“Wow, you think it’s locked?” a middle-aged guy asked me as he walked by.
I have a mental illness, I wanted to yell at him, but instead I dipped my head in shame. That was the worst part of my OCD: when it made other people think I was doing something on purpose just to disrupt their lives.
I was only able to sneak out today because my parents left early for a venue tour in Skagit County, which gives me about three hours before I have to meet them back at home for a new-client consult. Going to see someone who insulted my playing must make me a masochist, but god help me, I’m curious. Worst-case scenario, I end up with a weird story to tell Julia.
And maybe Tarek, too, who’s taken to texting me things like, good morning, friend! and you working this weekend, pal? The first time, it was sweet. After that, though… It’s hard to explain. I want to be friends. I really do. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s overcompensating for our shaky start this summer. It’s jarring, this emphasis on our new friendship. Hopefully I’ll gain some clarity at this weekend’s wedding.
With a healthy amount of trepidation, I lift my hand to the door and knock as quietly as I can. It doesn’t matter—the chorus of barking starts up right away. There’s so much barking that I can’t tell how many dogs I should beware.
I’m debating turning around and running for my life when the door opens, revealing Maxine in a worn pair of jeans, her white-blond hair tucked back with a headband. I regret my clothing choice: my wedding planner black slacks and shirt. I’d wanted to look more professional. Older, even. The opposite of what I usually want on my days off.
I’m expecting German shepherds the size of horses, huskies built like polar bears. Instead, there’s a tiny corgi army held back by a gate, five of them yapping away. It’s clear now that the barks belonged to small dogs; they’re just so loud. I’m too used to Edith, whose sole act of aggression is a lazy swipe of her paw if you scratch the one-inch area on her belly she doesn’t like.
“Sorry about them,” she says, tossing a treat over the gate, where they descend on it like furry piranhas. “They’re good dogs. They just get a little overexcited.”
“With those signs, I thought…”
“My daughter gave them to me a while back. She thought it would be hilarious.”
Maxine’s aesthetic seems to be corgis and woodworking. There are a few harps in her living room, along with a wall of guitars in various sizes. I scour the walls for family photos, deeply curious about this woman. There are a couple with a boy and a girl in graduation gowns, a handful of dog photos. It’s probably because I’m in the wedding business that I look for a ring on Maxine’s hand and don’t see one, which of course could mean any number of things, not least of which that she simply doesn’t like rings.
She closes the door behind me, and the barking finally starts to subside. “I’m glad you could make it. Hopefully you didn’t have any trouble finding the place?” She’s warmer here than she was at the wedding or on the phone.
I shake my head. “Thanks for having me. Should I, um, take off my shoes, or keep them on or…?” The awkwardness, it is strong today.
“You’ll want to keep them on. Let’s go out to the workshop.”
She unlatches the gate for her dogs, and they paw at my legs before following her through the kitchen and outside. The workshop is a separate building out back, a brightly lit space filled with machinery, the walls lined with chisels and saws I can’t begin to guess the names of and some half-finished projects on a counter in the middle. And that earthy scent of wood, a scent I realize I like quite a bit.
“This is—wow.” I take a few uncertain steps forward. I’m worried about accidentally stepping somewhere I shouldn’t, but the dogs don’t have the same concern, chasing each other around the workshop like they’ve done this a hundred times before. One of the corgis, a black-and-white one, plops down near a stool and starts grooming. “All of this is for building harps?”
She nods and grins at me, her first one. “I’ve been doing this for almost twenty years, so some of the machines are newer than others. I imagine it looks like a lot, but there aren’t very many of us in this business. Fewer than thirty in the United States, and not all of them are consistently turning out instruments.”
“How long does it take to make one?”
“For me? About two and a half months. I used to be faster, but I’ve been… working on my own for a while.” There’s an odd pause there, one I can’t interpret. “I have multiple harps in progress at a time, and I can make around thirty-five in a year.”
Two and a half months. I knew it was an intricate instrument, but it’s been a while since I thought about the artistry and craftsmanship behind it.
Maxine tells me she has her own production method that speeds up the process, a set of patterns that standardizes each piece she makes. Then she runs through the equipment in the workshop: the various saws and sanders, a shaper, a joiner. In the back of the shop there’s a spray booth, where the harps are lacquered.
She strings and tunes them in a studio back in her house, where she takes me next. A row of harps in different colors, some of them fully stringed and some still waiting. Cherrywood, mahogany, koa. One of them with a mother-of-pearl inlay on the front of the pillar, the longest column that’s farthest from you when you’re playing. All of them bear a tiny silver plaque with what must be Maxine’s logo, a trio of leaves with the letters ECH.
“They’re gorgeous,” I say, stating the obvious. “I’d practice every day if I had something like this.”
“That’s what some people think. If I just had this expensive instrument, I’d become a virtuoso. I’ve seen too many people buy pricey harps for children, or for themselves when they’re just starting out. It isn’t my business to tell them it’s a bad idea, necessarily, but I do try to steer them toward something less expensive.”
