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guessing that once we get home and fall back into our normal
routine, everything else will return to normal. too.
Five more days. I breathed. I can t wait.
He pressed his lips to my forehead. Neither can I.
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CHAPTER 6
Matt s phone woke us up around eight the next morning. I
grabbed it off the bedside table, squinting at the display. I didn t
recognize the number.
But Matt did. It s Dad. Why would he be calling me this
early?
It might be an emergency. You d better take it.
With a sigh, he sat up and hit accept. Hey, Dad. Is
everything okay? His eyes went wide. You re kidding me. When
did this happen? Then, I m sorry to hear that, but& And then
his jaw dropped. You can t be serious. The concert s tomorrow
night! There s no way I can be prepared in time!
What the hell was going on? I reached over and pulled the
phone away from his ear. Prepared for what?
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The soloist for the BPO s concert tomorrow night just
cancelled. He s got the flu or something. Dad wants me to step in.
I couldn t believe it. Most violinists worked their entire careers
for a chance to play with the Berlin Philharmonic. So what s the
problem?
It s the fucking Brahms concerto. I ve never played it in
public before!
Matt
I can t do it. He ll have to find someone else.
I plucked the phone from his hand, hoping his father hadn t
heard him. Steven? It s Aaron. Matt and I need to talk. He ll call
you back in five minutes.
Matt stared at me as I hung up. What the hell are you doing?
Look, I know you think you can t pull this off, but I know you
can. We practiced this piece over the summer, and you did a fine
job. You re ready to perform it for an audience.
We only practiced the first movement, and I don t remember
it well enough to play it without the score in front of me.
Then you ll have the score in front of you. These are special
circumstances. People will understand.
Weren t you the one who told me a professional never shows
up unprepared? Matt shook his head. The Brahms is Mom s
signature piece. I can t go out there without knowing it cold.
I handed the phone back. Sounds like we ll be doing a lot of
practicing between now and tomorrow night.
Matt looked at me, then back at the phone. Then he dialed his
father s number.
Steven had the score delivered via courier within the hour, and
we got to work. Matt hadn t forgotten as much as he thought he
had. He made it through the first movement without stumbling
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over too many notes, and did a passable sight-reading of the
second and third.
But passable wasn t the same as good or even good enough.
Matt set aside his bow with a groan. That was embarrassing.
Give yourself a break. At least now you know what you need
to work on.
Only the whole fucking concerto. Remind me again why I let
you talk me into this?
Because your father asked you.
He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, downing half of it in
one gulp. I m probably the only violinist within easy shouting
distance.
I doubt that. He could ve called any soloist in Europe, but he
chose you. Maybe this is his way of apologizing for the past ten
years.
There were photos of Elena and Viktor all over his office, but
not a single one of me. He s practically erased me from his life.
If that were true, he wouldn t have invited us over last night.
He s trying, Matt. You have to meet him halfway.
So this isn t so much me learning a new concerto as it
is& therapy?
I laughed. You have to admit, it s a lot more fun than sitting in
a shrink s office.
For you, maybe. He finished his coffee, rolled his neck to
work out the stiffness and picked up his bow again. Okay, on with
the death march.
He played it through three more times, improving greatly with
each pass. We took a short lunch break, then he charged back at it
full-bore. By six that evening, he had a hard time sitting up in his
chair, but he could play the whole damn concerto without looking
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at the score. Even I was amazed.
He would ve pressed on despite his apparent exhaustion, until I
got up and took the Strad out of his hands. That s enough, I said
firmly. You can put the finishing touches on it in rehearsal
tomorrow.
But I m not there yet, he protested. I ve got the notes, but
not the interpretation. I don t know what it all means.
I laid the Strad carefully in its case, then took Matt by the hand
and led him into the bedroom. He fell face-first across the mattress
without any prompting, a hundred-and-seventy pounds of wrung-
out dead weight. I climbed up beside him, rubbing my palm over
his back, gradually working my way up to his neck.
The skin there felt velvety-smooth against my fingertips, and
very, very warm. But the muscles beneath were like steel cords,
rigid with tension. I tried giving him a massage, but the moans and
groaned it elicited didn t sound like the pleasurable kind. So I
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