Page 11 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

Beck's eyebrows arch up, her expression so transparently skeptical that I almost laugh despite myself. "Sure…and I'm secretly first chair at the Vienna Philharmonic."

"You think they couldn't pay the electric bill?" The words feel terrifyingly plausible at this point.

"I know they couldn't." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "Lowdin called me last night. The board meeting ran until midnight."

Beck continues. "They're three months behind on rent for the Morrison. Donor funding is down sixty percent from last year. Two major sponsors pulled out after that disaster of a gala."

The gala. I wince at the memory—half the soloists down with flu, the heating system not working correctly, wealthy patrons shivering in their formal wear while we struggled through Beethoven's Fifth with a decimated string section.

"But they can't just...close," I protest, aware that I sound naive. "PacWest has been around for decades. We're an institution."

Beck's laugh is hollow. "Institutions close all the time, Tess. Especially arts organizations running on fumes."

I stare down at my coffee, watching a wisp of steam curl up and dissipate. Just like my career. "How long do we have?"

"End of the summer, if we're lucky. They're trying to secure emergency funding, but..." She shrugs, the gesture carrying the weight of resignation. "Nobody wants to throw good money after bad."

"There must be something?—"

"Listen." Beck cuts me off. "I've lived through three orchestra closures in my career. The signs are always the same. First come the 'temporary' schedule adjustments. Then the delayed paychecks. Then the desperate fundraising campaigns. Then the bankruptcy filing."

I shake my head, unwilling to accept the finality in her voice. "We have concerts booked through the end of the year."

"I don’t know, Tess. It’s going to take a miracle at this point."

"And what about us? The musicians?" My voice rises slightly, drawing a glance from a nearby table. I lower it again. "Some of us have bills to pay, Beck. I have a horse and a mortgage and?—"

"I know." Her voice softens. "We all do. That's why I wanted to tell you now, give you a head start. Boston Symphony has a cello opening for next season. Applications close in three weeks."

The salaries at the Boston Symphony would solve all my financial woes in one stroke. But I've been too intimidated to apply, convinced I'm not quite good enough. Plus, I really don’t want to move.

"I don't know if I'm ready for?—"

"You are." Beck's certainty catches me off guard. "You're the best cellist PacWest has had in years, Tess. Everyone knows it. You've just been comfortable here, and comfort is..." She gestures vaguely. "Well, it's comfortable."

I trace the rim of my coffee cup with my finger, digesting her words. The thought of auditions and moving makes my insides twist, but the alternative—unemployment—is worse.

"I should have seen this coming," I murmur. "All the signs were there."

"Hope is a hell of a blindfold." Beck checks her watch. "Look, I've got to run—I’m taking a yoga class in Bellevue at eleven. But think about Boston. Seriously."

As she stands, gathering her things, a thought occurs to me. "What will you do? If PacWest closes?"

Beck pauses, her viola case halfway to her shoulder. "My sister runs a music store in Portland. She's been asking me to come manage it for years."

"You'd quit playing professionally?" The idea seems unfathomable.

Her smile is sad but not bitter. "I think I may be ready for something new."

I watch her leave, her shoulders slightly hunched against the spring chill as she pushes through the door.

Around me, people tap on laptops, chat with friends, go about their ordinary Wednesday as if my world isn't quietly imploding. I pull out my phone, hesitate, then type "Boston Symphony audition requirements" into the search bar. Theresults load, a daunting list of repertoire and dates staring back at me.

My fingers hover over the screen. I could apply. Should apply. But it’s all just too much right now.

I put my phone away and gather my things. Beck's words echo in my head: "Hope is a hell of a blindfold." Maybe it's time I took mine off.

Later that evening I walk into The Hideaway Bar, a welcome respite after my day of professional doom and gloom. I spot Jane immediately. She waves me over, her warm smile immediately loosens the knot of tension between my shoulder blades. Thank God she’s in town visiting her parents for a couple of days because I really need her right now.

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