Virtuosity (24 page)

Chapter 20

M
y feet hit the sand, right-left, right-left, right-left. Two steps to push the air out of my lungs, then two steps to pull it back in.

Running on sand didn’t hurt anymore, but during those first few weeks my lungs had been on fire. Compared to running on pavement, it felt like gravity had been tripled: sinking into the sand then having to pull my feet back up and out. And then afterward, my calves and my hamstrings ached.

But the muscle soreness didn’t last long, just a few days. My lungs took longer, around two weeks, to stop screaming in pain and accept that beach running was here to stay.

Mornings like this one were perfect for it. I ran at low tide over the wet sand. It was foggy and still cool, but not so cool that I had to wear more than just my running shorts and sports bra.

No music. Silence was better. As for the sounds I couldn’t turn off—the
whoosh
of the surf, the cawing sea-birds, the occasional barking dog—those were allowed.

For eight weeks, the music part of my brain had been quiet. Until last night.

I forced my legs to pump faster. This had to be what a gazelle felt like, fast and boundless. Just eight weeks into my marathon training schedule, and I already felt like I could run the entire shoreline of the British Channel.

But not today. Today Jeremy was waiting.

He’d arrived last night on the train from London, looking crumpled and exhausted. His hair was messy, like he’d been sleeping on the train, and probably the plane before that, but his eyes were blue and clear as always.

We hadn’t seen each other in six weeks. I’d worried he would be different, or I would be different. What if his win had changed him? We’d only had just that one week together before he’d flown to Singapore, the beginning of his first leg in a year of touring. Watching him leave, that’s when I knew I loved him, right when I realized there was nothing tangible tying him to me.

Last night after we’d arrived home from the train station,
Gigi had made up a bed on the couch and Jeremy had collapsed into a jet lag–induced coma. Of course, I couldn’t sleep. I was dying to tiptoe down from my attic room and just watch him breathe. Instead, I’d lain in bed and heard music in my head for the first time since the night of the Guarneri. I’d finally fallen asleep, but the music had bled into my dreams and was still there when I woke up.

I should have known that seeing him would remind me. I hadn’t played the violin since that day. I hadn’t played a violin in
eight weeks
. I didn’t even own a violin any more. Me. Carmen Bianchi.

I’d left the Strad in Chicago, then dropped a letter in the mail to Thomas and Dorothy Glenn. “Thank you, but I no longer need the violin,” was all it said. That was enough. If they wanted more they could talk to Diana.

I smiled. Imagining that conversation always made me smile.

Right-left, right-left, right-left. I loved taking the rhythm of it and speeding up, making my feet push off the beach even faster. Ahead of me the fog was thinning, slowly rolling inland, and I could see where the path to Gigi’s cottage split a row of waist-high stones that lined the beach.

And there was Jeremy sitting on a rock, leaning back on his palms.

I slowed to a walk, but my heart refused to stop
pounding. When I was close enough I called, “I thought you’d still be sleeping.”

“Me too.”

“Aren’t you still on Bangkok time?”

“I don’t know what time I’m on anymore, but the birds outside my window are no respectors of time zones.”

I stopped several feet shy of him. Just seeing him, knowing he was here, that I could touch him and see his eyes when he talked to me, still felt unreal. The blood pounded in my fingertips, at my neck and temples.

“Why are you standing way back there?”

“I’m sweaty.”

“I don’t mind.”

I took the last few steps toward him, and as I did, he leaned forward to put his hands on my waist and pull me the rest of the way. Then he held me there between his knees, his fingers warm on my wet skin.

“A month was too long,” he said. “I missed you.”

Say it again.
“I can’t believe you’re only staying for two weeks. Your next concert is in Buenos Aires, right? What are you playing?”

He stared over my shoulder at the ocean. “I don’t know. What should we do today?”

I tipped my head forward so my forehead rested on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to change the subject.” I lifted my head, put my hand on his cheek, and turned his face so he had to look me in the eye again. “You can’t
not
talk about violin.”

“Carmen … I don’t want to hurt you.”

I shook my head. “I’m okay. Really.”

He half smiled. He didn’t believe me.

