by Ginny Aiken
“You don’t have to remind me. I know exactly what that studio is charging.”
“Well, I’m off. I’ll see you two tomorrow.” Tristan jogged toward his car.
“I better get going, too. I’ll see you at the studio.” Eva handed Tyrone her violin.
“Let me walk you to your car, Eva. I’m sure it’s safe but—”
“Thanks,” she interrupted, giving him a wink. “I love having a big brother.”
“You’re welcome.”
Tyrone loved his partners. They’d become their own musical family since college. Strolling across the parking lot, he took the keys from her hand and unlocked the car door.
“You’re the perfect gentleman, Ty. You’ll make a great husband someday.”
“Thanks, sis. Isn’t it strange how weddings compel us to talk about marriage? It’s not like I’m unsatisfied with my life.”
A quirk of a grin rose on her dimly lit face. “Yeah, maybe we should stop playing for them.”
“Nah, it’s good money.” Ty winked.
“Oh, right, money, food, survival … I forgot about that.”
Tyrone chuckled with her. “At least you’ve got a side job.” Eva was becoming a fantastic violinmaker. His spare time, on the other hand, was spent working on a special project. He’d kept the details secret from the others, wanting to see how it developed before asking them to contribute.
She closed the door. “’Night. See you tomorrow.”
He waved her off and watched as she left the parking lot. Always the last to leave, he mused.
Tyrone headed over to his van. A real “grocery getter,” as he would have called it in high school. Somehow, vans and station wagons were always identified in his mind with parents’ cars. But someone had to be responsible for lugging the equipment back and forth. Generally, everyone would go back to their studio and help unload the equipment. Tonight was different. The van would stay loaded, and he’d drive it to the recording studio early and set up for their session.
He slipped into the driver’s seat and headed for home. A new neighbor had moved into his complex, but he hadn’t seen her yet. The local gossip down by the pool said she was a nurse. No one he’d spoken with knew her name. However, she worked the graveyard shift. Tyrone rolled his head from side to side, working the stiffness out of his neck and shoulders.
At his condo, he noticed a fancy sports coupe with a convertible top glistening in the moonlight in the new tenant’s parking spot. “Not bad,” he admired. Must pay to be a nurse these days. Most of the gals he’d known who’d studied nursing were headed for the mission field. Obviously, this gal wasn’t. Now that’s not fair, he corrected himself. He didn’t know this woman, and what she drove was her business, not his. Not to mention, it wasn’t his responsibility to judge anyone.
He took the steps two at a time and hustled to his own place.
Cassandra held the door open to her apartment. “Good night, Harold.” She motioned for him to leave. “Why does every guy think a woman is a plaything?” she muttered under her breath.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he purred. Her stomach felt like it was about to hurl.
“Good night,” she said a bit firmer.
“Hey, I can dig it. You want to take it slow. That’s fine with me, baby.”
Cassy was beginning to think not one decent, single man existed in Miami. “Please don’t call, Harold. I’m not interested.” He stepped through the open doorway, then started to turn around. “Ever.” Cassandra slammed the door shut.
Never again would she go out on a blind date. They couldn’t pay her enough. Harold thought he was God’s gift to women, and then some. “That man’s ego is bigger than his car. No wonder he owns a convertible.”
“Vanessa, you’re dead.” She stomped over to the wall phone and tapped in Vanessa’s phone number.
“Hello?”
“Vanessa, this is Cassy.”
“So soon. Isn’t he marvelous?”
“Girlfriend, did someone turn off your brain? His ego—”
“Cassy, you didn’t? What did you do to the poor guy?”
“Nothing he’ll ever notice. He’s an octopus, all hands. No more dates, Vanessa. I’ve had it. I’m not interested.” She had to stop Vanessa from trying to set her up in these unbearable situations.
“Come on, Cassy. They’re just for fun. It’s not like we’re planning on marrying them.”
Cassy collapsed in her circular rattan chair. “Try to understand me, Vanessa. I don’t consider sex before marriage fun. I’m a Christian.”
