“You did too. It’s going to be hard for a couple of weeks and then it’ll get better, I assure you.”
“You can’t promise.”
“The variable is you, Ivan.” Vittorio raised an eyebrow. “Did you do the exercises I told you to yesterday?”
Ivan barely nodded. Well, okay. He had done the exercises, but stopped when it became tearfully painful.
“Did you put an icepack on your wrist?” Vittorio asked.
“Yeah.”
Vittorio rubbed his arm to get some circulation going. Ivan felt better. He closed his eyes. “Good news for you, Ivan.”
“Is there any?”
“Since you didn’t have any surgery, your healing should be pretty standard.”
“Standard?”
“Let’s do more exercises on your entire arm.” Vittorio went looking for balls.
Ivan tried to sneak away.
“Mr. McMillan!”
He crawled back to his seat.
“Do you want to get better or not?”
“Want—aaarrrggghhh!”
And so it went on until the session was up. He could barely remember all that they had done except that once again, Ivan didn’t have to pay a dime. He was feeling a bit suspicious of this free healthcare he was getting. Vittorio could not disclose any information to him.
He left the OT center in near tears. He hoped nobody saw him.
Lord, heal me!
Something Vittorio had said made Ivan think.
A left-handed violin.
He had seen some renowned violinists play it that way. The chin rest, strings, everything would be a mirror image of the right-hand violin where he held the bow with his right hand. He’d have to contact a luthier to see if he could get a left-handed violin where he could control the strings with his right hand, which didn’t have a broken wrist.
Could he make a living that way? At least until his left wrist healed?
He’d be the only violinist on the wrong side of the string section. Would he have to sit away from the other violinists or risk poking their eyes out with his bow? Would any orchestra even accept him into their staff?
Premature!
Vittorio had mentioned in passing that it would take baby steps to get back to his old form. Ivan decided to make a mental list of the basic functionalities he needed: turn his wrist, hold the fingerboard, play both arm and wrist vibrato, handle the portamento—
Whew.
Ivan expelled a breath into the cold Atlantic air.
Beneath the splint, his left wrist throbbed staccatos to an invisible metronome.
He called Brinley again, but she didn’t pick up. He texted her, giving her the lowdown on Vittorio from an obviously skewed perspective. But it made him feel better to complain to someone, to let it out, to say it.
More phone calls and apologies from his students’ parents came. His music studio might as well close with only one student left. He knew that kid; she wasn’t really interested in music at all. Her mother had made her do it so she could perform on stage vicariously through the poor daughter, who’d rather be a cheerleader. She had both violin and piano lessons. With violin lessons out of the question for another four months, Ivan had offered her a discount.
But one student does not a music studio make.
* * *
At the end of a grueling week, Ivan saw enough improvement for him to brave dropping in at the SISO studios at rehearsal time. He entered the rehearsal room quietly and found a wooden stool in a corner, on which he sat and watched SISO go through its repertoire for the upcoming music festivals in Jacksonville and Miami.
He knew the numbers by heart, knew exactly when the arpeggios, chords, slurs, and time signature changes would occur. He counted through the rests, and nearly picked up his invisible bow when the string section began the next movement.
For a moment music was Ivan’s therapy. For a moment the worst was over this Thursday. Vittorio was done breaking him up and he had the rest of the day off.
The orchestra stopped abruptly.
“No, no, no!” Conductor Petrocelli repeated it several times, a string of no’s followed by Italian expletives lost in translation.
Ivan might be a Christian man, but he even missed Petrocelli’s rant on the lack of maintenance, passion, or something or other that every single Sea Islands Symphony Orchestra member had been accused of during the last year Ivan had been in it.
Scold me now! I miss being scolded!
A ping in his wrist jolted him out of his memory walk. The clock on the wall registered a good thirty minutes past the time for him to take more over-the-counter pain meds. He wondered if he could possibly not take any at all and survive Vittorio the occupational therapist’s torture chamber.
