chapter 29
epilogue
Other Books by Emberly Wyndham
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
He’s a hurricane. He’s my hurricane.
And I love this storm.
chapter 1
BACKSTAGE, EXCITED ENERGY ZIPS THROUGH the shadows and assembled performers. Whispered voices drift through the dark, punctuated by laughter and the occasional pluck of a string.
I stand off to one side, alone, my violin cradled in my arms. The rest of the orchestra is gathered about, waiting for our cue to take to the stage. Glancing down, I find the toe of my high heel tapping against the hardwood floor and immediately cease the nervous tick.
Where is she?
We’re mere minutes away from entering the stage, but Eleanor, our concertmistress, still isn’t here. It’s unlike her not to be here on time, and as our musical director, Mr. Edrington, says, if you’re not early, you’re late. Eleanor is always early; so, where is she?
“Nora,” someone whispers behind me, and I turn to find our general manager, Charlotte, sidling up beside me in the dark.
“Yes?”
“I just got a call. Eleanor can’t make it,” she whispers.
My heart stops for two reasons: something bad must’ve happened for Eleanor not to be here, and this means I’ll have to take her place as the concertmistress.
Oh my god.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Her son’s sick. They’re taking him to Children’s. Probably just that flu that’s going around.” She shakes her head, and her brow creases in annoyance. “We need you to take her spot. Do you know the solo?”
“Um . . .” My hundreds of hours of practice flash through my mind. Honestly, I could play the solo in my sleep while balancing on one foot, but for some reason, all that comes out of my mouth is a wavering, “Y-yeah, I can play it.”
“You sure?” Charlotte’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t look convinced—not that I blame her. I’ve never played first chair before; at least, not with the Los Angeles Orchestra. I was concertmistress throughout high school and college, but everything changed when I got hired to play professionally.
I nod once, trying to look confident. “I’m sure.”
“All right. We’re two minutes out.”
Charlotte says something into her earpiece, and her heels click across the floor as she walks away into the dark and ducks through a back curtain.
Oh my god.
Eleanor isn’t here. I have to play first chair. I have to play the solo, and lead the orchestra, and—
“Sixty seconds,” the stage director whispers. There’s a rustle of skirts and fabric as the rest of the orchestra assembles in preparation.
As impromptu concertmistress, I’ll enter the stage last, just before Mr. Edrington, and I’ll tune the orchestra in. Everyone’s eyes will be on me. What if I trip on my way in? Or my skirt gets caught on a chair? Or—
Onstage, we’re introduced, and my fellow musicians begin to file through the curtain, their crisp black-and-white formal wear rustling and swishing as they move past me. I take a few slow, deep breaths, trying to calm the erratic beating of my heart. If my fingers are trembling, everyone will hear it when I play the first A. I need to calm down. This is what I want, what I’ve wanted since I joined the LA Orchestra fresh out of college, so why do I feel so absolutely terrified?
The last musician takes to the stage, and I close my eyes and draw in another deep breath, waiting for them all to be seated. Then I put on a smile, pull my shoulders back, and push through the curtain.
The stage lights are bright and warm, and though I look out into the crowd, it’s hard to discern how full the auditorium is given how deeply cast in shadow they are. The orchestra looks to me, surprise on some of their faces, as I make my way across the stage, my heels clicking loudly. Standing before them, I take a second to calm myself. I catch a few gazes, and the musicians mostly smile or give me encouraging nods, which bolsters my courage as I lift my violin and slip it under my chin.
I can do this.
My gaze shifts to the lower strings—the basses and cellos—and I raise my bow to my violin. Once I have their undivided attention, I pull the bow across the A string, playing one crisp, perfectly tuned note. They follow suit, tuning off me as I play two more A’s. We always tune in backstage, so this is mostly for show, but it’s an important tradition—one I don’t take lightly.
Finishing with the lower strings, I shift my gaze to the violas, second violins, and first violins. Again, I start with one clear A, then play two more as they tune off me.
When the strings all fall silent, I turn to the crowd, smile, and then retreat to my chair—the first chair—and take a seat.
So far, so good.
A moment later, Mr. Edrington sweeps across the stage, his coattails flapping energetically behind him. We all stand to welcome him amidst polite applause from the audience. Stepping up to his podium, he bows once to the crowd, then turns to face the orchestra, and his eyes find me. I hold his stare, and he gives me an almost-imperceptible nod. Having played in his ensemble for some three years now, I know that nod, and pride flutters inside me when I see it.
He’s giving me his approval, and I won’t let him down.
Tonight we’re playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons concerto, a crowd favorite. Though there are a number of small solos throughout the pieces, Charlotte was referring to Winter when she asked if I could play the solo. It’s a challenging, fast-paced movement within the last concerto, and I’ve been practicing it every day since we were first told we’d be performing it during our winter season.
Though I never expected to have to take Eleanor’s place, I know I can play it just as well as she can.
I’m prepared. I can do this.
