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I held out a hand and the dog inched toward me, checking me out. He must have decided I was safe, because he lifted his head and came closer, took a prancing step, then jammed his pointed muzzle against my outstretched fingers.
I smoothed my nails over his sleek fur, scratching his ears as Milo had done. “What a beauty you are,” I crooned. “You’re super fast and strong too, aren’t you? You pretend to be shy, but deep inside you’re a monster.”
Milo laughed. “Monstrously lazy. But he’s retired, so he’s allowed to be lazy.” He watched as I stroked the greyhound’s lean shoulders and gently arched spine. “He likes you, Alice. He rarely shows his face when I have visitors, much less lets them pet him.”
“I like him, too.” I smiled at the dog. “So the feeling is mutual.”
“He’s not allowed in the instrument room, though.”
The Stradivarius. That was my reason for being here. I stood, patting Blue on the head. “Sorry, sweetie. I have to go see this.”
I took a last swig of wine and followed Milo down his apartment’s central hallway. “This place goes on forever,” I said, looking ahead to a far-away glass wall and balcony.
“I bought a whole floor of the building. I like a lot of space, and the open plan means Blue can run up and down when he’s feeling frisky. This is the room.” He stopped outside a heavy door halfway down the corridor and turned the knob. It opened to a small, dark space that felt a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house.
“It’s climate controlled,” he said, flipping on a muted light. “Come in and I’ll close the door.”
I stepped forward, gawking at the cabinets lining the walls. Inside the glass-enclosed structures, there were at least two dozen violins, violas, and cellos of every size and color mounted on pegs, displayed in an artistic arrangement.
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered. “This is marvelous.”
“I think so. All these instruments are special to me for one reason or another. The way they vibrate, the way they sound, even the curves of their bodies. They inspire me in my work.”
As I walked around, taking in the beautiful instruments with their ornate scrolls and richly polished bodies, he moved to a cabinet in the corner, unlocked it, and took out a case. Inside lay a plain, lightly varnished violin. It wasn’t the first Strad I’d seen, but it was the oldest. “What year?” I asked, staring at the priceless instrument.
“1682. You can tell the vintage by the color, and the shorter neck. I like that it’s one of his earliest ones. They talk about Stradivari’s Golden Period, but I’m partial to his beginning instruments. He took more risks then.” He held it out to me. “Want to play it?”
“No.” I honestly, truly didn’t want to. It looked too delicate, too magical. I was afraid I’d break it from pure nerves.
“No?” He gave me a look. “You’re the one who wanted to see it.”
“I know.” I squeezed my hands together, my pulse rushing beneath my palms. “I’ve been drinking, right? If I did something to it, I’d never forgive myself. You play it, please. You know your instrument better than me.”
A smile I could only describe as sensual curved the edges of his lips. “I know her like my own heart.”
“She’s female?” I asked.
“Of course.”
He took a bow from another case—good God, a Peccatte—and sat on a leather-topped stool, propping the violin beneath his chin. There were no other places to sit, so I stood in front and slightly beside him, listening to him pluck and tune for a few seconds. He had a quick ear for tuning. Anyone who made violins for a living had to be highly attuned to sound.
Even during tuning, I could hear the rich tone that Stradivari’s instruments were famous for, but when he drew the bow across the strings in the first notes of a lilting Bach piece, my soul rose, perceiving magic.
After the Prokofiev in the car, I’d expected him to play something edgier, or something showy like Monti’sCzardas, but the Bach was sweet and beautiful. Resonant notes filled the room, lovely and measured, tonally perfect. I stared at him as he played, watched his dark brows rise and fall with the intensity of the music, his lips purse, his black eyes widen during an expressive passage. I watched the tendons move in his neck and fingers, and clasped my hands together to keep from tracing over them.
There were so many things to fetishize: the way he sat astride the stool with his knees splayed, the flawless fit of his suit, the way his hair fell over his collar, with the fabric parted just so. But what I really fell for was the music. He made the bow and the strings sing, and there was thatlove, written so clearly in his features. I felt moisture on my cheek, and reached to touch my face. Milo looked over, his smile fading.
“Are you crying?”
I swallowed and shook my head. “No. Well, a little. It’s the way you play.” I swiped at another tear before it could fall. “Please, don’t stop.”
He put the bow to the strings, studying me, and played a few more notes. I don’t know what he saw in my eyes. Whatever it was, it was more than I wanted to show him.
“Please don’t cry,” he said, looking away.
“I’m sorry. It’s just you and that violin…and you make violins…and Stradivari made this violin so many years ago… God, there’s something about the connectedness of it, and the way music lives on and on and on.”
He played a little more, a smile teasing at the edges of his lips. “You’ve always been so dramatic, Lilly-Alice.”