Was I? I thought so. “It’s the truth. Not at first. At first I missed violin so badly my whole body hurt and the only thing I could do was run and run until I wanted to throw up.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down.

“No,
you
shouldn’t be sorry.”

“I’m just sorry that all of this happened to you.”

“But I’m better now. I miss it, of course, but … It’s hard to explain.”

He kissed my forehead and I shivered.

“Cold? Here, sit.” He made room for me and I sat in front of him with his arms around me. In front of us, the sun shimmered, pushing the last wave of fog over us.

Now, Carmen. Do it now.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. I took a deep breath. I’d planned out every word, then decided I would never tell him, then changed my mind, and changed it back again. But now the indecision was gone. It was right, not because I had to confess, or because he deserved to know, but because I wanted him to understand.

“Have you heard of Inderal?”

Silence. The pause felt like minutes. Then he said, “Of course. I know a few people who take it. Maybe more than a few.”

Facing the ocean, not wanting to see the disappointment on his face, I told him everything. I started with that terrible performance in Tokyo, then Diana and Dr. Wright, needing more and more, and then the night I decided to quit—the night he first kissed me.

Jeremy didn’t move. His arms stayed wrapped around me, no looser or tighter than before. But his silence felt heavier than the entire ocean. I went on.

Telling him about quitting was easier. I was starting to feel like that was something to be proud of. I’d stuck it out, and every one of those painful moments belonged to
me
. Not Carmen the violinist, just Carmen.

I finished and waited. He drew a deep breath and held it. What else was he holding in?

“I can’t believe you went through that by yourself,” he said finally.

By myself? “I had no choice.”

“Yes, you did. You could have kept taking it, kept doing what they told you to do. Just like you had a choice when you found out about your mom buying the judges.”

Maybe. But I hadn’t felt like I was making a choice.
I’d felt defenseless, bullied into a corner I could only crawl out of.

“I’m thinking that, after my brother, you’re the strongest person I know.”

Relief washed over me. He didn’t think I was weak. He didn’t hate me either.

“And I’m thinking you must be dying to play,” he said. “I know I would be. Do you want me to leave my old violin for you?”

“No,” I said. “Maybe.”

“Afraid it’ll get in the way of your intense running schedule?”

I laughed. “Exactly.”

“I feel bad I can’t be here for your marathon.”

“It’s okay. Gigi said she’ll hold a sign at the finish line for both of you.”

“A sign? She’ll probably rent a plane and have it fly a
CONGRATULATIONS CARMEN
! banner around for the day. She loves you.”

“Hmmm.” Gigi loving me—that had been an unexpected gift. She’d taken me in and babied me like I was hers. And for no reason. “An airplane banner. I’ll take it. Not exactly the kind of fame you’re earning yourself this summer …”

“I know.” He is voice was suddenly serious again. “That worries me.”

“Why? What could you possibly have to be worried about?”

“I’m scared violin will always come between us.”

I stood up, turned around, and took his hands. “I won’t let it.”

He didn’t respond.

“I won’t let it,” I said again, pulling him up.

He answered by bending down and whispering in my ear. “Then come with me.”

Everything inside me screamed
yes
, but I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t think.

Then come with me.

Being with him all the time. It was exactly what I wanted, except being on the tour that might have been mine, following Jeremy around while he lived my dream—that would kill me.

I shook my head.

He smiled. He knew. He’d known before he asked.

“Then let’s pretend. Have you ever been to Argentina?” he asked.

I could pretend. “Twice. But never as a roadie. Would I get to join your fan club?”

“You’d
have
to join my fan club. I think they’re looking for a president.”

“Really? Does the president get special privileges? Rosining your bow? Polishing your violin? Would I get
to keep your old broken strings to use in my Jeremy King scrapbook?”

“Of course. But you’d just have to promise to behave yourself. No stealing my underwear and selling it on eBay, for example.”

“Hmmm. I can’t promise I won’t do that.”

“Then you can’t come.” He looked me in the eye. “I just wish I didn’t have to miss you all the time.”

“I’m sure you didn’t miss me
all
the time.” I just hoped he had.

