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 justone 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 magnificentcello.” 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?”
“Haveyou?” 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.
“To get Flynn clothes for the orchestra,” he says. “Did you ask what she’s wearing?” Rupert nods to me.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot to ask,” Flynn says. “What are you wearing to the orchestra? Do I need a suit or tux?”
“What?” I chuckle. “Flynn, you don’t need either. A nice shirt and jeans are fine.” He shouldn’t spend another dime on me. Definitely not for a suit or tux that he’ll likely never wear again.
“You two are going to the orchestra?” Callie perks up.
Rupert smiles. It’s sincere and endearing. Memories of less tragic times, perhaps?
“Yes, but it’s no big deal,” I insist.
“Have you been to the orchestra?” she asks Flynn.
“What do you think?” he deadpans.
“Then it’s a big deal. Let’s go shopping. Give me twenty minutes,” she says, practically skipping to the bathroom.
