Page 38 of The Sound of Harmony

“It’s a tan lap blanket knitted by an aunt.”

“I get it. I get it. Which track is that?”

“Ten,” Kendrick said. “A nice bland number.”

“You really love this guy,” Emma said as she started the track.

“And to make it worse, Whitacre himself is so darn nice. Everyone likes him. Last year, he bought me a beer at the Midwest Symposium.”

“How dare he?” she asked as the opening notes filled the room.

“I know. The nerve of that dude.”

“And I have some bad news for you,” Emma said after a moment. “I like this.”

There were no strings, no squeak of violins or mellow sound of cellos. It was all wind instruments. The melody was as soft as autumn light, as crisp as the cooling air. She could feel the leaves on the wind and the ripening harvest.

“I like this a lot,” she said. No vocals. This was magical.

“I was afraid of that,” Kendrick said.

Emma checked in with herself. Her shoulders weren’t tense, her heart wasn’t racing. Hands, unclenched. Feet, relaxed. This was…very odd. The one kind of music she connected to, and it was this? “Growing up, I always thought classical music was for dorks. I was so wrong.”

“No, you weren’t,” Kendrick said. “We’re huge dorks.”

They listened together. “No drums?” she asked about four minutes in.

“Chimes,” Kendrick groaned. “The entire piece is sprinkled in fairy dust. Wait for it.”

A flute trilled. The percussionist struck the triangle. Emma giggled.

They listened to the rest and on the final note, something clicked in Emma’s brain. It was like fitting in the last puzzle piece or solving a sudoku grid on the first try.

“More,” she said.

“Play the next one,” Kendrick said.

They went through a catalog of modern composers, from Carolyn Shaw to Solhi al-Wadi. She sampled some, listened to whole compositions by others, and wrote down names, titles, albums. Kendrick was her human recommendation engine. If you liked this, you’ll also like this.

But one piece made her sit straight up in bed and lean into the speakers, as if she could fit herself inside of them.

She didn’t want to just listen to this music, she wanted to live it, to feel the violin on her shoulder and the cello between her knees. She wanted the beat of the drum to be the beat of her heart. And then came the flute solo. The little hairs on her arms stood up and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She sucked in air.

“Are you all right?” Kendrick asked.

“What is this? Who wrote this?”

“Are you sure you’re fine?” he asked with enough smugness in his voice to give the whole thing away.

Emma could barely breathe. “It’s one of yours, isn’t it?”

“Not the best recording I could find,” he said. “We were in Barcelona and—”

“Shush.” She needed to hear the whole thing. It was a full orchestra piece with strings and woodwinds. The melody took her heart, gave it wings, and flew into the sky.

Six and a half minutes later, she released the pillow she’d been hugging to her chest. She felt like she’d had her feet massaged and a warm bath drawn up for her. The music still floated through her mind, not making any kind of sense but not needing to. “Is there more?”

“As much as you want.” Kendrick’s playful tone was gone. His voice was honest, raw, and thick with longing.