Virtuosity

by Jessica Martinez

  “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.

  Gigi was a friend of Gemma’s mother, so the owner always welcomed me with a smile and usually a free cup of hot chocolate. Today, when she saw Jeremy, she clobbered him with a hug, then gave us the table by the window with a view of the big stone church across the street.

  “That church,” I said as I opened up my laptop. “It reminds me of one in downtown Chicago. Do you remember? That beautiful one with the courtyard near the Drake.”

  Jeremy took a newspaper from a stack behind him and sat across from me. “I know the one you’re talking about, but that church,” he gestured out the window, “is older than America.”

  I sighed. “Of course it is. Did I really just try to compare British and American architecture? How insensitive of me.”

  He grinned and folded the paper open to the crossword puzzle.

  I looked over my new emails. Spam, spam, spam, delete, delete, delete, but then an address jumped off the screen: nanettelaroche@juilliard.edu. I knew that name. My finger shook as I brought the cursor over the email and clicked. Two months of hard-earned calm drained away.

  Dear Miss Bianchi,

  I have spent the last two weeks angry. Finally, this morning, I found myself just enough less angry to be able to sit down and write this letter to you. For the record, I detest email. The informality offends me.

  I would call you if I had your telephone number, or stop by and have this conversation in person if I had any idea where you were, but I don’t. Besides, I fear what I would do to your mother if I found her instead. That leaves email.

  Your little letter, by the way, created quite a storm, but I’m sure you know that. If I had written you directly after your grand confession—in the midst of the Guarneri Foundation’s humiliation with all those newspaper articles circulating world wide, and the absolute decimation of credibility the classical music industry suffered—it would not have been a pleasant note. Hate mail, dare I say. However, as I mentioned before, I am now less angry, and though I’m not known for giving compliments, I can generally say what needs to be said, when it needs to be said. So. Thank you. Your bravery is rare.

  It may or may not be of interest to you, but I have decided to return to Juilliard in the fall. Retirement does not suit me. It would not surprise me one bit if you were finished with violin. The industry may very well be finished with you. As you know, it is not a forgiving or generous one. However, I do not love the industry or the people in it. I love music. And it would be a terrible thing for music if you were to let scandal and humiliation force you from it. I understand that up until a week ago you were enrolled for the fall semester. I would suggest you rethink your decision to withdraw.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Nanette Laroche

  I glanced up at Jeremy. He was still doing the crossword puzzle, squinting and tapping his pencil on the table’s edge. All around me people were chattering, licking frosting off their fingers, laughing. Staying here would be easy. I’d stay at Gigi’s and run on the beach and be with Jeremy between tours. I’d be happy.

  I reread the email, and felt the flicker of something inside of me. Something new. I had a choice.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my agent, Mandy Hubbard, and my editor, Anica Rissi, for being so amazing at what you do and fun to work with too. I kind of want to be you guys when I grow up (and yes, I know we’re all pretty close to the same age). And thanks to everyone else at Simon Pulse who worked so hard for Virtuosity.

  Thanks to my siblings—Amanda, Steven, David, Michael, and Joshua—for keeping it real. You people are hilarious and smart and inspiring all at the same time.

  Amy Hillis, Virtuosity’s first reader and friend extraordinaire, you convinced me I was a writer when I wasn’t too sure, and then you watched my kids and forced me to go to that writing conference when I wanted to chicken out. You rule for that and for so many other things.

  A special thanks to the violin teachers who have shaped my life: Edmond Agopian, Danuta Ciring, Igor Gruppman, Nick Pulos, Gwen Hoebig, Lorand Fenyves, and all the other musicians who have shared their talents with me.

  Thank you Serge and Linda Martinez for loving me like one of your own.

  Beth Tingle and Andrea Bingham, thank you for your lifelong friendship. Nobody else may have thought so, but the three of us together were hysterically funny at age seven. Ditto for age seventeen. Ditto for now.

  And a shout-out to Olivia and Emily, my fabulous mother’s helpers. My kids love you, and so do I! This book would’ve taken much longer to write without you. Keep reading, girls.

  And finally, Mark. Thank you for making me laugh when I’m about to cry, and for always knowing the right thing to say. You … complete me. Just kidding. No, you really do, though.