“No way. You’re not one of those. You’re too much fun.”
Cassy thought of all the times at the hospital when she’d joked around with Vanessa. She’d never proclaimed her faith, but she hadn’t hidden from it, either. “I believe in fun. But I also believe in the sanctity of marriage.”
“Whatever.” Vanessa snapped her gum. It was an annoying habit to Cassy, but much more tolerable than cigarette smoking, which Vanessa had given up six months ago.
“Promise me, Vanessa, no more blind dates.”
“Yeah, yeah, all right. But I think you’re crazy. It’s not like we live in the Stone Age anymore.”
Cassy wasn’t in the mood to get into a deep theological discussion. She fired up a quick prayer, asking the Lord to make the right opportunity in the near future to share the gospel with her friend. “I’m beat. Moving is a pain.”
“I hear ya, girlfriend. Good night, and sorry about Harold. I thought the two of you would hit it off, him being a doctor and all.”
“I’ll survive; see you at work.” They each hung up and Cassy headed for the shower. A late-night dip in the pool would be wonderful, but the complex had rules about no swimming past ten p.m. She supposed it had to do with the way the complex wrapped itself around the pool. She liked the quaintness of the place, but it did have more rules than most. So far, she appeared to be the only Afro-American in the place. But, then again, she hadn’t met many of her neighbors yet.
Rinsing off in a quick shower, she felt the unpleasant evening wash away. She dried off, dressed in her robe, and sat down on her darkened deck. Biscayne Bay shimmered in the moonlight. The high-rise condos lining the beaches across the bay lit up the Miami skyline. And a faint, mournful sound played in the night air. Cassy looked around. No other lights appeared on, on this side of the complex. She squinted across the bay, looking for the source of the low cries from some stringed instrument. Then, as mysteriously as the somber tones had captured her attention, a lively beat took its place.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Classical music always soothed her. In fact, as happy as she was for her friend, Diane, getting married on Saturday, the only reason she had agreed to spend time at the reception was because they had hired a classical string quartet. One that Diane went on and on about. Not that she didn’t want to be supportive of Diane’s marriage …
The beat shifted yet again. Was someone playing an instrument, or was this some bad recording? Classical music should be something to savor. Didn’t the person playing the music understand that? Probably not. It was probably some kid studying for a crash course on music to pass a class. She listened again. A cool breeze slipped behind her bare legs. Definitely amateur.
Who was she kidding? She hadn’t picked up her flute in ages. She slid her eyelids closed and concentrated on the once again mournful sounds coming from the … the what? It was too low for a viola and too high for a bass. Cello, it has to be.
Her mind drifted to the music. The faint hint of a harmony line in flute took flight in her mind. Lost in the music, she drifted off to sleep.
Tyrone moaned as he pushed himself out of bed. He’d stayed up too late, playing and replaying the piece he’d been working on. The psalms were difficult to set to music. He’d begun dreaming of doing this since first realizing they were originally sung in the Jewish temple. Perhaps it wasn’t his place to put these originally stringed psalms back into music. Perhaps that wasn’
t what God intended. Many of the psalms meant for stringed instruments were songs of mournful pleas to God. And every time he lost himself in the compositions and the words of the psalms, he had to fight off the same depression the psalmist had written from.
He opened his refrigerator, pulled out a carton of orange juice, a couple hard-boiled eggs, and a bagel. Not the type of breakfast his mother would make, but it had the protein and the carbs he needed to start the day.
A thirty-minute period of laps in the pool came next. Every day he started with breakfast and followed it up with his morning exercise. If the quartet finished early this afternoon, perhaps he could get in a sail. He glanced at his sailboard lying on the dock. You’d think living on the water and in a city of perpetual sun, you’d get to windsurf more often.
Tyrone let out a deep sigh. Perhaps twelve years was too long to work on one concept. In reality, only the past year had he been working on it every free moment. Tyrone sat down on the white vinyl lawn chairs under the tiki hut. He glanced up at the thatched ceiling and marveled that the management had hired an Indian from the Miccosukee tribe to thatch it. For months, the other tenants had him convinced they’d hired Englishmen to come over and do the job.