Maybe not.
He kept telling himself that once his wrist had full mobility, he’d be back playing vibrato, both arm and wrist. If he couldn’t vibrate the strings with his left hand, then he was done.
SISO started up again. This time Ivan was impressed with Warren Yamaguchi’s rendition of César Franck in the string and piano duet. He knew Warren had the technical skills, having been a product of the Suzuki Method back when he was in San Diego. He was here in SISO because his retired parents now lived on Hilton Head, and he wanted to be close to them. Ivan knew what that was like.
At the next break, the entire string section came to wish Ivan well. He felt loved.
“Good job there, Warren,” Ivan said when Warren passed by.
“Thanks, man. Sorry about your wrist. I hope you get well soon.” Warren stepped closer.
“Me too.”
“Too bad you’ll miss the Jax festival next week but take it as an opportunity to get well.”
“That’s a good way to look at it,” Ivan said.
“Then you’ll be ready to play again when the SISO Hall opens in October.”
“They moved the date back?” Nice. That gave Ivan three extra months to get well.
Warren nodded. “Funding issue or something. When the hall is built, we’ll all be salaried.”
“Nice.”
“I hear there’s a delay too with the museum. It won’t open until next year.”
Ivan thought that the Sea Islands Museum of Musical Instruments had a nicer ring to it than the Coastal Georgia Music Museum. And it would have some Brooks’s violins on display unless Brinley changed her mind.
Brinley again.
Something inside Ivan gnawed at him, making that visceral connection between his feelings and his wrist. If he didn’t get back his old form, his violin career would be over, and he wouldn’t be able to support her, let alone a family.
Why am I thinking that?
“How’s that wrist?” Emmeline strutted toward them. Warren took the opportunity to leave. “Our Women’s Bible Study Group is praying for you.”
“Thanks, Em.”
“I heard that Brinley Brooks accepted Jesus. Have you asked her to join our Women’s Bible Study?”
“I’m sure that the pastor’s wife is on it.”
“You could still ask her, anyway.”
“I don’t want to pressure her, you know. She just got saved.”
Emmeline still stood there. “You two are serious?”
“We’re dating.”
“I heard she bought the Strad for you. Kind of ironic, isn’t it, that you can’t play any violin now?”
Emmeline’s words stung like those hornets he had run into playing in the backyard when he was a kid. “It was for charity to benefit historical preservation. People bid on many things. Last year it was an antique cabinet or something. This year it happened to be a musical instrument.”
“An instrument that happened to be a Stradivarius violin. Wonder who put it up for auction.”
“Em, I don’t care.” Ivan did remember that Brinley wasn’t the previous owner. That was good enough for him.
She wasn’t even supposed to be at the Oglethorpe Charity Dinner that December evening when s
he dropped over five million dollars on an old Stradivarius violin. She had only gone to the dinner on the behalf of her dad who had been out of the country at that time.
“You don’t have to defend her, Ivan. It is what it is. If you didn’t have the Strad, you wouldn’t have been robbed.”
“Are you saying that every violinist who owns a Strad will be robbed?”
“The probability is higher, don’t you think, than say a Guadagnini or your old Vuillaume or Suzuki or some cheap violin that the rest of us can afford, not that I need one since I play the harp.” Emmeline leaned on one leg. Her tight—very tight—pants showed all her curves.
Too bad her beauty is offset by that tongue.
“Enough, Em.” Ivan got off the stool.
“Hey, I’m just trying to help.”
“Help?”
Emmeline sidled up to Ivan. “I think you should know. Your name is no longer on the SISO list.”
“I’m on the disabled list.” Yeah, of a small regional orchestra that pays per rehearsal and per performance.
“If you can’t play, you don’t get paid, Ivan. Duh.”
Ivan tried to remain calm, but inside he did not like the reminder at all. “I was told SISO is going to let me sit out for four months until my wrist heals.”
