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“No, it’s been too long.” I turn away from it, feeling like my child has been plucked from my arms, and start to walk toward Connor and the doorway to leave. But he’s already moving closer to me. The press of his personal space against mine compels me back toward the cello like two like-ended magnets. I’m forced to stand beside the instrument in order to maintain an appropriate distance from him.
“Please.” He asks so softly in his low, velvety tone. My head and my heart bob a yes before my brain can wake from its fog to think.
Like an old familiar love come home to me, the instrument is heavy against my spread legs, finding a natural fit in the sacred space there. I position my fingers, curl my hand to form the first note and drag the bow across the strings. My eyes drift closed as the note embraces me into a familiar hug. To my surprise, the cello is barely out of tune. I wonder why it is here and who plays it. Perhaps Connor?
I force out hums in the first few familiar notes. My body slowly begins to move back and forth, rhythmically, gracefully, as I bring the wooden beast to life. In an instant, the melody has captured me completely. By the time I reach the climax of the piece, I am transported. Once again, I feel my soul floating above me as it did in Mr. Pencil Tapper’s office, but this time I’m not watching. This time, I am dancing, twirling, spinning and whirling as the notes lift me and carry me away with them.
My mind empties and the world around me dissolves into sound, vibration and tone. The earth no longer spins out of control, but turns as predictably on its axis as the movement of the strings under my fingers and the bow gliding across them.
My love is speaking to me now, telling a story of hope and love and of all things that are earth and life and music. And I am lost. Bouncing, tossing and lifting, dropping and rising again, the notes seesaw and float from the strings, propelling the piece ever forward in staggers and steps. I coax the tones from the instrument with my entire body now.
The music swells and crests and I feel myself sway and then hold as I pull my bow across the strings for the last time. The beautiful haunting blend of the final chord echoes through the room.
I sit as the last of the sounds ripple away like the rings on a pond, until they all dissolve around me and my spirit falls back into my body. I feel the warm wood against my legs again and finally, I let my eyes drift open to see Connor studying me, his voice mute, his lips parted in what I can only assume is surprise.
What looks like a tiny crystal of a tear twinkles in one corner of his eye, but it is gone before I can brush one from the corner of my own.
“Wow, Lainey Bird,” he struggles to speak. “That was gorgeous. What was that?”
“Bach’s Cello Suite No.1 in G Major.Just the prelude though. I doubt I could remember the whole thing.”
I clear my throat and manage to get back on my feet, rest the body of my beautiful old friend back into the stand and lay the bow at the base. I let out a long breath. Suddenly, I don’t feel the elves hammering anymore. My head is clearer and my heart is lighter than they have been in a very long time. Oh, sweet love, I’ve missed you.
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Where on earth did you learn to play like that?”
I give him a half-smile, thinking back to the first time I ever held a cello. How my awkward fingers worked to hold the bow. For weeks, I could only force screeching noises from it when I attacked the strings. I think of the hardened callouses that formed on my fingertips and on the insides of my knees because I refused to practice in pants one summer.
“Mrs. Dean taught me at PS 163 — middle school,” I explain, smiling as I think of the patient woman who led me to my first, and probably, the greatest love of my life. My fingers still drum along my thigh, finishing the piece as I stand and talk.
“Are you OK?” Connors asks.
I blink and realize I have tears streaming from one eye. I nod furiously and sniff and swallow away the rest of the emotion.
“It’s just been a really long time since I’ve played.” I say the words as if that is all the explanation I need to give as to why playing a three-minute prelude has made me so emotional. Apparently, it is because Connor doesn't ask me anything else about it. And I’m thankful he doesn’t press.
“Let’s get you some food, Lainey Bird,” he says and offers me his hand.
I don’t know this man. I don’t know where I am or what his real intentions are. Visions of all those serial murder shows I binge on Netflix flash through my mind. And yet, something about him makes me feel safe. Something that tells me on a deeper level, he understands me.
“My name,” I correct him, straightening slightly, “is Elaine.”
“I know,” he says, grinning at me. “But Lainey fits you better.”
I slide my feet into a pair of flip-flops that Connor’s niece ordered and then didn’t like. They’re a bit too big, but relatively comfortable, and I love the colorful beads that cover the straps.
“I was supposed to return these for her and never got around to it. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t,” Connor says, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry about your suit. I’ll replace it.”
I shake my head. “I appreciate the thought,” I admit. And this isn’t a lie. It is nice of him to take care of me. I’m a complete stranger to him as well, after all. I wonder if he binge-watches serial murder shows, too.
We walk outside and my eyes are immediately stung with the bright sunshine. Connor hands me my purse and I rummage through it half-blind until I can find my sunglasses. I slide them over my face, and instantly feel the tiny hammering elves ease their pounding.
When I can refocus, I am face-to-face with a cherry red two-seat roadster. The top is pulled back to enjoy one of the rare days of Georgia summer that isn’t hot enough to melt plastic. A silver pony on the front of the grill rises up on his back legs. I instantly recognize the Ferrari symbol, but this car looks like a vintage model. Its smooth round edges have a total James Bond vibe. It is nothing like the sleek spaceship angles of the newer body styles.
“Wow! She’s pretty,” I say as he cracks open the passenger door and I sink down onto the supple tan leather seat. The dash is basic, showing only the essential dials for speed, gas and oil levels and a rudimentary tachometer.
“Thanks. It’s a 1960 Ferrari LWB California Spyder,” Connor says with pride, as if he’s introducing the President of the United States.
“Really?” I say, gushing. This has got to be a seriously rare car.
