Page 6 of Strings Attached
I trace the words, the slight indentations her pen left in the paper scraping my finger. Around me, Magnolia Cove hums with contained magic, with secrets and responsibilities. With the weight of choices made and prices paid.
The envelope slips back into my pocket. Some wounds aren’t meant to heal. Some distances must be maintained. Because some actions are unforgivable. Even if maintaining that means standing alone.
Always alone.
Missy
The ferry’s horn blasts in the distance, but I barely notice. My entire walk down Main Street felt unusually lonely. A first in Magnolia Cove. Then I spot the crowd, all drawn to the same thing: autumn flowers outside a shop, their petals swaying as if dancing to a rhythm only they could hear. They shimmer with something that looks like dewdrops caught in the sunrise. The display reminds me of that moment in a performance when technical precision gives way to pure feeling, when music transcends its written boundaries to become something alive, something magic.
Even when the flowers stop their movement and the crowd drifts away, I can’t shake the sensation that I’ve witnessed something extraordinary. Something that exists in the liminal space between what’s possible and what’s real, like the pause between movements in a concerto—pregnant with possibility and anticipation.
My phone buzzes. Again. Because apparently while everyone else on the island struggles to get a single bar of service, my phone has decided its gift in life is getting just enough coverage to receive Jules’ increasingly dramatic emails. I shift my cellocase, trying to dig the device from my pocket without dropping either my backpack or the instrument that’s worth more than most cars.
The wind picks up, carrying more of the golden pollen from the flowers. Their petals droop toward the soil, edges curling like they’ve been out in the sun too long. Even the stems seem to sag, barely holding themselves upright. I breathe in right as pollen reaches me and?—
“Achoo!”
The sneeze catches me off guard in its intensity, causing me to tumble forward. My cello case tilts precariously as I lose my grip, and my heart stops. Six figures of handcrafted Italian craftsmanship about to meet concrete. I will literally throw my entire body to the ground as a cushion if that’s what it takes. Bruises heal, instruments don’t, and?—
Strong hands catch me mere inches from disaster. The momentum spins us both, and suddenly I’m pressed against a solid chest, looking up into dark eyes that remind me of coffee grounds in morning light. He’s wearing all black, which should look severe but instead makes him seem substantial somehow, like he’s carved from shadow and certainty.
“Oh, I…” More sparkly pollen drifts between us. I scrunch my nose, a tickle spreading like a feather brushing the back of my throat. I try to fight but it wins. “Ah…achoo!”
This time I sneeze directly in his face.
It’s not one of those delicate, socially acceptable sneezes. No, this is the kind that starts somewhere around your ankles and builds like a crescendo, the sort that would make my old conductor wince and mark it fortissimo. The kind that probably registers on local seismographs.
All the blood rushes away from my face and my mouth flies open. I want to cover it with my hands but my arms are still captured in his firm embrace. He blinks, a few sparkles clingingto his dark eyelashes. A muscle ticks in his jaw and I can’t tell if he’s angry or trying not to laugh. Probably angry, given how his presence seems to radiate authority like heat from summer pavement.
If this is any sign how my sabbatical will go, I should start composing my own requiem now. First movement: “The Cellist Who Died of Embarrassment After Sneezing on the Town’s Most Handsome Man.” Second movement: “Why Does Gravity Betray Musicians?” The final movement would be six minutes of awkward silence, punctuated by occasional sneezing.
But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—a flicker of humanity beneath his carefully composed expression—that makes me pause my mental composition.
“I’m so sorry,” I manage. The blood has returned to my face and burns across my cheeks. “I swear I’m not usually in the habit of assaulting strangers with projectile germs.”
Oh god. I just said that out loud. To this beautiful man.
His lips turn up at one corner and those dark eyes haven’t slipped away from me once. He releases me slowly, like he wants to make sure I’m truly steady before letting me go. “Good to know should we meet again I won’t feel the temptation to cross the street and use the other sidewalk.”
A group of official-looking people have surrounded the flower shop. Their behavior, the way they whisper to each other, is odd. When I shift my attention back to my rescuer he’s studying me with an intensity that reminds me of my first Juilliard audition—that feeling of being deconstructed note by note, evaluated for both technical precision and something deeper, less definable.
I see the intimidation his appearance must offer others. Though he smells amazing—like autumn leaves, wood smoke, and cinnamon. If others got this close to him, they might feel asintrigued as I do. But I somehow doubt anyone does. He just has that aura about him.
“Thank you for saving Giuseppe.” I pat my cello case. “He’s irreplaceable.”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “You named your cello Giuseppe?”
“Don’t judge. He’s Italian and temperamental. It fits.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. I’m almost certain he’s suppressing amusement. Golden light catches on his cheekbones as he studies me with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but instead feels… interesting. Like being the subject of a particularly thorough composition.
“You’re watching the flowers,” he says, his tone shifting to something more hoarse, darker.
“Oh. Yes.” I glance back at the strange dance. “They were quite… lively. Magnolia Cove and its surprises, am I right?” I grin up at him. He doesn’t return it and I immediately feel like I’ve just played “Hot Cross Buns” at Carnegie Hall. Perfectly executed, completely inappropriate, and impossible to recover from with dignity.
“Other tourists have moved on.” The man’s intensity has grown. The shift in the air between us is electric. It’s the same feeling I get before a difficult performance—that awareness of standing on the edge of something that requires perfect precision to navigate correctly. His gaze shifts to Giuseppe, then narrows. What kind of vendetta could anyone have against a cello?
“Guess I’m the special nosy and particularly stubborn variety.” I straighten my posture. I don’t know who this man thinks he is, but I’ve made a career in a world where nearly all the leadership positions are held by men who think their batons are extensions of their egos. His intensity might be greater than most, but I’ve faced down maestros who think they’re directing the second coming of Beethoven. He might have gorgeous darkeyes and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, but he doesn’t scare me. I shift my cello case. “Though if you’re planning to write me up for unauthorized flower-watching, I should warn you Giuseppe has excellent credentials as a character witness.”