The tropical blue water of Biscayne Bay worked its magic, allowing his mind to drift away from the various psalms to the majesty of God the Creator. Lord, if I could create a fraction of what You can do, it would testify to You. I feel the words of the psalms, but they are so depressing, they even depress me. What am I missing, Lord?
A pelican swooped down in the water and scooped up a fish. Tyrone stretched his neck and worked out the morning kinks. A deep sigh escaped. “Get back to work.” He pushed himself from the chair and headed back to his condo.
Dry and changed, he sat down with the cello between his legs. It was a familiar feeling, a calming one. The cello seemed to be a part of him now. He remembered when he was eight and first trying to wrap his legs around the instrument. At the time, being short for his age, he ended up playing the cello standing up for the first year. As he grew, the instruments became smaller, more manageable. Now the cello embodied a lot of who he was. He looked at the beautifully carved wood and reflected on its hollow body. “Am I like the cello, Lord? Hollow on the inside?”
Tyrone stared at the cello in a way he never had before. “I have to stop this project. It’s draining the life right out of me.” He set the cello back in place and began to play a piece he hadn’t played in years. He closed his eyes and allowed the music, the praise, to come from his fingers, from beyond his fingers, from deep in his soul. The place only God could unlock.
Away his spirit soared. The music grew louder; the intensity of the rhythm increased. Joy warmed him deep within.
A loud banging noise jerked him from his thoughts. A female voice shrilled, “Don’t you ever stop?”
Chapter 2
Cassandra rolled over in her bed and covered her head with a pillow. “How inconsiderate,” she muttered and pounded on the apartments’ adjoining wall. As her mind cleared, she peaked beneath her right eyelid and looked at the clock. She groaned. It was eight thirty, and not a totally unreasonable hour for one to practice an instrument. “Lord, You knew I needed a condo with quiet neighbors. I visited this place three times during the day before I signed, and every time it was quiet, real quiet. Why? I’m not trying to complain here. I mean, I know I am, but You know I need my sleep if I’m going to work the graveyard shift.”
The music stopped. She felt a little guilty for being rude and just banging on the wall. But she needed to go back to sleep. And getting up, changing, going over to the neighbor’s, knocking, waiting for him to answer, and reversing the process would have awakened her too much. Arguing with herself and God produced the same results. She tossed the pillow to the foot of the bed and stumbled out from under the covers. Maybe I can get a nap in later, she hoped.
Feeling convicted enough to apologize and explain her situation, Cassy dressed to meet her new neighbor. With determined steps, she marched over to the next unit and rapped on the door.
No answer.
She took in a deep breath and knocked again.
Again, no answer.
Who is this guy? First he wakes up the entire complex with his playing, now he doesn’t have the nerve to face his neighbors? Cassandra stomped back.
Betty Ann waved. “‘Morning, Cassy, how’s the moving in coming?” Betty Ann’s silver-gray hair glistened in the morning light. She worked at the same hospital and had been her lead on this prime location. Which this morning seemed a little less than prime.
“Good, I’m just about done.” They met halfway down the exterior hallway toward Betty’s condo. There were several units between them. Betty Ann owned the corner condo on the second floor that faced the bay on two sides.
“I thought you and Tyrone would hit it off. You just missed him. He left just a couple minutes ago.”
“Tyrone?”
Betty Ann wrinkled her forehead. “Your neighbor. You were at his door. I just assumed …”
“No, I haven’t met him. I was going over there to ask him not to play in the morning.”
“Uh. He always plays in the morning. I am a bit surprised he didn’t play for the full hour.”
Cassandra felt the heat rise on her cheeks. “I might have been the cause of that. I’m not a morning person. I banged the wall and yelled at him.”
“Oh, no. He’s quite an accomplished musician, Cassy,” Betty Ann said in Tyrone’s defense.
“I could hear that. I went to apologize for banging the wall. But does he have to play so early every morning?”
