been repurposed.
The cowboy nods. Shifts his shoulders. “Wish he’d do something with more grit.” There’s an uncertainty. Like this man wants to accept his kid as is, but he thinks less of him for having talent.
I shouldn’t get involved. That’s the Ferro way of life. Stay out of it. It’s not my problem. But I’m Bree right now. And I find myself replying, nodding like I agree. But I counter, “It takes a bit of skill to play something like this.” I point to the stage and then lean back on my hand.
The guy grunts. I can barely hear him; he mumbles so softly when he finally replies, “I don’t have rhythm for it.”
I smirk. “But he does, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. All he wants to do is run off and play that thing.”
Something about the way he says it makes me think the kid hung back for his dad. The kid sits in second chair. His eyes close periodically like he wants to be lost in the music. He starts to sway slightly, rigidly, as if he were trying to stop the flood of music flowing through his body.
“Maybe you should let him. What’s the worst that happens? He fails and comes home?” I laugh like it’s nothing, but the last word snags in my throat. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it until that moment. Having a place to run to matters. Having people matters more.
The piece of music ends and the audience claps vigorously. Whistles and whoops fill the air, and soon everyone is standing and applauding.
The old guy rises next to me, shakes his head. “Nah, if he takes off, he’ll make it. He’s too damn stubborn. Proud.”
As I clap in the country way, a way that’s uncouth in New York, I bob my head. Without looking at the man, I say, “And he’s good. But he’s holding back.”
The guy looks straight into my face, full eye contact. “What makes you say that?”
“I play.” I tip up my chin and add quickly because the applause is dying down.
“Some people have music in their soul, and it’s trying to find a way to be heard.
The conductor has it. You see him melt into the music.
Your boy starts to melt and then pulls back.
Living in the middle must be difficult.”
He grunts as we retake our seats on the log. The conversation ends, and a new song begins.
Between moments of openly ogling Chase, I close my eyes and get lost in the music. There’s something about listening to live instruments that strums my soul. I can feel it literally making my body vibrate as the sound resonates through the air.
After a moment, my gaze shifts back to Chase, because DAMN. How could it not?
It’s more than just his looks. He’s so talented.
The man doesn’t belong here. He’s fucking good.
In terms of conductors, their skill makes or breaks the orchestra.
Chase should be at someplace prestigious.
He’s good. Like really good. His body moves in a way that’s mesmerizing, lost in the music, and I can’t stop staring.
After their short set is finished and the roar of applause dies, the students clear out quickly, and Chase walks over.
He doesn’t bow or incline his head. No showmanship.
No ego. It’s totally weird. Very crunchy country, like so KOUNTRY.
Drawl that word out so it’s five syllables long and you’ll get how un-New Yorker he is. It’s nothing like the pomp of the Met.
“So?” Chase asks me rather ambiguously. Which makes me think he’s not looking for praise but an honest reaction.
But the old cowboy stands and answers, “You whipped those kids into shape.”
Chase turns toward the man, slips his hands into his pockets, and offers a polite smile. “It’s their talent, sir. I just help them along.”
“I don’t know much about music, but this ‘un says my boy holds back.” He jabs a sausage-sized thumb at me. “Sitting right in front of you. Eyes closed half the time like his mind is someplace else.”
Chase glances at me and then back at the man. An emotion I can’t quite name flickers across his face. “You’re Stone’s father?”
The old man nods curtly and folds his arms over his chest tightly. “Is it true? Does he have more in him?”
Chase realizes that there’s a culture clash going on in this proud man.
On the one hand, he wants his kid to be more like him—but he’s not.
Stone is headed toward us, slowly. Like he doesn’t want to hear what’s being said.
Probably the same conversation he’s heard a million times before about getting a real job.
Not many people think art is a real job.
Chase tucks his hands in his pockets and nods slowly. “He could be great. He’s got more to give, if that’s what you’re asking. Some kids refuse to move forward without their parents’ consent.”
The bushy caterpillar eyebrows scrunch together. “I don’t tell him he can’t play.” It’s not defensive. But he doesn’t understand what Chase means. That much is clear.
I cut in. “If you want to see what he’s made of, tell him to go for it, and that you’ve got his back.”
The old guy drops his arms. Misery lines his face. “I don’t know jackshit about this. And I ain’t gonna lie and—”
I break a cardinal rule of Texan etiquette and cut the old guy off, “You don’t have *know* anything, and you don’t have to lie. Just believe in him and be there. Whatever happens, happens.” I shrug. “If my family did that for me—”
Chase is drinking up everything I’m saying, and I realize that I’ve said too much. To fill the silence, he adds, “That happens to lots of great artists. The thing is, a kid like Stone could go all the way with the support of a guy like you. That support is everything.”
Stone is standing behind Chase now. His lanky frame makes him seem rail thin, even though he’s not a twig. He’s uncertain if he should step closer.
“Sir.” He addresses his father. Violin case in his left hand.
The old cowboy lets out a rush of air and nods at his kid. There’s a span of silence as we all wait for him to speak. There’s a foreboding tingling in the air, because this guy is going to crush his kid in front of us or say something thoughtless.
“Well done.” Two words. No inflection. Barely any eye contact with Stone, but he said it.
My eyebrow crawls up my face. Holy shit.
Stone beams a full-wattage smile, which he promptly hides. “Thank you, sir.”
“Walk with me.” The guy walks away, doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if Stone follows.
Stone’s face lights up as he glances between us, like we’re unicorns or something. He mouths THANK YOU and chases after his dad.
“Well.” Chase looks down at me.
I’ve resumed my position on the log, kicking my feet out, and crossing my ankles.
I place my hands behind my head, knit my fingers together, and lean back slightly.
“All in a day’s work for this guuuurl!” I shriek the last word as I feel the depression under my ass throw off my center of gravity.
I flail my arms to try and stay upright, but I careen backward off the log.
Right before my head slams into the clay-packed earth, Chase grips my wrist. My fingers latch on, and he pulls me upright.
All my hair sails forward; a large piece sticks to my lip gloss.
My feet are spread wide, trying to adjust my balance as I think I’m settling into place on the log—but Chase grabs my other hand.
Pulls me up to my feet so we’re nose to nose.
Me with big eyes and an open mouth with a wad of Crayola hair stuck to my lip.
“Easy, there.” Chase’s grin is ear to ear.
“I thought I was going to do something crazy, unlady-like.” I snort by accident and then feel my face flame red. “Oh, my God. Kill me now,” I mutter, and spin away from him, but he holds onto one of my hands.
Chase is laughing softly. “Better?” He smiles broadly and tugs my arm once before letting go. “Come on, Weird Girl. Let’s get you a snack before further calamity ensues.”
I snort again, not bothering to hide it. “Are you a man or a thesaurus? Been looking for a good Tinder hook-up on Wikipedia again?” I drop my voice, making it husky, “Ca-lam-ity, ohh baby.” Then I purr, while batting my eyelashes at him, “Swipe right.”
“It’s not weird.” His voice is a little higher than usual, but he’s still laughing.
“Yeah, it is, but that’s okay. Keep Chase Weird. I’m going to get you that printed out on a t-shirt. There’s a lady here that makes them while you wait.” We wander off, milling around the fairgrounds, eating fried everything and flirting until my face aches because I’ve smiled so hard.
Yeah. That’s right. I smiled my fucking face off. Best day in a super long time.