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“And now I am one of the few people who have heard a Stradivarius played this close and thirty-thousand feet up in the air. How do you feel about the other two you have at home? Are they real? Do they sound the same?”
“No two Stradivarius violins sound exactly the same, but I’m not a fan of one of the two which now has me curious about your future assessment. In fact, I never use it but then, I’m partial. This one,” he says, running a hand over the wood of his instrument, “the tone is magnificent, and that’s why I stick with it.”
“Do you use a practice instrument to limit risk of damage to the Stradivarius?”
“Only when I was on tour and forced to practice on a plane, which meant I could be jolted about and damage the violin. I adjust how I play based on what the instrument delivers and my primary instrument delivers at a high level. I deliver at a higher level when I’m playing it. I want to practice at the same level I perform.” He returns the violin to the case and seals it inside.
“How many hours a week do you practice?” I ask.
He leans his shoulder on the seat, facing me, and me him. “Most people think I no longer need to practice that often.”
“Because you’re Kace August the Great? No longer human? No one stays the best, and you are the best, if they don’t improve their craft.”
“Very few people understand that or the pressure that puts on me.”
On some level I know he knows I am not what I seem. I know he knows I come from his world. And I know he wants answers, ones he hopes I’ll offer. I don’t offer any. Not now. “How many hours do you practice a week?” I ask again.
“Every day, even when I travel.”
“Being on the road really does sound challenging,” I say, and before I can stop myself I add, “Unsettling, though I bet exciting. Adventurous. Lonely.”
“It is all of those things and more. Sometimes all at once. Sometimes not. But it served a purpose.”
It’s an answer I would give, one that says much and nothing at all. One that reaffirms my belief that he is a man of mystique, who appears to share himself with the world and somehow share very little at all. It’s a gift that also requires practice and motivation. It’s a talent of necessity. Still, it’s clear he’s slowly opening up to me. I haven’t opened to him. Not much.
For that reason, I don’t press him to go deeper, to explain that purpose. I don’t ask him because I now know that I understand him beyond the content of words. Instead, my hand dares to go to his forearm, my finger tracing one of the musical note tattoos on his arm. It’s my silent way of telling him that I know he was running from the family and the pain represented.
He covers my hand with his and our eyes connect, the lighthearted mood shifting, the air thickening with our shared attraction. “What did the song I was playing at the gallery mean to you?”
My lashes lower, his music and that song playing in my mind. Kace cups my face, drawing my gaze to his. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“It reminded me of a romantic moment between my father and mother. A good memory but still painful. I miss them often.” I dare to run my fingers over his jaw. “I really loved getting ready this morning to the sound of you playing. Really loved it.”
“Maybe one day you’ll trust me enough to tell me why you love the violin so much and how you really know what you know about the Stradivarius.” He kisses my fingers. “Not today, I know, but one day. We need to try to rest a bit.” He stands, taking the case with him and placing it back in the overhead bin. He offers me his hand and the moment my palm is in his palm and I’m standing, the plane begins to jump and jolt. Kace grabs the ceiling and wraps his free arm around me, his eyes meeting mine as he says, “Hold on, baby, and I will, too.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Kace and I lay with our seats back, facing each other, no arm between us, our legs entangled—talking. We just talk. At my prodding, he tells me stories about the different countries he’s visited—about the food, the people, his shows. We talk for what feels like hours, until my eyes grow heavy and he pulls me under his arm, onto his chest. I fall asleep just like that, in his arms, with his heart thundering under my ear. I wake to him stroking my hair, murmuring in my ear, just before the wheels hit the ground.
