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“Where on earth did you get a crowbar?” I asked, wiping my nose.
“My luggage.” She gave me a strange look. “You don’t have?”
We pried open the crate. A violin case rested snugly within the confines of packing material and Styrofoam buffers and shredded paper, stiff like straw. I unclasped the case and opened it. Butterflies took flight in my chest and my hands trembled as I lifted a small card, a certificate of authenticity and with a reproduction of the maker’s looping signature on the front.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “I can’t believe it.”
Annalie clucked her tongue from beside me. “That is not piece of Scheiße. From your boyfriend you tell me? Noah?”
I nodded, blinking back tears. “Yes. My boyfriend.”
The love of my life.
I let the card go and lifted the instrument from its case. The wood was dark and rich. Scratches told of its age—Cuypers made some of the finest violins in the world almost two hundred and twenty-five years ago—and I could see it had been re-varnished at least once, but the body still felt clean and light. A silver-mounted bow lay in the black velvet of the case, and I took it in my other hand, staring dumbly at the yellowed horsehair stretched tight along its length that looked original.
Impossible…
With shaking fingers, I put the violin to my chin and set the bow along its strings, marveling at how perfect both felt in my hands. I played a long C. The sound was clear and vibrant, and I quickly lowered the instrument back to its case, overcome.
“How…? How did he…?” My words tapered away helplessly. I didn’t want to ruin the moment with crude thoughts about cost, but a Cuypers violin could run upwards of $70,000, depending on the condition. And then I knew.
He paid for it. Not his parents, who could have bought an orchestra full of Cuypers and Stradivariuses.
Noah bought it with his own money because he sold his Camaro.
My heart swelled and tears came again. He sold off one of the last vestiges of his old life and used the money to help give me a new one.
Think of me every time you use it.
“I will,” I promised. As if I could help it.
chapter forty
It’s pretty sad when theflightis the best part of your European tour. Granted, I knew that this wasn’t going to be a fucking picnic, but I wasn’t prepared for how utterlyunpreparedI actually was. I slept through the flight and woke with hope and optimism. I mentally geared myself up for the whole ordeal, as I used to do before a big jump or stunt back in my oldPXdays. And it worked…until we landed.
The plane taxied, stopped, and then people started their mad exodus to get off. I was in business class, but that didn’t stop my fellow travelers from acting as if there were a contest to see who could get up, gather their things, and stand around waiting for the doors to open the longest. I was walled-off by legs and carry-on bags.
I sat, unmoving in my seat, my guts twisting into knots, until it sounded like the plane was nearly empty. A soft hand touched my arm.
“Sir?”
“Not a fan of crowds.”
“Of course.”
I put on my sunglasses, took up my cane and carry-on bag: a leather messenger that held my laptop, phone, passport, and other special devices for the blind I’d brought with me. My lifelines.
“Can I assist you? Or call someone at the gate?”
I wanted to say ‘yes’ so bad I could taste it. But I had three iron-clad rules:
Never miss a concert
No holing up in hotels
Don’t ask for help unless absolutely necessary
I had to do as much as possible on my own, I reasoned. Otherwise, what was the point?
