“Like that would stop you from undressing me with your eyes.” The joke slipped out. Or at least I hoped she’d see it as a joke.
Thankfully, she chewed her cheek to keep from smiling. “I don’t suppose you could show me where the kitchen is? Or how to get out of this room even? I feel like I walked a mile to get here.”
“This room is far underground. It stays cool year-round that way, which protects the instruments.” I could go into the acoustics and sound proofing as well, or how it had taken me years of fighting for approval from the Green Valley council to build it. I needed a place to always come home to—a sanctuary—and this was it. It was something I was extraordinarily fond of. I wished I could have seen her face upon walking in here.
“Let’s go.” I held her arm and led her down from the platform without thought. So much for my short-lived vow to not touch her.
Twenty minutes later, not ten, she all but skipped happily back into the room. I had gotten dressed after all and she was in her clothes from last night. She had a surprising amount of pep. She smelled faintly of wintergreen and her hair was no longer ruffled. The haziness in her eyes had been replaced with intense focus. Again, this was not the Christine of the performance space. She sat in the chair where I had set up her stand and music, but had left her cello in its case. Unpacking that felt too personal.
She unsnapped her case and set up her instrument, and as she did, she slipped back into the professional persona that I was most familiar with. Her posture went rigid and her face smoothed with cool focus. Once her bow was tightened and she sat in a ready position, I struck a note on the piano and she tuned her instrument to it. All this was done with the unspoken comfort of people familiar with each other.
“I’ll play through what I have written.”
I flexed my fingers, feeling a slight rush of nerves. I began to play for her. Obviously, it was not the full symphonic arrangement; just the piano sonata so we could rehearse together. It was a little rough around the edges still and I wasn’t happy with the third movement. It felt lacking. That was where her solo would be, and while I knew I was close, I wasn’t there yet. As I played, I shot glances at her to gauge her reaction. Artists had fragile egos that bruised easily. She held her bow, slack in one hand, leaning forward to rest her chin on her instrument as she listened. With every glance, I noticed her gaze growing more distant. Eventually she closed her eyes and subtly rocked to the melody as though it couldn’t be helped.
By the time I played the last note she sighed wistfully. “That’s beautiful.”
It took her a minute to come back into her head, I could see the moment she did. She blinked rapidly and sat up straighter. “Just lovely.”
I cleared my throat. “Let’s start at page eight, where your solo, I mean the cello solo, begins.” I glanced over to see if she’d caught my error, but she was busy flipping the pages of her music. “The intro is pretty standard.”
She waited for my cue, then began. We played like this for a few hours. Every once in a while, I’d stop her to listen to me play a specific part at half tempo until she could get it correctly. When the muscles in my neck protested from constantly looking at her and her cheeks grew pale, I stood.
“Let’s break for lunch,” I said.
Kim quietly set her cello down on its side. She had performed adequately but stiffly, like in rehearsals. As I feared, her performance skills had rusted over and she had formed bad habits that would need to be broken in order to be reset.
Only after standing to stretch my neck side to side did I notice she was unnervingly quiet. And in fact, upon replaying the last few hours in my head, I could not remember the last time she bit out a snarky comment. Her eyes were low and focused on the task of loosening the hair of her bow. She would not meet my face.
She sniffed and I reared back. Was—was she crying? Why?
“No,” I said, short and unexpected as a gasp of surprise. She shouldn’t cry. She should never cry.
“I can’t do this,” she said quietly, still not lifting her head.
“Do what, exactly?”
“This. All of this. I’m not to this level.” She gestured to the cello. When she finally brought her face up, her eyes were glossy and her pale skin grew splotchy. Her attention was focused behind my head, not looking directly at me. “I don’t understand why you asked me to do this.”
“Don’t cry,” I snapped. “We’ve only just started.”
“I’m not crying.” She shot back, her bottom lip jutting out and quivering. “If it seems like that it’s only because I’m angry and my stupid face makes me look like I’m crying.” She sniffed.
I didn’t like that she called her face stupid. I didn’t like that she was acting like this. “Where did this come from?”
“I’m humiliated. I’m not at this level.” She took a deep breath in. “Did you bring me down here just to show me all of my shortcomings? To remind me that I’m a second rate professional?”
“I would never do that.” Inexplicably, my heart started slamming against my chest, rattling me like a gong. I could handle ego and temper tantrums, but I couldn’t handle Kim’s self-doubt. I didn’t recognize this person. I stood, aware that my hands had fisted at my sides.
“Just explain it to me then. This isn’t an attempt to fish for compliments. I genuinely do not understand why I’m here.”
My heart was now racing at climactic tempo, slightly erratic and running away. I couldn’t hold her gaze.
“I don’t pretend that I’m not talented. But Maestro, you have to see that I’m not the best for this.”
“This is why you practice,” I growled the words.
She gripped her bow brandishing it like a knife. “Why not Carla or Barry? Why not audition people for this? There are thousands more talented than me.”
“You’re right,” I agreed.
Her nostrils flared even as the rest of her face started to crumple in dismay. How did I communicate this to her? With every second she questioned me, my panic grew.
She took a deep breath and held my gaze. “I can see that you’re frustrated with me,” she said. “But getting angry isn’t helping me understand. I hate that I sound so unsure of myself. There was a time—” She shook her head. “But you have to give me something more to understand.”
She was humiliated. I was too, but she didn’t see that. She only saw the anger. I needed her. My heart hammered. I had to give her something. I couldn’t risk her saying no. Rejection from her of all people might break me.
“It’s not always about talent. It’s about potential.” I began tentatively, trying to explain some without giving too much away. “You’re dedicated. You’re punctual. You’re available.” These were all facts that were true, but they weren’t selling her. The trepidation was still there in her quivering lip. I lifted her chin, touching her again before realizing it. “Some people have a spark in them. I’ve heard you practicing at night when you think nobody can hear you. You have that talent, but more importantly, you have passion.”
Her eyes widened.
I went on, “There is something locked inside of you that is desperate to be free. When I heard you play …” I swallowed down the fear in my dry throat. “You inspired me—my music. That’s why I need your help.”