“Well, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. It’s his occupation as well as his passion. He and his quartet gave a free mini-concert last Fourth of July. You must have heard me mention it. The residence had more visitors than usual that fourth. When the fireworks grand finale was going on, they played the ‘Star Spangled Banner.’” Betty Ann sighed. “It was truly breathtaking.”
“I wish you’d have told me about—what did you say his name was?”
“Tyrone.”
“Tyrone and his playing. I probably wouldn’t have moved here. I need to sleep during the days and …”
Betty Ann reached out and patted the top of her hand. “I’m sorry, Dear. I wasn’t thinking. I guess I’m so used to hearing him, it’s almost reassuring. Although lately he’s been playing some mighty depressing music. Never would have thought a cello could sound like it was in agony.” She shook her head as if shaking off the memories of those songs.
“He must have been playing some of that last night.” I wonder if the tone of his music caused me to wake up in such a sour mood this morning? “Well, I’ll see how it goes, but I might just have to sell this place and move somewhere else.”
“Or stop working the graveyard shift.” Betty Ann winked.
Cassy grinned. “Someone has to do it, and it pays well.” They chatted for a few minutes, then Cassy returned to her apartment. Two boxes remained in the bedroom to unpack. Since she was up, she might as well work.
Sorting through the mail on the kitchen counter, Cassy found the wedding invitation from her former patient and friend, Diane Kelly. She reopened the ivory envelope and pulled out the misty-rose invitation. The wedding ceremony was private, but the reception was open to friends and family. Cassy sighed. Diane’s fiancé, Ken, had not wavered from his love and support of Diane, even while she recovered from the accident.
She’d scheduled the evening off in order to attend. Cassy glanced up at the calendar. This Saturday. “Oh, no!” She ran to her room and retrieved her purse. “What should I get them for a wedding present, Lord?”
“Tristan, I need your help, man. My new neighbor hates music,” Tyrone droned into the cell phone. “I just came from the supply store and purchased some acoustic tiles to put up on the wall.”
“When do you want to put them up?”
“After rehearsal today would be good. I can
’t imagine not playing every day, can you?”
Tristan laughed. “Occasionally, I take a day off. Sure, I’ll call my brothers and let them know I’m busy. Hey, why don’t I convince them to help? You spring for the steaks, and I’ll bring the laborers.”
“You’re on. Thanks, I really appreciate this.”
“No problem. So, have you met her yet?”
Tyrone turned toward the local grocery store. He didn’t have enough meat in his freezer to feed Tristan and his brothers. This new neighbor is costing me. “Nope, just heard her shrieking through the walls. With a temper like that, she must be ugly as sin.”
“Or as tempting.” Tristan chuckled.
Tyrone groaned. “I’ll see you later. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome. See you at two.”
Tyrone clicked his mobile phone off and headed into the grocery store. He’d worked with Tristan’s brothers before. They all had healthy appetites. Quickly, he made his purchases and unloaded them at his apartment, along with the tiles to soundproof the wall. He glanced at the mirror panels. They’d have to come down.
The elaborate wall clock, a miniature cello, played a single note. One o’clock. I better get going. Hustling out the door, he just missed a collision with a lady carrying a large bundle. “Do you need a hand?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I have it,” she replied.
Not seeing the woman’s face, he didn’t want to press his luck. If it was his new neighbor, he wasn’t certain she’d appreciate his gentlemanly offer.
He arrived at the studio half an hour before the rest, unloaded the equipment, and set it up before the quartet arrived. He tuned the cello. Tyrone moved on to Marissa’s “beast,” his affectionate term for her stand-up bass. With him and Tristan each being six feet or more, it still struck him as strange that a gal as short as Marissa was the bass player.
Next, he took the viola and found it still in tune. Finally, he reached for Eva’s violin and marveled at the workmanship. Eva’s talents with the violin didn’t end with her playing of the instrument. She was rapidly becoming a fine maker of the instrument herself. He didn’t know how long she could keep up her pace, working as she did in her family’s restaurant as well as her hobby.