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We sit down and I can’t take my eyes off her. Angelique holds one of my hands with both of hers and lays her head against my shoulder. My mother sits across from us. She’s not looking at Isabelle. She’s watching me.
Isabelle clears her throat. She doesn’t quite look at any of us as she sits down in the chair set for her.
“I’m probably rusty,” she says with a quick glance to me. “I’m not very good. I just—”
“She’s very good,” Angelique says over her.
“I’m sure she is,” I say and nod to Isabelle.
And she begins.
And fuck.
Fuck me.
I know the piece Angelique mentioned earlier. I’ve heard it as background.
Romeo and Juliet.
A Thousand Times Goodnight.
Fuck.
I squeeze my daughter’s hand. My gaze is riveted on my wife and breathing seems to get harder. Like the oxygen’s being drawn out of the room and all that’s left in its place is this emotion. This incredible feeling of sadness. No, not sadness. Of love. Of a love that will end in utter tragedy.
Romeo and Juliet were young. Idealistic and naïve. They still believed in love. They still hoped.
I’m not so young. So naïve.
My throat closes up and swallowing is hard. Looking at her is hard but looking away impossible.
Will she bear the tragedy of my actions?
Isabelle doesn’t look at any of us directly. She keeps her gaze straight ahead, eyes unfocused. She’s not looking at anything in particular. I wonder if she’s following the music in her head. If she’s seeing the notes as her bow moves over the strings of the violin.
Something shifts, something not palpable. Something inside her. I see it on her face. Do the others? It’s soft and subtle but complete. And tragic. So very tragic.
She plays from memory. When she closes her eyes, she grows blurry in mine. Fuck. The music is so fucking beautiful.
My breath is a ragged sucking in of too-thin air.
My body is tense. And I’m squeezing Angelique’s hand too hard.
Between the candlelight and the vision of Isabelle in the moonlight in white, I almost have to look away. Almost. But the vision of her face, her eyes, this thing that’s come over her. This softness. This other-worldliness. I have to keep my eyes on her. Because she’s not here right now. She’s elsewhere. She’s emotion and sound and feeling. Only feeling. And I feel her. God. I feel her inside my chest, my gut. I feel her like she’s inside me.
When it ends, I blink and she blinks. Then she’s wiping her face with the back of her hand. Her violin and bow still in her grip. I look at her. I just look at her. Can’t look away.
A Thousand Times Goodnight.
And fuck me. I am fucked.
Because I know something now. Something I’ve been ignoring. Something I’ve tried to quash.
I’m hers. All those times I told her she was mine, I left out the other part of that equation. Denied it. But here it is. Clear as day.
Just as she’s mine, so am I hers.
We belong to one another.
Until death do us part.
15
Isabelle
Dex drives us to the sold out concert. It’s a small venue but still, it’s something. Everyone is dressed in evening gowns, the men in tuxedos. Jericho too. Black on black for him. He is the devil, after all.
We take our seats in the front row.
“He went all out, didn’t he?” Jericho says.
“Don’t be mean.”
He picks up a program, flips through it, snorts at Paul’s picture and biography. “You’ll start proper lessons in two weeks,” he says, closing it and setting it on the still empty seat beside his.
“What?” I ask, tucking the program into my purse.
He turns to me and my breath catches. He’s handsome, my husband. Ruggedly so with that five-o’clock shadow along his jaw, his strange eyes that always seem to convey power and possessiveness.
I think about what Paul said. How possessive Jericho is. It’s no secret. And some part of me seems to lean into it. Feel safe within the boundary of his arms. It’s ridiculous, I know.
“I’ve arranged for a retired teacher from the Oberlin Conservatory to teach you. He moved to New Orleans about a year ago so it’s perfect timing.”
“Wait, can you say all that again?”
“Professor Larder. Used to teach at Oberlin Conservatory. Heard it’s a good school.”
“Oberlin? It’s one of the best.”
“You’ll have weekly lessons. More if you want.”
“I have a teacher. A group.”
“Now you have a better one.”
“How expensive is he?”
“Don’t worry about that, Isabelle.”
“Tell me. I mean, Oberlin Conservatory?”
He leans toward me. “I have a lot of money in case you hadn’t noticed,” he says with a wink.
The lights blink twice signaling the concert will begin soon. People who’ve been milling around take their seats so we can’t talk as openly.
“What about my group?”
He looks at me squarely. “Your group isn’t my concern. You’re talented, Isabelle. It’s a waste of your gift not to pursue it.”