Emmeline chuckled. “This week two violinists came in for auditions.”
“Musicians come and go all the time.”
“Well, you’re going, Ivan. The one who is joining us in Jax is an assistant concertmaster.” Emmeline grinned. “You don’t believe me? Ask Petrocelli. When was the last time you spoke with him?”
Three days ago. One day before the audition with those new violinists.
If there was anything happening, Petrocelli had not let on, but Emmeline might have a point. Ivan decided he’d need to make an appointment with Petrocelli and get this cleared up.
“In light of all this, it’s good for you to have a benefactor, don’t you think, Ivan?”
Benefactor?
Ivan tensed up. He clammed up before he said something he’d regret later. “I have to run.”
He walked away to find Conductor Petrocelli, but heard Emmeline lob a final dart at his back. He was sure others heard it too.
“Tell me, did you play for her anytime she wanted?”
* * *
George Frideric Handel greeted Ivan at the porch, a mellifluous The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba from Solomon broadcasting everywhere as Ivan unlocked the front door. The key was stuck. He jiggled the key in the lock and turned it with his good hand. The key came out but only after a considerable effort on Ivan’s part. I’ll get the WD-40 later.
His left wrist was hidden inside the barn jacket sleeve, but the pain had returned. It was time to take more acetaminophen. He slogged through the foyer and put the stack of mail on a narrow side table. There used to be a mirror above the side table, but it had broken.
“Well, SISO seems to be doing fine without me.” Ivan stepped into the family room, where he knew he’d always find Grandma.
“I’m not worried about them. How did your therapy go, dear?” Grandma asked.
“Like my arm’s going to fall off.” Vittorio’s boot camp might be good for him in the end—way in the future—but getting there could kill Ivan.
“That bad, huh?”
Ivan noticed that Grandma was knitting a rose-colored scarf of some sort. “Who is that for?”
“A special person.”
“Meaning you have no idea.”
Grandma chuckled. “I make them in case someone has a birthday or something. When’s Brinley’s birthday?”
“In the summer sometime.” Ivan rounded the coffee table and stretched out on the couch, one foot above an armrest and the other foot hanging over the couch. He looked up at the old paint on the ceiling.
“I can’t turn my wrist.” He lifted his left wrist above his head. “I can’t put my fingers in a supine position. Forget sliding on the strings.”
“Soon, Ivan. Soon. It has only been a week. You remember when I broke my hip? I had to get used to a titanium hip.”
How could I forget? “You have a higher tolerance for pain than I do, Grandma.”
“I was determined to walk again.”
“I guess my determination is—uh, nonexistent. I’m tired of this.”
“Patience, Ivan.”
Ivan glanced at his watch. “Don’t you have tea with someone today?”
“Peggy came down with the stomach flu.”
“Hope she feels better.”
“It’s harder when you’re past eighty and get sick,” Grandma said quietly. “Did you bring in the mail?”
“Yeah. Mostly bills. I didn’t look at them, but I think any day now the mortgage is due again.” Ivan closed his eyes. He had never felt this exhausted in his life. That was some workout Vittorio had inflicted on him. So many different ways to spell pain. “This is going to go on for four more months.”
“If you work hard, it’ll be over sooner than later, dear.” Knit. Purl. “When you don’t see the results, it’s hard for you to keep going. But until you believe, you can’t get to the results.”
“I’m tired, Grandma. I see nothing at all.”
“This is when faith comes in, Ivan. When you walk by faith, you’re not walking by sight.”
“Sight at this unsightly splint? A grim reminder of my doom.”
“We can thank God that He healed your ribs.”
“Yes. Thank You, Lord.” Ivan sighed. “You know the three students I had left? Well, they all canceled but one. And she probably won’t make it past summer.”
“When you get better, you can get new students. At least SISO is keeping you on.”
“About that…” Ivan expelled a deep breath. “I talked to Petrocelli this morning before I left the studio.”
