Chapter Thirty-Nine
THE HOLIDAYS PASS in a blur of food, drinks, and people.
Once I print, bind, and hand deliver the Lineage parts to a nice lady named Kathy at the David Geffen Hall administration office, I throw myself into prep mode.
With my father’s recent advice fresh in my ears, I spend almost all my time with my mom, helping her to cook, bake, and wrap gifts.
The biggest day for the Garcías is always Christmas Eve.
My parents’ place is a revolving door of people—the titis and tíos who come in from Jersey and Long Island, my mom’s piano students and their families, my dad’s employees and theirs.
So many cousins. So many neighbors. It’s a holly-jolly chaos fueled by coquitos and food.
The sheer number of people I have to talk to keeps me occupied, but after a few rum-saturated cocktails, I sneak into my old bedroom and pull out my phone.
I’m seconds away from texting Oliver—just to say happy holidays, to ask if he’s in Florida with Bea—when Amanda appears in front of me.
Her sisterly sixth sense must have gone off, because she puts a hand on my phone and shakes her head.
“Not a good idea,” she says gently. I don’t argue with her.
A few days after the New Year—which I spent at a party hosted by Rosa and Hector—I’m curled up in my desk chair in front of my computer, updating my website with my new Lineage credit.
It’s a quiet, snowy afternoon, that weird period of time where half the country is back to the grind while the other half is still in a holiday daze.
Just as I click Save on the web page, an email notification flashes in the corner of my screen.
The subject line reads: “FW: SIGNATURE REQUESTED, final contract - C. Garcia, Cain Productions, Limelight Studios.”
My heart jumps into my throat. I knew this email was coming, but it doesn’t make the moment any less emotional for me.
My agent and I have swapped messages a few times, hammering out some final details while she negotiated on my behalf.
But to actually see my own name, sans anyone else’s, attached to a project like this?
With that many zeroes in the compensation column?
It’s more than a relief—it’s a milestone, marked only by the wild drumming of my pulse.
This moment, this feeling of security and stability all wrapped up in the promise of creative exploration, passes without much fanfare. It’s just me, my damp palms, and an electronic signature box. A few clicks and some typing. Just like that, it’s done: I’m a TV and film composer now.
The days of scraping by with advertising jingles are gone. No more losing jobs to AI just so a packaged-goods company can save a buck. After nearly ten years of hustling, I’m finally here. I made it.
The morning of our first recording session, I wake up way before my alarm.
Every single part of me is alive in a way that I’ve never been before.
My senses feel heightened somehow, as if my brain is determined to turn this into a core memory.
Dressed in my best business casual chic—only half of which is borrowed from Rosa—I set out for the day earlier than necessary.
Trio Studios is not that far from my apartment, so I brave the cold and salt-covered sidewalks to clear my head as the city rouses itself from slumber.
For the first time in nearly two months, I get to see Oliver today.
It’s not healthy how much I’ve thought about this, which is to say that’s basically all I’ve thought about.
Every time I washed a dish over the last month, I remembered the way it felt to watch him clean the kitchen of the Maine house, how happy it made me to be so domestic with him.
Every time I tossed and turned in bed, I remembered how easy it was to sleep next to him.
The first time I saw cinnamon rolls in a bakery, I nearly cried.
Every time I had to haul grocery bags upstairs, I remembered all the times he opened doors for me, carried bags for me, went and got something for me just because he could.
Not just during this whole Lineage experience, but thirteen years ago, too.
I love Oliver Barlowe; I have for months now. Now it’s up to me to show him that.
And if he doesn’t feel the same way… well, my sisters will be there for me.
When I press the buzzer next to the nondescript glass door of the recording studio, my stomach somersaults.
I’ve beaten our 8:30 a.m. call time by half an hour, but there are a few audio professionals and studio techs here.
Trio Studios was always way out of my budget for all the ad work I did, so I’ve never been here before.
James, the friendly studio manager, shows me around the huge space, with walls decorated in album covers of various musicians and groups that have recorded here.
When I see one of Celia Cruz’s albums—one of the last recorded in her storied career—I fake a cough to cover a mini-sob.
As I peruse the relics of a history littered with awards and game-changing artists, James trails after me at a respectable distance.
There’s a current of understanding that passes through us.
This place is sacred. We’ve come here to make history of our own.
By the time we reach the fourth and largest studio space, more people have filed into the mixing suite, separated by a wall of glass much like the Barlowe studio in Maine.
Except this studio is enormous, with high wooden walls built to acoustical perfection, the floor filled with sleek black chairs and music stands to accommodate eighty-five musicians.
In one corner, there’s a full drum set and a Steinway full concert grand.
Countless cords run along the floor and walls like veins, all of them leading to a small platform at the head of the room, where a complicated assortment of plugs feed into a small monitor.
It’s both the heart and brain of the operation.
The conductor’s stage.
“Celia! Hey!” I whip around at the sound of Rebecca’s voice. She’s standing at the door to the studio, her eyes bright as she waves at me. “Come and meet your concertmaster.”
I already know who that is; he’s a legend and a fellow Juilliard alum, though he was several years ahead of me, so we never crossed paths. Still, I recognize the black hair, dark eyes, and warm disposition that resonates even in photos when I exit the studio and finally meet the man.
“Qiang Chen.” He’s quick to smile as we shake hands.
“Celia García,” I reply. “So nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he says, as he adjusts his grip on his violin case. “Are we still aiming for a nine a.m. start time?”
