Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
I close my eyes when the first song plays, but I open them again as she taps my arm with the album cover.
“Have you heard them?”
The cover is black with a galaxy of stars split by four comets with tails of music notes, all colliding at the center into broken instruments: a cello, bass, piano, and violin. The band is called A World Away.
“I actually have this album,” I say.
“So good, right?” Her face brightens. “Rupert and I saw them in concert years ago.”
Three knocks sound at the door. “Can I come in?” Flynn asks, already pushing it open.
I quickly turn.
“What are you looking at?” he asks, nodding toward the turntable before picking up Loki.
“June and I were just discussing our shared love of music,” Callie says. “Specifically, the cello.”
“Oh, yeah. She played it,” he says.
“June, you didn’t mention that.” Callie elbows me lightly before sitting in her chair and tucking one leg underneath her.
“I was about to,” I say, offering Flynn a tight smile.
He looks at me, confused.
“Do you know how to tune one?” Callie asks.
“Yeah,” I murmur, my gaze drifting back to the photos.
“If I buy an electric tuner, would you tune mine?”
Flynn perks up. “Wait. Are you feeling inspired to play your cello?”
I smirk without looking at him. He sounds far too pleased with himself.
“Perhaps,” Callie says.
“June, let’s go get a tuner … or whatever she’s talking about,” Flynn says.
I shake my head slowly, gaze snagging on a photograph of a man steering a fishing boat. He has Callie’s smile and Rupert’s jaw. He must be their son.
“June?” Flynn says my name again.
“Huh?”
“Let’s go get the tuner thing.”
I study Callie, tracing the resemblance, wondering what other features she passed along to her son and grandson.
“You don’t have to tune it,” she says.
I shake my head. “No. Uh, I can. Where is it?”
“Top shelf of my closet,” she says. “But I said I don’t have a tuner yet.”
“That’s … fine. I don’t need one.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You don’t. Then how do you know it’s in tune?”
“By ear.”
After a few seconds of studying me with an indecipherable expression, the corner of her mouth twitches. “Very well. Flynn, will you carefully retrieve it from the top of my closet? Left side.”
“K,” he says, setting the cat down.
I look away, wringing my hands. Her suspicious smirk makes my pulse jump.
“Here,” she says when Flynn returns with the cello. “Take my seat.”
I sit and open the case. It’s a beautiful and expensive cello. A Paolo Vettori. Easily seventy thousand dollars. I lift the cello and bow from the case, unprepared for the rush of emotion that hits me. Bowing my head, I breathe through it, waiting for the tears to pass before they notice.
It feels like home.
The weight against my chest and thighs.
The way my posture settles, grounding me.
“Do you need some kind of external reference if you’re not using a tuner?” Callie asks.
I shake my head, eyes closed, bow hovering. It’s like taking a breath, a really deep one. The kind that makes you realize it’s the first real breath you’ve taken in years. It’s a relaxing flow of energy. A calmness that brings mental clarity. The sound so rich and deep it resonates through the wood and into me, waking something that never truly went dormant.
Perfect fifths. A to D. D to G. G to C. I adjust the lower string sharper or the upper string flatter until the vibration is pure. Then, I just play.
Four beautiful notes.
Long and short bows.
Play with joy, my dear. Or don’t play at all.
Practice is a means to an end. Don’t practice. Play. With. Joy.
Time disappears. It always has. My dad once found me slumped over my cello, bow loose in my hand. I’d played myself to sleep. One more note. One more chord. Always just one more.
When the final resonance fades and I open my eyes, the silence steals my breath for a moment. Callie’s mouth hangs agape, tears shining in her eyes. Flynn mirrors her expression.
I nervously smile. “It’s, uh … tuned.”
More silence.
I swallow hard, returning the cello to its case. “Of course, you can check it with a tuner, but I think it’s close. It’s a magnificent cello.” I lock the case and swing my gaze to Callie. “Where did you get it?”
After a slow blink, she murmurs, “Florence.”
“Isn’t that in Italy?” Flynn asks.
“Yes,” I say. “The Vettori family crafts them in Florence, Italy. Dario Vettori’s sons, and now his grandchildren, continue the tradition he started in the 1930s in a mountain town between Florence and Bologna.”
Callie’s smile swells. “That’s right. Have you been there?”
“Have you?” Flynn asks, visibly rattled like a “yes” answer will disappoint him.
“I don’t have all day,” Rupert grumbles, barging into the bedroom.
Flynn jumps. “Sorry. I got distracted.”
“Where are you going?” Callie tilts her head to the side.