CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In comparison to many other instruments, the piano is relatively new. It was invented in 1698 by Bartolomeo Cristofori in Italy.
SAMANTHA
Bea calls me that afternoon, launching into an a cappella rendition of “Happy Birthday” with her husky, show tunes voice as soon as I say hello.
I grin at her on FaceTime. “You should give up the whole piano thing,” I tell her. “Or at the very least become the next Adele.”
“We’ll call that plan B,” she says, laughing.
“You won’t believe what happened this morning.”
“Ooh, something fun, I hope.”
“I still can’t even believe it, and I was there.” I’ve got Lady Tennant in my lap, stroking the wood. I haven’t been able to let go of it, actually. When I’m not playing it, I’m holding it.
“Now you’re just teasing me. What happened?”
“Liam got me a Strad,” I tell her, unable to hold back the squeal. A professional violinist may go through a few violins in their lifetime, on the quest to find the perfect one. Other times it comes to you early.
“Oh. My. God.”
“The Lady Tennant.” It’s incredible to be able to share this with another musician. She’s not a violinist, but she understands the power of a premier instrument—especially one with history.
“The Lady Tennant?” she says, sounding awed.
“He bought it. Outright. And then gave it to me. Honestly I might throw up.”
“Well, don’t throw up on a Stradivarius or you’ll probably lose your violin license.”
“I can’t put it down. Like honestly, it’s been hours. I can’t let go of it.”
“Of course you can’t let go of it. It’s your baby now. What are you just going to put it back in its case? How will it know how much you love it?” She’s teasing me, in the way where she fully understands why I can’t let go of it.
I’m in my bedroom now, and I gently nudge the door shut so I can say what’s on my mind. “Actually, the violin is more than a birthday present. It’s a goodbye present.”
A pause. “What does that mean?”
Grief lances my heart, but I try for a matter-of-fact tone. “I guess it means I’m not going to see Liam again after I leave for the tour. That’s probably for the best. It’s not like we’re family.”
“Wow,” she says, falling silent again.
“Wow what?”
“That’s both incredibly generous and incredibly cold.”
“No, it’s—” My throat tightens. “He doesn’t owe me anything. He certainly didn’t owe me this violin. It shows how much he understands me. How much he cares for me.”
“Yes,” she says drily. “So much that he doesn’t want to see you again.”
Tears prick my eyes like hot pokers. “He’s always been a realist.”
“He’s always been an asshole,” she says with a sigh. “But you love him.”
Yes, but not the way she means. Not as a father. I love him as more than that—as my everything. “You don’t keep in touch with Edward,” I say, trying to sound reasonable. We had that in common, guardians who cared for us out of obligation rather than familial love.
“Because I didn’t love Edward. And he didn’t love me.”