Grandma put down her knitting needles.
“I don’t get paid if I don’t play, and I’m going to be out of work for four months. With my music studio all but closed, I’ll have to cancel our healthcare plan. We have no savings. Three mortgages and no savings. How did we get here?”
Grandma thought for a minute. “We’ll pray and ask God to provide. He has never failed us or forsaken us.”
“I have some disability insurance. It should hold us over for a while, Grandma.” Ivan didn’t say that most of that would go to doctor visits and therapy sessions. Then there was food, electricity, gas, water, and the truck. He couldn’t cycle at this time because he couldn’t hold the handlebar properly with his left hand. Those three mortgages might have to be put on hold.
“My social security checks can help,” Grandma offered.
Ivan didn’t say that their quarter-million-dollar debt would eat up any social security checks and then some.
“We can’t borrow any more money.” Grandma resumed knitting.
“No one would loan us anything, not even Matt. He knows I can’t pay him back.” Ivan heaved a deep sigh. “Maybe I can get a job that doesn’t require my left hand. It’s only until I reopen my music studio and get back to SISO.”
All his training had been in music. He wondered what he could do if he weren’t a violinist. “I’ll call Argo Perry and Matt Garnett. They have stores. Maybe they have something I can do.”
“We could sell the house,” Grandma suggested, but Ivan noted that her eyes were on her Steinway Victorian upright piano.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” They’d survived this long. Ivan wanted Grandma to be confident they would overcome this even though in his heart he knew it was a losing battle. “I hope to keep this house for your grandchildren and their children.”
“Our real home is in heaven, Ivan. Don’t hold on too tightly to things on earth.”
Chapter Forty-Three
“Dad, you’re losing your edge,” Brinley said as she took Dad’s rook and ambushed his queen. By the look on his face, Brinley knew he hadn’t seen it coming.
“I fold.”
&nb
sp; “Giving up so easily?” Brinley leaned back and stretched in the reclining leather seat. Outside the Boeing Business Jet windows, puffy clouds belied the southern winter they were in, an ode to summer and sunshine and warmth.
“We’re landing soon. Let’s do a rematch when we get to the cottage.”
Brinley nodded. Across the Napoleon chessboard, Dad looked worn out. He was only fifty-eight, but he looked past sixty. The lines on his face had deepened since the stroke, as if everything he did required more effort now. His walking stick would remind him of shortening years and of his future heavenly home, but the silver shaft would always be a Post-it note of his enormous wealth that he couldn’t take with him to the afterlife.
“How’s your house reno coming along?” Dad asked.
“I’m hoping it’ll be done in two weeks.”
“Toby and Meg still fighting?”
“All the time. Disagree on everything from cabinets to colors to who to hire and when to fire.”
“That’s going to delay the reno.”
“I’ll threaten them tomorrow.”
“Slap them with cold, hard cash. Always works.” Dad laughed. Then: “I’m thinking of retiring.”
“Again?”
“Dillon’s doing well with Brooks Investments in Atlanta. I’m confident you’ll take Brooks Renovations to new heights.”
“We still need you, Dad.”
“I know, but I want to spend more time with your mom. She’s going to stay in Paris for a while since Zoe’s got that morning sickness.”
That was nice that Dad missed Mom. Forty years of wedded bliss. Sure, they had fought, but they always made up and moved on.
“I guess you can tell me what you want done with Brooks Reno and I’ll take care of it from here.”
“That’s it, Brinley Brin. I don’t want to bother with all this stuff anymore.”
“You’re saying you want me to buy you out of Brooks Reno?” Brinley had already bought half. They’d signed the papers only two weeks before back in Atlanta.
“Well, if I died, you’d inherit the company. This way I get some spending money. Make me an offer, Brin.”
“I’m going to be out of money if you keep selling me stuff, Dad.”
“At least you’re paying for it in cash.”
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