Almost like wedding planning. My parents have had to talk couples down from dream venues, dream bands, dream dresses when they were out of their budget.
“And you’re going to sell all of these?”
“Ideally.” She runs a hand along a harp’s neck, as though erasing an invisible blemish. “I go to conferences a couple times a year, and I have some regular clients. It’s not the kind of thing where you get a lot of walk-in customers.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t give me your card so you could try to sell me something,” I say, even though it was my initial assumption.
“That wasn’t my intention, no.”
But she doesn’t elaborate, and maybe that’s okay because my fingers are itchy. The silky sheen of the lacquered finish, the smell of the wood, all these beautiful instruments—they’re messing with my head in the best possible way.
Maxine explains that all of these are lever harps, also called Celtic harps, while I’ve only played a pedal harp. With a lever harp, each of thirty-four strings goes through a lever at the top, along the neck, and those levers are used to change the key. My Lyon & Healy has seven pedals at its base, one for each note. So the A pedal raises all the A strings to a sharp or lowers them to a flat, and so on.
“A lever harp gives you a little more control. You might find playing it is actually easier.” She gestures to the row of harps. “You want to give it a try? Which one speaks to you?”
There’s a cherry one at the end I haven’t been able to stop staring at, so I inch closer, run a hand along its brand-new strings. “This one, I think.”
“The instrument chooses the musician,” she says. “Some people claim the sound is the most important part of a harp, but the look and the feel are important too. Well—you must know that, with all the weddings.”
“My harp has been in many, many wedding photos.” Most of the time, the couples standing moodily in front of it look like they’re a generic indie folk band posing for their album cover.
What I also learn, once she encourages me to sit down, is that a lever harp isn’t nearly as heavy. There’s a new intimacy wit
h the instrument as I tilt it back, letting my inner thigh bear most of its weight.
I run my hand along the levers, flipping a few back and forth, testing their flexibility. “I might be terrible.”
“You play beautifully. I wouldn’t have asked you here if I didn’t believe that,” she says. “When I watch someone, I’m always paying attention to their hands. Yours are never resting. They’re always in motion, anticipating the next note. There’s this energy there that I don’t always see.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I honestly thought you were casting a spell on me, so that’s great to know.”
She snorts at that, and it’s such an un-Maxine-like sound, at least based on what I know about her so far, that it drags a smile out of me. It’s not something I’ve allowed myself to think about for a while: that what I do is anything special. It’s been a job. An obligation.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be.
She encourages me to play anything I want. Most of the pieces I know are classical, not exactly toe-tappers. Since it might as well be written into my DNA at this point, I launch into Pachelbel’s Canon. I mess around with the levers, flipping the ones I need to get into the key of D. The smaller, lighter harp is a bit of an adjustment, but Maxine’s right; it’s a relatively simple one. The string tension isn’t as tight, and I’m playing too strongly at first, but I manage to figure it out.
The whole time, Maxine is watching with her arms crossed, serving me that look she did at the wedding.
“What?” I ask, a little irritated. I wasn’t that bad. At least, I don’t think so.
“That was… safe,” she says. Very much not a compliment. “You didn’t have any lever changes in the middle of it. That’s where it gets really tricky. Do you only play classical pieces?”
Just like that, I’m knocked off my high horse. “I play at weddings. Most couples aren’t requesting death metal.”
“What about when you’re not performing?”
If that isn’t the million-dollar question. “It’s been a while since I played on my own, except when I’m learning a new piece for a wedding. Which, yes, is usually classical. My grandma helped me learn a couple fun songs when I was younger. All of it came more easily back then. When weddings were still exciting.”
“You lost interest.” It’s matter-of-fact, the way she says it, and she’s not wrong.
“A little.”
“And yet here you are.”
I shift the cherry harp back into its upright position. Maybe this was a bad idea. The harp, Maxine Otto, her workshop—none of this is going to fix my problems. It was absurd to think it might. “Thank you for doing this, but I should probably get going.”
“The way you play,” Maxine continues, as though she hasn’t heard me, or more accurately, doesn’t care, “your body is very stiff. Your hands are doing the work—all the work. You need to allow yourself to really feel the music with the rest of your body.”
“I know that,” I insist, though it’s been a long time since I felt anything with my whole body, if I’m being honest. “Do you still play? I didn’t see any recent videos online, so…”
“Occasionally. I don’t perform as much as I used to.” She sits down at the black lacquered harp next to mine, her hands moving along the strings with ease, like she could play the harp and recite Shakespeare at the same time. “I guess I’ve grown accustomed to working on my own these days. My kids used to help out. They’d sand, or they’d help with the stringing once the instruments were lacquered. But they live out of state now, with their own families, their own jobs.” A pause. “Their own lives.”
There’s a wistfulness to the way she says it. I think about the house, the photos of her kids, and something clicks.
I think Maxine is lonely.