Both Rebecca and I reply with a quick “Yes.”
“I’ll make sure everyone is warmed up and tuned by then. Let me know if you need anything,” he replies. “I’m used to being the intermediary between the conductor and the orchestra.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
With a quick nod, he edges around us to enter the studio. Rebecca links her arm with mine and leads me down the hall, which is now full of various people discarding coats, chatting in small groups, and unloading instrument cases from tired backs. “Who’s conducting today?” she asks.
“We’re splitting it,” I say.
“Okay, who’s first?”
“Oh. I don’t—I’m not sure.” This is something I would have figured out earlier if Oliver had replied to my email with anything more than a thumbs-up. “He can go first, if he wants.”
“Speak of the devil,” Rebecca says, drawing my attention to the end of the hall.
I thought I had prepared myself for this moment. I was wrong.
My chest burns with a sense of yearning so acute I stop in my tracks.
Rebecca’s arm falls from mine in the process, but she doesn’t seem to notice; she’s being pulled away by one of the audio technicians who is rattling off tech specifications.
Oliver’s face is tilted down toward his phone, his baton case tucked under one arm, so he doesn’t notice me at first. It gives me ample time to drink in the sight of him—to admire the slim cut of his tailored navy trousers on his long legs, to smile at the way the matching suit jacket fits the curves and swells of his strong shoulders.
Holy shit. I miss him so much.
He doesn’t even look up as he starts to move with ground-eating strides.
When he almost gets knocked sideways by a man hefting a standing bass, he finally does.
Our eyes meet. His face remains expressionless but it’s his throat that gives him away.
It bobs with a hard swallow. I’m warm and tingly all over.
He slides his phone into his pocket as he closes the distance between us. When there’s still a good foot of space left, he gives me a flat “Hey.”
“Hi.” The singular word is breathless and high-pitched. “How are you?”
“Fine. You?”
“A lot,” I reply honestly. “I’m… a lot of things.”
His eyes are assessing as they roam over my face, snagging briefly on an errant lock of hair that escaped my low bun. His hand twitches at his side. I forget how to breathe.
James, the studio manager, pokes his head out of the mixing booth. “You two ready? I want to go over a few things with you while everyone gets set up.”
We both nod before filing into the small room, which is filled with endless sound mixers covered in knobs and buttons and sliders.
James’s appearance should have broken the spell that came over me—really, all the people here should be enough to distract me—but it didn’t.
It won’t. I’m going to be hyperaware of Oliver’s presence every single second of this day.
James unloads advice and instructions about acoustics and sound quality.
Rebecca joins the conversation, chiming in with her own thoughts on how to best achieve the results we’re looking for.
All the while, the studio fills with sounds of an orchestra coming to life.
Flutes run scales. Trumpets soar. Percussionists test bells while the pianist practices the main theme.
I catch snippets of the cellists rehearsing Dahlia’s piece.
“Celia can go first,” Oliver says to Rebecca. “If she wants.”
He’s not looking at me when he says this, but I take it as a good sign.
Here he is, letting me have this moment, so different from our Juilliard days when he was demanding and heavy-handed with a group.
Now he’s showing me he was listening when I said how important this was to me.
I can only hope that it means he still cares.
“I do want to go first,” I say.
I make my way toward the conductor’s podium just as Qiang finishes the final tuning of the orchestra.
The sound is warm, rich, and nearly overwhelming in a studio built to capture even the most pianissimo notes.
Everyone falls silent as I step onto the platform.
Under the soft recessed lighting, I catch the gleam of Qiang’s Stradivarius violin out of the corner of my eye.
Looking out at eighty-some expectant faces, the same orchestra that rejected me almost a decade ago, I allow myself a moment to just exist. To be present. To think about nothing other than the fact that I have fought for my entire life to get to this point. I deserve this.
“Thank you for being here,” I say. “On behalf of myself and Oliver, it is a privilege to do this with you.”
The musicians murmur their assent as they pull on the headphones provided to them.
I do the same as I flip open the full score that’s been laid out on a flat music stand.
When I lift my baton, there’s a flurry of movement as the musicians ready their instruments.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Section one point one A, Title Sequence. ”
I glance over at the window of the mixing booth and give a tiny nod to James, who gives me a thumbs-up in return.
With my free hand, I press the Play button on the screen in front of my score.
On the black screen, I watch the Limelight Studios countdown pass from ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…
At one, I lock eyes with the percussionist at the drum set and my baton swings down. The cue is seamless. The beat floats through the room, filling the space, all the way up to the highest crevices of the ceiling, echoing the rhythm of my own heart.
I am here, it beats. I am here, and I am worthy.
LINEAGE—EPISODE EIGHT, “ALL’S FAIR”
INT.—JFK AIRPORT, FIRST-CLASS LOUNGE 572
We open on the big diamond ring on DAHLIA’s finger. She’s looking at her bank app on her phone. She transfers $9,999 from one account to another. She repeats this process four times before she’s interrupted by HARRISON. She closes her phone and smiles up at her new husband.
HARRISON
Our flight is boarding.
DAHLIA
(teasing)
Look at how quickly you’ve adjusted to flying commercial.
HARRISON
I’m not as spoiled as you thought I was.
DAHLIA stands up and kisses him on the cheek.
DAHLIA
Oh, I know you’re spoiled, but I love you anyway.