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“$42,000. The Camaro sold for $47,600, which left you just enough to pay for insurance and special shipping and handling to Vienna.”
I sat back, relief washing through me. “And it’s a good one, right? The violin?”
I heard Lucien’s smile color his words. “The best. Or, at the very least, the best in your price range.”
Because that’s what Charlotte deserved. The best violin I could afford and the best version of me when all was said and done.
The next morning, Lucien made a second trip to the airport, this time taking my crazy ass to JFK. He waited with me at my gate. He was allowed a special dispensation from security to accompany me until the plane took off. We sat side by side in the business class lounge of Austrian Airlines, he sipping champagne, me a bottle of water.
“If you recall,” he said, amused, “I suggested you try to navigateonecity alone.”
“Go big or go home,” I said, grinning like an idiot. I felt good. Optimistic. Naively unaware of the shit storm that awaited me. “You told me to answer the question, so I did. This is what I’m meant to do.”
“I know. I’m worried about you to the marrow of my old bones, but I also know this is right for you.” Lucien chuckled. “Nothing has changed. You’re still the daredevil you’ve always been, and I wouldn’t change you for all the tea in China.”
I eased a sigh. “Thank you. That means a lot to me, Lucien.Youmean a lot to me, though I know I haven’t told you that enough.”
“Noah! I hadn’t pegged you as the sentimental sort.”
“Blame Charlotte for that.”
“Hmm, I believe I will thank her instead.”
They called my flight, and we rose, Lucien guiding me to the queue to get on. I felt him studying me.
“Second thoughts?” he asked softly.
“A million of them. But that’s not it.” I hesitated. “I’m…I don’t remember what people look like anymore. Mom and Dad… They’re like blurred photos. And Ava. I know she’s beautiful and that’s all that sticks. And you. I can’t remember you, Lucien.”
“It’s all right, my boy. I’m quite past my prime,” he said, trying to be light while I was suddenly stricken with a glut of emotion. A dam—one of hundreds within me—began to crack.
I turned to Lucien, and before I could second guess myself or worry what other people thought, I put my hands on his face and looked at him…and he came back. All of him; his kind eyes, heavy brow, and a face drawn with laugh lines.
“Thank you for everything,” I said thickly and then cast off from the safety of him into the black unknown.
chapter thirty-nine
The Vienna Touring Orchestra practiced at the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, a gorgeous coral and white architectural marvel on the outside and a gilded concert hall on the inside. Sabina Gessler toured the foreigners in her new ensemble through the hall, our necks craned, our tongues practically lolling. It was where we were to begin our tour—in two weeks’ time—with a series that was almost entirely Mozart.
“A Viennese critic once said the Gesellschaft was Mozart’s ‘Jupiter’ symphony come to life.” Sabina winked at me. “We’ll find out, shan’t we?”
For our Vienna stay, the entire orchestra—all sixty of us—were set up in the Hotel Domizil, a charming little hotel that was a short walk to the Stephansplatz station from which we could explore Vienna, and a literal two minute walk from Mozarthaus, the flat where my beloved composer lived for a time while he wrote one of his most famous operas,The Marriage of Figaro.
My roommate was Annalie Dalman: a chain-smoking, red-headed flautist from Innsbruck. I suspected Sabina paired me up with her because of our close proximity in age and so that Annalie could help me with my German, which was nonexistent.
We unpacked together and she eyed my borrowed violin dubiously. “You’re going to tour with that piece of Scheiße?”
“Until I can afford something better, I’m going to have to.”
But this was Vienna. City of Music. I figured I could walk into a music shop and buy something that was a hundred times better at half the cost.
As it turns out, I didn’t need to.
On my second day, I came back from a sidewalk café with Annalie and some of the other younger musicians. I’d drunk only one beer, but it was from a stein the size of a small barrel. I was a bit tipsy when we returned to Hotel Domizil.
There was an oblong wooden crate on the small table in our room. An intricate stamp in black ink on the blond wood read The Hague. There was a packing slip taped to the front and I opened it. My small beer buzz evaporated, and my heart began to pound as I read the short, typewritten note tucked in among the shipping details.
I held the letter to my heart for a moment until Annalie cleared her throat and tapped my shoulder with a crowbar.
