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“Fear of what?”
“Of not being good enough. Your father was a terrifying teacher. He didn’t suffer fools, or lazy students.”
“It wasn’t fear,” I countered in a soft voice. “It was love for the music. You loved playing the violin. I saw it at every lesson, and heard it in every note.”
He pressed his lips together. Good. He wasn’t going to argue with that. We rode a little while more before he spoke again.
“I don’t know what was more important to me in the beginning, Alice. Learning to play the violin, or learning to make one that was good enough to play. Either way, it became an all-consuming relationship for me, learning that instrument frontwards and backwards and inside out. I couldn’t make a perfect violin if I couldn’t understand how the angles of its body created a sound.”
He took a hand off the wheel to sketch a curved shape in the air. Long, elegant fingers, and his deep, resonant voice as he talked aboutunderstanding. I pressed my legs together, scarily aroused.
“I kind of know what you mean,” I said. “About learning it inside out. Sometimes I think of the violin as a heart that’s beating.”
“Jesus.”
He exhaled the word with unexpected force. Had I upset him? I was too afraid to look at him. “What I mean is, I think of my violin as a living thing that I have to nurture and…”
My voice drifted off. I could see his profile reflected in the glass, staring at the road, his dark eyes so intense. I felt the weirdest impulse to burst into tears, thinking about him and his violin, and those Sundays so many years ago, when he’d meet with my father for lessons and sometimes stay for dinner. Those encounters had been so precious to me. Whenever he had to cancel a lesson, whenever he didn’t show up, I’d hide in my room and cry. Maybe that was why I felt on the verge of tears now.
“Does your father still teach?” he asked.
“The occasional student. If they’re special enough.”
Milo laughed. “You have to be special to withstand your father’s lessons. I remember him growling at me, pointing out every mistake.Posture. Tone. What is that grip, Mr. Fierro? Hold your bow with respect or play another instrument. I hear the triangle is nice.”
“Ha. He was always big on that.Play something else.Then there was the whole,Do you find this funny? The circus needs clowns.”
“I never heard that one. I was too scared to crack a smile in his presence.”
“He loved you, though.” I clasped my hands tight in my lap. “I remember that he looked forward to your lessons. He’ll be happy to hear that I saw you tonight.”
“When you talk to him, tell him I said hello.”
“I will.”
We stopped talking and listened to Prokofiev as the world whizzed by outside his tinted windows. I wished I’d drunk more champagne, so I could think of more light, fizzy things to say. Everything that came to mind was too stupid, or worshipful, or confessional.How are you so sexy? You’ve fascinated me for so long. Are you dating anyone?I assumed he wasn’t, or he would have brought her to the party. Right? Whenever our parents got together, I always listened for Milo gossip, and I’d never heard of him having a serious relationship with anyone.
“Are you doing anything for New Year’s?” I asked. If he had a girlfriend, they’d spend New Year’s together, and kiss when the ball dropped. My stomach went squirrelly at the thought of him being in love with someone else. It would ruin one of my favorite fantasies, of Milo pulling me into his arms, gazing at me, kissing me until I couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I used to hang out with my friends on New Year’s Eve, but both of them have coupled up in the past year. Their girlfriends are great, but they only tolerate me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” I laughed, partly because I couldn’t see any womanonly toleratingMilo, and partly out of happiness that he sounded unattached. Unfortunately, the laugh that escaped sounded high-pitched and somewhat hysterical. Hopefully, he just assumed I was drunker than I was.
“There’s nothing worse than spending New Year’s with happy couples,” I said.
“Yeah. From now on, I’ll spend it at home with my dog.”
Invite me to come. We could pound champagne, get really drunk, and tumble into bed to bring in the New Year.I wished for an invitation really, really hard, but he didn’t extend one, and we were almost back to Manhattan.
“Are you playing on New Year’s Eve with the orchestra?” he asked.
“No, not this year.”I’m totally free that night. Please invite me. You could kiss me when the ball drops. You could do anything you wanted to me.
But no invitation came, not even a follow-up question about what I was planning to do that night, since I wasn’t playing with the orchestra.
He downshifted as we moved off the parkway and into the city. I loved New York, but it always felt claustrophobic after being out in the country, if you could call Chappaqua “country.” I looked out the window, trying not to feel wounded by his obvious disinterest in getting closer to me. It was starting to rain.
“What kind of dog do you have?” I asked.