“No, I did. Last week I was standing in front of the Great Wall of China, and all I could think of was how I’d rather be at a White Sox game next to you pretending I liked baseball.”

“
What?
You don’t like baseball? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t completely
hate
baseball.” He took my hand and started walking up the beach toward Gigi’s. “Should we go back? Gigi was making strawberry scones when I left.”

“Strawberry scones?”

“With clotted cream and strawberry jam.”

“Then, yes. We should definitely go back.”

When we got back, I went upstairs for a bath. Gigi had no shower—a fact so bizarre I hadn’t believed it when Jeremy
first told me. Apparently lots of old houses in England didn’t. I hadn’t been homesick at all so far, but I came close every time I thought about taking a good post-run shower.

Scrubbed clean and dressed for the day, I found Gigi and Jeremy sitting on the back patio overlooking the rose garden.

“How was your run, dear?” Gigi asked, putting her dainty cup back on its saucer and pouring tea into mine. She looked like an aging Hollywood starlet, tall and thin like Jeremy, her silver hair braided and coiled up into a bun. She had all the elegance of Grandma Glenn, but none of the ego.

I loved this part of our morning ritual. Gigi and I had tea every morning when I got back from running. I loved it even more with Jeremy here.

“It was nice.” I took a seat and reached for a scone.

“It started out so cold this morning,” she said. “I was worried about you.”

“I was fine. The fog lifted and it warmed up,” I said. “It might even be hot by this afternoon.” Another British custom that’d grown on me: discussing the weather.

“A perfect summer day,” Jeremy said.

“Let’s hope,” Gigi said. “You kids can have some fun in the ocean if it gets warm enough.”

She poured tea into my cup while I slathered clotted
cream and strawberry jam on my scone. Clark would love these things.

“Oh, I forgot to mention it last night,” Gigi said in the same casual tone she’d used for the weather, “but your mother called while you were picking up Jeremy at the train station.”

I took a sip of my tea, feeling both sets of eyes on me. This was the fourth time Diana had called. The first time I’d refused to talk to her, then spent the evening in my room so Gigi wouldn’t see me seething, fists clenched, screaming into my pillow. I’d refused to talk to Diana the next two times she called too, but then at least I’d been smarter and gone running.

There was no way Gigi’d forgotten about Diana calling last night. She just hadn’t wanted to ruin the evening.

“She asked me to have you call her back,” Gigi added.

I put the cup back down carefully, but the china still clinked. “Okay.”

Gigi raised an eyebrow for just a moment, then let it drop. “You only get one mother.”

I didn’t look at Jeremy. I couldn’t ask him to forgive Diana.

I wasn’t even sure if
I
could forgive her. What would I say to her? I was still so mad I had to clench my teeth when I thought about any of it: the bribery, the Inderal, the lifetime of love that depended on my success as a violinist.
But I missed her. Not even the anger could change that, because she was still my mom.

I did the math. It was five hours earlier in Chicago, so she’d be sleeping now. “I’ll call her this evening.”

“Good,” Jeremy said.

Was that sarcasm? Jeremy had no reason to forgive the woman who’d nearly destroyed his career. I looked into his face. His jaw was set with the same determination I’d come to expect, and his eyes were sincere. I wanted to put my hand on his cheek and kiss him. Later. “Really?”

“Really.”

The taste of strawberries was still in my mouth as Jeremy and I walked to Charminster to check email. (Gigi refused to get connected with a passion I had to respect, even if it was incredibly inconvenient.) The road to the village was a mile and a half long. I walked it almost every day, but it was so pretty the length didn’t bother me, not even after a run. The trees had long delicate branches with leaves that quivered, and wildflowers grew along both sides of the road. Walking it with my fingers laced with Jeremy’s, it was even prettier. And when he stopped and kissed me, the lane took on a beauty like I’d never seen.

Gemma’s Bakery and Café, my usual Wi-Fi stop, was just busy enough: There was the right amount of bustle to blend into, but we could still hear each other’s voices.
Gemma kept her apparently successful business plan advertised next to the baked goods in the window. The sign read,
COME FOR THE WI-FI, STAY FOR THE DANISHES
.