I watch her demonstrate the kind of fluidity she asserted I don’t have. “Do you see how this is different?” she says. “Even the levers—I incorporate the changing of them into the choreography.”
And I do.
I see it.
“If you ever need someone to help out for a few hours a week or something…” It’s only when the words are out of my mouth that I realize the idea of leaving here and never coming back is going to make me wonder whether it really happened. A fairy tale in which a mysterious woman has devoted her life to an instrument I haven’t cared about in years.
I don’t have to be the poised, perfect harpist. The girl who always says yes, who always smiles. There’s so much to learn about this thing I thought I’d mastered, and I’m realizing how ridiculous it was to think that at age eighteen, I was an expert in something Maxine has devoted her life to.
“It’s a lot of sanding,” Maxine says, almost as though she’s discouraging me. But there’s a smile nestled in one corner of her mouth. Like maybe this is what she wanted the whole time. “A lot of tuning. It’s not the most thrilling of work, and I wouldn’t be able to pay much above minimum wage. And I know you have obligations with your family. I don’t want this to take you away from that.”
I hadn’t even conceptualized this being something I could be paid for. “It wouldn’t,” I rush to say. I’ll make sure of that.
My parents wouldn’t love that I’m here, and that makes it feel like a small act of rebellion. I’m positive this isn’t a B+B-approved recreational activity, given that I can’t play this kind of music during a processional. This would only distract from their forever goal: nothing less than our best.
But what if my best isn’t the same as theirs?
“Then we just might be able to work something out. And next time?” she says, gesturing to where the entire back of my pants is covered with sawdust. “Don’t wear black.”
12
A wedding at sea probably sounds romantic. Shimmering water, a sapphire sky, city lights glittering in the distance.
The reality: a wedding at sea on the hottest night of the summer is an absolute nightmare.
It’s a second marriage for both the bride and groom, who chartered a luxury yacht to take them around Lake Union, and while my parents have done a few of these floating weddings, it’s a first for me. Fortunately, Asher’s here and I’m not playing the harp.
The ceremony itself takes place on the deck of the yacht. Mom and Dad are armed with sunglasses and sunscreen, and it’s not so windy that it messes with any of the flowers we tied around the railing. It’s all going smoothly until Dad runs out of the tiny sunscreen bottles he keeps in his emergency kit and learns Mom doesn’t have any in hers, despite the conversation they had two weeks ago about making sure they remain adequately stocked throughout the summer.
“I thought we triple-checked everything last night,” he says. “You’re the one who orders these in bulk every year.”
Mom unzips one last pocket and sticks her hand inside. “It must have slipped my mind somehow. Trust me, I don’t want everyone walking around looking like lobsters.”
“But it would make for some interesting photos, especially with the boat,” Dad says, and the two of them burst out laughing.
That’s… odd. I’m not sure how they went from admonishment to laughter in under a minute, but I seize my chance to intervene. “I’ll go check if Asher has some.” And thank god, she does.
Now that the newly married couple is taking photos outside and their guests are inside mingling with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, it is a veritable sauna. I’m grateful we’re only doing apps and dessert. Jackets and pashminas and even pantyhose are abandoned, shoes kicked off. People are fanning themselves, toting around bottles of water instead of the specialty drink designed for the occasion, while I keep busy fetching more water and opening as many windows as I can. My bangs are sticking to my forehead, and I’ve accumulated a frightening amount of underboob sweat.
An older woman flags me down. “Excuse me? It’s a little warm in here. Would you be able to do anything about that?”
“Working on it,” I say through gritted teeth.
As I’m struggling wit
h another window, I spot Asher leaning against the railing, her face a concerning shade of gray. I abandon the window and head outside. “You okay?” I ask.
With her head pressed to the railing, she throws out an arm and sticks her thumb up. “I’m not seasick,” she says. “I promise. I’m great. I’m… sea-perb. I’m ex-sea-ptional.”
I rub her shoulders. “I don’t know if I should be more worried about your health or your wordplay skills. Let me see if they have any ginger ale?”
“Love you,” she calls as I slip back inside.
The yacht company has their own catering staff, but since my parents hadn’t worked with them before, they brought on a few Mansour’s cater-waiters: Tarek, Harun, Elisa. The kitchen—I think it’s called a galley—is toward the back of the boat, a small space with stainless-steel countertops and appliances.
When I enter, Tarek and Elisa are laughing at something, standing close together, and I must have a touch of seasickness too because it sparks a strange feeling in my belly. Not jealousy. Definitely not. A major dose of what the hell happened between them last summer, but not jealousy.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Tarek since our late-night call last week. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his forearms, exposing a bit of angry red skin. I can’t imagine how warm he must be in that stiff, starched shirt.
“Hey,” I say, feeling a little like I’m intruding.
They turn to face me. “Hey!” Tarek says, and I want to believe the enthusiasm is genuine, that he’s not forcing his eyes to light up when they land on me. Even last year, he was never this happy-go-lucky guy—unless he was telling me about one of his grand gestures. “How’s it going out there?”
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